So this is what it felt like for him and every last person she had put questions to over the years. Shame overwhelmed all her earlier embarrassment.
Albeit temporarily . . . Livvie hitched herself onto the curved arm of the leather sofa. “Well.” She pumped her legs as she spoke. “Verity assured me you’re both quite happy together . . .”
Malcom crossed his arms at his broad chest. “Oh?”
“Are you not?” Livvie latched on with a remarkable astuteness for one her age.
“How could I not be hopelessly enthralled by a woman who’d climb into the sewers of London?” A twinkle glinted in his eyes.
Hopelessly enthralled, indeed. “Enough,” she mouthed.
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t think I shall.” He clearly enunciated each syllable.
Oh, this had really gone on long enough. Dismissing Malcom outright, Verity turned to her sister. “Livvie, His Lordship and I have more pressing matters to—”
“Verity pointed out that you’d gone to Gunter’s.”
“We did,” he confirmed with such smug glee it was all Verity could do to keep from delivering a kick to the back of his legs.
This was to be her penance, then, for the years she’d spent prying information from others. “His Lordship and I have pressing matters to attend.” Which wasn’t untrue. She needed to be gathering information for her article, and those funds would be all that saved them after Malcom saw her banished to the English countryside.
He scoffed. “Not at all. I cannot imagine anything more pressing at this moment.”
The pair continued on as though Verity’s interruption had never happened. Folding her arms, she stuck a foot out and tapped it in an impatient staccato rhythm.
“I pointed out to Verity that you’re otherwise rarely together.”
Verity and Malcom spoke at once.
“We are not rarely—”
“You are not incorrect,” his words continued over Verity’s.
He would opt for blunt honesty, even with her innocent sister.
Livvie beamed, positively glowing in ways Verity was certain she herself never had been.
And there was surely a wicked deficit in Verity’s character at the stab of envy at the attention . . . and warmth . . . trained on her blushing sibling. And the ease with which the pair of them got on.
Livvie ceased swinging her legs. “Are you? Happy, that is?”
I never smile . . . What do you have to smile about? Her stomach tightened. Her sister wasn’t one who could understand—
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
Undoubtedly?
And with that, he shot a glance over the top of Livvie’s head and favored Verity with a wink.
That brief but deliberate flicker of his lashes that alluded to a teasing game they two shared. Which, with the way he felt about Verity, was as preposterous as it was impossible, and yet in that very moment, she believed whatever game of pretend he put on for Livvie’s benefit.
“Then where do you go during the day?” Livvie peered up at him through thick, golden lashes. Their mother’s lashes, as Verity had thought of them through the years. The ones Bertha had claimed snagged an earl’s improper attention and would be the crux of many problems for her—and them—in the future. It appeared the future was now. “Why aren’t you ever about for mealtime?”
Verity ceased her distracted foot tapping. “Livvie,” she said sharply. “His Lordship doesn’t want to take questions . . .”
Malcom merely peered back. And then he crooked his four fingers, urging the girl closer.
Livvie hesitated, and then springing to her feet, she drifted over.
“I search the sewers of London,” he said in a loud whisper.
“Stilllll?” Livvie’s mouth pulled. “I’ve heard as much. Crawling in tunnels for coins? I cannot see how you’d prefer spending your days in the sewers to living”—she threw her arms wide—“here.”
He scoffed. “Where’s the excitement in that?”
“Security. There’s security in it,” Verity said before she could call the quiet words back.
Malcom briefly sharpened his gaze on her face. “There’s long been greatness buried underground and in water, there for the taking. Have you ever heard of Decebalus?”
Who?
“Who?” Livvie gave voice to Verity’s own question.
“He was king of a small kingdom in the Danube. He ordered the slaves to bury gold and silver in the riverbed Sargetia. Afterward, to keep concealed the treasures that dwelled below, he ordered the men executed.”
If Verity were a proper lady and caregiver to her sister, there would have been horror at the story Malcom even now told. And Verity was filled with something unexpected . . . shame. She’d been so fixed on providing for Livvie she’d not thought of the education her sister was deserving of.
“Why would he do that?” Livvie piped up.
With a flair, he tossed his arms wide. “Why, to ensure that no one knew what was buried below.”
This was another side of Malcom North. A new side of him. Kind and patient with an artless young woman, and God help Verity, that tenderness sent her heart into somersaults.
“And did anyone discover it?” The question tumbled out, and her cheeks instantly warmed as Malcom swung his attention back to her.
“Years later, one of his nobles revealed its location to the Romans, and it was uncovered.”
And then it hit her . . . “They were pirates,” she blurted.
Malcom pointed a finger in her direction, confirming her supposition.
“And that is how you see yourself,” Livvie ventured slowly, as one puzzling through a riddle. “As a pirate of the sewers?”
“I see myself as one who came about a fortune by fair means. When people are forced to steal and . . . worse, there are those who dig deeper and find greater wealth than had by many noblemen.”
And one more piece fell into the puzzle that was Malcom North. This gentleman who looked after crippled toshers and street urchins was the same man who’d refused to filch pockets, and instead had made his fortune as honestly as the fates had enabled him to.
And Verity was sure a corner of her heart would forever belong to him for it.
“Livvie, run along now,” she said quietly. “There’ll be time aplenty to speak with Lord Maxwell.”
This time, her sister must have heard something in her tone that marked the end of the games she’d played. With a beleaguered sigh, Livvie hopped up. “Very well.” She dropped another curtsy, this one smoother and more relaxed than the previous one. “My lord.”
“No need for fancy titles.” He bowed his head. “Malcom will suffice.” His melodious voice came in crisp, refined tones that raised no question as to the gentleman’s identity. He was noble born, in every way. And in every way that Verity wasn’t.
It was a reminder that she’d not truly considered . . . all the ways in which they were . . . different. Why should that cause this peculiar tightening in her chest? After all, it didn’t matter whether she was wholly unsuitable for the role of his actual bride; their arrangement was one forged of mutual necessity, insisted upon by a man who, if he didn’t hate her, carried an immense dislike for her.
Chapter 21
THE LONDON GAZETTE
All Polite Society is aware that the more servants gossip, the less regard they have for their employers. Given the absolute silence from Lord and Lady Maxwell’s staff, it is apparent that the earl and countess are very much respected by a staff determined to protect the family’s secrets . . .
E. Daubin
Malcom didn’t want to be here.
In fact, he wanted to be here even less than he’d wanted to be on display before the ton. Nor did his apprehension have anything to do with the woman standing across from him, and everything to do with what she sought.
Buying time for himself, steeling himself against the slew of questions she’d ask, Malcom closed the door behind her sister, shutting hi
m and Verity away. Alone.
I don’t want to do this . . .
Moisture slicked his palms and dampened the bronze handle.
Stop. You’ve faced head-on the threat of death and danger since you were a boy on your own . . . How difficult can an interview with Verity Lovelace be?
Why did it merely feel as if he sought to reassure himself?
To give his fingers something to do, he loosened the buttons of his jacket, and turned to face Verity. The slightly mocking words he intended were interrupted, but not with a question.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Thank you? He furrowed his brow.
“For being patient with Livvie,” she clarified.
“Did you think I should be a monster to a young woman?” he asked without malice. It wasn’t the first time she’d insinuated as much.
Then again, neither of them had the greatest opinion of the other.
Verity colored. “I . . . no. I . . . I simply know that you don’t like being asked questions about yourself, and Livvie’s quite garrulous.”
Aye, the girl was a talker. Like Verity. There’d been something oddly heartening in the banter between the sisters. Bickering, and teasing; there was a closeness to that bond that should have made him uncomfortable, but had only intrigued him.
Or mayhap it was Verity’s magic once more. Everything about her fascinated him.
Verity sank into the folds of the leather button sofa overflowing with papers and notepads. Hurriedly, she went about tidying that makeshift workspace. “Would you care to sit?”
Waving off that invitation, Malcom shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over the back of a mahogany library chair. As she organized her things, Malcom picked up a creased newspaper lying on the walnut rolling table.
He scanned the front page.
The elusive Earl and Countess of Maxwell have been spied amongst Polite Society. Witnesses say there were many stretches of silence between them. All the ton is then left to wonder at the circumstances surrounding Lord Maxwell’s marriage to the mystery woman. Extortion? Bribery? Worse?
“Perhaps there was something to your suggestion of an amiable match,” he muttered.
“Well, there’s nothing Polite Society despises more than happy marriages,” she explained, not lifting her head from her task. “There’s some irony in it, however.” Verity briefly paused. “Over the years, with the exception of my work, they’ve dabbled in half-truths and peddled nearly entirely in complete fabrications. How ironic that the closest they’ve ever danced to real truth should have been in the story they’ve written about us,” she said dryly.
The irony rested in the fact that he was the only one in their party guilty of extorting her, coercing her into cooperation. In exchange for the story she’d write about him. Guilt stabbed at a conscience he hadn’t even realized existed until this moment. He tossed the paper back down, and it landed with a loud thwack. “Why do you wish to work for a paper that doesn’t have integrity?”
“Because I believe in what newspapers represent, and what they do,” she said, looking up from the stack of notepads in her hands. “Because I believe with the right opportunity, I can make it better.” She patted the empty space she’d cleared beside her.
Malcom hesitated, and then sat beside her. “Have you even tried?”
Her mouth pursed, that plump lower lip jutting out with her annoyance. “I’ve written pieces aside from gossip columns, if that is what you’re asking. Of course, neither of them have been published.”
“Of course?”
Verity set her notepads down. “As you pointed out, I write for a gossip column. There’ve been times I’ve written alternative pieces. More fact-based or moral-centered ones.” She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms about them.
“And they were quashed?” he ventured.
“They were.” Verity pressed her thumb and forefinger together. “Both of them.”
Both of them? Which implied . . . two. “That’s it?” he asked bluntly.
She frowned. “I don’t . . .”
“As I see it”—he stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles—“you’ve hunted me in the sewers, and invaded my private residence in East London not once, not twice, but three times.”
“It was two,” she defended. “You brought me back the first time.”
“Aye.” Against all better judgment that had screamed to be wary and to keep his guard up. She’d slipped past, and upended his life since. “I’ll allow that. Two times, then, you’ve come to me. And invaded my townhouse. Yet you’ve only made a handful of attempts to push for a story other than the rot they required of you?”
Verity frowned. “I don’t have the luxury to write anything else, Malcom.” She delivered those words not with any self-pity, but with pure pragmatism. “The only luxury permitted me is survival, and as such I wrote the stories expected of me.”
“Gossip.”
Where in the past she’d bristled at his description of her work, now she sighed. “Aye. Gossip.”
He lightly dusted his fingers over her chin, bringing her gaze to his. “And that is what I am to”—you—“the world? Gossip?”
Her gaze held his, so piercing, so intent as if she sought to crawl inside him and pull forth those secrets he was so determined to keep. “I don’t believe that,” she said quietly. “Society might initially see that for what it is. But once written, it is my hope that they find there is true substance to it, Malcom. It is a story of injustice and wrongs and . . . strife.”
And with that, it made sense.
He made to release her; as he unfurled his fingers and loosed his hold, that was his intention. Only, of their own volition, Malcom’s knuckles did a slow, gradual upsweep of her jawline. A back-and-forth caress and re-exploration of skin soft as satin. Her thick, sooty lashes fluttered down, as if she herself was as entranced by that lightest of touches. “You felt the story was something more than it is,” he murmured. “That’s why you’ve been so determined to conduct your interview.” It wasn’t a question, and yet, as she forcibly opened her eyes and met his, she answered him anyway. “You see this as the ability to make the changes you wanted in the papers.”
She nodded. “In part. There are those who believe ‘the world doesn’t want information. They want . . .’”—she pitched her voice to a high, nasally whine—“‘the right information.’”
“Your employer?”
“My previous employer,” Verity clarified. “He’s since ceded the business over to his son. He’ll allow any lie to be printed and any story to be stolen.” Her gaze darkened. “Fairpoint,” she muttered to herself.
She doesn’t matter. Her plight doesn’t matter. The work she did, and the people she was employed by . . . “Who is this Fairpoint?” Would Malcom have to break the cur’s neck?
“A reporter who stole”—her cheeks pinkened—“my earliest story about you.” She cast a sheepish look in his direction. “Either way, newspapers are struggling. The taxes are crippling, and reporters are turning on one another, all to maintain their work. And the most recent head of The Londoner . . .”
And in the dog-eat-dog world, they’d devoured Verity. Aye, he’d happily off the pair of those fellows. “He’s proven more unbending than his father?”
“In the sense that he gave me an impossible task—” Her words immediately cut off. The color on Verity’s cheeks deepened.
He sent a single brow arching up. “Me?”
Abandoning her curled-up position on the sofa, Verity shifted so that her feet touched the floor. His ears tried to make out the grumblings she made under her breath. Something that sounded very much like “You are impossible.”
The right corner of his mouth pulled up in a half smile, one that didn’t stretch quite so uncomfortably as the grins before it.
She scooched over so their legs brushed. “It wasn’t simply that he assigned me the story of your whereabouts and past. It was that he did so anticipating t
hat I’d fail so he would have sufficient reason to sack me without having to explain my severance to his father. He was always intending to sack me. One of those who doesn’t believe a woman has any place in reporting.” Impassioned, her eyes glittered with the depths of her outrage.
“He was a fool, thinking any man more competent than you in any task.”
Her eyes immediately softened, her lips parted, and a little sigh whispered out.
Where women were concerned, there’d been any number of reactions they’d greeted Malcom with over the years: Desire. Fury. Suspicion.
Never had a woman looked at Malcom as Verity did now. He didn’t know what to do with all that emotion. Any of it. He cleared his throat. “I’ll have you know . . . my . . . anger in the park. It wasn’t reserved for you. It was the discomfort of being there.” Her brows dipped. “Not with you,” he said on a rush. She was all that had kept him sane at that outing. Nay, she’d done more than that; she’d managed to make him smile, even. “It is my own”—insecurity—“dislike of Polite Society,” he settled for.
Her eyes softened. “Thank you.”
That was it: thank you.
He cleared his throat. “We should get on with it.”
“Get on with—”
“The interview.” The only reason they were together, and the reason they’d stay together until the end of the next Season.
The light went out of her pretty eyes. She blinked slowly, and then grimaced. “Forgive me. Of course you didn’t need to hear all that.”
Nay, he hadn’t needed to. But he’d wanted to. And it was that wanting that scared the hell out of him.
He got to the heart of it. “I don’t remember most.” He grimaced. “I don’t remember anything. The information you seek about my past?” About his parents and childhood before it had all been taken from him . . . “I’ve nothing to contribute.” All he could offer was how he’d lived in the years after. Which was largely the whole of his life.
Silence fell, thick and uncomfortable, that tension a product of the fact that he’d never be able to give her what she fully sought, and yet, he intended to hold her to the agreement they’d reached anyway.
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