Page 17 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“No. To hell with the property.” He was past thinking about English estates. He’d put up all of his savings to secure a spot with the East India Company. A man might breathe and fight and find his fortune in a place like India.
Bakeley poured more brandy. “Very well. She does have an interesting background. Her father was one of our father’s spies.”
“Yes, I gathered that much. Her mother was Spanish?”
He shrugged. “Or Portuguese. I don’t really know. The grandparents came to Cornwall in the last century. I know she’s settled in a cozy little cottage in the next county, and she’s about to be unsettled from it.”
“How so?”
“The property has been sold to one of her neighbors who’s been coveting it. Paulette will have to move, as soon as our father leaves this world. Those were the terms of the sale.”
Bink braced a hand on the fireplace mantel and leaned into it. There should be a special place in hell for men who displaced orphans and widows. “He’s pushing her out? How can he do that?”
Bakeley shrugged. “He wants it his way. Why not marry her, Bink? She can live fashionably in London, and you can go your own way. Last we talked, you were looking into India. Or do you have another Mrs. Gibson in your sights?”
God’s blood, he’d forgot about mentioning India to Bakeley.
“Why not marry her? Whynot, Bakeley? I won’t marry for money, that’s why not.”
“Father did. I hear Hackwell did also. Or are you saying Hackwell loves his wife?”
Bink poured himself another finger of brandy. From what he knew, both Shaldon’s and Hackwell’s marriages were for moneyandlove, and both men had been damn lucky to find both.
“Oh. I know what it is. You thought you’d slipped once and for all out of the paternal noose. You don’t want to slip it back on.”
Bink laughed and downed his drink. “I’ll go and wash this road dust from me.”
“I’ll come along and play your valet.”
“I’ll still not marry.”
Bakeley clapped his shoulder. “Yes, yes. We’ll see.”
When Paulette arrivedat her room, she was relieved to find only Mabel there. The maid quickly pocketed the paper she was studying.
“Another political tract?” Paulette asked.
“Aye. At the inn where we stopped, I was given it. How is his Lordship?”
“He was conscious, and then when I tried to talk to him he was not. What are the servants saying?”
“He won’t last the night one says, and another whispers he’s too mean to die. Though that one I wouldn’t put stock in, a young bounder of a footman with a wandering eye. Handsome he is, but you’ll stay away from him, Polly.”
With Shaldon trying to marry her off to his by-blow, the footman would be the least of her troubles.
The maid poured some water into a basin. “Come and wash. The water will soothe you. I’ll ring for some supper, and we’ll get you into your nightclothes. Mrs. Everly has taken to her bed and with so many maids to cluck about her, we won’t see her complaining face for the next few days. Praise the Lord.”
“Mabel,” Paulette chided. She should say more. Though Mabel had been her nurse since before she could remember, she shouldn’t tolerate disrespect of Mrs. Everly, who was after all yet another woman dependent on others for a home.
She tucked her loose hair behind her ears, and dipped her fingers into the basin. “Can you not open a window, Mabel? It’s stuffy in here.”
Mabel’s skirts swished, and Paulette ducked her face closer to the water. A cool breeze whipped in, wrapping her in the scent of Cransdall’s lavender fields and easing her tension.
She glanced at the upholstered sofa and rubbed her eyes. Perhaps just a moment’s rest while Mabel readied her gown. “Mabel, help me out of this and bring me the new gown. I’m going back to the sick room.”
The smell, Bink decided, was all wrong.
He twitched on the hard-back chair pulled next to the bed, and watched the supposed valet, Kincaid, bend his big frame over the mattress to stuff another pillow under Shaldon’s head.
