Page 23 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 5
The next day, Paulette was in the shed tending to Horace when she heard the rustle of horses and the rumble of wheels in the lane.
Mr. Cummings was dismounting. Behind him, his factotum climbed down from the box of an open wagon.
On a Sabbath, and before breakfast…it must have to do with the dog cart, which she was planning on returning on the morrow. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to greet them.
“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Cummings. My visit lasted longer than I expected, and I just arrived home very late last night. I’ll bring your cart back to you today after services. Will you come have some tea? Mabel is making a pot.”
“You dinna tell me the truth of your visit, did you, miss?” His hard eyes pierced her, and he moved too close, forcing her back a step.
“It was no lie. I was visiting an, er, acquaintance.”
“Lord Shaldon.”
His factotum, a thin rangy man, spat into the dirt at his side.
Cummings laughed, and she could see the gaps where he had teeth missing.
She took another step back. “I will return the dog cart today.” She turned, and a hand clamped on her arm.
“Why are you here?” she asked, willing her voice not to shake.
“Why areyouhere?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Didna the Earl tell you before he kicked up his heels?”
Blood thrummed in her ears.Tell me what?Cummings knew Shaldon was dead, and his eyes glittered as she had not seen them do before, except when he’d managed to turn a family out of their home, or watched a mother sell her child into servitude to pay a debt to him.
When his eyes ceased their glittering and began to glow, her heart shrank within her. Mr. Cummings had always been the crotchety tight-fisted neighbor, gentry, but not really gentlemanly. He was at least twenty years older than her, and she’d never seen this particular light in his eyes. Not once.
She clenched her fists. To hell with what Cummings thought Shaldon had told her—she needed to make him leave.
Easing in a breath, she fought for composure. “Yes, I spoke with the Earl briefly. Now, as you’re a gentleman, Mr. Cummings, please let go of my arm. I want to go in to my breakfast.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, and you are welcome to join me, though my table is humble as I don’t often have guests.”
“Guests? But you don’t own this house.”
Her heart sickened. Shaldon had not left her the house, nor had he said anything of her continuing to live here. “Of course not. It belongs to the Shaldon estate.”
“No. It belongs to me.”
Coldness slammed her, and she felt the blood drain from her head.
He owned the house? How could that be? No. No, he was mistaken, or trying to take advantage of the Earl’s death. She would write to Bakeley. Bakeley would set him straight.
She drew herself up. “You certainly do not. This house belongs to the Earl of Shaldon.”
“The Earl’s dead. He sold it to me weeks ago, possession to take place upon his burial, which was yesterday.”
A weight pressed against her pounding heart and the chill numbed her hands beyond feeling. This could not be. And yet…It would fit. Shaldon, the wicked man, wanted to arrange things his way. This was his not-so-gentle shove into a marriage of his arranging.
“I will need to take an inventory,” Cummings said.
“And I will need to see a document.” She turned on her heel.
“Stop right there.” His hand gripped her again.
