Page 13 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Truth is a fierce weapon. But first, everyone must believeit.

I t was true! Everything her mother had told her was true! She was the granddaughter of the Earl of Cavener.

She looked back at Mr. Hallowsby, saw his stunned face, and everything in her grew even brighter. He had doubted her. He had doubted her mother. But it was true, and now, by God, she would go to London and demand to know why she’d grown up unacknowledged in Hull.

“I must copy this page,” she said.

“Well, as to that,” the vicar said, “I could copy it and affix my name. But if someone doubts your true heritage, you will need a solicitor to make an official copy.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall certainly do that. But for now, I thank you for writing what you can.” She gave him her best smile, which happened to be especially bright right now.

“Certainly,” he said with an answering grin. And off the man went carrying the record book with him.

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. It was true. She’d had her doubts. Of course she had. And there was still so much that had to be answered, but—

“Tell me everything.”

She glanced up at Mr. Hallowsby’s gruff words. His face was tight, his jaw tense.

“I have told you—”

“Bollocks, you have not. Look, this is a dangerous game you’re playing. Do you think the Earl of Cavener is going to welcome you with open arms? Assuming this really is your mother’s name, he sent you to Hull for a reason. He might not like you coming back.”

“Assuming?” she sputtered. “Assuming! It bloody well is me mum!”

“Damn it, Bluebell, listen to me. It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you be recognized? Why haven’t you gone to a finishing school and been raised as you ought?”

“Well, that’s wot I want to know! I’m going t’ see ’im—”

“Mind your h ’s,” he snapped. Then he rubbed a hand over his face. “Bloody hell.”

“And you mind your language. I’m a lady, if you recall.”

“No, I don’t recall. And you’re nothing of the sort.”

She pulled herself up to her full height and stared down her nose at him, just like she’d seen Mrs. Pursley do to her. “I am indeed a lady. That’s what the book says.”

“The book says you’re legitimate. That’s a miracle, true enough, but it takes a great deal more to be a lady.”

“Bollocks,” she snapped back.

He gripped her arm, his fingers tightening painfully. She gasped and tried to wrench away, but he held her fast. “Let me think,” he said between clenched teeth.

“You’re ’urting me,” she said, her voice low and angry.

It took him a moment to understand her words. A moment before his eyes widened and his hand abruptly released her.

“Damnation, I’m sorry, Bluebell. But you need to let me think.”

“I need to see my father,” she returned. Then she grinned, happiness bubbling out his name. “Mr. Oscar Ballenger, second son of the Earl of Cavener.”

“Right. At least we know why he didn’t follow your mum,” he said grimly.

“Wot?” Damn it, she was a lady. She needed to speak correctly. “What are you saying?”

His eyes abruptly softened. He reached out to her, but she kept back. He knew something, and suddenly, his eyes were filled with pity.

“Bluebell, you must understand. Gentlemen lie to girls all the time. Your mother wasn’t reared gently, was she?”

“She was an honorable girl. Raised proper.”

“But she wasn’t a gentlewoman.”

Bluebell shook her head. “She was a maid in a don’s house.” She might as well tell him it all. “My father was a student, and he came to visit his teacher often. That’s where he met my mother.”

“Of course. A student trick of an uneducated girl.”

“She might not have had schooling, but my mother was smart. She learned things all the time. And she taught them to me.”

“What things?”

“Philosophy. She loved Aristotle and Plato the best, but she knew all sorts of things.”

He nodded. “A smart girl. Pretty, most like.”

“Prettier than me,” she said softly.

His lips curved. “I doubt that. But then this student comes, shows an interest. Gets her pregnant.”

“Not until after they was wed.”

“They were wed,” he said.

“That’s what I said!”

He sighed and didn’t argue. And in the silence, the vicar came back carrying the heavy tome. “I’ve copied it down for you, but miss…” He took a deep breath. Why was everyone looking at her with pity? She was a lady, and yet their eyes kept saying she was a fool. “It only says the two were married. Not who you are.”

She frowned. “I’m their child.”

The cleric nodded, shared a glance with Mr. Hallowsby, and then handed over the piece of foolscap. “I wish you the best of luck,” he said to her. “I’ve seen terrible things done to naive girls, miss. It’s not fair, and I try to stop it, but there are randy boys in Oxford, if you get my meaning.”

No, she did not. But she wasn’t ready to argue, so she carefully placed the letter into her satchel. Then she watched as Mr. Hallowsby solemnly shook hands with the vicar.

“Thank you, Father. I’ll see that it gets sorted out.”

“You are a kind gentleman, then.”

“No, sir,” he answered stiffly. “Just one paid to make things clear.”

The cleric had no response except a slow nod and another sympathetic look. She gritted her teeth, doing her best to act appropriate to her status. She smiled her thanks and allowed Mr. Hallowsby to guide her out. But one step outside the church door, her control broke.

“What does he mean?” she demanded. “What do you know?”

He sighed. “Come along. I’ll buy you an ice. It’s damned hot already and not even noon.”

She wanted to dig in her heels, but she knew that wouldn’t work on him. Besides, a queasy feeling was building in her stomach, and perhaps tea would ease it. She let him escort her to the center square. She could tell he’d been to Oxfordshire before, knew where to go, and even nodded politely at a few people.

“Do you know them?” she asked.

“No, but you can tell by their clothing who they are. See the men in black robes like barristers?”

“The bishops?”

“They’re not bishops. They’re the dons, the teachers at Oxford. One nods to them out of respect for their scholarship.”

“I see,” she said as she did exactly that to another of the black-robed men.

“And because they’re a priggish lot who get tetchier than a slighted countess if you don’t.”

“Oh.”

“That’s what you have to know. The dons take themselves very seriously because the boys—as a rule—do not.”

“They’re not boys,” she said, knowing he was thinking of her father. “They’re grown men who have chosen—”

“They’re boys younger than you with much less sense. Worse, they’re often privileged enough to think they can do anything without consequence.” He sighed. “And they’re usually right.”

He guided her around another corner stuffed with people. Her whole village didn’t count this many, and her eyes widened. “Why is that man dressed all in blue?”

“What man? Oh, the boy with the ugly hat?”

He wasn’t a boy. Maybe a man just out of his gangly adolescence, but she didn’t argue. His pants were blue, his shirt and waistcoat blue. Even his coat and hat were dark blue, all of it of fine quality.

“It was the fashion a Season or so ago. He’s out of date by London standards, but Oxfordshire is often behind the times.”

This was fashion? “To dress all in blue?”

“Bottle green was the color before that.”

“Truly?” She never seen a bottle green shirt before.

“Stop looking,” he said. “You can peer about once we’re seated, but you must do it slowly. As if you’ve seen it all before.”

“But I’ve never seen anything like—”

“I know,” he bit out. “That’s the point. If you want to act a lady, then you mustn’t be who you are.” His look was heavy on her face. “Unless you wish to give up this mad scheme, be content as you are, and enjoy a visit to Oxfordshire.”

She frowned. “I am sure ladies enjoy themselves when traveling.”

“Oh, they most certainly do. They just don’t act like they do.”

“But—”

“Good morning, sir, lady,” the innkeeper interrupted.

Together they turned to the man, but it was Mr. Hallowsby who spoke. He requested a table on the square, tea, and ices. Mindful of his instruction, Maybelle tried to look bored, but there was so much to see, including two fine ladies walking together down the street. They carried parasols, had ruffles on their gowns and feathers in their bonnets, and two maids trailed behind them carrying hatboxes. Fine ladies…but neither one of them smiled.

She mimicked their sour expressions—chin lifted, nose wrinkled, and lips pursed—as they reached a small table on the cobblestones.

“That’s it,” he said as he held out the chair for her. He didn’t sound like he approved.

She tilted her head, watching him—and everything else she could see—as he sat beside her. She’d never been served before, not like this. Not at a table outdoors by a waiter or a garcon. She knew the words. Her mother had told her stories of Oxfordshire, but now she was experiencing it and she vibrated with the joy of it.

He waited in silence, letting her gaze rove over everything. Soon tea and ices were set before them, and he gestured for her to lift her spoon and take a taste.

Cold ice and sweet lemon flavor exploded in her mouth. “Coo…” she murmured.

His jaw tightened. “Say marvelous.”

“Marvelous.”

“And sit up straight. Your corset isn’t bone. You must pretend it is.”

She frowned, but tightened her back as he’d ordered. It was going to be hard to maintain.

“I’ll have to buy whalebone now, won’t I?”

“Deuced uncomfortable, as I understand it.”

She didn’t speak. He was trying to make a point, but she didn’t know what. So she arched a brow and waited. In her experience, men never kept quiet for long. Not if they had something burning in their gut.

But in this, she was sadly out. He did nothing but eat his ice, gesture for her to serve the tea, and then glower. And he kept that up while she tried to look everywhere without appearing to really look.

“Sit up,” he snapped.

She sighed, but straightened her back. “You’re being very disagreeable.”

“Learning to be a lady is very disagreeable.” He set his arm on the table, leaning forward. “Most girls are at it their entire lives, and they hate it.”

“Then why do it?”

He shrugged. “You might as well as ask why the sun rises in the east. Because it does. Because they do. Because that is what is expected of ladies.”

Her gaze cut to his. “Then I had best start learning now.”

“Or perhaps, give up—”

“Leave off,” she snapped. “I am a legitimate lady. Granddaughter to the Earl of—”

“Your father died in school. Likely before you were even born.”

She paused. A pair of gentlemen on horseback were riding through, splattering mud everywhere and laughing as an apple vendor cursed them. She could tell by the fine cut of their clothing that they were wealthy. No one could afford that much gold stitching unless they had money to spare. And that was nothing compared to the horseflesh they jerked about with no consideration for the poor beasts’ mouths.

She was so busy frowning at the men that it took a moment for her to realize what Mr. Hallowsby had said. But when she did, her gaze cut back to his. “What?”

“I’m sorry. The second son of the Earl of Cavener died years ago of a fever.”

She swallowed. Dead. Her father was dead. “No,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry, Bluebell.” Then he took a breath. “You have your paper. You’re legitimate. And now we know why your father never came to find you. You can go back to Hull and—”

She slammed down her spoon, her pleasure from the dessert gone. “You have cast doubt everywhere you turn. I am tired of it. Leave if you want, but tomorrow, I go to London.”

He threw up his hands. “To see what relation? Your father is long gone.”

“Then I will speak with the earl.”

“He won’t see you.” He reached forward to touch her hand, but she pulled back. “Think, Bluebell. You were sent away to Hull, your mother as well. Who do you think did that? The best possibility is that it was the earl. He will not acknowledge you now. In truth, he will do everything he can to discredit you in front of everyone, because he will not admit how badly you have been treated.” He gave her a sad look. “And that is the best possibility.”

“Rubbish. I am legitimate, and he will acknowledge me.” She said the words and stared down her nose at Mr. Hallowsby. She did everything to be intimidating, and it had no effect. He was steadfast in his regard. Just as she was sure in her plan.

“It won’t work, Bluebell. It will only give you pain.”

She didn’t bother responding. He knew her plans.

And then, surprise of surprises, he relented. A little. “Tell me everything, Bluebell. Absolutely everything.”

She was in no mood to recount any of it, but she would have to relay it to the earl soon enough. And if her father was dead and gone these last years, then there was no one to swear that it was true. No one to stand by her side. And that terrified her.

“I grew up in Hull,” she said, speaking her words carefully.

“If the banns were read in Oxfordshire, how did your mother get from here to there?”

She swallowed. “I asked Mum that when I was little. She told me such tales of Oxford, I wanted to see it. But Mum said she’d promised to keep us in Hull until later. I didn’t know what later meant until a few months ago.”

He waited, his expression shifting into narrowed eyes and a tight mouth. She didn’t know what that meant, but as he didn’t speak, she had little choice but to continue.

“Mum got sick last year and it grew steadily worse through the winter. Come February, we both knew…” Her throat closed down. She couldn’t voice it, but then she felt his hand over hers, heavy and comforting.

“She was all you had. I’m sorry that you lost her.”

“One evening, she said it was time I knew the full story. I was old enough and would have to decide what to do when she was gone.”

“Tell me her exact words.”

“She said that when she was young, she was a maid working in the house of a don. There was a student, Mr. Oscar Ballenger. He was the second son of the Earl of Cavener, and he was a kind and wonderful man.”

“Or a good liar.”

Maybelle glared at him. “I grow tired of your insults.”

“I’m not insulting you.” He leaned back. “I’ve been one of these boys. I spent my childhood among these spoiled, lying—”

“Not my father.” Her words were clipped and loud. It was the volume that had him glancing around as he tightened his hold on her hand.

“Steady and quiet. A lady never raises her voice.”

“If you are so sure I am not a lady, then why do you continue ’arping at me?” Her words were tight with fury.

“Harping. With an h .”

“Harping, haranguing, harboring hatred. Horrible Hallowsby.”

His lips twitched at that. “No one can fault your vocabulary.”

Was that a compliment?

“But everyone will notice if you forget your h ’s.”

“But you don’t believe it’s true. Even after seeing the church registry.”

He sighed. “Bluebell—”

“Miss Maybelle Ballenger,” she corrected acidly.

He swallowed and dipped his head. “Maybelle. Very well, Miss Ballenger, tell me the rest. Your mother said she grew up here, met a student who was the second son of the Earl of Cavener.”

“He drew a picture of her and signed it with his name. He even wrote, ‘To my love, Anna’ on it.”

“What picture?”

She didn’t want to show him. It was her most private possession, but it was proof. And soon, she would show it to the earl. She needed to see how someone cruel and cynical like Mr. Hallowsby would react.

So she carefully pulled it out of her satchel. It was in its frame, but she had no glass to cover it. She moved aside the tea and ices on the table, then set it carefully before him. Then she pointed without actually touching the paper. “To my love, Anna. Oscar B.”

He looked at it. With her eyes, she traced the soft lines of her mother’s face. Jaw lifted, cheeks rounded, and eyes without wrinkles. She was laughing in the sunshine—or so she’d always imagined—and behind her were vague strokes like wisps of clouds.

Mr. Hallowsby turned the picture to study it more closely. His touch was delicate, his gestures slow.

“Not a talent, that’s for sure, but definite education. And he cared for her, I can see that.”

“He married her.”

He looked up. “I believe you. I believe that your parents were married in the church, their names recorded in the registry just as we saw. But I do not think he was the second son of the Earl of Cavener.”

“But it is my name. Maybelle Ballenger.”

He nodded. “Perhaps a cousin? That would be great enough, wouldn’t it? For your vicar’s son?” His voice took on a harder edge, and for a moment she wondered exactly who he meant. What vicar’s—oh!

Charles.

Yes. She supposed any connection to the earl would be enough for him and his father. “But I need to know the truth. Mum said they were married, but the earl would not approve. So they called the banns and told no one.”

“You cannot keep such a thing a secret.”

“Mum said they did. From his family. His older brother appeared as they were in the church. Richard Ballenger.”

“That’s the earl’s heir.”

“Then he can prove—”

“Died in an accident ten years ago.” He sighed. “Don’t you see? Anyone who will corroborate your story is gone. From their perspective, you’re a country girl making wild claims. The earl will not allow it. It would be the scandal of the Season.”

“There were others,” she pressed. “Mum said the earl and countess arrived the very next day, but they were all too late. Mum and Dad were already married.”

“And how much later were you born?”

She winced. She’d already made that calculation from the date in the registry. “Nearly eight months.”

His gaze was heavy on her face, but she lifted her chin. Many children were born early in a marriage. They were still legitimate.

“Then how did you end up in Hull?”

And that, of course, was the question. “Mum said that there was an ugly row. In the end, she was sent to Hull. She had money that came in now and then, but she was to claim to be a widow.”

“Why would your mother agree to that? If everything was legal, she must have known what people would think.”

She had. She did. “She said my father was to join them. After the earl calmed down. After he finished his studies and could provide for them as a don. That had been his plan. To be a don in Oxfordshire.”

She thought briefly of the men in black robes she’d seen earlier. That could have been her father, dressed like that…bowed to like that. If he hadn’t gotten sick.

“But he never came for her,” Bram said softly.

Maybelle looked back at the sketch of her mother. She read again the dedication and the signature. They were getting hard to read, the pencil strokes faded over twenty-four years.

“He loved her. Enough to defy everyone. If he is gone now, then I will speak with the earl.” She lifted her gaze to Mr. Hallowsby. “I will make him see me.”

“How?”

She picked up the picture, stroking the frame rather than her mother’s face. Then she carefully rewrapped it in muslin and returned it to her satchel beside the letter from the vicar.

“You will make him,” she said, faking her certainty.

He snorted. “You haven’t enough money for that.” Then he grabbed her hand. She wasn’t going to allow it, but he was quick. “Do you understand why I kept harping at you? Correcting your language, your posture, your everything?”

“Because you are mean and like pointing out faults.”

“Because I am kind and know that what I said was nothing compared to what others will think in society. There is a whole world outside the ton , and it is vastly more comfortable than inside it. I only know a small part of the etiquette forced on young girls, and you will hate every correction, every uncomfortable corset, and every ridiculous restriction. But that is the world of the ton .”

“I don’t care—”

“Let us say all of this is true. If you force the earl to recognize you as his legitimate granddaughter, what then?”

“I will have proof. I will be accepted.”

“Back in Hull, perhaps. With the vicar’s son, possibly. Not among the peerage.”

“I don’t care.”

“Then, why do it? You can return now and have those things. The paper from the registry is all you need. No one will question it.”

It was true. She knew it. If all she wanted was a life with Charles, then she could turn around now. But she’d never know anything about her father’s family. “You think if I pursue this, I will find it’s all a lie. That I am a bastard after all.”

He didn’t have to answer. She could see it in the clenched line of his jaw. “I know the life of a bastard,” he said. “It is not for you. Go home. Marry your vicar’s son. Do not—”

“I will see the earl.” She would have her questions answered for good or for ill.

“Maybelle—”

“And you will make sure he sees me.”

Mr. Hallowsby shook his head. “And why would I do such a thing? I exist carefully, Miss Ballenger, tolerated by the elite because I have a purpose. I will not antagonize a powerful earl.”

She touched his hand, stroking it as she used what wiles she had. “Bram, please. You will be bringing him his long-lost granddaughter.”

“Whom he doesn’t want to see.”

“You don’t know that.” She needed more persuasion. “I could pay you.”

He snorted. “You haven’t enough money for that.”

True enough. “Then do it because my mother was wronged. And you are a man who rights wrongs.”

He laughed at that, the sound derisive. She crossed her arms and matched him sneer for sneer.

“You have me all wrong, Miss Bluebell.”

“I don’t think so. I saw how you smirked at those awful gentlemen on horses a moment ago. I remember that you helped a lady who you thought was hurt through no fault of her own. What did you call the boys around here? Arrogant churls who believe they can do anything with no consequence.”

“You know nothing of me.” His tone was hard.

“I know you want to see me—a dairy maid—set up as one of their own. True or not doesn’t matter. Think on how my very presence will shame them because I will be more beautiful, more ladylike, and more proper than every single one.”

His brows arched. “You are a sow’s ear, Maybelle. You will never be one of them.”

She winced. She couldn’t help it. His words hurt even though she had been that and worse her whole life. “I will. You will see.” Then she leaned forward. “Please, Bram, help me.”

She waited for his answer. A nod. A breath. A flicker of his eye. Any clue to his thoughts.

And she waited.

And waited.