Page 34 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Hackwell’s four-year-old nephew and their baby girl had been hardy enough the day Bink had left.
“How are they now?”
The groom chuckled. “Fit and full of it, he and the babe both, Mary says.” He frowned. “His lordship was asking questions.”
Bink patted his horse and waited, giving the old man his best stone face.
“Ach,” the old man said, surrendering. “Which horse did Mr. Gibson take? What did Mr. Gibson say about his travel? Might’ve wanted to know where you went, but he didn’t ask it outright.”
He unstrapped his bag. “There’ll be a post chaise and a wagon along any minute. See to them. I’ll have Mrs. Bradley sort out the new guests.”
Below stairs, the servants were immersed in preparations for dinner. Bink found the housekeeper and issued instructions, then went to the set of rooms not far from the servants’ hall, the lodging and office of the steward. His exalted domain.
He steeled himself and pushed open the door.
Hackwell lounged in the sitting room chair, dressed impeccably for dinner, yet still managing to look disheveled, and with the same wicked gleam that had fired in him before a battle.
“Gibson.” He stretched his long legs within tripping distance. “So good of you to return.”
Bink growled a greeting and tossed his bag on the only other chair. “Ye came back early, milord.”
“This is my home.” His eyes narrowed. “And where have you been?”
He gritted his teeth. A steward was a grand bloody servant, but still a servant after all. “A personal matter, milord.”
A dinner gong sounded distantly. Hackwell ignored it.
He’d best get a drink into both of them before Hackwell uncoiled his bloody questions. Bink went to a cabinet and poured out two brandies. He debated reminding his lordship of his dinner hour, and decided against it. It was not for the likes of him to tell the Earl of Hackwell to get himself up to the eating room—well, not tonight, anyway.
“I had a letter this morning, Gibson. From the new Earl of Shaldon. It seems the old earl died and you attended the funeral.”
He sloshed a little more drink into his own glass and handed the other over to Hackwell.
Hackwell’s hand closed on the glass, and his gaze locked on Bink’s. “You devil, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you what, milord? That I’m an earl’s bastard? I wasn’t raised in that great house. I dunna think it signifies.”
Hackwell rose, clinked glasses and downed his drink. “As to that, I always knew you were not what you made yourself out to be. And you may dispense with the Paddy accent.” Hackwell poured himself another finger of brandy. “I see I do not have to condole with you on your father’s death, though I also see you are feeling something. Right now I can’t tell what it is besides irritation with me. Irritation that I’ve found you out. Here’s to you, Edward Bink Everly.” Hackwell drained his glass and set it down. “And hell, man, I’m not talking about you keeping the secret of your parentage. I’m raising my father’s and my brother’s by-blows—you know I don’t give a damn about that.” A wicked grin spread over his face. “What I’m talking about is your impending nuptials.”
Hot liquid coursed down the wrong pipe and Bink choked, his face flaming, while he sought to bottle the ire threatening to burst.
Bakeley.Bakeley had shared information as if it were fact, as if he could bloody well step into the Spy Lord’s shoes and run another man’s life.
Not this man. He set his glass down carefully. “No.”
“No?” Hackwell’s eyes narrowed. “I understood it to be your father’s wish, this marriage. His ward, is she?”
“Wishes and facts are not the same thing.”
“So the new Earl of Shaldon…your brother…is mistaken?”
“He most certainly is.”
“I see.” He walked around the low table. Scratched his head. Stopped in front of Bink. “If that is so, tell me then, Gibson, why did the parish read the first banns yesterday?”
Bink swore a stream of oaths.
“Such language, Mr. Gibson.” Lady Hackwell swept into the room.
