Her husband, on the other hand, with his red-splotched cheeks, made a show of studying the ceiling.
“Hello, Lady Poppy,” Verity returned, dipping a flawless curtsy.
“None of that, now,” the baroness chided. “We agreed to dispense with formalities. It is so very lovely to see you both again. Isn’t that right, Tristan?”
The baron kept his gaze skyward. “Indeed. It—oomph.” That at last managed to bring the other man’s head down.
The baroness flashed a blindingly bright smile. “If you’ll excuse us a moment?” Without awaiting permission, she took her husband and steered him onward several paces.
“What was that for?” Bolingbroke demanded in tones that would have been hushed and entirely lost to any person who’d not been raised in the streets. Alas, heightened senses and hearing would never afford the lords and ladies of London privacy.
“You were a rogue, Tristan. You shouldn’t be discomfited by displays of affection.”
The couple spoke on a flurry of whispers, and Verity shifted closer. “They are . . . something. Are they not?”
Malcom stole another glance at that wildly gesticulating pair: One, a man he’d secretly hated, who also happened to share his blood. A cousin. And the gentleman’s spitfire wife. “They are not what I expected,” he conceded. They were . . . real. Real and flawed and human in ways he’d erroneously believed a nobleman and noblewoman couldn’t be.
How narrow his view had been of the world. How much Verity had opened his eyes to it.
The Baron and Baroness of Bolingbroke, their arms linked, rejoined Malcom and Verity. “Forgive us for arriving late. I’d not been . . . feeling well.” The baroness slid a palm over her slightly rounded belly, and her husband’s throat moved, the emotion in his gaze raw. “And my husband was insisting that I rest—” She peeled her lips up in a grimace as if she’d uttered a heinous epithet. “That he’d come without me.”
“And my wife insisted on being here with us.”
Us.
The word paired them: Malcom and Bolingbroke. They and their wives.
“I’m so glad you are here,” Verity said softly, moving to take the baroness’s palm. “Both of you.”
“As am I. We should be seated and leave our husbands to their business.” The baroness held out her arm.
Verity’s gaze drifted to the back of the hall, where the reporters swarmed for the best view of the front of the auditorium. Her frame tensed. “If you’ll excuse me for but a moment? There is just something I’d see to before our husbands begin.”
“Of course.” The baroness rushed off to rejoin her husband.
Malcom, however, reserved his focus on just one. Mitchell Fairpoint. Rage coursed through his veins. Bully as he’d been to Verity, the man now towered over a young woman, berating her.
“The cur,” Malcom clipped out.
Verity looked to Malcom. “Would you be opposed to waiting several moments more while I see to him?”
He smiled. “Of course not. Would you have me join you?”
“No.” She narrowed her eyes in a way that almost made him pity Fairpoint. Almost. “I have it.”
“Go then, love.” This was a moment long overdue. One he’d allow Verity to own in every way.
Her eyes softened, and leaning up, she took his lips in a brief kiss. “I love you.”
“And I love you, wife.”
And as she slipped out of the corridor and marched through the throng of observers who’d come that morn, Malcom followed her with his gaze; she moved like a warrior in battle, purposeful and single-minded in her intent. If possible, as she wove through the onlookers, making for those other reporters, Malcom fell more and more in love with her.
Four figures appeared at the hall, blocking Malcom’s line of vision. He quietly cursed. “What are you—”
“Ya surely aren’t going to ask wot we’re doing?” Bram cut him off.
“Actually, I had—”
“Because the only person deserving of that question is ya,” the old tosher went on. “Wot in blazes are ya doing?”
“Wot’s the girl doing?” Fowler demanded.
“Righting wrongs,” Malcom murmured, not taking his gaze from his wife.
An elbow collided with his side. Grunting, he glanced over at the old toshers.
Bram and Fowler wore matching frowns.
“What in hell was that for?” Malcom muttered, rubbing at the wounded flesh.
Fowler gave him another hard nudge. “Ya should be there when the Mrs. speaks to that bastard.”
“They are worried again,” Livvie said by way of explanation. As if there could be a doubt to the “they” in question, the girl motioned to Bram and Fowler.
“Bloody right, we are worried.” Bram nodded. “Go to her now, boy.”
This time, Malcom evaded the next blow the old toshers sent flying.
“Mrs. North ain’t need anyone’s help,” Billy piped in, her worshipping gaze centered on Verity. The girl’s adoration had been there from the moment Verity had entered Malcom’s household, and since Billy had been relieved of her work as a servant and made another member of the family, those sentiments had only intensified.
Now, as one, they watched Verity move with the grace of a queen. “Billy is correct,” Livvie announced with a toss of her curls. “My sister doesn’t require assistance.”
“Aye, listen to the ladies, you old toshers.” Warmth spiraled in Malcom’s chest as he fell in love with Verity all over again. “Verity is capable of handling her own battles.”
“Don’t ya want to beat the blighter within an inch of his goddamned life?” Fowler demanded.
“Lord knows Oi do.” Bram slammed a fist against his open palm and glowered at the source of his hatred. Several young fops and ladies turned white and immediately scurried off in the opposite direction.
“Aye, I want to beat him senseless.” In fact, it had taken every last shred of restraint he’d honed on the streets of East London not to. Just then, Verity reached Fairpoint’s side.
He’d no right to be here.
And more, Mitchell Fairpoint had no right to this story. Not because of any sense of ownership on Verity’s part, but because of the significance of this day and how it should be preserved in papers.
Verity reached the back of the hall.
Fairpoint, with his back to her, towered over a small woman with elfin features and enormous spectacles. “You’ve no right to this seat,” he was saying. He thumped his notepad. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what newspaper I’m with?”
The young woman shook her head wildly. But still, she hesitated, not immediately relinquishing her spot. It was a detail another person might have missed or underestimated. Verity, however, had been this woman. She’d journeyed to the point of finding her voice in a world dominated by males so very determined to keep the respectable work to themselves.
“Mr. Fairpoint.” Verity finally spoke to him, relishing the way Fairpoint stiffened, and the slowness to his movements as he turned and faced her.
“Miss—”
She lifted a brow.
“My lady . . .” And she reveled in the pained way he delivered that proper form of address and taut bow.
Dismissing him and his greeting, she looked to the young woman. “Is there a problem here, Miss—”
“Daubin,” she said quickly, adding a curtsy. “Miss Daubin.”
“And you are with . . . ?”
“The London Gazette.”
With that information, Verity turned back to Mitchell Fairpoint. “As I see it, Miss Daubin of The London Gazette has every right to be here.” She paused. “In fact, I’d argue, given her work with that respected newspaper, she has even more right to be here, Mr. Fairpoint, than you do.”
He sputtered, “That is preposterous! The Londoner has a longer history, one that affords me a greater respect than some inkwell filler sent here by her employers.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong
.”
He tipped his head.
Verity took a step closer. “You see, that seat”—she pointed to the source of the earlier contention—“is not your seat. And the paper you reference?” She paused. “It is not your paper.”
“What are you on about?”
With glee, Verity leaned in. “I mean, my husband and I purchased The Londoner from Lowery.”
Fairpoint stared at her a moment, and then exploded laughing. “Lowery wouldn’t ever sell to you. He knows women don’t belong in this business.”
Verity waited until his amusement abated. “Lowery never truly cared about this business, Fairpoint. He only cared about the coin to be made in it.” As she spoke, she took relish in the way the color slowly seeped from his cheeks. “And so even his archaic views on a woman’s role fell second to his greed.”
“What are you saying?”
Reaching inside the pocket sewn along the front of her dress, Verity extracted the page that was never far from her person and handed it over. “I suggest you have a read, Fairpoint.”
He grabbed the sheet from her fingers, and as he read, color flooded his cheeks and the page shook in his hand. “What is this?” he demanded, turning the document over, back and forth, several times, as if doing so would somehow miraculously alter the words written there.
Verity folded her arms at her waist. “My husband paid a sizable sum with the stipulation that the transaction remain secret until I was ready to claim ownership.” She smiled coldly. “And I’ve never been more ready. Therefore, Miss Daubin’s seat”—Verity gestured to the wide-eyed young woman—“belongs to her. And The Londoner? The Londoner is mine, and you’ve no place here.”
Mitchell Fairpoint’s cheeks drained of all color. “This is . . . I don’t . . . You can’t . . . He wouldn’t . . .”
“Ah, words fail you again,” she taunted. “Only, now there’s no one to rob for a proper response, is there?”
His reed-thin frame shook violently.
All these weeks, since she’d learned of the gift Malcom had given her and bided her time for the right moment, she’d wondered what it would be like. Nothing could have prepared her for the thrill of triumph. This revenge taken on behalf of every woman he’d robbed of a place at The Londoner. For the story he’d stolen from her. For the misery he’d made her existence. “Now, my husband is set to speak, and you are neither wanted nor allowed to be here. I suggest you go of your own volition, Fairpoint, or I’ll have you thrown out on your thieving arse.”
And with the row of reporters staring in wide-eyed wonderment, Fairpoint scrabbled with his collar, and then turning jerkily on his heel, he scurried off.
“That was well done, my lady,” Miss Daubin said softly.
“That was long overdue.” Fishing inside her pocket once more, Verity withdrew a card. “Your refusing to relinquish your place was impressive as well, Miss Daubin. If you are ever in need of work, please seek me out.”
Scrambling to take the card, the young woman strung together a series of incoherent thank-yous.
Her shoulders back, Verity started to the front of the auditorium. She made the long march past the rows of lords and ladies present: most strangers . . . some not. Her gaze found her half siblings. The twin sisters sat beside their husbands, and at the end sat the bespectacled Benedict. He caught her stare, and tipped his head in acknowledgment. A watery smile formed on her lips as she returned that silent greeting.
She reached the front row, and Bram and Fowler immediately jumped up.
“Do we need to kill ’im?” Bram asked without preamble.
“Because we’ll do it,” Fowler jumped in.
Still seated, Livvie rolled her eyes.
“Behave,” Verity warned her sister before looking once more to the old men. Going up on tiptoe, she kissed each tosher on the cheek. “I’ve handled it.”
“Told ya she would,” Billy chimed in with a victorious grin as they resettled into their seats . . . and waited.
From her spot at the end of the row, Verity glanced to the corridor where Malcom stood speaking with his cousin, Bolingbroke. The pair of them conversed as easily as ones who’d known one another their entire lives. And though their reunion had been recent, most days since had involved visits between the men: Planning and discussions. Dinners. And with every exchange had come a greater and more visible peace in her husband.
As if he felt her stare, Malcom looked to Verity.
She pressed her fingertips to her heart, and then motioned to her husband.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
“I love you, too,” she said softly, her voice lost to the buzz still echoing around the hall.
And a moment later, Malcom stepped out, ushering in a blanket of silence so thick and pronounced that the gentleman’s footfalls could be heard as he took his place at the dais.
“’e ’ates this,” Bram bemoaned, wringing his hands together.
Verity, Livvie, and Billy spoke simultaneously.
“’e’s foine.”
“He’s going to be fine.”
“He is fine.”
As Malcom walked, he glanced throughout the room. The muscles of his jaw rippled in the faintest hint of his unease.
Verity curled her palms into tight fists. She hated this moment, not because of any fear that he’d make a misstep but because she knew how he despised this. Knew how desperately he sought privacy in his life and of his past, and yet he’d open himself to the world. Was it possible to love him any more than she did? She willed his eyes to hers.
And then he found her.
Again, Verity pressed a palm to her heart. “I love you,” she mouthed once more.
His throat moved, and he gave a slight nod, and then spoke. “Many of you know me as Percival Northrop, the Earl of Maxwell. And some twenty years ago, that is who I was. I was kidnapped. I lost the home I once knew. I lost the family I had still remaining.” His deep baritone carried throughout the hall; his words, coupled with the somberness of his tone, commanded silence and brought people to the edge of their chairs. “And I lived in the darkest side of England. I was an orphan on the streets.” A little sob filtered into his speech—some lady in the audience who stifled that response. “But this day,” Malcom went on, “is not one of sadness. I was one of the lucky ones. I survived. I found a family.” He looked to the front row.
Tears filled Verity’s eyes, blurring his beloved visage.
“And I’ve reconnected with the family I did have,” Malcom said quietly.
And gasps went up as Lord Bolingbroke stepped from the corridor and made the short walk, joining Malcom atop the dais.
“You see,” Malcom went on, his voice growing increasingly powerful as he spoke, “it is so very easy to give in to hatred. To carry resentment for wrongs committed. And yet those sentiments, they will only destroy a person. Which is why Lord Bolingbroke and I have come together to lay to rest the painfulness of the past, and to anoint a new beginning.”
The baron stepped forward. “We are here today to announce the construction of three foundling hospitals. These, however, will be more than the orphanages that the most unfortunate children of society call home.” He turned to Malcom.
“Together, we’ve committed funds to building places throughout England, where boys and girls might learn and laugh and have greater hopes for their future, and where they might also know”—Malcom’s gaze locked with Verity’s—“family.”
And as Malcom continued on with his appeal to society’s most powerful and influential members, tears slipped down her cheeks. She glanced down the row at Bram and Fowler, both wiping furiously at their eyes. And Billy burying her own reddened ones behind her palms. All while Livvie smiled softly on.
And when Verity looked back once more, her and Malcom’s gazes locked.
“Our family,” she whispered.
This was their family.
Acknowledgments
If an author is fortunate, she has a person who believ
es in her characters and the world she’s creating. I’ve been so very blessed to have an entire editorial team at Montlake who believe in my stories, and my vision, for the not so always conventional hero and heroine. (Malcom, my dear, beloved sewer scavenger, being just one of many!) To those at Amazon Publishing who support my creative process, I’m so very grateful.
About the Author
Photo © 2016 Kimberly Rocha
Christi Caldwell is the USA TODAY bestselling author of the Sinful Brides series and the Wicked Wallflowers series. She blames novelist Judith McNaught for luring her into the world of historical romance. When Christi was at the University of Connecticut, she began writing her own tales of love—ones where even the most perfect heroes and heroines had imperfections. She learned to enjoy torturing her couples before they earned their well-deserved happily ever after.
Christi lives in southern Connecticut, where she spends her time writing, chasing after her son, and taking care of her twin princesses in training. Fans who want to keep up with the latest news and information can sign up for Christi’s newsletter at www.ChristiCaldwell.com.
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