Page 8 of Rules for a Bastard Lord (Rogues Gambit #2)

Bastards dream. And they’re really good atit.

B loody bastard. Lecherous blackguard. Fat, stupid, spurious, ignoble…

The synonyms went on in Maybelle’s mind. An endless litany of invectives using her entire vocabulary, adding nonsense words when she ran out. Most of them weren’t even true. He wasn’t fat or stupid, but he was lecherous, as all men were. That wasn’t a surprise. And yet, his kiss had surprised her. But in the end, he only saw her as a set of legs to spread for his amusement.

Why had she thought London men were different? That he was different.

She was wrong. She relived kneeing him in the privates. The satisfaction of that moment made her smile, though she felt no joy in it. She didn’t like hurting anyone. Her goals had always been manipulation for mutual benefit. Not damage, not pain, not writhing in the dirt, his lips pulled back in a grimace of agony.

She’d done that to him, but she didn’t regret it. And yet, she did. She regretted that he’d forced her into that position. That she’d felt the need to protect herself from his base instincts. After everything, he was still just a venal man, and she was no closer to confronting her father than she’d been before Mr. Hallowsby had appeared.

Very well. Moving on.

Mr. Hallowsby had been a distraction, an inspiration born of Lady Linsel’s obvious hatred of her voice. Maybelle had been overcome with the fear that her father wouldn’t even listen to her because of her accent.

But that pathway was closed, so she was back to her original plan. Which meant the very next mail coach. But first, she had a meeting that she’d planned to attend yesterday before Mr. Hallowsby had interrupted everything. She was not in the best frame of mind to meet with the vicar or his son, but there was no help for it. She was a practical girl, and this had to be done before she left for London. She didn’t want the vicar to think she’d up and run off with Mr. Hallowsby.

She laughed at the thought.

An hour later, she was sober as she approached the vicar’s house. Normally, this was the last place she ever wanted to be, but one day this might be her home, so she needed to face her predicament square on. She smoothed out her hair and her dress, then knocked with quiet authority, only belatedly realizing she’d forgotten to bring a pie.

Damn it. Charlie liked her pies.

The door was opened by the housekeeper—a plump, rosy-cheeked woman who nevertheless looked down her nose at everyone, especially Maybelle, even while smiling sweetly.

“Hello, Mrs. Pursley,” she said, dropping into a respectful curtsy. “Is the vicar in? I have need of counsel.”

“Well, of course you do, Miss Bluebell. I’m sure he’d be happy to advise you.”

Maybelle did her best not to react to the condescending tone. “Thank you. And is Charlie—”

“He’s around here somewhere, but you won’t be needing him. It’s the vicar who will set you straight.”

“Of course.” Old biddy. First thing she’d do upon marrying Charlie was see that witch sacked.

Maybelle followed meekly inside, her eyes downcast, her demeanor excruciatingly correct. And humble. Vicar Ott hated proud women. Which meant he had a distaste for most women in the county. Lord, how did he ever give rise to such a sweet-tempered son?

She was shown into the man’s study. He’d been eating, as the crumbs of some sort of bread littered his desktop and the front of his shirt.

He stood when she approached, looking smug as he extended his hand. “Miss Bluebell, how are you faring? It has been my intention to visit you this last week and more. The Lord must have been whispering into my ear, but now, here you are of your own accord. Excellent. Most excellent.”

If the Heavenly Father had been whispering, then why hadn’t the vicar listened? This would have been so much easier if he’d come to her.

Humble, she repeated to herself. Be humble.

“I’ve come to speak to you frankly, Vicar Ott.”

“Of course, of course. You can tell me anything.”

She’d thought of a dozen different ways to approach this. Soften the man up with buttered rum cookies, then prove to him that she was educated in The Bible and the church. She could show him an example of her handwriting. She had a clear, fine hand, where his was tight and crabbed. Hard to hold a quill in his thick sausage fingers. If she showed him she could help with his work, then things would go much easier.

But she had been so angry with Mr. Hallowsby that she hadn’t prepared. And a lack of preparation meant disaster unless she was quick-witted.

Or starkly logical.

“Vicar, it is my understanding that you object to my attachment to Charlie.”

“What? What? I…of course, Charlie’s mind wanders every which way. It’s not for me to say where his attention lies, but I’m sorry to say that he is not attached to you, Miss Bluebell. Not at all.”

“Really?” she asked, throwing doubt into her tone. In truth, Charlie was much too distractable to attach to anything but his books. It was what she most liked about the man. He was genial, kind, and prone to vague philosophical statements that made one ponder. There was nothing objectionable about the man, and best of all, he would have a tidy living in his father’s place provided someone helped him manage.

And that someone was going to be her.

She lifted her chin and spoke plainly. “What Charlie thinks is between him and me. Here is what I came to tell you. I am leaving tomorrow for Oxfordshire where I will get a copy of the register of my parents’ marriage. That will finally put to rest any question about my legitimacy.”

“What? Of course, I never doubted—”

“You did. Often and directly to my mother’s face. But I shall prove you wrong. What’s more, my father is elevated in London society. So you could gain an educated, capable daughter-in-law who has influential relations. In the peerage.”

“The peerage! I cannot credit—”

“It doesn’t matter. I shall prove it.”

The man heaved a deep breath, then patted her hand. “My dear, if you need to leave for a time to…um…” His gaze dropped to her belly. “To grieve your lost mother for a period of months, then I can only—”

“I am as pure as the Virgin Mary, Vicar,” she said stiffly. “I am traveling tomorrow to get proof. And then you will not stand in my way when I return.”

“Well, naturally I would not refuse any good woman where Charlie’s heart has attached.”

“Excellent. Because we both know that your son will need a good woman. One who can read and write in a fair hand, who will help him with his sermons and the mundane tasks of this living. Assuming, of course, he remembers to send gifts and please Lady Claybrooks in all the ways that august personage likes to be flattered.”

The vicar’s expression darkened. “I am not dead yet, my girl. This is my living, and I’ve no need for anyone to—”

“No, sir, you are not, thank God.” Part of her worried that God might strike her dead for pretending to be thankful. She did not like this man, and yet she would make a bargain with him for the good life of his son. “And yet imagine how you might benefit from my possets blessed by your own hand and sprinkled with holy water.”

He stiffened. “That is paganism.”

“No, sir. I seek your blessing as a member of Christ’s church. And we both know that herbs tended and properly cured—with a priest’s blessing—could bring in coin. For the poor, of course.”

He was not a quick thinker, but he got there eventually. He glanced at his worn vestments and battered furniture. His living was not a generous one, but it was a life that suited him and his son. Assuming, of course, there was a woman who managed the mundane tasks of life. She might also visit the sick for him, a task he loathed. And if she sold them a posset or two, then everyone would benefit. And she’d stop hearing him sling accusations of lewd heathenism at her from his pulpit.

“I don’t need help,” he said, but his words were slow, his brows furrowed in thought. It was only pride talking, but she would bet her garden that greed would win over pride.

“I’m a good Christian woman,” she said, just as she and her mother had been saying since the day she was born. “And I mean to marry your son.”

She stood up without acknowledging his ponderous frown. He would either help her or hinder her. Either way, she would marry Charlie.

A moment later, he called after her. “Go ahead. You may see Charlie.”

She found the vicar’s son easily. He sat where he often did, in the shade of his favorite tree with a book open on his lap. Sadly, the text was in Greek, so she couldn’t guess at its content. She sat down beside him and spoke sweetly.

“Hello, Charlie,” she said, then belatedly realized he’d been sleeping.

“Wot? Oh my… ’Ello, Bluebell. Wot you doing ’ereabouts?”

She smiled, knowing that Charlie would never criticize her accent. His was thicker than hers. “Were you studying?”

“Hmm? Er, I was cogitatin’,” he said with good humor. “But you know I’ve read this so many times, I can recite it in me sleep.”

“Was there a passage that you struggled with?”

He shook his head, then adjusted his position to face her directly. “Plato, well, most of the ancient philosophers ’ad a system of question and conversation. Argument wot pushed everyone to better thinking.”

“I see,” she said, not seeing at all.

“But I’ve got no one to argue with.”

Ah. Yes, his father was the closest thing to an educated man around here, and he was not one to appreciate discourse. The vicar’s style was quick judgment followed by vehement damnation. But his son was more of a talk-the-matter-to-death sort.

“You can talk to me. My Greek is terrible, but I would love if you explained it.”

“Truly? It’s ’ard to follow.”

She nodded. “Truly. I love the sound of your voice, even if I comprehend only a tenth of what you say.” That was a lie. She had a passing understanding of Plato, if not from her own tutor, then from many afternoons spent talking with Charlie. It pinched her ego that he forgot she’d wrestled with the Greek philosophers right beside him. But it wasn’t personal. Charlie forgot everyone.

Nevertheless, she looked forward to a pleasant afternoon of intellectual discourse wherein no one would pressure her to kiss or spread her legs or any such base things. Just Greek philosophy and no worries about how she spoke or what she said. After all, Charlie didn’t care what anyone said except that it pushed him to think deeper about his studies.

Simple. Peaceful. Relaxing.

And so damned boring, she struggled to keep awake.

*

Maybelle finally escaped Charlie to go home. She’d meant to go straight home and rest, but she’d heard from the vicar that little Sarah Grummer, the carpenter’s five-year-old child, was sick with a fever. “A bad one,” he kept intoning. “Very bad. Very sad to lose a little one.”

The child wasn’t dead, but she knew the vicar would wait until the girl was deceased and then go offer comfort to the grieving. It was up to her, of course, to offer what aid she could. And that meant her cool drink with the special ingredient. Medicine, yes, but she’d learned early that gathering the moss she needed was horrendous work.

Fortunately, she was so bored with Charlie that she went with alacrity, only to begin cursing when she got to Mr. Periwinkle’s trough. The creature was there, clearly distempered from a sore head.

“Serves you right for drinking two buckets of ale,” she groused, then got down into the muck. She’d done this plenty of times, but it never got easier. And if there wasn’t enough here, then she’d have to look in worse places.

There. Mold. On the dark side of the trough. Barely enough for one drink, but maybe enough when added to what she’d made yesterday.

“Soon,” she told Mr. Periwinkle. “Soon, I’ll never have to do this again. I’ll be dressed in silks and talk to earls and dukes. Charlie’s my ‘just in case plan,’” she added as she scraped the mold off. The stench was overwhelming. Muck seeped through the cloth she’d laid down, one she’d made specifically for this purpose—

“Git off me!” she croaked as she kicked Mr. Periwinkle. The damned beast had come snuffling at her privates. She tucked up her legs, knowing that the motion shoved her hair harder against the fabric. Lord, she was going to stink for a week.

Mr. Periwinkle snorted, clearly insulted as she set her feet on his haunches and shoved. He moved, thank heavens.

She went back to her work. A few more scrapes. She didn’t know why it worked. She and the witch-woman had experimented often with various combinations of ingredients. The ones with mold worked. So it was get the stuff or let a child die of fever.

She was nearly done when—

“Ewwww!”

Mr. Periwinkle pissed on her. A hard, hot stream, straight at her face. He’d missed, thank God, but she’d still gotten it full on her chest and shoulder.

“Why you…” She cut off her words in surprise. She’d rolled away from Mr. Periwinkle, and now her new position showed her dark mold deep in the corner crevice of the trough. She’d have to worm her way there, but it was good mold.

Mayhaps, it would keep Sarah alive.

She ignored the stench and the pig as she squirmed her way there. The dress was ruined anyway.

A half hour later, she rinsed off in the frigid stream before tromping to her home. At least Widow Dwight had been away. Her skin wouldn’t survive a second lye soap bath in as many days.

She worked quickly when she got home. The fresher the mold, the better the medicine. She crushed it, mixed it with some berries and other sweeteners for taste, and then poured it in a bottle. She made it to the Grummers with barely an hour of sunlight left.

Betty met her at the door, and her face looked worn. The exchange was done quietly, the payment not enough to cover her ruined dress. But she took what she was offered and didn’t quibble. Not when there was a child’s life at stake.

She was home at dusk, thankful it was summer and the sun set late. “When I’m with my father,” she said to her mother’s portrait, “this will be like a bad dream. I’ll never, ever stink of pig piss again.”

She didn’t stop to rest. If she did, she wouldn’t get up again. She packed what little she had left, ate the last of the food, then put on her worst gown and went to weed her garden.

He found her there on her knees in the dirt. She exhaled hard when she heard his booted step on the road. There were any number of men who might walk by her small home, but it wasn’t anyone else.

It was Mr. Hallowsby, and he was coming to see her.

She kept her rigid back to him and tried to decide how she felt about his visit. She could scream, of course, if he meant to do her harm. But when she risked glancing at him under her arm, she saw his face was set in quiet determination, not anger. And he was calm. On him, calm looked strong and a tad bit regretful.

She shifted further, deciding to face him directly. There was no use pretending she hadn’t looked. He’d been staring straight at her when she risked her peek. So she pushed to her feet and pretended her hands weren’t sweating and her heart wasn’t pounding in her throat.

As she waited, she was excruciatingly conscious of the dirt on her hands and face, not to mention her gown. She’d neglected a bonnet since it was so late in the day, and her hair was flitting everywhere about her eyes. Worse, midges swarmed nearby, making her swipe uselessly at them.

She was a mess, but she’d be damned if she prettied up for him. But she wanted to. Damn it, she wanted to be beautiful for him.

“Soon,” she muttered to herself. “In London.” Everything would be better.

“Hello, Miss Bluebell,” he said in that slow drawl that felt like honey tea on a cold day.

“Hello, Mr. Hallowsby.” She might not pretty herself up, but she would speak perfectly.

“Quite a garden you have there. It’ll be a sight to see come harvest.”

She hoped she’d be back here by then. She would hate to see an entire summer’s growth gone to waste. But then again, it wouldn’t be wasted. Mr. Bray’s family would take what was here and be generous in their thanks when she returned.

“You saw it yesterday,” she pointed out. “Why’re y’ here?” Damn it. Too fast, but at least she’d used the h .

He opened his mouth—likely to correct her words—then stopped himself. Good. At least he felt as awkward as she did.

She arched her brows in query and folded her hands in front of her, regardless of how much the blasted midges were annoying her.

“I came to apologize,” he said gruffly. “And to tell you a tale.”

Her stomach knotted. She’d heard all the vicar’s tales of how men were seduced by women, betrayed by women, plagued by women. No matter what the crime, it was the woman’s fault. Which tale would he tell to excuse his behavior?

She found that she didn’t care.

She gave him her back, squatting down to return to her weeding. There wasn’t much left to do. She’d already been at it for more than an hour.

And when he said nothing, she finally turned to look at him, a query in her expression.

“Normally, a person looks at me when I talk,” he said.

And wasn’t that just like a man? Expecting an audience whenever he spoke. “Speak your piece, Mr. Hallowsby.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. I behaved abominably and in ways not befitting a gentleman. I’ve no excuse. Just my sincerest hope that I haven’t hurt you in any way.”

“It seemed like you were the one who got hurt,” she said, relishing the memory of slamming her knee upward.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched his expression turn rueful. “That I did. Who taught you that?”

“Does it matter? I learned it. Because there have been men like you all my life.”

He paled at that. He didn’t like being lumped in with all the lechers who had abused her trust.

“I confused you with someone else,” he said. “It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t honorable.”

“Because I look like someone else around here?”

He shook his head. “Not here, and she wasn’t as pretty, but close. Her eyes weren’t as blue, the hair not as bright. And her…body wasn’t as sweet.”

Meaning whoever the woman was, she was flatter in the breasts and hips, whereas Maybelle could only be called generous in the curves. She sighed. “That would be the tale, then?”

He nodded, then walked around, coming to stand before her. She watched where his big booted feet went, worried for her peas, but he was careful. And he held his hat in his hand as he spoke.

“I don’t make many mistakes, but when I do, I apologize.” His gaze grew a little distant, and he seemed to speak to the air above her left shoulder. “My father taught me that. He was an honest man, which is a rarity among the peers. He taught me to be the same.”

Now, that was something she hadn’t known. His father was an honest peer. Gave her hope that her father’s family was equally good. But then again, if they were, she wouldn’t have grown up in Hull, would she?

She leaned back in the dirt and regarded him. “Tell me the whole tale,” she ordered. “Then I’ll think about accepting your apology.”

She could see his start of surprise. Women must fall all over him when he apologized. It hadn’t even occurred to him that she might not forgive him.

She would. She already knew that there had been a thousand ways for her to get out of that kiss, most before he’d approached. She’d known from the moment he started stomping toward her that he was going to put his hands on her. And she’d stayed right where she was, too mesmerized by his big body to stop it before it started.

But she wasn’t going to tell him that. So she lifted her chin and waited.

Eventually he explained. “After school, I wandered around London for a couple years. I went to parties, ate their food, and…” He swallowed. “And I enjoyed what was offered.”

“Drinking and whoring?”

He nodded. “Though I never had the money to pay.”

“Sponging off yer friends.”

He shrugged. “My mother had a friend. A woman like her who had a protector.”

She held up her hand, thinking of the things he was saying. Not just his past, but his mother’s past. She pushed to her feet.

“I’ve got tea inside. My own special blend. Even the vicar likes it. Will you come share a drink with me?”

His brows arched in surprise. He hadn’t thought she’d be so accommodating. Neither had she, but his words were private and should be shared in private. Plus, he knew things about the London elite. Things she wanted to know. It only helped her cause to be nice to him.

“I’ll expect you to act honorably,” she added.

He gave her a respectful bow. “I will not break faith with you again.” Then he flushed. “At least not so quickly.” And when she looked hard at him, he shrugged. “What I want from you hasn’t changed.”

That set her heart pounding. “I’m a lady, Mr. Hallowsby.”

He gave her a mocking bow. “Even so.”

She felt her face heat, her mind twisting in on itself. Never had she been so intrigued by a man, not even Charlie, the man she planned to marry. Mr. Hallowsby was so damned exciting.

She did her best not to react outwardly to his words, though her skin felt hot and her hands would not settle. She covered by leading him into her home, pausing long enough to look about her. Her neighbors would gossip, but none were about.

“You’ll not speak of this?” she asked as they made it to her door.

“Of having tea with a lady?”

“In her home all alone.”

“No, Miss Bluebell, I will not.”

“Then please,” she said as she swept open her door. “Come inside.”