Page 20 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 4
Paulette madethe journey from the sick room to her bedchamber in silence, her emotions more frayed by the presence of an escort. Mr. Gibson had simply taken her hand and wrapped it over his arm, and brought her along, reassuring her he would give her his portion of Shaldon’s bequest and she would find someone better than him to take as a husband.
Her jaw ached from clenching it, and a storm raged behind her eyes. She wasn’t grieving though.
She was angry.
She mustered a “good night” and closed the door on Mr. Gibson.
Bloody men. Bloody arrogant aristocrats, and their insufferable retainers. Her father had perforce abandoned her, to spy for their bloody war. Her guardians had ignored her. Her vicar had needed a mother for his children and a woman to warm his bed, and her yeoman—well, he’d had to let go that cook and a maid when the year without summer ruined his crops.
Even dear Jock, who’d been her friend and tutor, her only link to her mother and father’s true lives, even he had taken a blow to the head and couldn’t remember Papa’s final message to her.
Soft snoring came through the dressing room door, where Mabel slept on a cot. Paulette walked to the fireplace and rested her forehead against the cool wood, counting to twenty as her mother had taught her to do.
She had a temper like her Spanish great grandmamma, her mother said. Bashing something—the china shepherd on the mantel, the vase full of flowers, her forehead—would solve nothing.
She mustthink. There was a treasure, Jock said, but if Shaldon knew where it was, he’d taken the answer to his death.
Oh, she’d cornered Bakeley just now, fishing for answers, but all she’d discovered was that the trust documents were held by a solicitor named Tellingford in London.
That was, at least, some news.
And then Bakeley had insisted she must stay at Cransdall until he got hold of the other trustees, and promised to send for all of her things from Ferndale Cottage.
Heexpectedher to stay at Cransdall. Well, they would see aboutthat.
Her lap desk sat on a chest, beckoning her.
She pulled it down, examining it again for the millionth time. Intricately carved and smoothly dovetailed, it was a child-sized case that traveled well, her father’s own work. She traced her fingers over the carvings, imagining him in some foreign country, listening while he installed paneling, worked an intricate relief, or fitted the boards of a floor in an enemy’s palace. Perhaps Bonaparte’s himself. Papa had had many skills, her mother said. Being a reliable father hadn’t been one of them.
But he’d loved her, sheknewhe’d loved her. He’d sent her this lap desk and with it a silly poem she’d once thought must signify something, something Jock had forgotten, her mother had denied, and that she herself had never been able to work out.
Because the poem means nothing, Paulette.
She swiped at her eyes and hugged the carved wood to her chest, stretching out on the sofa. Squirreled away in a hiding place at home was enough money to take her to London. She’d return the dog cart and put Horace and Mabel in the vicar’s care, and be on her way.
On the morningof the funeral, Bink found Paulette already in the breakfast room sipping tea.
“You’re up early,” he said.
She barely glanced up from the paper she was reading, and he was relieved to note that today, as yesterday, there were no tell-tale signs of weeping.
“As are you, Mr. Gibson.”
They hadn’t spoken since the rushed reading of the will the day before. Bakeley had gone through the document with them, though he’d paid little heed to the portions allotted to his siblings and Shaldon’s retainers. The bulk of the estate went to the heir, as was usual.
What had caught his ear and drawn the lady’s sharp attention was the scant description of the property Shaldon intended for them, Little Norwick, an estate not five miles from Hackwell’s Greencastle. The size of the property and the condition of the dwelling, he didn’t know. Unoccupied since the last lessor moved out, he’d never taken notice of the true owner’s name.
Well, now he knew.
A footman poured him a cup and went off to find fresh toast for him, leaving him alone with Paulette.
The dark intensity, the moodiness—he still did not wish to be leg-shackled to her, but he couldn’t help feeling sympathy for her.
“There’s a filly I have my eye on purchasing for Lady Hackwell. I’m taking her out this morning before the funeral. I’d invite you to ride along, but you’d accuse me of wooing you.”
“I would not be good company.” She stood, bringing him to his feet, and pushed the newssheet his way. “You may wish to read this. This is from a few days ago. There is much about the trouble in Manchester.”
