Doomsday took a healthy swig. “Thank you, my lord. May I ask something?” “Go on.” “Well, Mr. Conrad clearly feels there is something in Mr. Brightling’s story. And now you’re suggesting, if there is, that I, a smuggler’s bastard, will put you out of your place as earl.” He cocked his head. “Why are you so cheerful about that?” “Honestly? Spite.” “Oh.”
Relatable. I love Rufus.
