Page 7 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
He tapped his mount’s side and followed the wheel tracks through the opening.
The lane leveled, and when he came round a bend, lights shone from every main floor window of the long, sprawling mansion. Cransdall Hall looked as though a dance was afoot, not a dying.
Though the quiet told the true tale. The reverential hush about the place was broken only by the slap of his mount’s hooves on the graveled drive. A footman stepped soundlessly out onto the porch and a groom slipped out from somewhere.
Noise broke the silence, and Bink craned his neck. A carriage was creaking up the lane. Had there been someone else behind the ladies?
He bit back an oath. Well, why not? Some other poorbastardhad likely been summoned by Shaldon, for whatever final sorry-saying the great lord required to wedge open the pearly gates.
This other by-blow had taken the guilt offering and equipped himself with wheels.
Binkcouldhave taken his employer’s coach. The Earl of Hackwell would not have minded. But a man could think clearer on horseback.
Not that his mind was any less muddled now, not when it came to Shaldon. This final summons was one he hadn’t been able to bring himself to ignore. And unless he was too late, he and the man would at long last meet.
And what the devil did Shaldon really want?
He waved off the groom and turned his mount toward the massive stables where he’d played with his half-brother that long-ago summer. It would buy him more time to settle his thoughts.
Except that his thoughts only stirred up more. Nothing had changed in this well-kept environ. A long row of ornate stalls stretched endlessly to house the family’s famous prize-winning cattle.
Grooms rushed up quietly, as though he was the bloody master himself. He spoke just as quietly, giving instructions for his horse, and for the ladies on the road.
Moments later, a lanky young footman found him. “Mr. Gibson, Lord Bakeley says to hurry.” The footman took his bag and led him to the house.
A new greenhouse graced the back garden area, but not much else had changed. An elm they’d once climbed looked larger, its limbs now beyond the reach of his longer adult arms.
Bakeley had followed him up that tree. At that age, Shaldon’s heir had had a devil in him that no amount of canings could stop, possibly because Lady Shaldon promptly sacked those who didn’t spare the rod to her first-born. She’d been a practical woman, tolerant of the male species, with an iron will that carried her blithely through running the Shaldon empire, and bringing the next generation to heel. His lordship himself visited when the demands of state allowed him to take time off to plant a seed, and then he was off again to save the world from the Corsican.
All that cultivation had given Shaldon two little lords and one little lady. And at least one lowly bastard, but of course Bink had come along well before her ladyship.
He followed the footman into a familiar side entrance, down a corridor, and into the grand entry hall with its marble floor and ornate wainscoting.
And caught his breath. There, in the great hall, was the woman herself, Lady Shaldon. A life-sized portrait, exquisitely crafted, brought her vibrantly to life.
Servants moved about in hushed voices, and his guide cleared his throat. He ignored the man.
The portrait must have been taken some years after his visit. She looked older, her smiling eyes plagued by some worry.
“Sir,” the footman said. “Lord Bakeley—”
He nodded and turned away. He’d find time to study the portrait later. Perhaps get the name of the artist for Hackwell, who wanted his wife and infant daughter painted.
Bink followed the servant up the stairs. At the landing, he heard the grand front door open. A woman squawked, another quietly calmed her, and the servants fluttered around two figures, plucking garments from them.
Gripping the railing, he peered down.
His ladies from the lane had arrived. The dark, wee one with the plump bottom and sharp tongue took a step, and a footman moved in on her. Bink felt the tension all the way up these stairs, his hands clenching the polished wood more firmly.
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin, and the servant backed away. Bink let out a breath.
“Iwillsee him now.” The demand echoed through the hallowed hall, as though she were a daughter of the house.
“But, Polly, why not shake the dust off and freshen up first?” Her maid had emerged from the huddle of servants.
“No. I must speak with him. Before…” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat.
Before he dies, Bink finished her thought.
