Page 17 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Even bastards can getlucky.

“I t is only tea,” Lady Eleanor warned Maybelle a few days later. “You needn’t worry about anything except for how you speak. Make sure your words are slow and clear. And for heaven’s sake, remember those h ’s.”

Maybelle nodded. Her grandparents were coming, and she was a knot of mixed emotions. She wanted to make a good impression, but she also wanted to confront them for how they’d treated her mother. Two goals, absolutely contradictory. She was nervous and excited and bewildered all at once, and she’d never felt so many conflicting desires, apart from her time with Mr. Hallowsby—who wasn’t coming, the blighter.

“Make sure to sit up straight. Keep a reserved expression, though a smile or two of happiness would not be amiss.”

Fortunately, Eleanor was displaying enough anxiety for both of them. The woman was pacing, which was something Maybelle had never thought to see. Eleanor kept touching her fingers as if she were counting off items on a list. And she no longer floated when she moved. It was more of an agitated swirling of wind and words.

“That gown is perfect,” Eleanor said. “I knew blue would be your color, but then I suppose you were already aware, given your nickname. Don’t tell anyone to call you Bluebell, though. That will put them in absolutely the wrong state of mind. You’re a lady now. And ladies have proper names.”

Maybelle’s hands tightened in her lap. Her borrowed corset made it difficult to slouch, which was good. But she also couldn’t breathe right, which made her feel overly hot. As well, her hair was now a heavy coiffed presence upon her head. She feared she’d topple from the weight.

“And don’t really eat anything. You’re not plump, which is excellent, but the food is for Lord and Lady Cavener. Sip your tea if you must. And keep smiling!”

Since she could barely breathe, the last thing she wanted was to fill her stomach.

“Don’t forget to curtsy when they enter. You are being presented to them. Get to your—”

“Tell me another story about Mr. Hallowsby,” she interrupted.

“What?”

“It will help pass the time. I’m trying not to be nervous,” she lied. She was trying to breathe. “And listening relaxes me.” Another lie. Still, she was intensely curious about him. Not even half of what people said about Eleanor’s brother was true. It couldn’t be. No one killed a bear with his own fists, and certainly not at six years old. With every story, she tried to guess what was true and what was fabrication.

“You’ve already heard about the bear when he was a child,” Eleanor said. Then a miracle happened. The woman sat down! “Have I told you about the French spy?”

“The man?”

“No, no. There have been scores of those, one can hardly keep track. And mostly, he knocks them out and drags them to the Home Office. I mean the woman.”

“A female spy?” She couldn’t believe it. Not that women couldn’t learn secret things. Of course they could. She doubted a man could catch a female spy. No one looked closely at maids or cooks. And if the woman was beautiful? Well then, the men completely lost their heads.

“He only caught one. No matter what anyone says, there was only the one.”

Maybelle took a deep breath, feeling her emotions settle as Eleanor began talking. The woman loved telling Bram tales, which was lucky, since Maybelle adored hearing them. “Was she pretty?”

“Ravishing. She would slip into important men’s bedrooms at night, seduce them, and then steal their papers. Quite evil, that woman.”

“She’d sneak in?”

“Well, she was a beauty. And if she couldn’t drug them insensate, she would get them in the usual way.”

“But Mr. Hallowsby caught her.” She leaned forward, being careful with her words. Even in the midst of a rousing tale of spies and seduction, Eleanor would pick on her accent. “How did he do it?”

“He pursued her all over the Continent. Down into Africa even. Took years.”

“But how did he know?”

“Oh, you know Bram. He deduced it from his friends. All he had to do was hear about a battle gone wrong, and he knew there was a seductress. The problem was catching her.”

Well, that was patently untrue. Even she knew that. “What did she look like?”

“No one really knows. She wore wigs and the like. One day she’d be a meek Scottish maid, the next, a dark-skinned Ethiopian princess. But Bram caught her when she was playing a sultan’s wife all covered in robes.”

“What was a sultan’s wife doing in England? Or were they on the Continent?”

“That’s just it. She was right here in London and planning to assassinate the king!”

How she adored these tales! None of them made sense. Why would a woman dress as a sultan’s wife when trying to assassinate the king? And what good would it do for Napoleon to kill their mad king? The king had nothing to do with planning battles. Even the Prince Regent left it to the military men. And yet a woman as smart as Lady Eleanor seemed to take these tales as complete truth.

“I only heard that part,” Eleanor continued. “I have my doubts about dressing as a sultan’s wife. And though Bram has disappeared for months at a time, I doubt it truly took years.”

Good that Eleanor wasn’t completely gullible. “So what part are you sure of?”

“I know he was in the bedchamber of Mrs. Wulfson when he heard the noise. Many would claim that it was Lady Baney, but that liaison had nothing to do with spying.”

Oh. “But how do you know it was Mrs. Wulfson?”

“I heard it from my maid who heard it from another maid. What does it matter?”

It didn’t. That was the glory of gossip.

“So it was a spy come to steal her husband’s papers?” Maybelle prompted. “And Bram—er, Mr. Hallowsby—was in the lady’s bedchamber?” Hard not to feel sour on this point. If the tales were true, then Bram was a notorious seducer. He was always in some lady’s bedroom.

“Yes. She is well known for taking lovers, and why else would Bram be there?”

“You said he tracked the spy all over the Continent. Perhaps he was pursuing her.”

“He was. Which is why he and Mrs. Wulfson were together. Because he knew the spy was coming and needed a reason to be in the house.”

“But—”

“Then he caught her. He heard the noise, grabbed the venomous tart, and sent for the Home Office. Easiest thing in the world.”

“Which tart? The spy or Mrs.—”

“Tut tut. The spy, of course—”

The knocker sounded, startling Maybelle enough that she bit her lip. Then Eleanor slapped a hand on Maybelle’s thigh to keep her from rising.

“We are talking. You are a lovely lady come for a visit, and we are chatting.”

“We were—”

“Do not rise until Seelye—”

The butler opened the parlor door. Behind him trailed an elderly couple dressed in the fanciest attire Maybelle had ever seen. The gentleman wore a military coat with medals pinned to the front. She had no idea what they meant, but they were very impressive, especially as his face seemed covered by an enormous blond and brown mustache.

The lady appeared less conspicuous. She wore a shimmering, dove-gray gown and pearls. Her skin was powdered, and her hair so tall, it towered over everyone. And though she smiled with her mouth, it did not reach her pale blue eyes.

Maybelle rose to her feet, moving by instinct. The couple didn’t seem real to her. More like a picture in a book come to life. Could these people be her grandparents? She couldn’t comprehend it. They seemed so unlike herself or her mother.

“Good afternoon, Lord and Lady Cavener,” Eleanor said as she dropped into a shallow curtsy.

The gentleman gave her a perfunctory nod. The lady did nothing but incline her head with a vague sort of expression.

Sad, Maybelle thought. The lady seemed sad, though there was nothing in her outward appearance to suggest it. Meanwhile, Lord Cavener was frowning at the two of them.

“Lady Eleanor, you said we had something of importance to discuss. Of a private nature. We must come for tea, you said. So here we are. What is it?” Every sentence was punched at the end with a huff of air.

“Won’t you please sit down?” Eleanor asked, though Maybelle thought her smile was strained. “Seelye, the tea tray, if you please.”

“Of course, my lady,” Seelye intoned. But he left slowly, every step filled with pomposity.

“Don’t need any more tea today,” his lordship said, but his wife set two long fingers on her husband’s arm.

“I should like some tea,” she said. “I know it makes little sense, but I do love a hot cup on a hot day.”

“I’ve told you time and again,” the man cut in. “It’s because it makes you sweat. And that cools you off.”

Eleanor tilted her head. “What an excellent deduction, my lord. I would never have thought of that myself.”

“Course not. Don’t teach gels science.” Then he turned his bristly mustache to her. “And who is this? Introduce yourself, gel. Don’t be mousy. I want to know your name.”

Don’t be mousy? No one in her life had ever treated her so rudely, and that included all those people who thought her a bastard. Eleanor had spent days telling her to be kind, be ladylike, be serene, but at those words, her intentions flew out the window.

She lifted her chin, looked directly at that bristling monstrosity on his face and spoke. “I am Miss Maybelle Ballenger, my lord. Your granddaughter.”

Dead silence greeted her words. It should have been gratifying. That stunned horror was exactly what she’d wanted. Except a moment later, it all turned to pieces.

Lord Cavener shoved up to his feet, his facial hair quivering, with an icy stare for Lady Eleanor. “What is the meaning of this ridiculousness? How dare you—”

Eleanor shot to her feet as well. “Please, please, Lord Cavener, I know this is sudden. We haven’t even had tea.”

“Bollocks on the tea and you! Such schemes are beneath you, Lady Eleanor. I knew your family had sunk, but this is disgusting—”

“You will control your tongue, sir,” Eleanor snapped, and if tone alone could freeze a person in place, hers would have done it. Unfortunately, it could not.

Lord Cavener spun on his heel, held out his hand to his wife, and spat a frigid, “Good day,” over his shoulder.

Except his wife had not moved. Maybelle hadn’t noticed at first. His lordship was commanding all the attention. But when his wife did not move so much as a muscle, all eyes went to her. And she was…

She was gazing at Maybelle.

“Sarah!” his lordship snapped, but his wife tilted her head to see more clearly around her husband.

“Maybelle was my mother’s name,” she said. Her words were soft, almost inaudible. After his lordship’s booming voice, her quietness seemed to lift her words to everyone there.

“Any jack-a-dandy would know that,” her husband growled.

His wife’s eyes glittered bright as she drank in Maybelle’s face. “Tell me your parents’ names.”

Maybelle reached to the floor behind the settee. She’d set the items there for safekeeping. First the letter from the vicar.

“Anna and Oscar Ballenger. They were married in Oxfordshire, and I am their daughter.”

“Ridiculous!” the earl spat, whirling back to face her. “My son would never marry a chambermaid.”

“And this is the picture he drew of my mother.” She pulled out the framed sketch. “You can see his signature there.” She pointed and repeated his name. “Oscar B. My father.”

The countess lovingly stroked the signature scrawled on the sketch. “I’d forgotten that he had talent with charcoal.”

“He did not!” the earl said. Then he snatched up the vicar’s letter. He didn’t even look at it as he ripped it to pieces. “There was no wedding. There was no child. You are a scheming whore.”

Maybelle didn’t think. She leaped to her feet, her hands clenched at her sides, and her words came faster and faster as her accent slipped in thick and hard. “I am as pure a Christian woman as there ever was. It’s you oo are a lying ’ypocrite. You tossed off me mum like she were rubbish, but she was strong. She raised me alone. Educated me better than anyone. And she waited all ’er life for her ’usband. Ever day, ever night praying that he’d come find ’er. But ’e’s dead, ain’t he? And you never bothered to even tell us!” It was that last bit that had her words choking off. The years her mum waited for a man who was dead and gone. Years.

Meanwhile the earl’s face had purpled with rage. “You insult the very air,” he bellowed. Then he rounded on Eleanor who sat statue still, her hands flat on her lap. “How dare you upset her ladyship like this? How dare you bring this woman—” He spat the word. “Into her presence?”

Eleanor tilted her head, her expression so smooth it didn’t appear real. “Oh look,” she said, pointing over his shoulder. “Seelye has brought the tea tray. Do sit down, my lord. I find everything much clearer with tea, don’t you think?”

“No, I do not!” Then he snatched the framed picture out of his wife’s hands and slammed it on the table. The cheap wood frame broke into splinters, and Maybelle cried out, but she was too late. Too slow.

“No!” she screamed.

Then a male voice cut through the air. It was so familiar, and yet so cold as to be unrecognizable. And it froze everyone in place the way Eleanor had failed to do.

“Touch that drawing, my lord, and I will hurt you.”