Page 96 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Like bloody hell, you will.
“Well,youcan’t,” Bakeley said. “You’re needed at the solicitor’s office.”
“What solicitor’s office is that?” The door had opened noiselessly and Paulette stood, her head cocked.
A burst of shame burned Bink’s face. Damn Bakeley, and damn himself for being maneuvered into speaking of this with the men before he’d had a chance to talk to her.
He walked up and took her arm. “Have you eaten, love?”
She lifted her chin and let her lips turn up a fraction. “His lordship sent a tray to my room. But I found I wanted more company than my servants.” She shook off his arm. “What have we here? Ah yes. A very nice repast. And no extra plate.” She sat down in the empty chair and pulled a bowl over. “And no footmen. To preserve your private conversation, no doubt.” She reached for a bread plate and piled food on it. “Now what solicitor’s office are we visiting?”
Paulette’s insides were shaking, but she sawed at the food with utensils that must have been her husband’s, as the other gentlemen occupied the other seats at table.
They’d not yet reached their brandy course, but no matter. If they thought they were sending her away, they were mistaken. They would have to physically remove her.
She’d shocked Gibson. Good.
He’d be more shocked before this was over. They’d both married for money, but she was no Smithfield bargain cow to be penned in the barn.
She ignored him and turned her attention to the others. Kincaid frowned. Bakeley looked tongue-tied. His handsome friend’s eyes glinted, sending a shiver through her.
She inclined her head to him. “No one has taken the trouble to introduce us, sir, but I surmise you are a friend to Lord Shaldon. I am Paulette Heardwyn.”
Her husband’s throat-clearing sounded like he had a fish bone stuck. She felt his heat at her shoulder.
“Oh, pardon me. I’m Gibson now. Paulette Heardwyn Gibson.”
The man’s face didn’t move. Bakeley’s mouth parted a bit.
Hot anger rose in her. She reached for the glass on the table and took a drink, trying to wash it down.
It was a very good ale and it steadied her. “Who are you, sir? Will no one here have the courtesy to introduce me to this gentleman who is privy to the plans for my inheritance?”
Bakeley sat up straighter. “Paulette—”
“George Stewart is the name he uses,” her husband said, in the low rumble that signaled trouble. His anger felt reassuring. She was sure it wasn’t directed at her.
And if it was, blast it, she didn’t care. “I see.” She took another drink. A big hand oozed comfort into her shoulder. She wanted to lean into it.
Instead she froze. No need to encourage him. It was only a trick anyway, trying to woo her compliance. “What are the plans then?”
“You know it’s not safe for you in London,” Bakeley said.
“But it’s safe here?”
“Yes. This is one of my father’s safe houses for his people.”
“And you will all go to London and leave me here with my two maids.”
“No. Of course not. We’ll leave the four grooms and Stewart here—”
“No.” Bink squeezed her shoulder. “Paulette does not know your man here. And neither do I.”
Hope touched her heart.
Bakeley frowned. “You’ll be comfortable here. It will be only a matter of days for us to take care of business. Bink will settle with the solicitor. We’ll smoke out Agruen and see what he’s after, and Bink will be back to reclaim you. In the meantime, you may enjoy yourself. You’ll be well guarded. You can walk in the garden. You can even ride within the surrounding woods, providing you take men with you.”
“My lord,” Kincaid interrupted this pleasant vision.
