Did those quickly strung-together questions count as three additional ones asked? Either way, Verity’s head throbbed from the incessant chatter, all about her marriage. Ultimately it was far easier to focus on her sister’s insecurity. “I assure you, his not accompanying us had nothing to do with you.”
It proved the wrong thing to say.
“So it was because of you,” Livvie said with her usual frankness.
Oh, blast and damn. “Hush,” she warned, glancing about at the lords and ladies streaming all around them. “It was not because of me.” Are you altogether certain? She ignored that jeering question.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m”—not—“certain. Malcom had business to attend.”
She caught Bertha’s snort and shot the old nursemaid a warning look.
“In his sewers?” Livvie speculated.
“In . . . in . . .” Whatever had been so pressing that he’d opted to not join her. “In matters that are none of our business.”
They reached the front of Hatchards, and stopped. “But he’s your husband. It’s absolutely your business. Furthermore”—Livvie stayed Verity as she reached for the door handle—“it would seem that someone as progressive as you, who believes a countess can and should retain employment if she so wishes it, should also expect to be privy to her husband’s business affairs.”
And blast if her sister wasn’t wholly correct. However, Verity’s was a marriage of pretend. As such, she couldn’t go saying as much to Livvie.
Silence proving safer, Verity drew the door open and motioned her sister in ahead of her.
Bertha followed close.
“Do you truly think you can go on for a year with that one not gathering that something is amiss?” Bertha asked in hushed tones as she shook out her skirts. “She’s too clever by half, and not the small girl you used to bounce on your knee.”
“This isn’t the time or place.” Verity spoke out of the corner of her mouth. She took in the crowded shop, the satin-clad ladies and top hat–wearing gentlemen who moved amongst the floor-to-ceiling rows of books.
“It never is, though, is it, Verity?”
“Bertha!” Livvie’s exuberant cry saved Verity from answering, and also earned a sea of stares from disapproving patrons.
“Go look after her,” Verity urged.
As Bertha made her way over to Livvie brandishing a small leather volume and waving it about, Verity took in the looks her sister and, by default, she herself continued to receive. Her neck heated, and it took a concerted effort to bring her shoulders back and her chin up.
Her gaze collided with that of a young gentleman, yet another patron boldly staring.
She made to take a step but lingered. Something in his warm eyes compelled her to remain. There was something vaguely memorable about him. With the spectacles perched on the edge of an aquiline nose, he had the look of many men she’d worked alongside at The Londoner. His finely cut wool suit, however, set him apart from those other commoners like herself.
Giving her head a shake, she ventured deeper into the shop. She may have written stories on the nobility over the years, but every last one of them was a stranger to her.
Still, some air of familiarity tugged at her, and she tossed another glance to where he stood.
At some point, he’d gone.
Verity resumed her stroll through the bookshop. And as she wandered the rows, she studied titles. Periodically, she’d pluck one from the shelf and tuck it into the fold of her arm. Purposeful in her selection, she’d six titles in hand when she turned to go.
Gooseflesh popped up on her arms.
A different stranger stood at the opposite end of the aisle. Though also well dressed like the other man who’d been studying her a short while ago, that was where all similarities ended. His skin was faintly pockmarked. But it was his eyes. There was a coldness in them. They were eyes that emanated a threat.
Her heart racing, Verity bolted in the opposite direction.
A stockier man blocked that exit, bringing her up short. Trapped.
She spun sideways so she could keep an eye on both foes.
Verity hugged her books tightly, the spine of one of her volumes biting painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Step out of my way,” she commanded, proud that her voice didn’t shake. “I’ll scream.” Her heart hammered out of control. She whipped her head back and forth between the two men.
“Now why would you go and do that?” The taller of that menacing pair started forward. Stalking her. “If you did, Miss Lovelace, then we’d not have the opportunity to speak on what it is we want.”
Miss Lovelace? It took a moment for that correct usage of her name to register.
A hard, empty smile curled his lips. “Or is it Countess Maxwell? It’s all very confusing, isn’t it?”
Her pulse picked up its beat. He knew. This man knew she wasn’t married. Or mayhap it was merely speculative . . . ?
“Step out of my way,” she repeated.
“I will,” he offered.
At her back, she registered a sharp snap as the shorter stranger cracked his knuckles.
“Once we make something clear to you, Miss Lovelace.”
He stopped before her.
Verity’s mouth went dry. Reflexively she hugged the books in her arms all the tighter.
“Your story? About the earl? Kill it.”
It took a moment for that warning to penetrate her fear.
“What?” she blurted.
“There’s those who don’t want that story out, miss. People who’d rather you be . . . silent.”
Silent. Or silenced?
Verity shivered. Bolingbroke. Who else would these henchmen be here on behalf of? And yet she’d be damned if they quieted her. And she’d certainly not silence Malcom’s story, not when it would open the world’s eyes to the abuses those who lived beyond the lap of luxury suffered. For all the times she’d been silenced before this one, and all the stories she’d been prevented from telling, and the directives she’d taken, they had brought her to this moment. “No.”
He tipped his head. “What did you say?” The brute exchanged a look with his partner.
“I said no. You can go back to whomever has sent you here to try and intimidate me and let them know I’ll not be cowed. Whatever Lord Maxwell, the rightful Lord Maxwell, wishes to share with the world will be shared.” Her chest rose and fell quickly from the force of her emotions. Or fear? Or mayhap a blend of both. “Nor do I truly believe you’re going to kill me in public at an establishment filled with patrons.” Adjusting her hold on her books, Verity gathered her skirts in her other palm, and took a step forward. “Now get out of my way.”
Neither man budged.
“We aren’t going to kill you,” he scoffed. “We only came to warn you.”
He swiftly caught her by the nape of her neck, wringing a gasp from her . . . which he promptly buried under a meaty palm.
The books toppled from Verity’s arms, the sound as they clattered about her feet muted by the pounding of her heart. She scrabbled at those unforgiving hands. Dimly aware of the bespectacled figure charging forward, the unlikeliest of saviors.
“You there!” That shout came from somewhere in Hatchards. That voice vaguely familiar. But everything swirled in her mind; it was twisted and jumbled by fear and panic.
The gentleman with the glasses was quickly brought down by the stocky fellow at her back.
Verity’s eyes bulged, and she scrabbled all the more with her assailant.
“Consider yourself warned,” he whispered against her ear. And then he slammed her headfirst into the wood shelving.
Verity didn’t blink. Surely, she was supposed to cry out. To make some sound. The vicious crack of her skull. The agonizing thud surely merited even just a sigh or whisper of breath. Except she couldn’t make a noise. Her ears buzzed. Her vision swam.
And then, collapsing against the bookcase, Verity crumpled onto the floo
r—and remembered nothing more.
Chapter 26
THE LONDONER
ATTACKED!
The Countess of Maxwell was assaulted in the middle of Hatchards. Her attack serves as a reminder of the Countess of Maxwell’s and the Earl of Maxwell’s dark pasts. As long as he moves amongst Polite Society, there will be a threat . . .
M. Fairpoint
She hadn’t come.
Or rather, she was late.
Standing at the empty hearth, his arms clasped behind his back, Malcom stole a glance at the porcelain ormolu clock. He squinted in a bid to bring the small circular dial into focus in the dimmer lighting of the room. Grabbing the gilded cherub by the head, Malcom picked it up and consulted the piece once more.
Ten minutes late, to be precise. When she’d never been late before. He set the clock down.
Mayhap because she’d found her books or even now saw to her work.
Or mayhap it was because she was fine enough without him.
He began to pace.
And furthermore, he should be just fine with her tardiness. Hell, he should be even more thrilled if she didn’t come. Because then there wouldn’t be questions and probing into his past, and yet—
He stopped midstride, the tails of his jacket slapping wildly at the abrupt cessation of movement.
Somewhere along the way, he’d ceased minding the questions. At some point, sharing those parts he’d buried or fought to repress had ceased to be a battle. Instead, with every remembrance she’d coaxed forward, there’d come an ease in accepting his past and those memories as ones that had belonged to him.
Footsteps echoed from out in the corridor.
Even as he turned to face the entrance of the library, he knew it wasn’t Verity.
The steps were more minced than Verity’s deliberate, confident ones.
And yet, as he faced the interloper, there was also a striking similarity, an unrepentantly direct Lovelace gaze.
“Malcom,” Livvie greeted with a flawless curtsy.
He yanked at his collar. Girls and curtsying. Aye, this was a realm of foreignness of which he’d no finesse. He cast a glance over her shoulder, searching hopefully for the elder Miss Lovelace. “Miss Lovelace, would you care to . . .” Livvie was already shutting the door behind her.
“. . . join me,” he finished wryly.
“I’ll not waste either of our time, Mr. North.” She stalked over with long, purposeful strides. Grabbing one of the leather wing chairs, she used her hip to shove it into her desired place. When it was almost perfectly aligned with the button sofa, she jabbed a finger at it. “If you will?”
And under siege, and wholly outmaneuvered by a slip of a girl, Malcom did the only thing that made sense.
He sat.
Livvie Lovelace plopped herself into the opposite seat so they faced one another . . . and drumming her fingertips on the leather arms of her chair, she waited. Silently assessing him. Her impressively unflinching stare remained unwavering.
Over the years, Malcom had faced any number of opponents, people of all ages and sizes. In thinking of that impressive catalog of adversaries, he’d venture the one before him might prove to be the most formidable. For in that moment, Malcom acknowledged the gross underestimation he’d made—there was nothing mincing about this one. In fact, he’d wager her entrance a deliberate show to set him off-kilter. And he tipped his proverbial hat to the young woman, and notched his appreciation for her tenfold.
Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap. As she drummed along to that rhythm, Livvie slowly brought her eyebrows into a single line. “My sister thinks I’m an idiot, North.”
Well, of all that he anticipated she might have said . . . that had not been in it. He’d brokered peace in the rookery, but never had it been between quarreling sisters. As such, he was completely useless of words.
Fortunately, Livvie had enough for the both of them. “I’m not an idiot. I’m quite observant, you know.”
“Indeed.”
There, that was certainly a suitable reply.
By the further narrowing of her eyes, however, the young woman remained suitably unimpressed.
Malcom shifted on the bench, and stole a hopeful look at the door. Alas, rescue would not be coming from Verity.
“And do you know why my sister believes I’m an idiot?”
“I couldn’t even begin to imagine.” There, that much was true.
“Because Verity believes that I believe that you’re really married.”
The ticking of the clock was inordinately loud.
“And as you seem to think that I believe that, as well, Lord Maxwell”—Livvie ceased tapping her fingers—“then on the matter of my intelligence, that would mean you are of a like opinion as Verity.”
He’d danced through knife battles in the street less precarious than this exchange. “I would never presume to question your intelligence; however, I feel this might be a discussion—”
“Better reserved for my sister?” She shot a brow up. “Never tell me you think you can be free of this discussion that easily? If that’s the case . . .” She muttered the remaining something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “You’re, in fact, the lackwit.” “And do you know why I have no intention of leaving?”
“Because you’re stubborn?”
“Because of my sister.”
“I . . . see . . .” And he saw not at all.
“No, you don’t. Don’t simply say you do so that you’ve some reply. You’re better off saying nothing.”
Aye, Verity’s sister was clever, after all. Even more clever than he’d credited at the start of their dialogue.
“Either way, I’ve not the time to lecture you on how to have a proper conversation. I was the one who insisted Verity go to you, and do you know why I did that?”
“Because you are a romantic?”
Unlike Verity, who’d bristled at having that descriptor applied to her, Livvie Lovelace preened. She sat up all the straighter in her chair. “Precisely. As such, when she recounted what happened that night you met, I heard what she didn’t hear. And I was the one who believed if you could be heroic, then you’d be the one to help us.”
Us.
That was what had set Verity apart from him and how he’d lived his existence. It had marked him different from her or her sister. They saw themselves as a family; they never divorced themselves from that connection.
While Malcom had taken more than fifteen years to own up to such a bond with his own . . . kin.
And with her faith in him, he’d failed to meet those expectations she’d had. Instead, Verity had come to him, and he’d turned her away. Shame pitted his belly.
“Well, do you have anything to say? Speak up.”
Aye, terrifying now, she was going to rule England should she so wish it, come ten years from now.
“What I am trying to sort through, Mr. North, is whether you are actually a good man or not . . . so which is it?”
Decidedly not was the immediate and accurate answer that sprang to his mouth. Mayhap he was getting weak through the years, that he could not bring himself to snarl or even utter that response at the young woman. While they sat, tensely studying one another, Malcom considered his response. In the end, he settled for raw truth. “I’ve not been a good person,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be better.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. With that she hopped up, and he was saved from any further questioning. Or, he almost was. Livvie lingered at the doorway. “Do you care about Verity?”
That blunt, unexpected question hit him square between the eyes. “I . . .”
“It is just that I never knew my mother. Verity has been the only one I’ve known. As long as I’ve been alive, she’s worked to support me. And she’s always soothed my hurts and allowed me my dreams. She’s protected me.” A warning glint sparked in Livvie’s eyes. “And I’ll not see her hurt by anyone. And certainly not by you. So if you think you can’t care about
her, or that you don’t love her, then we’re done here.” She paused. “All of us.”
“I . . .” His mind swam, and he tried to dredge up a reply. Only, Livvie Lovelace had confounded him. What she spoke of . . . loving Verity . . . was foreign to the world he’d built. One that the elder Miss Lovelace had single-handedly dismantled. And yet to open himself so wholly, so completely . . . “Thank you for the talk,” he replied. For whatever he had to sort through couldn’t be done with this slip of a woman, or any observer, about.
“North,” she murmured. She made to go, and then paused once more. “Oh, and I should mention, in the event that you do care, you should be aware that my sister was attacked earlier today.”
With that, Verity’s sister let herself out. Her words echoed in her wake.
Malcom didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink.
Surely he’d heard Livvie wrong. Surely with the casualness of that deliverance, his mind had simply twisted whatever she’d said.
And then blood went roaring through his ears.
Malcom exploded to his feet and bolted from the library, cursing the endless, winding corridors. Slightly out of breath from fear and his exertions, he reached the stairs and took them two at a time. The moment his feet hit the landing, he took off running once more, skidding to a halt outside Verity’s room.
Breathing hard, he pressed the handle, and let himself in. And then he found her.
Or more specifically . . .
Them. Malcom found them.
Based on the ominous pronouncement Livvie had dropped, during his endless streak to this very moment, Malcom had conjured all the worst imaginings.
Verity: Unconscious. Bleeding. Broken.
Of all the sights he’d expected after his talk with Livvie, this had not been it. Verity perched at the left side of the mattress with her back to him; she had Bram and Fowler before her. The old toshers sat in two delicate, scrolled armchairs like dutiful pups, albeit enormous pups that tested the constraints of that seating. “I told you, it’s an absolute cure-all,” Verity was saying, wholly engrossed in whatever latest apothecary sat next to her bed. Their hands outstretched and dunked in bowls of water, the trio remained focused on whatever it was they were doing. “You’ll want to do this several times a day. It will soften them.”
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