Scoundrel of Dunborough Read Online Free PDF Page B

revealing unexpectedly good teeth.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Gerrard noticed the thin chandler scurrying toward them, his woolen tunic flapping about his ankles, his silk-lined cloak fluttering behind him.
    “Sweet Mother Mary, what the devil is he doing here?” he muttered under his breath before he addressed Verdan again. “You go ahead. The chandler must have business to discuss.”
    Although what that could possibly be, Gerrard had no idea. He hoped it wouldn’t take long, either. He had never liked the greedy little man who had browbeaten his late wife and treated his son like a lackey.
    “Greetings, Norbert,” he said as the panting chandler reached him. “What brings you to the castle?”
    “I’ve come to give my condolences to Audrey’s sister. I heard that she had come.”
    Gerrard frowned. “Yes, she has, and you wish to speak with Sister Augustine?” he asked as Norbert shifted from foot to foot like a horse nervously awaiting the start of a race.
    The last thing Celeste—or anyone—needed was to talk to this fellow, about anything.
    “If that’s what Audrey D’Orleau’s sister is called now, yes,” the chandler replied with a hint of defiance.
    That was not something to encourage Gerrard to grant his request. “Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed.”
    Norbert frowned and looked far from pleased. His state of mind, however, was not Gerrard’s concern.
    “Perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell her I was here,” Norbert said.
    “Perhaps,” Gerrard replied with a smile that was not meant to be pleasant.
    “Now see here, Gerrard—” Norbert began. He fell silent when he saw the look in Gerrard’s eyes. “Oh, very well!”
    The chandler turned on his heel and started back to the inner gate just as it opened to admit another man, this one also richly dressed, but plump and darkly bearded. His tunic was shorter and more embellished, with an embroidered hem and neck. His boots were of fine leather, as were his bossed belt and gauntlet gloves.
    Ewald. Of course. The dealer in hides and tallow was as broad and boisterous as Norbert was thin and wheedling, but equally as greedy. The two were like vultures come hurrying to the battlefield, and Celeste a corpse.
    “Good day, Gerrard! And you, too, Norbert!” Ewald declared. “Why am I not surprised that you’re here already, Norbert? That nosy son of yours should be a spy for the king.”
    “I doubt
you’ve
come to pass the time of day,” Norbert retorted. “You want to see her, too, don’t you?”
    Ewald’s cheeks flushed. “Well...” he began, drawing the word out as he rocked back and forth on his heels, his thumbs tucked in his wide leather belt beneath his protruding belly, “as a matter of fact, I do. To give her my sympathy on her sister’s death. A bad business, that, a very bad business.”
    Business had nothing to do with it, Gerrard thought sourly. Warped and thwarted love did. “Unfortunately, Sister Augustine is resting and cannot be disturbed,” he said firmly.
    Norbert, not surprisingly, continued to scowl, while Ewald, equally not surprisingly, smiled like a man who’d won a bet.
    “Tomorrow will do just as well,” the tanner jovially replied. “Tell her I was here, if you will, and I’ll be delighted to speak with her at a time of her convenience. I’ll offer her a very good price for the house.”
    “I will do no such thing,” Gerrard said. “You will wait to discuss business with her when she comes to you, and not before. Now I give you good day, gentlemen.”
    With a look of sly triumph, Norbert nodded and started toward the gate. Only slightly subdued, Ewald bowed and followed.
    Carrion crows, the pair of them, and Gerrard would be damned before he’d tell Celeste that they’d been there. He wasn’t their messenger and she didn’t need to be bothered, he thought as he walked back to the gate.
    He came to a startled halt. Celeste—Sister Augustine—was gliding toward him across