Page 21 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Bink frowned. Hackwell’s estate might be in the path of the soldiers likely to be sent, and any of the troublemakers coming from London. Until this unrest was settled, or until he got word of his ship sailing, his place was there. “You needn’t worry. There may be those coming from the north to attend, but Cransdall will be safe.”
“And what of you, Mr. Gibson? Will you stay here and be safe? Or will you risk travel?”
“Those going are less likely to be a danger than those returning home, if the militia is called in and it goes sour.”
She raised her brows. “You believe it will go badly for the workers?”
“The brute force of battle-hardened men against unarmed workers? Yes.”
“And the roads will be dangerous.” Her brow furrowed and she bit her lip. “But yet you’ll travel them.”
“It’s different for a man.”
“Of course it is.”
He sighed and clamped a hand over hers. “Stay, miss. It’s a fact I’m bigger and stronger than most men and women and I’ve the experience of battle.”
The spark in her eye told him he’d hit a nerve. Worry threaded through him. She was planning something.
“You’ll be safe here, Miss Heardwyn. You must stay.”
She lowered her gaze and nodded. “I’ll leave you to your breakfast, Mr. Gibson.”
“Until later, Miss Heardwyn.”
He watched her exit the room, shoulders slumped as if she’d been beaten, and hated himself for having to be part of the world that was caging her.
The funeralof the Earl of Shaldon was as furtive as his life had been, barely wrinkling the life of the village around him, just as he’d wanted, Bakeley claimed. Only Kincaid, the butler and a few older stablemen joined them for the brief service and internment in the family crypt.
Bink still felt numb, like the day after a battle. The hurried visit, the vexing meeting, and the rushed funeral had him reeling.
There’d be time on his journey to sort through the facts. He had the funeral meal to get through—one last chance to speak with Paulette about the arrangements for the bequest he was passing to her—and then he’d leave.
On the short walk from the church to the house, the servants hurried ahead of them. “Well, Bakeley, or, I suppose I should call you Shaldon—no more surprises? Nothing else crawling out of the Earl’s dark corners?”
They reached the front drive, and Bakeley stopped. “Won’t you stay a bit longer? I can summon our sister home from Lincolnshire. She’s no longer a squealing brat.” He cleared his throat. “And you could get to know Paulette a bit more. She’s not a bad sort. We had her out for a visit a few years ago, and had a new marquess sniffing about after her.”
“Well, there you go,” Bink said casually, belying the ache in his jaw. A marquess sniffing about after a girl with no dowry wasn’t good.
But she wasn’t his problem.
Bakeley shook his head. “No. How the devil the man wound up on the guest list, I don’t know. I was one insult away from a duel, if I happened to be the dueling sort. Paulette would be worth the combat, but a boot to the arse would be more fitting for Agruen.”
Bink’s pulse quickened. “Agruen?”
“You know the man?”
“I know the name.” He willed his hands to unfist and walked on, forcing Bakeley to catch up.
“Yes, well, Paulette was convinced he’d taken some ring of hers. Got him alone to accuse him, stupid girl, and I came along in the nick of time. He’s a bad piece of work, but there are plenty more out there like him. The girl needs a protector.”
“She’ll be at Cransdall. You protect her.”
“And do you think I’ll be able to keep her here once she puts a few shillings together. She needs a husband, Bink.”
“You’re a fair way to being just like your father,” Bink said. “Find her somebody else to marry.” Because if Agruen came within ten feet of a woman under Bink’s protection, he’d have far worse than a boot coming at him.
Later, while they waited in the drawing room for the ladies, Bink and Bakeley nursed another drink.
