“Malcom, you were kidnapped,” Verity said in somber tones. “You lost your parents, and when you were sick, found yourself stolen away by a faithless servant. The fiends who ripped off your title and your existence lived in comfort—opulent lifestyles of wealth and security and ease. While you struggled. While you, an earl’s son, and at his passing, an earl by your birthright, learned firsthand the strife that exists for those born outside the peerage. You might not remember what happened to you”—she covered his hand with hers—“but never, ever doubt that you don’t have something very powerful, something very meaningful to contribute.”
The air effervesced from the force of emotion that passed between them, volatile and real and terrifying for the unfamiliarity of it.
“What do you want to know?” he asked gruffly, eyeing her notepads uneasily.
Except Verity drew her knees up once more and rubbed her chin back and forth over those pale-yellow skirts. “How did you become a tosher?”
That was the easiest question she could have put to him. He suspected she knew as much. Knew that was why she had asked it.
“A gent tried to bugger me. I escaped and scurried into a sewer. Down there, I found me a purse filled with guineas . . . and Fowler. I never looked back.”
All the color left her cheeks.
Malcom tensed. He didn’t want her pity. He didn’t want any of her damned sadness and wide eyes. And he certainly didn’t want useless apologies for what his life had been. “Don’t expect that can be printed in the papers,” he said with forced amusement.
She didn’t take the bait of his teasing. “How old were you?”
He shrugged. “Twelve or thirteen.” Twelve. He’d been twelve.
Her eyes slid briefly closed.
“I was small for my age,” he went on. “Without a bit of meat to me. I was also quicker than bigger men and boys, which is what allowed me to get away and sneak into a grate that hadn’t been properly shut.”
“And Fowler . . . ?”
Malcom’s mind wandered back to that long-ago night. The frantic beat of his heart as it pounded in his ears, muffling even his own ragged breathing. “I heard someone crying and thought it was myself.”
“Fowler?” she breathed.
“Floods come sudden and unexpected in the sewers. One caught Fowler, and it carried him down more tunnels than he could remember. The force of it when it emptied into the chamber where I found him sent him slamming into a brick wall. Shattered his leg, and he couldn’t get out.” And somehow, more than a foot and a half shorter and fifteen stones lighter, he’d managed to get the tosher up and moving. “We’ve been together since.”
Her eyes were riveted on him, her pencil frozen in her fingers.
“Are you going to write that down?”
She blinked several times. “What?” she blurted.
He nodded at the notepad.
Verity looked down, and then gave her head a shake. “No. No. I . . . I simply wondered how you two had come to be together.”
That was all.
She’d not asked for her story. She’d simply asked because she wished to know . . . about him?
Never had he felt more splayed open and on display for another. Malcom shifted, the leather button sofa groaning under him. “And what of you, Verity?” he asked, the need for a reprieve from sharing of himself prompting that question. Except, even as he thought as much, he knew he lied to himself. He wanted to know about her, too. He’d wanted to since he found her in the sewers, fishing around for lost slippers. “How long have you been caring for yourself and your sister?”
She didn’t even hesitate, freely answering. “I was twelve. My mother died in childbirth. My father died soon after. Before he did, he set me up with work at The Londoner.”
She could have lived solely for herself without worrying about mouths to feed. And yet, she hadn’t. She’d lost her mother and father, and then, only a child herself, she’d taken on the role of parent to a babe. It wasn’t every day that Malcom could feel properly shamed, but in this instance, when presented with the selfless existence she’d lived compared with his own, he found himself . . . humbled. “Your father didn’t see that you were looked after?”
She chuckled, the sound devoid of any mirth or happiness in an unexpected display of cynicism. “My father loved my mother, but he was a wastrel. He drank. My mum said his misery was because he could never be with us as he wished. My nursemaid always insisted it was because he was endlessly weak.”
He was of a like opinion as the nursemaid. Malcom had killed many times in the name of survival. Even as every one of those devils had deserved it, he’d regretted that blood on his hands. And yet if her father weren’t already dead, Malcom would have gladly done the deed all over for the state he’d left his daughters in. “You became a sibling and parent to Livvie.”
Verity shrugged. “What else would I do?”
“You’d protect yourself,” he said automatically.
“Protect myself, by . . . remaining alone?”
He went silent.
Verity, however, was tenacious. She scooted around so that she faced him. “And is that what you’ve done, Malcom?”
His body went whipcord straight. “Yes. Of course it is.” Everyone in the rookeries knew as much about him.
“No.”
He cocked his head.
“No,” she repeated. “That is what you think you’ve done. You refer to Bram and Fowler as ‘your people.’ You call Giles an ‘associate.’ All of these defenses that you put up, these choices of words that strip away closeness from your connections, they cannot truly conceal the truth.”
A sweat broke out on the back of his nape. Moisture trickled down his collar and streaked his back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Or was it that he didn’t know what he was talking about? Everything was twisted. Illogical and confused.
“I do, though. I know that you’re protecting yourself by pretending that they don’t matter. But, Malcom.” She rested a hand lightly on his sleeve.
He stared at those ink-stained fingers to keep from looking into her eyes and owning all the truths that spilled from her too-insightful lips. “What?”
“A man who doesn’t care about others doesn’t rescue men from the sewers. He doesn’t stay with them, looking after them when they are old men who can barely walk from the injuries they’ve sustained.” His hands formed balls at his sides. He wanted her to stop. He needed her to. But she was relentless. Verity moved closer so that barely a handbreadth separated them. “A man who doesn’t care doesn’t send those old toshers to the finest residence in London so that they might live in comfort and never have to pillage a sewer again.”
He glanced away, unable to meet her piercing gaze. That gaze that saw too much and knew even more. A million vises twisted his insides into knots. How had she known . . . ?
Verity proved unfaltering, wreaking further havoc upon him. “You wouldn’t have made your right-hand man, one who is surviving on the streets with just one hand to defend and protect himself with, your associate.” Giles. Verity laid her palms against his chest, and his heart thumped hard under that tender touch. “And do you know what I also know?”
He managed to shake his head.
“A man who’ll do all that, who’ll take in the woman who’d wronged him, along with her family, giving them security, is an honorable one.”
Just like the romantic article she’d written about him in The Londoner, Verity simply saw that which she wished. “I’m not.” A man who’d done the things he had could never be considered anything of the sort.
Verity smiled tremulously. She stroked her palms down the front of his chest, her touch soothing. “You continue to believe if you say one thing, that the words will, in fact, mean another.”
Chapter 22
THE LONDON GAZETTE
A MATCH MADE . . . OF LOVE?
For all the original speculation about a nefarious union between the Earl of Max
well and his mysterious wife, the couple is seen frequently about Polite Society, and the ton is left with but one question: Is it love?
E. Daubin
In the following weeks, Malcom and Verity settled into their world of pretend.
His days were spent courting his wife.
Their nights were spent conversing. Interviews that never truly felt like interviews.
And somewhere along the way, make-believe had come to feel . . . all too real.
Lying upon a blanket in Hyde Park with Verity’s palms over his eyes, Malcom knew there’d be time later for proper horror at the vulnerable place he’d let himself fall into.
“You’re not paying attention,” Verity accused.
“Very well.”
She cleared her throat. “My first: the Serpentine doth wind.
“On to my second: which can only be a mistake.
“The third: abandoning of Eden.”
His mouth moved silently as he repeated back those three clues. “You know, you really can remove your—”
“You’re stalling for time, Malcom.”
His lips curved up in a grin. Not even three weeks ago, he’d have sooner split his tosher pole in half than take part in any game. Since he’d been a boy, Malcom craved the dark and dank, and despised the light for the perils it posed. For in the day, there were no shadows in which to hide. As such, he’d not known what it was to have the sun on his face. Or a soft breeze upon his skin. At this end of London, he’d come to find just how very different this world was, and that its allure was even greater.
“Malcom,” she said warningly.
“I assure you, I remain completely focused on the task at hand,” he said drolly. “Ouch.” He winced as she freed one of her hands and pinched his cheek. “What was that for?”
“You’re not even—”
“A flower,” he said over her. “It is a flower.”
“Impossible!” Verity dragged her hands from his eyes. He blinked as the early-summer sun blinded him.
“Impossible that it’s a flower? Or impossible that I’ve bested you . . . again?”
She swatted at him. “You are a poor winner.”
“That seems quite contradictory, love.”
“Oh, yes, I assure you it’s not. You’re very gloaty.”
He flipped onto his side and braced himself on an elbow. “Is that a word?”
“It’s not.” She paused. “But if it were, it would be applied to you.”
He grinned. A lightness suffused him, touching every corner of a place inside him that had once been dark, until he was buoyant. Malcom waggled his eyebrows. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m quite good at charades.”
“And chess.” Verity delivered another well-placed pinch.
“What was that for?” he mumbled, rubbing at the offended area.
“That one was just because,” she said with a toss of her head.
“You are a ruthless competitor, you know.”
“If you think I’m ruthless with charades, you should see me with”—air wafted over his cheeks, and the scent of mint flooded his senses—“lawn bowling,” she whispered against his ear.
His heart pounded faster at her nearness. “Indeed?” he asked, as he was surely supposed to issue some reply, and a more meaningful one eluded him.
“Hardly,” Verity clarified. “I’ve never played. I’ve always wanted to, though. My father would speak of bringing a set and teaching me.”
And with her soft musings, an image danced forward of a sprawling country estate. A high-walled garden with steps that led out to rolling hills.
“I wanted to play lawn bowling, Papa.” Malcom tugged at the hand in his. “You told Mama we would, but we’re not.”
His father stopped, and fell to a knee beside him. “Ah, yes, because I had to keep it a surprise.”
Malcom stared, unblinking. “A surprise?” he whispered.
“We are picking flowers to make your mama a crown so she might be queen.”
Lawn bowling forgotten, Malcom brightened. “Can I have a crown and be her prince . . . ?”
Malcom slowly opened his eyes, squinting at the bright flood of sunshine. He braced for the headache that accompanied such realizations—which this time did not come. The memory had been so vivid. So real. And letting it in this time hadn’t crippled him with weakness.
He felt Verity’s stare before he caught it, and glanced over. She’d dragged her knees against her chest, rested her chin atop them, and studied Malcom.
“You remembered something, didn’t you?” she asked quietly, and where that query would have once set him off in a fury at her probing into his life, now he nodded.
“Aye.” Scooping up a handful of debris at the edge of the blanket, he sifted through it. Settling for a small, smooth, flat stone, he sent it expertly skipping across the smooth surface of the Serpentine. The projectile bounced five times and then sank under the surface. “Sometimes that will happen. I’ll see something or hear a word, and it . . . triggers a remembrance. But it’s almost as if they aren’t real to me. As if they happened to someone else. As if they are a dream.”
Verity covered his hand. “But they aren’t a dream, Malcom,” she said gently.
Nay, they weren’t a dream. She was correct on that score. His throat moved painfully around an uncomfortable ball that had lodged there. They were his life.
“Every morning, my mother would rise early.”
He blinked at the sudden shift.
“Our cottage was small and I’d hear her, but I knew she loved her mornings. The quiet time before the world awoke. And I would lie there. I’d listen as she went through her morning routine. As she prepared water to make her tea. And every morn, she’d sing. It was an old Scottish folk song.” Verity’s gaze grew distant, and a smile played about her lips as she softly sang.
I’ve seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling,
I’ve tasted her pleasures
And felt her decay;
Riveted, Malcom stared on. Unable to tear his gaze from her fulsome lips as she sang. This was how those sailors on their galleons were dragged out to sea. Lured by the soft, slightly off-key medley, made all the more mesmerizing for the discordancy.
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing,
But now they are fled
And fled far away.
“It is lovely,” he said hoarsely when she’d finished and her low contralto had drifted into nothing.
“Aye.” Verity flipped onto her side so that they faced one another. “When my mum died, I’d wake up nearly the same time every morn that I had when she was living. I’d drag my pillow over my head and hold it tight. So I couldn’t hear anything. Because if I couldn’t hear the silence, then it wasn’t real. What had happened to my mum, and the truth that I’d never, ever see her again, wasn’t real. In those moments before I removed that pillow, I was in control.”
He froze, her meaning clear.
He’d been a master at keeping all the memories at bay. At forgetting the parents he’d known too briefly. Of the happiness they’d had together. But keeping thoughts of them buried didn’t erase those moments in time. It hadn’t. Nor would it ever.
“I’ve been here, too,” he said quietly, staring past her. Through her. Off to the foreign gaggle of white pelicans. Several of the enormous white fowl basked on the rocks in the sun.
Just then, a lone bird sauntered too close to their blanket. It had a peculiar protuberance from its long, narrow beak.
“I was here. In this place. With these birds.”
A sheen of moisture popped up on his brow, and he briefly closed his eyes. Willing that creature gone. Willing the buzzing at the back of his head gone. But it didn’t leave. It remained, and grew increasingly incessant. The all-too-familiar pain knocked around at his temples. And this time, he fought it off and welcomed in the memory.
“Mama, Mama! That duck has a horn! I want to touch him . . . They
are magnif—”
“They are magnificent, aren’t they?” Verity asked, startling him from that memory.
Blankly, he looked over at the woman beside him whose echoed praise of some other boy, in some other lifetime ago, wrenched him back to the moment.
“The pelicans,” Verity clarified.
“They’re peculiar.”
That was the only invitation to discussion Verity required. Gathering the forgotten parasol from the bench, she pointed the top of it toward the creatures in question. “Do you know how they came to be here?”
Malcom shook his head slowly.
Verity tossed aside the satin umbrella and scrambled closer. “Sometime in the early 1600s, James the First had this area drained and landscaped so that it might become a place for people to visit. He was responsible for the creation of a flower garden and a menagerie of wild animals.” She stared back with a brightness in her eyes, one that expected he should be as impressed by that revelation as she herself was to give it.
And by damn, if he wasn’t . . . but because of the woman in charge of the telling. Her enthusiasm was infectious. “Wild animals, you say?”
Verity nodded so enthusiastically her bonnet fell over her brow, concealing those bright eyes, and he mourned that small loss. “He had camels brought in. Crocodiles. Even an elephant, and the exotic waterfowl, of course.”
His lips twitched, that natural movement so foreign to him it strained the muscles, and yet, with it came a . . . peculiar lightness in his chest. “Of course,” he said, his expression deadpan.
Whether or not she heard the note of teasing infused in his words, she did not let it alter the rest of her telling.
“Charles the First continued to expand the pleasures at the park . . . until he was executed. Made his way there.” Taking him by the hand, she forced him to either join her as she turned or pull her down. In the end, he could no sooner stop himself from doing as she bid than he could happily end his tenure as a tosher. “Do you see there?” Squinting, she pointed over a slight rise. “That is where Charles was marched in the dead of winter, all bundled up lest onlookers see him shake and mistake that response for fear. He and his dog, Rogue, were marched over that rise, and . . .” Her expression became grim, and she shook her head. “I trust you know the rest.”
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