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 must think. 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.
He expected her to stay at Cransdall. Well, they would see about that.
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, she knew he’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 morning of 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.”
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 funeral of 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 ne
eds 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.
“I had a thought,” Bakeley said. “Kincaid needs a situation. You need a valet.”
Bing groaned loudly. First a wife, then a valet. Both Earls of Shaldon—the old and the new—were pains in the arse. “Stewards don’t have valets.”
“Every explorer has his faithful manservant. Every sahib his—”
“Pension the man off, for God’s sake. And did not your father leave him a settlement?”
“Our father.”
“Which art in heaven?”
They both chuckled. Zebediah would have beaten him for such irreverence, but he had a feeling the old earl was laughing along with them from wherever he’d gone after leaving this earthly plane.
“He did leave him a small amount, but Kincaid only looks old. He’s much too young for a pension. What’s to be done with him?” Bakeley mused.
“What’s to be done with Miss Heardwyn? Perhaps they should marry.”
Bakeley tossed back a drink and sighed. “Cummings is probably inventorying the house goods at Ferndale Cottage now. Can I not prevail upon you to partake of wedded bliss? All of my problems solved: Miss Heardwyn will be your wife, Kincaid will be your valet, and you’ll finally be the gentleman you were born to be. Ah, and Mrs. Everly.”
Bink opened his mouth to say a very firm no, when the lady in question interrupted them.
She planted her hands on her ample hips. “She’s not here yet? Forever late, that one, though I’ve told her over and over again she must be mindful of punctuality. And if she’s not late, then she’s too early, and sometimes leaving without me. Shall I send a servant up to knock on her door?”
“I’ll do it,” Bink said. Anything to get away from this harpy.
“You know where her room is?” Mrs. Everly’s eyebrows spiked into points.
Behind her back, Bakeley grinned.
“I escorted her back to her chamber the night Shaldon died.” He heard her sharp intake of breath as he closed the door.
If Bakeley threw Miss Heardwyn out, Bink would somehow find her and her maid a home. But Mrs. Everly was not coming with them.
He met the housekeeper in the corridor and asked her to check on Miss Heardwyn.
“But Mr. Gibson, she’s left already. I thought you did know, as you breakfasted with her. She’s gone this morning, and her maid with her. When the staff went to bring fresh linens, her room had been cleared, and I sent a man to check at the stables. One of the boys said they’d hitched the cart up themselves and left much too early for to be going to the funeral. Did she not say anything to his Lordship?”
“I believe not. Did she tell anyone where she was going?”
“I don’t know. Her home, I’d imagine. Where else?”
Where else indeed? Her home that was no longer her home. What had Bakeley said? The buyer would be taking an inventory already.
Chapter 5
The next day, Paulette was in the shed tending to Horace when she heard the rustle of horses and the rumble of wheels in the lane.
Mr. Cummings was dismounting. Behind him, his factotum climbed down from the box of an open wagon.
On a Sabbath, and before breakfast…it must have to do with the dog cart, which she was planning on returning on the morrow. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to greet them.
“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Cummings. My visit lasted longer than I expected, and I just arrived home very late last night. I’ll bring your cart back to you today after services. Will you come have some tea? Mabel is making a pot.”
“You dinna tell me the truth of your visit, did you, miss?” His hard eyes pierced her, and he moved too close, forcing her back a step.
“It was no lie. I was visiting an, er, acquaintance.”
“Lord Shaldon.”
His factotum, a thin rangy man, spat into the dirt at his side.
Cummings laughed, and she could see the gaps where he had teeth missing.
She took another step back. “I will return the dog cart today.” She turned, and a hand clamped on her arm.
“Why are you here?” she asked, willing her voice not to shake.
“Why are you here?” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Didna the Earl tell you before he kicked up his heels?”
Blood thrummed in her ears. Tell me what? Cummings knew Shaldon was dead, and his eyes glittered as she had not seen them do before, except when he’d managed to turn a family out of their home, or watched a mother sell her child into servitude to pay a debt to him.
When his eyes ceased their glittering and began to glow, her heart shrank within her. Mr. Cummings had always been the crotchety tight-fisted neighbor, gentry, but not really gentlemanly. He was at least twenty years older than her, and she’d never seen this particular light in his eyes. Not once.
She clenched her fists. To hell with what Cummings thought Shaldon had told her—she needed to make him leave.
Easing in a breath, she fought for composure. “Yes, I spoke with the Earl briefly. Now, as you’re a gentleman, Mr. Cummings, please let go of my arm. I want to go in to my breakfast.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, and you are welcome to join me, though my table is humble as I don’t often have guests.”
“Guests? But you don’t own this house.”
Her heart sickened. Shaldon had not left her the house, nor had he said anything of her continuing to live here. “Of course not. It belongs to the Shaldon estate.”
“No. It belongs to me.”
Coldness slammed her, and she felt the blood drain from her head.
He owned the house? How could that be? No. No, he was mistaken, or trying to take advantage of the Earl’s death. She would write to Bakeley. Bakeley would set him straight.
She drew herself up. “You certainly do not. This house belongs to the Earl of Shaldon.”
“The Earl’s dead. He sold it to me weeks ago, possession to take place upon his burial, which was yesterday.”
A weight pressed against her pounding heart and the chill numbed her hands beyond feeling. This could not be. And yet…It would fit. Shaldon, the wicked man, wanted to arrange things his way. This was his not-so-gentle shove into a marriage of his arranging.
“I will need to take an inventory,” Cummings said.
“And I will need to see a document.” She turned on her heel.
“Stop right there.” His hand gripped her again.
“What’s to do?” Mabel had turned the corner of the house and was advancing, her thick butcher’s knife in her hand. “Good morning, Mr. Cummings. Did you stop to pay your respects on the way to services? I’m just cutting a piece of the ham I put up.” Her voice pleasant, she pointed the sharp tip at him. “Has Mrs. Cummings fed you your breakfast? Och, I see not, considering the way you’re gripping my miss’s arm.”
Cummings pulled his hand away and wiped it with the other. “That will be my ham. I might as well eat some of it.”
As Bink passed the small church, worshippers spilled out and mingled, most of them turning to watch him. He pulled up his horse and called over a young boy.
“Which is the way to Ferndale Cottage?” he asked.
All conversation at the church stopped, and the boy’s mouth gaped.
Bink searched the crowd for a particular reaction. If Mr. Cummings was among them, he should shove his way through the crowd of mostly ladies right about now.
“You are looking for Ferndale Cottage?” It was the vicar who plowed thro
ugh, a harried-looking man of middle years.
“I am,” Bink said.
“It is not right, sir,” the vicar said. “It is the Sabbath. Your employer—”
His employer? He sat up straighter and searched the crowd, his heart pumping harder. Cummings had set upon her already, this day.
“Cummings is not my employer. I’m here on behalf of Lord Shaldon. Where is Cummings? I would speak with him.”
“He took his man and a wagon this morning and—”
Bink pointed at a lane leading east. “This way, Vicar?”
“Yes. A mile or so.”
Bink was already spurring his horse.
Outside the village the lane was not so well maintained. Shallow muddy tracks showed a wagon had passed here. That it had not passed again heavily laden meant he might be in time.
When he rounded a bend, he saw that he was not. Two women, laden like the refugees he’d seen in Spain, trod along, trying to find purchase in the muck at the side of the road. Paulette’s skirts had a band of mud a foot thick, and the burdens she bore were surely too heavy.
“Miss Heardwyn,” he called, quickly dismounting.
She ducked her head, and when he reached her, turned away.
“Oh sir,” Mabel said. “That Cummings—”
“Mabel.” Miss Heardwyn spoke tersely, her voice gravelly.
“He’s evicted you?”
The young lady nodded without looking at him.
“Yes, and taken everything, even the ham my Miss bought with her money. He’s left us a few shifts and a change of clothing and not even our horse to carry them out.”
“Mabel.” The lady’s chin came up and he saw tear tracks on her dust-spattered face.
Something twisted inside him. Miss Heardwyn—Paulette—would end up on the streets somewhere, if not in London, then York, or Manchester.
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 5
