Page 65 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
He cursed under his breath. “Jeremy will come back the minute he finds out there isn’t any coin in the lockbox.” In truth,he was surprised the man hadn’t appeared already. “He’ll come asking me where you are.”
“And you’ll tell him Scotland,” said Dicky in a reasonable tone. “Which is why we didn’t go there.”
“I won’t need to tell him anything if he finds you here.”
Clarissa reached forward, her long fingers still elegant, despite the discoloration on her gloves. “You must not let that happen. What will we do?”
Bram frowned. He needed to send them far away. Someplace they could never return to plague him again. “Finland,” he finally said.
“What?” said Dicky.
“Where?” gasped Clarissa.
“The North Sea is very calm travel,” he lied. In truth he had no idea how calm it was. But it was the first place he thought of that would be far away from him.
“But isn’t it cold there?” asked Dicky.
“The North Sea?” Clarissa moaned. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Damn it, you have to get on a boat somewhere. Jeremy will find you anywhere in England.”
Dicky stiffened. “Mind your tongue, Bram. She’s a lady, and a gentleman must maintain some standards.”
Standards? From this pair? “Good thing I’m not a gentleman,” he growled. “What about Ireland?” They could still come back from there, but it was better than nothing.
“Goodness no,” Dicky said with a shudder. “Someone might mistake me for an Irishman.”
Which was actually the point, but Bram knew better than to quibble. “Wales?”
Clarissa’s gasp held true horror. “Among the Welsh?”
He sighed. “Italy then. You like Italians. Get a boat from Dover. Jeremy will be looking for you up here. If you travel southto Dover, the crossing isn’t so bad. Then across the Continent to Italy.”
Clarissa’s eyes brightened. “I do like Italians. The men are so very swarthy.”
“Excellent—”
“But how are we to get to Dover?”
“On the mail coach.”
Both beautiful people shuddered in a very beautiful way. Tiny little tremors that displayed total disdain. Bloody hell.
“We’ll take my carriage,” said Dicky.
“My carriage,” interrupted Bram.
“Well, not exactly.”
“Yes, exactly. I did not pay to have it fixed and whitewashed for you, Dicky. This is my carriage—”
Clarissa rubbed a long finger across the squabs toward him. “You did a fine job, Bram. No one will know it as the same equipage we came north in. It’s perfect cover.”
It wasn’t anything of the sort. “It’s not yours,” he stressed between gritted teeth. “It’s mine.”
Which is when the waterworks began. He knew it was for show. Or maybe not, because Clarissa was not a pretty woman when she cried. She made choked gasps, and her face became blotchy. If there was one thing that Clarissa maintained, it was her beauty. Which meant these tears were real.
“Bloody hell, man,” Dicky said, clear desperation in his tone. “You cannot abandon me now. Not when—”
