“I suppose you ladies had governesses who were as restrained as Grey here?” Agruen asked, raising an eyebrow.
Bink went still. The man would not let it alone. Now he was also picking at his unfashionable hostess, who arguably had the poorest pedigreed blood lines of anyone at this table after Paulette.
At the far end of the table, Hackwell still conversed amiably with Lady Tepping and Shurley. Grey, always adept and alert, stepped in to keep their conversation diverting.
“I had music and dance and art teachers,” Lady Hackwell said, “and oh yes, for a while I went into the village to study French with an émigré. But no governess.”
Agruen’s lip had curled up. “And yet you managed to become an accomplished lady.”
The bloody ass. The ironic tone sent Bink’s blood boiling.
“I also had no governess.” Miss Heardwyn smiled at Lady Hackwell. “Only, as you say, the usual teachers. I was fortunate to learn French from my mother.”
“Only French?” Agruen’s dark eyes pinned her. “Wasn’t your mother Spanish?”
She cocked her head and examined Agruen, and Bink felt another surge of pride. She’d recovered her composure and was dueling with all of her guards up.
“My mother and father were English, as you well know.”
Agruen set down his fork. “Oh dear. Have I offended you?”
Bink found his voice. “Are you close friends with Bakeley, Agruen?”
“I beg your pardon?” Agruen blinked.
“Your visit to Cransdall. You said you and Miss Heardwyn became acquainted there.”
That eyebrow shot up again. “Why yes, we did. It was—”
“Four years ago. The summer of Waterloo,” Miss Heardwyn said.
“Actually, I was there to see Shaldon, but the Earl was detained elsewhere. I’d never met the son. Are you close friends with Bakeley, Sergeant Gibson?”
The question rippled down the table silencing everyone. Bink forced his lips into a smile, and locked eyes with the ass.
They’d met a decade ago in Spain, and who could forget it? Agruen had been Josiah Dickson then, attaching himself to the army, tagging along as some kind of government operative, as useless as a tea kettle with no fire.
Various answers rumbled through him. He’d kept his secrets, damn it.
But the truth would take Agruen’s attention off Paulette. “No. Bakeley and I are not close friends at all. We are half-brothers.”
“Mr. Gibson is Lord Bakeley’s—or now Lord Shaldon’s older brother.” Miss Heardwyn’s eyes glittered.
Agruen gazed at her for a long moment, then he looked hard at Bink and smiled broadly. “I see. And you escorted the lady from Cransdall.”
Anger spiked in Bink. That quickly the man had turned his assault back to include the lady, and his devious mind had already deduced an expected relationship between them.
Lady Hackwell set down her napkin. “Of course Mr. Gibson escorted the lady. You smile, Lord Agruen, but heavens, there is no scandal in it. Miss Heardwyn was to be our guest, and it only made sense for Mr. Gibson, who is an honorable man, to accompany her when he returned from his father’s funeral. Especially now, with the rumors of trouble among the weavers, I would not have a young woman travel alone. Would you?” She pushed back her chair and stood.
Bink got to his feet giving a smugly smiling Thomas a prod.
“Steven, we will excuse ourselves. Lady Tepping, Miss Heardwyn, shall we withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their manly discussions?”
Paulette’s eyes glittered. “And we will talk later,” she told Agruen.
He watched her glide out, erect and proud and radiating passion. By God, she was a fine woman.
When he sat down, he noticed Agruen grinning at him.
Deep lines etched the ass’s forehead, and Bink wondered if they were from scowling over the gaming tables. Agruen’s skin wore the yellow pallor that came with drink, a bilious liver, and probably the pox. As tall as Hackwell, he’d gone soft since his days in the Peninsula, shabby under those fine clothes—a dissolute, despicable ass who’d acquired his title by the lucky deaths of others.
A memory flashed, turning Bink’s stomach.
And Agruen was dangerous. If Paulette wanted to talk to him, she would not do it alone.
Paulette settled herself in a chair in the drawing room, praying Lord Hackwell’s regard for his wife would bring the gentlemen out sooner. Now that she’d survived dinner and broached the need for conversation with Agruen, she wanted to speak to him before she lost her nerve.
Lady Hackwell poured tea and passed it around.
“Agruen is an ass,” Lady Tepping said.
Paulette choked and set down the cup.
Lady Hackwell passed her a fresh napkin. “And his is a vote Steven and Lord Tepping need.”
“Yes, along with Shurley’s, and I’m not certain Lord Hackwell and I had greater luck at our end of the table. Shurley, however, is at least a gentleman.”
Paulette had not heard the conversation at Lord Hackwell’s end. And, too busy steeling herself against Agruen, she’d barely heard Lady Hackwell’s small talk. “But you did not discuss a parliamentary bill.” Did they?
“No we did not. That will come later.” Lady Hackwell sighed. “While they are shooting birds, or perhaps even now over brandy. If the gentlemen do not get to it, we will bring it up before the visit ends. I fear I am not meek enough for some of the aristocracy.”
“It is all the cause of you lacking a governess or an education.” Lady Tepping smiled and then laughed, and Lady Hackwell joined in giggling.
The feather in Lady Tepping’s headpiece trembled, and Lady Hackwell put a hand to her belly.
“Come, Miss Heardwyn,” Lady Tepping said. “You may laugh with us. You are in good company here. Tell us about the travel—how were the roads from Cransdall? Did you encounter roving bands of thugs?”
Paulette described her journey in the vaguest of terms, omitting her eviction and Mr. Gibson’s rescue. The ladies, if they sensed there was more, refrained from probing. Lady Tepping shared news from letters she’d received about the discontent among workers.
“That is all I know about the fears of an uprising,” Lady Tepping said. “But I do have one interesting on dit. Anglesey is to be made a full general. I wonder what Wellington has to say?”
“Lord Wellington?” Paulette asked. “Are they political enemies? I’m sorry, I’m woefully ignorant.”
“This relates more to gossip than to politics,” Lady Hackwell said.
“The juiciest, most entertaining of gossip. You must let me explain.” Lady Tepping launched into the story of the Marquess of Anglesey’s affair with Lord Wellington’s former sister-in-law, their Scottish divorces and remarriage to each other. “Scotland, you see, is more lenient about divorce. Except that now our courts have decided they will no longer recognize those Scottish divorces unless the couple originally married in Scotland.”
“So the trips to Gretna Green will pay off if the couple is unhappy later. Perhaps I should have demanded Lord Hackwell take me there.”
“If they marry in Scotland they may divorce?” Paulette asked.
“Why, yes.”
She must have looked shocked because Lady Tepping added, “Not for no reason of course. One must have the usual charge of adultery or some such, and witnesses can always be found to testify to whatever charge works best. I’ve made a study of it and threatened Lord Tepping on one or two occasions. We were married in Edinburgh, you know.”
Paulette’s heart took it in. This was shocking and novel. Watching her mother rot in the country, she’d always thought of marriage as an impossible snare.
“My dear,” Lady Hackwell said “Lady Tepping is having us on. There are no two people so firmly hitched as she and her husband, except for me and mine of course.”
Both ladies were still laughing when the men joined them.
Agruen slunk into the room, his oily smile in place as
Lord Hackwell spoke to him. Paulette sat straighter in her chair. She would need to muster all of her wits, all of her composure, and, perhaps, all of the skills Jock had tried to teach her.
Bink circulated within the room, following Paulette who was unobtrusively trying to speak to Agruen.
The ass coerced her to play the piano, grabbing a music sheet from the pile, a new popular song. She stumbled through the piece, hitting sour notes here and there.
Agruen moved to the other side of the room, watching, and when the song ended, started out for the bench where she sat.
“Go and turn pages for her, Thomas,” Bink said. After helping his tutor to his room, Thomas had been allowed to return to the drawing room.
Thomas looked at him quizzically and saluted. “I’ll report back, sir.”
Bink grinned, watching the boy’s meandering path to the piano. Thomas and Agruen reached Paulette at the same time.
She made room for the boy on the bench.
He’d spurted up in the past months, catching up to his Beauverde height. Something he said to Paulette made her smile, the warmth of it reaching all the way to Bink and making him chuckle. Watch out, Hackwell—Thomas would have no trouble with the ladies.
Aye, and wouldn’t he like to have that smile cast upon himself?
Agruen said something to make the smile slip. She flipped pages of music, her lips moving. The chatting and scowling went on until finally she began to play quite ably a dark, sad, melody.
The room quietened, everyone listening, and at the end applauding. She played two more songs of her own choosing, and the party broke off soon afterwards. Thomas hovered nearby her as she said her good nights, and walked out with her.
When the guests and Lady Hackwell went up, Hackwell pulled Bink aside.
He steeled himself for the questioning about Paulette. It had been a whirlwind since his arrival, and he’d had little time to think. He needed to clear any immediate estate business and decide what to do with her.
And Lady Hackwell was the person to talk to about Paulette, not her husband. If anyone knew what to do with an orphaned young lady of very little means, it would be Annabelle Harris. But with this damnable party here, finding the moment would be difficult.
“Free up your afternoon tomorrow, Gibson. I’m going to need you.”
“For the shooting?” Bink asked. “I have letters to catch up on.”
“We’ll shoot in the morning. Better you’re not there. That fool Agruen is likely to blow up a gun. Damned dangerous business with one like him. No, Bella and Lady Tepping will handle this bunch in the afternoon. You and I have…estate business.”
“I see. Something I need to prepare for?”
“Not at all. Only be dressed for a ride. Can you see to the locking up?”
“Aye, milord.”
Hackwell smiled and clapped him on the back. “You’re a damned stubborn man, Bink Gibson. But a good one.”
He was in the same sitting room chair Hackwell had occupied earlier, nursing a whisky, when Thomas arrived.
One candle lit the room dimly. The house had gone quiet. Thomas had likely waited for the nursemaid to drowse before sneaking out. Paulette should be abed now, too, in some virginal white nightrail, her dark hair spreading over the pillow.
He shook off that thought and threw back his drink. If the boy was here, he had something to say. “Well?”
“He stole something of hers.”
A ring, Bakeley had said. Bink waited.
“Leastways that would be my guess from the way she talked to him and he talked back. He’s a shady bugger. I don’t like him.”
“What was it he stole?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Somethin’ of her mother’s I’d warrant.”
“What exactly did they say?”
Thomas eyed the bottle of whisky on the shelf.
“If you’d conceded to letting your brother send you off to school you’d be quaffing that under the stairs with a bunch of lordly brats. Not here though. Not yet. It’ll stunt your growth. What was said?”
Thomas flung himself into a chair, grumbling. “I couldn’t hear all, what with one ladyship talking my arm off and the other ladyship telling me to go to bed.”
He would have to talk directly to Paulette in the morning. Before he attacked the stack of mail.
“All right. At least you got Miss Heardwyn all tucked in. Now it’s me telling you to go to bed.”
“She’s not tucked in.”
“No?”
“That’s why it took me so long to get down here. From what was said, I had this feeling like, and I waited around in the corridor. Your lady is in the library and he’s there too.”
Chapter 9
Paulette pushed through the library door and held her candle higher. Other than her own little pool of light, the room was shadowed. She could not see more than a few feet in front of her.
That sickening perfume swirled in the drafty room. Agruen was here somewhere, sitting in the dark, waiting to spook her.
Perhaps she should have gone ahead and met in the kitchens as he’d wanted, but somehow the library seemed safer.
Drawing too close to him would be foolish. Everyone else was abed. There was no Lord Bakeley here to come around the corner and rescue her.
So she must rescue herself, and she’d come armed for it.
She felt her way to the wall and circled around, spotting a candelabra on a table, and lighting the candles with her own.
That was better. She set down her candlestick. Warm light showed a high shelf filled with leather bound volumes. In other circumstances, she would love to explore them.
The curtains were drawn over a nearby window, and she opened them, casting a scant pool of light from a waning moon.
A low chuckle nearby made her hair stand.
“You are undoing all my dark work.” The voice was a growl, but easily recognizable as Agruen’s.
Paulette scuttled back to the light, knocking into a chair, the clatter reverberating through the room.
Agruen moved out of the darkness, his neck cloth loose over a flopping shirt. The scent of stale alcohol mixed with his overpowering cologne and a smell like a ripening privy. It had not been so powerful during that interminable dinner.
She caught her breath and steadied it. “Do not approach closer. I am not here for a tryst, Agruen. You have something of mine, and I want it back.”
He laughed and took an intimidating step. “You are accusing me of theft?”
“You took a ring of mine. Don’t try to deny it. A maid saw it in your chambers at Cransdall. You must give it back.”
“Must I?” He stepped up to the table and she went to the other side. The candle flame flashed in front of him, like the fires of hell.
“It was my mother’s.”
Not that Mama had valued it. Paulette had found it after her mother died, a strange, lopsided ring too large for small fingers. She’d worn it around her neck on a chain, wondering about the mystery of it, wondering if it had aught to do with the treasure.
“It could have no meaning to you,” she said.
Except as a means of tormenting a girl without friends.
She squeezed her lips shut. She might be friendless, but she was not without resources. Her hand slipped through the slit in her skirt and eased the knife higher in its sheath.
In spite of Jock’s tutoring, a strong man could take it from her, Mabel had warned her once. Agruen would not be so strong. He was drunk, dissipated, weak. And disgusting.
“You look like hell, Agruen, and you smell like death.”
His lips pulled back in a ghastly sneer. “That ring of your mother’s is part of a puzzle ring, lovely Paulette. Did you know that?”
The skin on her back rippled and her hand shook around the blade handle. She eased in another breath.
She hadn’t known, but a puzzle made sense. The design had an off-center design like the curved fingers and thumb of a hand. “Of course,” she said.
“And did you not wonder where the other piece was?”
“How could I if I didn’t know there was another piece?” She put up a hand. “Come no closer.”
He snickered. “I have its match, little Paulette. That’s why I took your ring. I’m going to solve the puzzle.”
Her heart quickened. The puzzle. The treasure. The puzzle of where the treasure was hidden.
How could this ass have the other half of her mother’s ring? Where did he get it? And how long had he had it? If the ring had an answer, he must have found it by now.
He laughed darkly. “Close your mouth, Paulette. I can see the question on your pretty face. I got my part of this puzzle from another whore.”
Heat surged into her cheeks.
Composure, Paulette. Unman your opponent with your calm.
Jock’s words failed to compose her. She eased in a breath. “My mother was not a whore.”
She was a spy.
“Was she not? Yet she had the other half of a whore’s ring.”
Her next breath was deeper. “No. The whore had her other half, if there even was a whore. And I want it back. In fact, you’ve had years to solve the puzzle. You might as well give me both pieces.”
He circled the table and gripped her arm. She tried to wrench away, but he stayed fixed, his hand firm. Panic built in her.
Just like with Cummings, she had underestimated this man’s strength.
“What have you got there, Paulette, under your skirt?”
His chuckle sent fear raging through her and breath whooshed out of her. Before she could catch it back for a scream, Agruen went flying back into the darkness with loud thuds and grunts.
“Are you all right, then, miss?” Thomas appeared at her side.
She quivered and shook, but praise God, the boy didn’t notice, and didn’t really expect her to speak. He was riveted upon the dark action beyond the light.
“Lay off,” Agruen yelled. “What are you doing?”
“What were you doing to the lady?”
The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) Page 9
