Page 50 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Mabel’s blithe manner rankled. “Perhaps I should send you back to Mrs. Everly.”
Mabel put her hands on her hips. “You ungrateful miss, bite your tongue. Besides, I wasn’t doing anything much beyond talking, and only briefly. And I’m not sure but with all the visiting staff there won’t be some goings on in this house, and that poor housekeeper tearing her hair out. Not as I’d mind you having a visit from Mr. Gibson, but I’ve had a cot set up to stay with you here.”
A scratching at the door brought Jenny. “Is there aught else tonight, miss?” she asked.
Paulette reached for the blue dress, draped over a chair. “I’ve a spot where I, er, spilled something.”
“We should see how it dries,” Mabel said. “In the morning—”
“No.” Jenny crossed the room and took the gown, studying it. “The housekeeper says attack stains afore they set. I’ll just take it down now and sponge it and ‘t’will be dry by morning perhaps.”
And she could travel to London with one decent dress in her bag.
“Thank you, Jenny,” Paulette said. “But don’t linger about.”
Mabel closed the door on the girl and turned the key in the lock. “She’s a good girl, and I warrant, I’m tired, as must you be after sitting up all last night waiting for the London coach. Now to bed, and dream about that big fine man.”
Paulette waved off the teasing, sensing Mabel’s worry. Her maid had got wind of Lord Agruen’s presence.
“You must also be careful, Mabel.”
“Aye. I will be. And so must you.”
She hadn’t been careful tonight. No—she hadn’t been smart. Agruen was not a man to take on alone, perhaps not even by Mr. Gibson.
Bink easedthe door of Agruen’s bedchamber open a crack. A dim light showed from within, and he heard the faintest of rustles in the dark corner.
An Argand lamp stood on a table, the wick turned down low.
“Excuse me, yer lawdship,” he said gruffly. No response. A valet would surely respond. “Is anyone here?”
The hair on the back of his neck stirred. Someone was here, but not Agruen or his servant.
Anger surged through him. Bink Gibson could sniff out a thief at thirty paces. He did not employ thieves. If a thief was present, he or she must be one of the visitors’ servants.
He stepped in and closed the door. “Who is here? Come out.”
Thomas crawled out from under the bed, and Bink’s breath eased. “Bloody hell,” he huffed.
“Shhh.” Thomas put his finger to his mouth. “We have to hurry.”
Fifteen minutes later, he deposited Thomas in the nursery, threatening to lock him in, and headed below stairs. He took the steps quietly and turned down a corridor. The housekeeper’s sitting room door clicked open. Mrs. Bradley stood wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair covered in a white cap, a candle in hand.
“Mr. Gibson. Thank heavens. I heard something.” She took in a sharp breath. “There. Do you hear it, too?”
A faint thud came from the kitchens.
His skin rippled again. This night was like his time on the Peninsula—one bloody up after one bloody down.
He reached for her candle. “Let’s have a look. Stay behind me, ma’am.”
The servants’ hall was empty, as it should be at this late hour, everyone abed above stairs.
A muffled cry came from further on. The laundry room door was unaccountably closed. He ran and flung it open.
A man craned his neck their way and froze, breeches down, shirt straggling, arse bare to all the world.
The housekeeper screamed. A girl was stretched on the mangle table, writhing, breasts exposed and legs bared to her hips. A gag muffled her frantic cries.
