Page 12 of Her Baseborn Bridegroom

“In fact, that she was given falsified information?” asked Mason cuttingly.

Robards hung his head. “As you say, Sir Mason.”

Mason looped his arm around the back of his seat. “A full inventory will be carried out starting on the morrow, Robards. The strong room, the stables, the grain sacks, every last groat. Do you understand?” It would be ironic, he thought, if he had married the woman only to find her estates up to the hilt in debt!

“Yes, my lord.”

Mason nodded at him in dismissal. The wretched man tarried a moment before retreating, and Mason removed himself to the fire while the covers were removed and the food cleared away. Honeyed ale and a sweet cider had been brought along by another maidservant. Clearly the kitchen heard tell of their supper conversation. He wondered if they had heard his demand for a son as well. A hurried footfall in the hallway outside had him look up as Linnet hurried into the room, hugging a large, leather-bound volume to her chest. She dropped it on the table and stood a moment, catching her breath.

“Did you run the whole way?” he asked curiously. The courtyard was wide and her tower had at least one hundred steps to her bedchamber.

She nodded, pressing a hand to her side.

“Without stopping?”

She nodded again and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I did not keep you waiting overlong?”

He shook his head and lifted his hand to beckon her over to him. She went to scoop up the book, but he uttered a sharp “Leave it there.” She headed over to him with a quizzical look. “Closer.” She stopped in front of him and he lifted his hand to rest on her thudding chest. She sucked in her breath but stood quietly enough as he felt her heart beating beneath his palm.

“Hmm,” he muttered at last and let his hand drop to his side. He cocked his head to one side and took in her pink cheeks and bright eyes. “Linnet, who told you, you had a weak heart?”

She looked taken aback by his question. “My father always said I took after his beloved sister. She expired of a weakened heart when she was but fifteen, following a childhood fever. And my mother, she also died young.”

“But you are four and twenty,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but I was a somewhat sickly child, much given to coughs and ailments. My father always feared I would not outlive childhood.”

“And fevers?” he asked, gesturing to a chair beside the fire. She dropped into it obligingly enough.

“No, at least, not that I remember . . . ”

“I see.” He fetched her barely touched goblet of mead and placed it into her hands before making his way over to the table where he opened the ledger and glanced down at the meticulous handwriting. Her scribing skills would rival a monk’s for tidiness, he thought idly. Each page contained great totaled up lists of wine, spices, fabrics and charitable donations, all listed in looping black ink.

“The household accounts are at the front of the book and the estate accounts are at the back,” she interrupted him. He looked up to find her eyes watching him nervously.

“Who taught you to keep the books?” he asked.

“My father.”

Suddenly he wanted to ask if she was close to her sire, but after snubbing her own questions earlier he didn’t really feel that he had the right.

“I have two brothers,” he said grudgingly. “Oswald is older. Roland is younger. We all had different mothers. Baron Vawdrey wasn’t married to mine.”

She gave him an encouraging smile, shifting forward in her seat. “And your mother?” she asked.

“Dead. During my sixth summer.”

Her smile wavered. “Were you close to her?”

“No.”

She cleared her throat. “Oh. My mother died when I was three years. I don’t really remember her.”

“And you have no other kin?”

“None, save yourself now.”

He almost started at that. He shut the book with a snap. “I have ordered an inventory of the household tomorrow Linnet.”