No. No. No. Paulette’s vision clouded. She locked her knees and stared through pinpoints at the fireplace poker, and somehow managed to stay erect.

Shaldon wanted her to marry his by-blow. His bastard.

It was true, she was no prize, in either beauty, breeding, or dowry, but she’d had respectable offers. The vicar, whose wife had died leaving five children, had asked her to marry him. And a prosperous yeoman from an ancient, well-known family had been so unaccountably smitten, he’d promised to hire a full-time cook for her.

Her vision cleared and she looked around. Bakeley’s brow had creased. Mr. Gibson’s eyes—his eyes bore into hers and she knew the moment they went from feral to concerned, sending her insides quaking.

Shaldon’s by-blow wasn’t a pretty man, nor as handsome as Bakeley, but when she looked closely she could see the resemblance in the brothers, in the line of the jaw, the length of the nose, and the curl of the lips. Strength and danger had its own allure. Jock had warned her to be alert for this kind of peril.

She sensed he might not be unwilling to take Shaldon’s bait, and fought for a breath to set him straight.

“Miss Heardwyn,” he said, before she could speak, “even with a smallish portion, your intelligence and beauty will bring you a better man than the Earl of Shaldon’s bastard.”

She huffed out a laugh. Her intelligence? Her beauty? A dark little shrew, a teacher had once called her. Her options had been a desperate vicar and a love-struck farmer. Most gentlemen didn’t like such as she. Men wanted fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes.

Biting her lip, she studied him. His speech had taken on a northern cast almost as bad as that of Mr. Cummings, or the man Kincaid, and his mouth quirked like he wanted to laugh.

He was mocking her.

“You’re turning me down then?” she asked.

“I will never marry.”

Her chest tightened. “That has been my intention also.”

Bakeley moved closer. “It’s a good arrangement. Your work for Hackwell has taught you how to manage an estate.”

His work? His work?

He must have seen her shock. “I am steward to the Earl of Hackwell. I served him in the army, as a sergeant.”

“Yes. Paulette, Mr. Gibson will manage your property well. And you’ll have your own home. You’ll have enough money to gad about traveling, as you once expressed a wish to do. Perhaps you may even have a Season.”

“A Season?” she cried. Married to a land steward, there’d be no Season. It hadn’t ever been truly possible, but the thought of closing and locking that door forever depressed her.

“Bakeley, she’d have no entry into society, not on my arm.”

Bakeley moved closer. “Lord Hackwell and I—”

“Bakeley.” Mr. Gibson put up his hand. “Leave us.”

When the door closed, Bink loaded a plate and sat opposite Miss Heardwyn. Paulette.

“We may as well eat,” he said.

Her mouth firmed, and her lips paled, and she would not meet his eyes.

“I am sorry for this, Miss Heardwyn. Shaldon cannot leave off from his meddling and spying, even unto death, but we must not let it bring us down. We’ll find a way through this.”

A sob escaped her and she blinked rapidly and took several breaths, before reaching for the plate Bakeley had prepared for her.

“One small bite,” Bink said.

She nibbled a piece of cheese, poor wee cornered mouse.

“You’ll have my portion,” he said. “I’ll see to it. And I’m sure Bakeley won’t put you out of your home.”

A strangled sound escaped her as she swallowed, and he tried to remember the state of his handkerchief.

Ah no, he’d used it on the road, like a regular lout. A true gentleman wouldn’t have sweated.

“To have shelter and regular food and a maid is no small thing for a woman alone,” he said.

The plate hit the table with a firm smack and her eyes flashed. “You have no idea,” she said, her voice cracking.

Iberian temper. He’d seen a flash of it on the road.

His nerves prickled, interest unfurling. Her breasts moved with each breath, and he vaguely wondered if she was corseted under the dusty gown. “I don’t, miss,” he said blandly.

She jumped to her feet. “You’ve traveled. You have a position and a purpose. You have a f-family.”

Her face had flushed and the skin at her neck stretched tight over a jumping vein. She clenched and unclenched her fists, her anger—her passion—palpable.

His own heartbeat raced to match hers. This was a handful of woman, and wouldn’t he like to…No. This was no time for a tupping. The lack of family had her genuinely afraid. For himself, he’d dealt with that lack years ago, and she was right, as a man, he’d had more chances to make his own way. But it wasn’t impossible for her, and he needed to set her straight.

He set his plate aside and leaned back into the plush upholstery. “Family? What, you mean Bakeley? Steven Beauverde, Lord Hackwell, is more of a brother to me. I served him in the war. When he inherited I came back as his valet. I nicked him so many times shaving he had to make me his steward.”

“From soldier to valet to steward. An earl’s son? You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth.”

She waved a hand. “No lord would make his valet his steward.”

It was what he’d thought also when Hackwell had suggested it. “No lord in his right mind. God’s truth, I had to be taught the job.” He stood. “As did his lordship. He was the second son. Unlike Bakeley, he wasn’t trained from birth to manage.”

“Bakeley is a second son.”

He made himself laugh, wondering if she’d meant to take a jab at the bastard. If so, she’d have to do better.

“His lordship and I learned though, we did. And do you know who our teacher was? Miss Annabelle Harris, she who is now Lady Hackwell. We learned from a woman.”

She sighed. “If you are trying to woo me—”

“No.”

A tremor went through her. “Then what is your point?”

What was his point? He studied her and watched her color rise again. “You’ll find your purpose, Miss Heardwyn. Shaldon won’t leave you penniless, and if Bakeley puts you out of your home, you must write to…to Lady Hackwell. I’ll speak to her and see you provided for.” She stiffened and he put up a hand. “Without matrimony, and in no way improperly. I have the ear of Lord and Lady Hackwell.” And once he’d found his fortune in India, he would have money to send to a poor spinster.

She pressed her lips firmly and stomped to the door.

“Miss Heardwyn?”

Her hand paused on the latch.

“What is your purpose? What is it you want to do?”

Her shoulders dropped and she hurried out of the room.

Moments later, Bakeley popped back in.

“Ye Gods, with that one you’ll earn your inheritance.”

“We’re not wedding. Put it out of your mind. But tell me more about her.”

“You’ll marry when you see that property. If you can stand living with—”

“No. To hell with the property.” He was past thinking about English estates. He’d put up all of his savings to secure a spot with the East India Company. A man might breathe and fight and find his fortune in a place like India.

Bakeley poured more brandy. “Very well. She does have an interesting background. Her father was one of our father’s spies.”

“Yes, I gathered that much. Her mother was Spanish?”

He shrugged. “Or Portuguese. I don’t really know. The grandparents came to Cornwall in the last century. I know she’s settled in a cozy little cottage in the next county, and she’s about to be unsettled from it.”

“How so?”

“The property has been sold to one of her neighbors who’s been coveting it. Paulette will have to move, as soon as our father leaves this world. Those were the terms of the sale.”

Bink braced a hand on the fireplace mantel and leaned into it. There should be a special place in hell for men who displaced orphans and widows. “He’s pushing her out? How can he do that?”

Bakeley shrugged. “He wants it his way. Why not marry her, Bink? She can live fashionably in London, and you can go your own way. Last we talked, you were looking into India. Or do you have another Mrs. Gibson in your sights?”

God’s blood, he’d forgot about mentioning India to Bakeley.

“Why not marry her? Why not, Bakeley? I won’t marry for money, that’s why not.”

“Father did. I hear Hackwell did also. Or are you saying Hackwell loves his wife?”

Bink poured himself another finger of brandy. From what he knew, both Shaldon’s and Hackwell’s marriages were for money and love, and both men had been damn lucky to find both.

“Oh. I know what it is. You thought you’d slipped once and for all out of the paternal noose. You don’t want to slip it back on.”

Bink laughed and downed his drink. “I’ll go and wash this road dust from me.”

“I’ll come along and play your valet.”

“I’ll still not marry.”

Bakeley clapped his shoulder. “Yes, yes. We’ll see.”

When Paulette arrived at her room, she was relieved to find only Mabel there. The maid quickly pocketed the paper she was studying.

“Another political tract?” Paulette asked.

“Aye. At the inn where we stopped, I was given it. How is his Lordship?”

“He was conscious, and then when I tried to talk to him he was not. What are the servants saying?”

“He won’t last the night one says, and another whispers he’s too mean to die. Though that one I wouldn’t put stock in, a young bounder of a footman with a wandering eye. Handsome he is, but you’ll stay away from him, Polly.”

With Shaldon trying to marry her off to his by-blow, the footman would be the least of her troubles.

The maid poured some water into a basin. “Come and wash. The water will soothe you. I’ll ring for some supper, and we’ll get you into your nightclothes. Mrs. Everly has taken to her bed and with so many maids to cluck about her, we won’t see her complaining face for the next few days. Praise the Lord.”

“Mabel,” Paulette chided. She should say more. Though Mabel had been her nurse since before she could remember, she shouldn’t tolerate disrespect of Mrs. Everly, who was after all yet another woman dependent on others for a home.

She tucked her loose hair behind her ears, and dipped her fingers into the basin. “Can you not open a window, Mabel? It’s stuffy in here.”

Mabel’s skirts swished, and Paulette ducked her face closer to the water. A cool breeze whipped in, wrapping her in the scent of Cransdall’s lavender fields and easing her tension.

She glanced at the upholstered sofa and rubbed her eyes. Perhaps just a moment’s rest while Mabel readied her gown. “Mabel, help me out of this and bring me the new gown. I’m going back to the sick room.”

The smell, Bink decided, was all wrong.

He twitched on the hard-back chair pulled next to the bed, and watched the supposed valet, Kincaid, bend his big frame over the mattress to stuff another pillow under Shaldon’s head.

Bink had been around death, both the stuttering kind and the mercifully quick, and this was all wrong. This sickroom smelled of tobacco and boot polish, like the Earl had paused for a smoke between coughing spells while his valet buffed his slippers.

Not this valet, though. Kincaid was no more of a valet than he himself had been to Hackwell.

The old man lay in the center of the big bed, only his shoulders, neck and head visible.

If he was faking, he’d starved himself for this role. The eyes and cheeks had sunken in, and the counterpane draped a lean body.

But then again, Bink had never truly seen the Earl undisguised. Perhaps in his natural state he was a tall, broad-shouldered whippet.

“Leave us,” Shaldon said.

Bink twitched again and squashed the compulsion to obey.

That command hadn’t been addressed to him. And anyway, he’d been summoned to this midnight meeting and he bloody well wasn’t going to be dismissed before it even started.

The manservant headed for the door.

“Hold there, Kincaid,” Bink said.

The man kept going.

Bink jumped to his feet. “I said hold. You’re not leaving me alone with a sick man.”

“You’ll have things to discuss with—”

“Aye. And I imagine you know all about them already. Or, if you don’t, who’s to worry? He wouldn’t have you by his deathbed if he didn’t trust you.”

When Kincaid went to stand at the foot of the bed, Bink’s breath eased. He’d stood by dying men, friends and strangers too, but none so strange as this man who, if his mother’s deathbed confession to a child of eight could be believed, was his flesh and blood.

“I loved your mother,” Shaldon said without preamble, his voice firm.

Bink’s heart pounded, the words landing like a nine-pounder filled with case shot. He took a steadying breath and said, “Yet you couldn’t marry her.”

“No.”

The tone was matter-of-fact. Not pandering, not filled with pathos or regret, just brutally honest.

A man could take brutal honesty and deal with it—it was the lying that took the world down around you.

Bink knew snippets of Shaldon and Addy’s story, told after her death through the scratched and twisted lens of his mother’s husband, Zebediah Gibson.

The man he’d believed was his father, until Zebediah had thrashed Addy to a lingering death. Love had never been a theme of Gibson’s stories.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save her.”

Shaldon’s words were firm and filled with an anger that rang true and echoed his own.

He beat back the memories. Zebediah, the little weasel, had spoken out against the violence of war, but when his mercantile travels brought him home, he’d never spared the rod on any man, woman or child under his fist. To Bink’s everlasting shame, he hadn’t been able to save his mother. He’d barely been able to save himself.

At least, not until he’d started growing a man’s height and muscle, and Zebediah released him to Lady Shaldon’s custody.

“Paulette needs help.”

Shaldon’s words tore him out of the past, rattling him again.

This was but more managing. At her husband’s behest, Lady Shaldon had removed Bink from an evangelical tyrant and put him in the care of a headmaster with an even bigger stick, trying to make a gentleman of him. He’d run away from that mess, and he’d see himself out of this one.

“Heardwyn had something. Held by the trust. Don’t know,” he rasped out. “Evidence. Money. Don’t know. You can save her,” Shaldon said.

The Earl’s sharp gaze drilled into Bink, sifting through his reaction, weighing, analyzing, calculating. The honest man had died, and the bloody spy resurrected, as manipulative as the best sharker.

“Bakeley can save her, or your man here, Kincaid.”

The old man’s lips thinned. “Needs a soldier. And you’re a good one.” A coughing fit followed, and the sick man began to wheeze, sucking in sharp, noisy breaths.

Kincaid hurried around and raised him up. “Get the doctor,” he ordered.

Bink yanked the door and summoned the physician, who was deep in conversation with Bakeley. He stepped out and both men went in and shut the door on him.

He rubbed at his aching head. A few hours of sleep and he could be on his way. He’d met the Earl. Now he should pull up camp, head back to Greencastle, wrap up his plans for India.

But damned if he didn’t want to know more. He spotted a fresh bottle on the sideboard and poured a drink.

Shaldon claimed to have loved his mother, and what the blazes did that mean?

Bink had seen all sorts of the love men could feel for women, everything from a need for a plump arse to besotted servitude. Only Hackwell and his lady seemed to have achieved a genuine respect and friendship along with that bloody need to be in each other’s pockets all of the time.

It wasn’t anything he could understand. He’d only ever experienced that first kind of love.

The corridor door opened and Miss Heardwyn—Paulette—paused in the threshold, a candle held high.

And the question he should have asked slapped him—who would she need a soldier to save her from? For if a strong arm was needed, the danger was certainly a who, and not a what.

His gaze slid down her body and took in a frock that outlined her curves. Her hair had been combed and pinned, but a few wild curls strayed over her forehead.

She’d need saving from lusty men, that was a fact.

She searched the room and her gaze landed on him.

“Come in,” he said.

She closed the door behind her.

“Did you get some rest?” he asked.

Her mouth moved in a grimace. “Yes, but I didn’t plan to. I meant to come up sooner. Is he still…is he sleeping?”

“He wasn’t a few moments ago. The doctor is with him.”

“Good.” She crossed to the door and raised her hand to knock.

Before her knuckles hit the oak panel, Bakeley opened the door, his face grim.

“It’s over,” he said. “He’s gone.”