Not for the first time, a question reared itself: Who were these old, scarred men who dwelled here? Nor did that question come from the story she sought to write, but rather from a genuine need to know about the enigmatic figure that was the Earl of Maxwell.
“No,” she murmured, beating her gloves together lightly. “He doesn’t prefer to go by his title. That is true, is it not?”
“Just said as much,” he said with an absolute absence of the rhetorical. “Now, Oi think ya need to leave.”
I think, not You must. And it was that which confirmed he’d never be able to comfortably toss her out. Verity stuffed her tattered gloves inside the pocket sewn along the front of her gown. “I’m afraid I can’t leave.”
He paused. Narrowing his eyes, he looked her over. “You can’t?”
And she wouldn’t. Not until she spoke with Malcom.
“There are matters I need to discuss with Malcom.” Once again, she did a sweep of the darkened halls. She knew he was here, and she wasn’t leaving until she had an audience. Verity opened her mouth to say as much.
Just then, the resolute guard shifted his weight. His face pulled in a grimace.
His leg pained him. “I’ve something that can help with that.”
“I told ya she did,” Bram piped in on a loud whisper.
Encouraged by the angry fellow’s silence, she went on to explain. “I grew up in Epsom Common. Have you ever heard of it?”
There was a beat of silence. “No,” the older man said grudgingly.
“Some years back there was a cow herder who stopped to allow his cattle a drink from a nearby pool. The animals could not drink it—”
“Why?” Bram cut in.
“It was bitter tasting,” she explained before looking back to the more stoic guard. “That same day Mr. Wicker allowed his livestock to wander into the water, and the ones who were injured? They saw their wounds healed.” Both men stared on with wide eyes as she shared the telling. “Tales of the healing properties spread, and from then on, visitors would come to the pool. People suffering from gout and stomach upsets all were cured.”
There was silence. And then—
“Impossible.”
“Moi eyes are clear,” Bram reminded the other white-haired fellow.
“You can find Epsom salt for purchase. Add a liberal dose to a hot bath, and soak your hurt limbs. I trust that should help greatly.”
Some of the tension left his frame, and he took a step away from the stairwell, abandoning his spot.
“You’ve also been with Mr. North for some time.”
He grunted. “Aye,” he allowed, unwittingly confirming that bit of information she’d sought. Just as she’d intended when she’d tacked that statement onto the idea that he should somehow know her.
It was a knack she’d perfected in the work she’d done over the years. Subtle questions that people didn’t know they’d been asked, which resulted in them revealing information they had never intended to share.
“How was it again that you came to know Mr. North, Mr. . . . ?” She cloaked the more probing question behind another.
“Fowler,” he blurted, and Verity tucked that detail away. It was another skill she’d learned over the years. One proffered two questions, with one safer that lowered defenses and made a person more susceptible to revealing an answer to the first.
“And how—”
“Good God, you do not quit.”
Her stomach dropped out from under her, and with a slow dread, she faced the one she’d come here requesting an audience with. He stepped from the shadows, more broadly powerful than even she recalled of the man who’d occupied her thoughts, both sleeping and awake.
For reasons not solely about the story she’d hoped to have from him, and shamefully having to do with the brief but explosive moment he’d taken her in his arms.
And previously unsettled by the darkness cloaking the halls, she gave thanks for the cover it provided her flaming cheeks. “Lord Maxwell,” she greeted, and automatically dropped a curtsy as he stepped closer.
Both old toshers chuckled, earning a sharp glare from Malcom.
The pair immediately went silent.
And the desperation that had sent her fleeing to Malcom North gave way to a belated unease. After all, what did she truly know about the man who’d saved her, and who’d then sent her fleeing at their first—and last—meeting?
“I’ll deal with you later, Bram.”
At that cryptic threat, Verity took a commiserative step closer to the old man. “Now,” she chided. “There isn’t a need for that. Mr. Bram has done nothing to merit your displeasure.” She patted the old man’s coarse, coal-stained fingers and earned a besotted-looking, crooked smile. “He simply let me—”
“If you know what is good for you, Miss Lovelace, you won’t go ordering my people about.”
His people. Not servants. Not staff. Not family.
Malcom gave a jerk of his head, and Fowler and Bram went rushing off. Both of their gaits were slightly uneven as they walked, but still quick. Aye, that she could understand. Malcom North had that effect on people. Verity followed their retreat, more than half-envying the men their escape.
“You needn’t be so surly,” she said after they’d gone. “Unless you’re always in such a state?” She pressed him with her gaze, and when no confirmation or denial was forthcoming, she sighed. “I took your surliness a couple of weeks ago as a product of our tense circumstances that night. Either way, you should be a good deal kinder to them.”
“Would you rather I let you continue on, grilling those in my world with questions about me?”
By the hard smile on his face, he expected—and relished—her unease. As such, she’d be damned if she let him see her fear. Verity brought her shoulders back when another figure started down the stairs.
Verity gasped. Whereas Malcom wore his experience on the streets in the scars on his rugged face, the even taller stranger bearing down on them had the face of Gabriel, and the ice-hardened eyes and smile of Satan. And . . . he was missing a hand.
That realization gave her pause. All the men who resided here were scarred in some way.
And you should be a good deal more worried about how they’ve come by those injuries than the marks they possess . . .
Despite herself, Verity shivered.
The stranger stopped at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Shall I handle this one for you?” he asked, almost cheerfully beating the empty nub where a hand should be against his open, callused palm. It was not, however, that menacing gesture that snagged her focus but rather the stretch of his vowels as he spoke, ones that glided from a high pitch to a low pitch, and whispered at a Welshness to his tonality.
“I do not need to be handled.”
“I have her,” Malcom advised, as though Verity hadn’t spoken, as though the two men were more than content to carry on their conversation about her as if she weren’t present.
She gnashed her teeth. “I’ll say it once more—”
They turned simultaneous stares upon her, withering the rest of that brave retort.
That black-haired Lucifer touched that nub to the brim of his cap and then, with one last look for Verity, let himself out. The London street sounds spilled inside before he closed the panel, swallowing the noise once more so that only an agonizingly thick silence fell upon the cramped foyer.
Verity wanted to be the one to break the quiet. She wanted to be brave in the face of bullying—even if it was veiled intimidation, and yet, fear sapped the moisture from her throat and mouth, making words impossible.
Malcom dropped a shoulder against the wall, and she jumped. “You next.”
Confusion settled in her already-muddled mind. “Me next?” she asked slowly, seeking clarification.
“The door, Miss Lovelace,” he said tightly. “See yourself out.”
He wanted her gone. Did you expect he’d want you to stay? “You’re displeased with me,” she murmu
red, getting to the heart of the matter.
He stilled, and then tossed his head back, bellowing a sharp, short bark of laughter that echoed from the ceiling. It ended as quickly as it burst from his hard lips. “Good God, mad or stupid—I can’t determine which you are.”
It was faintly similar to an insult he’d leveled at her a fortnight ago, and it stirred indignation. His ill opinion, on the heel of her firing and society’s disregard of all women, was too much. She snapped. “Does it make you feel good to bully a woman about?” She stalked over until the tips of their shoes brushed. “To go about shouting names and insulting me?”
“My charges have nothing to do with your gender,” he said coolly. “I know very many women who are plenty smart and capable.”
And oddly, that rankled even more, that insult that found her wanting, compared to the women he kept company with.
“And do you know, Miss Lovelace?” he whispered, dropping his face near hers, so near his breath fanned her lips.
All the earlier confidence that had sent her forward to confront him to his face flagged. “Wh-what?”
“Every one of those women would have the sense God gave a London sewer rat to not seek me out as you’ve done—again.”
She trembled, a never-ending shiver that rolled through her. One that should be ripples of fear. And yet her body’s awareness made a lie of sense and good reason. Verity wetted her lips. “Because of my column,” she ventured, her voice husky and breathless.
His brows came arching down, and his eyes went to her mouth.
Oh, God. He was going to kiss her again. And what was more . . . I want him to . . .
“Because of your column,” he seethed, banking the embers of that foolish haze of her desire. “Because you stole that which you’d no right to take. Because of no other reason than because I decreed it. Get out.”
“I am sorry for that,” she said softly. A memory slipped in of she and Malcom playing chess when they’d simply been strangers together in hiding and not adversaries at one another’s throats. A pang struck in her chest. “I am sorry for so much.” Where he was concerned. She’d had no other choice, however. Not when it had been his privacy versus Livvie and Bertha’s security.
Malcom peeled his lip in a hate-filled snarl. “As if your apology means shite to me.”
Verity winced. “I deserve that.” Her fingers shook, and to hide their quaking, she clasped them behind her back. “But I’m afraid I cannot leave.” Which was the absolute truth. “Not until we’ve spoken, and I’ve explained . . . my circumstances.”
Malcom cocked his head. “You’re refusing to leave?” Frost chiseled off that question into a curt, syllabic response.
Aye, no doubt he was one wholly unaccustomed to having his wishes gainsaid. Was that arrogance a product of his roots in the peerage? Or of the reputation he’d earned outside of it?
And this time, as questions whispered around her mind, they stemmed not from the need for information for any article, but from a genuine desire to know about the guarded man before her.
“I . . .” She dampened her lips. Go. This is futile. He’ll give you nothing. You already took that which he didn’t wish to share. Livvie’s face flashed to mind. But Livvie’s face red from the cold, frost clinging to her hair in an imagined world of them living on the streets this winter. Verity dug in her heels. “I do believe I am. You see, I knew it was foolhardy in coming to you again.”
“And yet, here you are.”
“Livvie, however, my sister,” she clarified, hating the fact that her words rolled into a rambling manner when she’d always prided herself on being a master of her words. “She—” Verity cleared her throat. “Livvie, that is, believed it would be wise for me to speak with you, and I was at first resistant, and yet ultimately decided to come here.” Malcom just stared at her; his expression carved of immobile granite. “To speak to you,” she finished lamely when he didn’t respond. All through the continuing silence, Verity realized the absolute madness in her being here. The futility in having come to Malcom North for this request. Or anything.
He slashed a hand forward, and with a gasp, Verity brought up her arms protectively.
A cool smile frosted his lips. “In my offices.”
It took a moment for that offer to register through the pounding of her heart. Verity let her limbs fall to her sides. “You’ll . . . meet with me?” she blurted, exhilaration humming to life.
“I suggest you start walking before I change—”
Verity was already striding forward, and for the first time since she’d begun the quest to find the Earl of Maxwell, she felt the stirrings of hope. Mayhap Livvie had proven correct in her supposition.
Mayhap there was more to the ruthless tosher, after all.
Chapter 14
THE LONDONER
SQUALOR!
Upon his kidnapping, the Earl of Maxwell traded wealth and luxury for strife and sorrow. Of that, the world is certain. The world holds its breath, awaiting answers to the questions: What were his struggles, and why should he not gladly embrace his lost life amongst the peerage?
V. Lovelace
This was nothing short of a mistake.
Of course, it was not the first Malcom had made where this damned woman was concerned.
The last had proven costly.
So why did he even now lead her through the halls of his residence, and allow her any more of his time?
Because she possesses some mystifying pull you cannot explain, nor resist . . .
He pushed back at the taunting gibe pinging in his head.
It would be far greater folly to send her on her way because of her past wrongs without finding out what the little deceiver sought from him this time.
They reached his offices, and he urged her on ahead of him.
The young woman hesitated; she peered tentatively inside, but made no move to enter. “These are not your offices,” she said with a canny smile, a product of her last visit.
“If you think I intend to show you any more of my private suites, then you’re even more cracked in the head than I’d originally taken you for in the sewers. Now move.”
With a snap of her muslin skirts, she swept inside with all the regal bearing of a queen, muttering something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “Well!”
The muscles of his mouth strained from what felt damningly like a grin drawing at the corners.
Entering behind her, Malcom drew the door shut.
Verity’s keen gaze touched on each corner of the room, those shrewd eyes taking in every detail. So that she could no doubt use it against him—again. Her stare briefly lingered on the chess table they’d played upon what felt a lifetime ago. He’d moved the damned thing out of his private suites and into his offices because he’d not wanted to be confronted with the memory of her in his rooms that night. The young woman ripped her gaze from the board and shifted it over to the unique metal piece hanging on the wall. She drifted over, presenting her back to him, highlighting yet another time that she didn’t belong to his world. Men, women, and children who’d lived in these streets knew one never turned their back—on anyone. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmured.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked, leaning against the panel.
The young woman continued her examination. “What is it?” Her voice was hushed.
“An amputation saw,” he said, taking delight in the way she stiffened. It was best she knew whom—what—she was dealing with. Malcom pushed away from the door, and wound his way over. He stopped at her shoulder. Lowering his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “Have you ever seen one, Verity?”
She gave an unsteady shake of her head. “N-no.”
He stretched a hand past her, and she drew into herself; the defensive response of her body inadvertently brought her back resting against his chest. Malcom motioned to the rusted steel. “See those locking nuts?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That holds the blade
in place. And here,” he went on in silken tones. “This ornate handle”—the mahogany had been carved into the shape of an eagle—“is what the surgeon would use to saw through muscle, skin, and bone.”
“Would?” She angled her head back slightly, revealing cheeks that sometime in his telling had gone pale.
Not taking his eyes from her, he retrieved the object in question.
Fear spilled from her gaze, and as he brought the saw lower, she recoiled.
Smirking, Malcom pressed the handle into her palm, and curled his hand around hers, forcing her to grip the saw. “The world oftentimes has a preference for the pretty”—he touched his gaze on her face—“things,” he finished. “So much so that they’d allow them where there’s no place for them.” He guided her hand in an up-and-down sawing motion. “See how awkward it is to grip,” he breathed against her ear. “Now imagine cutting through skin and muscle.” She quietly gagged but did not pull away.
“And do you have experience . . . with using a surgeon’s saw?” she whispered, her voice faint.
Always working. The woman was always working. With his own devotion to the work he did, he’d be otherwise impressed—if the subject of her assignment weren’t, in fact, him. Either way, he’d hand it to her, that as horrified as she was—as he’d intended her to be—she asked those uncomfortable questions anyway.
He placed his lips near her ear. “In search of more details for your story, love?”
“Actually”—she faced him; then, drawing in a breath, she notched her chin up an inch—“that is why I’ve come.”
Malcom opened his mouth but couldn’t get out a reply. None that was suitable. He tried again.
In the end, only a strangled, hoarse laugh burst free. “The insolence of you.”
“It’s not insolent to try and do my job.”
“It is if you go about it the way you do, Verity.” To keep from taking her by the shoulders and giving her a solid shake, he freed the saw from her grip and returned it to the wall. “I told you before I didn’t have anything to share. And yet what did you do?” An irritating muscle twitched along his eyelid. “You fed your fabricated story—”
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