Page 111 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
“Yes. He made it for me. It arrived after the news of his death, after Jock’s arrival. It was his last gift to me. I almost lost it to Cummings, and Spellen could have taken it when he searched my room. I feel like I must keep it with me close by.”
His hand stilled. “Let’s have a look at it.”
There it was in his eyes, the determination she’d seen with Cummings and Bakeley. In this state, she’d have trouble seducing him before dinner.
And anyway, he’d reminded her of something. “You’ve already done that, haven’t you, Mr. Gibson?”
He blinked. Smiled. Trapped her against the post of the bed, the cool wood digging into her bottom.
“You’re right. I couldn’t fool a spy’s daughter, could I?” His wicked lips were back on her neck. “But I will have another look at it. In a bit.”
Mrs. Nichols pulledthe hat lower over her eyes, bent like the furtive boy she was pretending to be, and shuffled along the Soho street where the girl’s man kept his safe house.
Perhaps they would circle around and return here after all. She’d scraped through every alley around and over to Berkeley Square where Hackwell House stood. The girl and her man had been too quick.
Odd that. It wasn’t often she was spotted, but he surely had spotted her. The beast had grown a brain since his time on the Peninsula.
A carriage stopped and pulled her attention. There. Finally some of the others had shown up. She shuffled along, turned the corner, did a peremptory sweep and ducked around a brick townhouse.
Josiah Dickson—Lord Agruen, she reminded herself—peered out the carriage window and raised a hand.
A street sweeper strode from the opposite corner, crossed the road, and went up to the door. He banged with his fist on the knockerless door. Though he waited long minutes, no one answered.
The fools. The carriage pulled off down the street. The street sweeper turned down an alley. They would try the back way, in vain.
The house was empty now, except for a caretaker, who was too clever to answer the door. Or perhaps he’d been sent away for his safety.
The neighbors hadn’t known who was home, but they were glad the children were gone. Many children had lived there, the neighbors said, lost children, until the lady of the house had married and moved on. It would have been a perfect safe house for the girl, except it would not have been so safe. Wherever the brute had taken her was safer, becauseshedid not know its whereabouts, and that meant Agruen would never find it.
Tomorrow, when the man, or if she was really so stubborn, the both of them, traveled to the City to see the so-called solicitor, that was where they would be picked up. If he came alone, he would lead back to her. The solicitor was the key. There would the real danger be.
She turned on her worn boot, with its flapping sole and spotted a lone horseman, moving languidly through the afternoon traffic.
Shrewd eyes, as dark as his hair, like Paul’s had been, a spy’s eyes. She shuffled on, not meeting the gaze that swept back and forth over the street like the sweeper’s broom.
So Kincaid was here, and all the players were in place.
When the maidset the dishes out, Bink struggled not to dive in like a soldier on a battle break. He clenched his hand upon the table and waited, shutting out old memories of similar times, when he was starving and exhausted and there was still more of the war to be fought.
Betty had set up a round table in a small conservatory that was likely her private space. Green plants lined the walls. There was even a lemon bush sending a sweet fragrance to fill the room.
Among the many hard things about being a whore, living with all the violent colors required to portray a woman’s professional stature would be one of the worst. This green must soothe all that passion.
“We are grateful to you for taking us in.”
Paulette had directed her comment to both Betty and Rowland, who he’d guessed had become more than just Betty’s strong arm.
Friend? Lover? Perhaps partner?
It was possible the man had the financial resources for the last. Bink had found him in London, leasing his rooms.
Rowland’s return home to his family in Staffordshire had been troubled, and living every day scaring the wits out of the neighborhood children, tiresome.
His mind immediately went to work calculating whether Rowland and Betty could be trusted. A month ago he would have said yes. Now he was undecided.
“You are hungry, I think, Sergeant Gibson, Mrs. Gibson.” Betty passed a platter of ham around. “Dig in then.”
Rowland laughed. “Like old times, is it not, Gib?”
