Page 124 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
He saw what she needed. And yet, he couldn’t tie her to his bastard status any more than he could let Jeremy die. He was not good enough for her, but he could find someone who was. That was what he resolved as he sat in the dirt and in his stink.
Because that was what a good man did for the woman he loved.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sometimes the world conspires against you. Sometimes it’s your bastard. And sometimes, it’s your bastard’sfriends.
Bram was exhausted,and he still stank of shite, but he had Bluebell’s potion in his pocket and hope for the future. All he had to do was wash and take the mixtures to Lord Sturman, praying that Jeremy got it soon enough to save his life.
And then, finally, Bram would be done with all the distractions and be able to focus on finding Bluebell the right husband.
“What is that awful smell?”
“Why Clary, I think it’s Bram. Good God, man, what have you been doing?”
No. No, no, no, no, no.
Bram stopped at the base of the stairs. He’d ordered his feet to keep moving, but he couldn’t stop himself from turning. From looking. And yes, there sat Dicky and Clarissa, once again in his front parlor.
Bloody hell.
“You promised,” he said dully. “You said you’d never see me again.”
“Well, I like that,” Dicky huffed. “You would refuse the door to an old friend.”
Clarissa sniffed into her handkerchief. “I’ve never been more hurt in my life.”
Bram didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He was too busy fighting the realization that he would never be rid of these two. They would come back over and over until he died of the nightmare.
He stepped into the room and lit a candle. It was just shy of dawn, and these two appeared to have slept in the parlor chairs. And what the hell were they wearing?
Dicky was the height of mismatched fashion. Purple waistcoat—missing a button. Orange topcoat and black hat—both creased—though Dicky was trying to smooth out the bend in the hat. Clarissa was in a gown bedecked with mismatched ribbons. She looked like a matted ball of scrap fabrics that a child might use as a toy. Or a cat. Or a cat would hack up. She still wore the shepherdess bonnet, but it was sadly crushed, and between the two sat…
An ornamental pig. Paper and paste, shaped into the vague outline of an overly happy pig. It reminded him of drunk Mr. Periwinkle.
“The money, I presume?” he said dryly, gesturing to the pig.
“There’s almost none left!” gasped Clarissa. “Thousands of pounds…” She shuddered. “Gone.”
He abruptly realized she wasn’t wearing her sapphires. “Where’s your necklace?”
“A goat ate it!” she cried. “And the earbob!”
“No, darling,” said her husband as he patted her hand. “I think it was the chimpanzee.”
She released a wail into her handkerchief.
Bram sighed. “How did you get here?”
“Well, as to that,” Dicky said with another huff. “I don’t know why you drove us across England when the menagerie was headed back to London.”
He’d have driven to Italy to get rid of these two. “Why aren’t you with the menagerie? You could be the grand master of a traveling troupe. It’s something you enjoy!”
“Well, I did—” began Dicky.
“They ate my jewels!”
“Not really, Clary. They had been paste, after all.”
