Page 112 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Paulette quirked a pretty eyebrow at him. She’d given up on a coiffure and left her shortened hair to spill over her shoulders. The few bits of sun they’d encountered had lifted a freckle or two on her skin, nowhere near as many as he had, but sure enough proof that whoever her parents were, she was no purebred Spaniard. She looked young and far too innocent for these dinner companions.
A blush rose on her cheeks. Betty’s lips pressed, squashing a smile.
“We never had many meals this good, as I recall,” Bink said. “I shall not forget your hospitality, Mrs. Townsend.”
“Call me Betty.” She passed the bread around.
“Betty and I have talked, Gib, Mrs. Gibson. We stand ready to help you with your troubles.”
“You may call me Paulette. And that is very kind.” Her eyes shimmered and she quickly looked down.
Sentimental, was his bride. She’d never be a spy, but she would be his, if he had to tup her five times a day to convince her.
“We would not cause you trouble,” Bink said.
“You may trust us,” Betty said. “We hear many things. See many things. And we can be discreet. You know that I think.”
Aye. He did.
Betty had proven herself by a good deed done for Lord and Lady Hackwell, a secret she’d revealed only after a soul-searching agony. And Rowland, of course, he’d been in the troop when they’d found out Josiah Dickson’s villainy.
“Do you know of the Marquess of Agruen?” Paulette asked.
Betty and Rowland exchanged a look. Rowland’s mouth firmed and he said “Josiah Dickson.”
“He’s after something I supposedly have or will receive. I can’t imagine what, except that…” She bit her lip and looked at Bink.
“Paulette’s father died on the Continent working for Shaldon. She was a ward of Lord Shaldon.”
“Shaldon. I see.” Betty rested her chin on her locked hands. “Your mother is not living?”
“She’s deceased also. I didn’t see my father more than a few times. I don’t truly remember him.” Paulette cleared her throat and took a sip of punch.
“I’ve heard of Agruen,” Betty said. “You understand, I do not gossip. However, if he’s after you to do you harm, I will share.”
Rowland nodded, and Betty went on.
“He’s pockets to let, they say. The money his wife brought is gone. Yes, he keeps up appearances, but he owes every shopkeeper around. They only provide custom because of the title. And, here is the puzzle, no one knows precisely why. He doesn’t gamble much more than other lords. He doesn’t collect art or buy the best horses. His home and his estate are said to be in disrepair. Though there is one other thing. He’s not…forgive me, but you’re a married lady now so I will say this, he’s not allowed into any of the better establishments like this because of his…predilections. I suppose finding a house to accommodate his tastes might be more expensive.”
Paulette’s mouth dropped.
Rowland’s gaze flitted from her to Bink.
“Worse than his heavy hand?” Bink asked.
Betty shrugged. “He left a girl unable to walk. Is that not bad enough?”
Bink’s head pounded with the memories. “He might have been French, the way he treated the Spanish locals.”
“’T’would have been better had he died on the Peninsula,” Rowland said.
“What was he doing in Spain?” Paulette asked in a tight voice. “Was he a soldier?”
“No,” Bink said. “He was attached to the Embassy or such.”
She stirred her fork in the dish, and lifted her gaze to him. “A spy?”
“He’d have been carrying information, like everyone else, that’s a certainty.” For which side was in doubt.
