Page 8 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
Mr. Hallowsby looked hurt by that. “I’ve known you all my life. We’re both bastards. We played marbles together as boys. Shared the same tutor. Jeremy—”
“Mr. Dudding.”
The tall man sighed and nodded. “That’s hurtful, but very well. What do you want?”
“I’ll take his gold lockbox, if you please. See—I know he’s got profits. He just ain’t sharing them.”
Lord Linsel huffed out a breath. “There were no profits! I swear on my life!”
At which point, both of the silent Vikings lifted their pistols and aimed. It took Lord Linsel a few breaths before he understood what he’d said. And it truly was his life at risk here. His wife had a quicker intellect, and she squeaked in alarm.
Mr. Hallowsby eased his weight sideways, slowly moving in front of the lady. Obviously, he was protecting her, and Maybelle felt a little slighted that he wouldn’t stand bodily in front of her. But then again, she had already shrunk into his shadow.
“Let the ladies step out. We’ll talk about this like gentlemen,” offered the irritating man. Except Mr. Hallowsby wasn’t being irritating right now. He was acting heroic, and she ought to be grateful, especially as this problem had nothing to do with her.
Sadly, the head Viking wasn’t buying any of it.
“Ladies?” Mr. Dudding mocked. “It’s that blighter’s wife who got my father involved.”
“That’s not true!” cried Lady Linsel. “Not a word of it! I have nothing to do with my husband’s schemes.”
Not the best choice of words, and her husband shot her a glare. Mr. Hallowsby was forced to draw attention back to himor risk things getting worse. He stepped sideways, further hiding Lady Linsel as he gestured at Maybelle.
“Then let her leave,” he said. “She’s the local witch-woman. She’s got nothing of importance for anyone.”
Maybelle wanted to be insulted by that, but as she also wanted to leave, she kept silent as Mr. Dudding looked her up and down. His gaze was insolent, and she felt herself grow cold. She’d defended herself against lechers before, but not one his size, and certainly not one carrying a pistol.
“She looks plenty ladyloike to me.”
Mr. Hallowsby made a show of disgust. “I’m trying to handle this like gentlemen. Jeremy, you know me. I’ll deal honorably with you.”
“You cheated at marbles!”
“You taught me how.”
The Viking glared, then slowly shook his head. “She stays,” he said with a sneer. “She looks like the lady’s maid. And that means—”
“For God’s sake,” Mr. Hallowsby huffed. “Miss Bluebell, would you please tell him what you’re doing here?” His gaze never left the Viking. “Listen to her voice, Jeremy.”
Well, if that didn’t just take the cake. They could understand the brute’s Cockney but had to point out her accent? She had half a mind to—
“Miss Bluebell,” Mr. Hallowsby said, his voice tight. “Please tell him what you’re doing here.”
She straightened up to her full height, which barely topped the man’s shoulder. “I am no’ a witch! I’m selling possets.” She held up her basket so he could see.
“That looks like carrots.”
“Possets, tisanes, and carrots,” she corrected.
Jeremy snorted. “Awrite. She ain’t no laidy’s maid.”
And what was that supposed to mean? “Of course I’m no laidy’s maid—”
“But she stays ’ere anyway.”
Mr. Hallowsby huffed. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”
The Viking shrugged. “I like the way she looks.” His eyes narrowed. “And I don’t take orders from hired bastards.”
