Page 19 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Everyone thinks a bastard is devious. It is nothing compared to what a legitimate heir will do when cornered. But that is what makes society sofascinating.

M aybelle was fuming. In a day filled with every feeling she’d ever thought to experience, everything now settled into one strong emotion: seething fury.

“I do not understand why you insist on treating me as an ignorant girl!” She planted her hands on her hips and glared at her grandmother and Eleanor.

It was early evening on the day they’d forced her grandparents to recognize her. She was in the parlor with Eleanor and her grandmother to plan her coming Season. Or so they’d claimed. Instead, the two women had “instructed her”—for four hours—on appropriate behavior. She’d tolerated it at first, but when they began to discuss gentlemen, they stressed over and over that Mr. Hallowsby was definitely not suitable . And that was when she lost her temper.

But far from being upset by her outburst, the women tut tutted at her as if she were an overwhelmed toddler.

“I know this is difficult to understand,” said one.

“It is all happening so fast, I can scarce credit it,” said the other.

“But you must trust us to know what’s best.”

“Indeed, I cannot think of two women more able to steer you through the social waters than us.”

“I quite agree.”

“Yes, definitely.”

Maybelle huffed out a breath and wished she could loosen her damned corset. “You forget,” she said coldly, “that I was reared under the daily shadow of illegitimacy.” Her grandmother flinched, and Eleanor compressed her lips, but Maybelle did not soften her tone. “I knew from the earliest age that I must act more correct, more proper, and more stifled than anyone else just to maintain our dubious place in the village.”

“But a village in Hull is not London.”

“No,” Maybelle snapped. “I suspect it is harder to change people’s minds up there.”

Her grandmother reached out a comforting hand. Maybelle could see the lady’s age spots and slight tremor. She knew the thin skin and the frail bones of age. So she did not throw off the condescending pat.

“I know this is hard,” the countess said, “and I’m afraid it’s going to get worse. But you must listen to us.”

Eleanor nodded emphatically, then began ticking items off her fingers. “You require dancing lessons, singing lessons, a speech tutor—”

“Oh, definitely,” her grandmother said with a nod.

“The dressmaker has your measurements, but you will have to practice in the corset. You still look awkward.”

“Because it’s b—” Maybelle swallowed the “bloody awkward” she was about to say and shifted to something less scandalous. “Pinching me and I cannot breathe.”

“Exactly,” Eleanor confirmed. “You must get used to it.”

“And you must get used to the fact that Mr. Hallowsby and I are friends. Without him, I would not have made it to London. I could never have met you, Grandmother. And I certainly would not be trussed up in this corset and discussing singing instructors. I have a terrible voice!”

Both elegant ladies looked at her, their expressions excruciatingly sad. It seemed to be what aristocratic ladies did when upset. They tilted their heads, let their eyes droop and their shoulders settle, while they sighed with great feeling.

“The man is a by-blow,” her grandmother finally said. “He is not received.”

“He was received here.”

“Through the servants’ entrance,” Eleanor said crisply.

“But he is your brother.”

“ Half- brother,” Eleanor snapped. “There is good ton and bad ton —”

“You have been singing his praises since I first arrived. I have heard about his service to the crown, to any number of poor ladies, and I have experienced his kindness myself.”

“And yet he is still a by-blow,” her grandmother pressed. “Not an appropriate companion for a lady.”

“He has been my companion since I left Hull.”

Grandmother reacted to that with a gasp as she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth.

“I told you that we would not speak of that,” Eleanor said with a sigh.

“But it is the truth, and—”

“Maybelle!” Eleanor snapped. “There are rules, and this is one. You will cease being familiar with Mr. Hallowsby. If you do not listen, then I wash my hands of you. Is that what you want? No Season, no dowry, no entrée into society.”

Maybelle bit her lip, trying to comprehend the depth of their hypocrisy. “You would throw me over for a friendship with your brother.”

Eleanor remained intransigent. “I do not claim a friendship with Mr. Hallowsby.”

“But—”

“We have become known to one another only recently.”

There was something in her tone. Some waver in her words that penetrated Maybelle’s fury.

“How recently?” When Eleanor refused to answer, Maybelle folded her arms. “Recall that I have been independent most of my life. As soon as I could read, I began managing our money and furthering my education, not to mention caring for my sick mother and earning what little I could by making possets.”

Her grandmother shuddered. “Pray do not mention that again.”

Maybelle stopped herself from rolling her eyes. She was focused on Eleanor and would not be distracted. “I am not a woman to be put off by hurt feelings or illogical assumptions. If I were, then I would have starved by the age of seven. So you will explain yourself logically. Why would you refuse to acknowledge your own brother?”

Eleanor sighed and nodded. “I met him when my father was ill. You recall what happened to my family?” She asked the question of the countess, but Maybelle was grateful for the details.

“Illness. Very tragic. I cried for you.”

“It was scarlet fever,” Eleanor explained. “It struck my grandfather first. There were so many of us gathered for Christmas. Everyone was there.” She swallowed, her gaze going very distant.

“This is how the seaman came to be the duke,” Maybelle said.

Eleanor nodded. “Looking back, it happened so quickly. Grandpapa. Then my uncles and cousins. My brother, Seth. Papa tried to be strong. Mama had passed a few years back, but as the new duke, he tried…” She swallowed and looked down at the pages of dress sketches beneath her fingers. “Well, Papa tried to be strong.”

The countess patted Eleanor’s hand as she took up the tale. “It is the usual procedure when men die that the solicitors look to the heirs. Every effort is made to keep one safe, but in this case, everyone had already gathered. They were at His Grace’s bedside when he died. They were there—”

“To catch the illness,” Maybelle said. “So it was too late for the heirs.”

“Yes,” Eleanor whispered. “That is when I met Bram. He and his mother came up from London. The entire county was reeling from the disease. It wasn’t just us. It was the servants and their families. I have never seen so many people die before. So many people mourning. So much…” Her voice faltered.

Maybelle had heard of such things. Entire villages wiped out. It usually began with a few victims, but fear quickly took over. People barricaded houses, locking the healthy in with the sick. No doctor would come, no supplies delivered. No one to cook or clean. No one but the ill tending the ill, and nothing for the dead.

The countess spoke again. “A mistress always hopes to become the wife. With Eleanor’s mother gone and her brother passed, there was no heir. Everyone had forgotten the seaman.”

“Papa remembered,” Eleanor said.

Maybelle tried to piece it together. “So with everyone dying, Bram’s mum went there to…” She shook her head. “To marry a dying duke?” That was ghoulish.

The countess nodded. “It was that, or let the title die.”

Maybelle sighed, her heart breaking. “But your father wouldn’t do it, would he?” she said to Eleanor. “He would rather the title die than go to Bram.”

Eleanor looked down. “He knew about Radley.”

The countess shook her head. “What a terrible choice—a seaman or a by-blow. How he must have suffered.”

Suffered? As if either man were less, simply for not being reared as an aristocrat. “How could he have done that to his own son? Cast him aside like that?” Maybelle couldn’t fathom it. And yet to these two ladies, it seemed like the most logical choice in the world.

Eleanor’s gaze was vague. “I’d never met Bram before, although I’d heard whispers. People in our set don’t discuss by-blows. Certainly not with unmarried ladies.”

“Was he terribly angry?” the countess asked. “When he didn’t get the title?”

“Angry?” Maybelle asked. Why not hurt? Betrayed? Bitter?

“He didn’t expect it,” Eleanor answered. “It was his mother’s hope. And when my father passed, she left as soon as could be. Returned to London and…”

The countess clucked her tongue in disapproval. “And the life she had here.”

Which meant the woman had a new protector. “And what of Mr. Hallowsby?” she asked.

Eleanor twisted her fingers together. “You understand that there was no chance by this point.” She swallowed. “My father was gone, and the title passed to Radley, though I didn’t know him at the time. Bram had no reason to stay behind where everyone was ill.”

“But he did,” Maybelle guessed. “He stayed to help.”

Eleanor nodded. “Two months. He did everything. He helped with the dead. He cooked, he cleaned, he even worked the harvest. I have never seen a man do so much.” She bit her lip, clearly fighting tears. “He would have made an excellent duke.”

But he hadn’t been legitimized. He hadn’t received the title. He had helped because that was what Bram did.

“And you still won’t recognize him.” It wasn’t a question. “He has to come through the servants’ entrance!” She hadn’t thought anyone could be so hard-hearted.

The countess shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

Eleanor echoed the statement. “How can I recognize him when my own father would not? When he’d wanted the title go to a seaman no one knew instead of his own son? How can I ignore what my father decided when so much was at stake?”

And that was the final word. Maybelle could see it in their nodding heads. In their teary eyes and the way they held each other’s hands for support. They were so enmeshed in what was proper that even when they saw Bram’s worth, they wouldn’t acknowledge it. They didn’t see him.

She could rail at them. She could point out the illogic of educating a son, but not allowing him entrance to the very world in which he’d been reared. She could talk until she was blue in the face, but that would make no headway with these women. It was too entrenched in who they were.

“I see,” she finally said.

Both ladies exhaled in relief. Obviously, they assumed they had made their case. That Maybelle would turn her back on Bram because he was a bastard. And while she smiled and pretended to go along, she privately made her own plans.