Giles glanced over to Fowler and back to Malcom. “There’ve been several strangers looking for a ‘lost earl.’”
Oh, bloody hell. His stomach knotted.
“Who?” he asked impatiently.
“This time, they are reporters with newspapers.” Giles held his gaze. “And according to the people talking, they’ve begun searching the sewers for you.”
Damn it all to hell.
Chapter 9
THE LONDONER
ALONE!
Though there is no confirmation from sources, the safe conclusion has been drawn, he’s been a man alone. Otherwise, surely there would have been someone to share his whereabouts . . .
V. Lovelace
This evening, Verity had nearly been killed.
First by rats. Then by water. And then by a ruthless stranger on the street.
And now the latest threat: the old man who may as well have been carved of stone for as much as he’d moved since Mr. North had left Verity.
He was her guard.
It hadn’t been stated, either explicitly or implicitly.
But neither could there be a doubt as to what Mr. North had intended with the older man’s presence.
With his back against the wall and his arms folded at a barrel-size chest, her guard remained motionless with his rheumy gaze firmly locked on Verity and her every movement. She repressed the nervous shudder that ran the length of her spine. He is just a man. He is just a man. Albeit a large man. But a man. Harmless, surely. With long white hair lazily drawn back and equally white brows, the nameless man put her in mind of the wizard Merlin from the book her father had brought her as a girl and read passages from each time he visited.
That memory of her father proved strengthening.
Verity forced a smile. “My name is Verity Lovelace.”
He grunted. “Don’t. Care.”
Well, then.
Verity tried again. “Do you have a name?”
Another grunt. “Of course I have a name.”
And mayhap it was the madness of this entire night, but a smile pulled at her lips. “Do you wish to share it?”
“No.”
Hmph.
They were a tight-lipped bunch, the peculiar men who lived here . . . wherever “here” was.
With a sigh, Verity stole another restless glance around at the chambers which had become a prison of sorts. That was, a comfortable prison with porcelain baths and delicious soap and warm garments, but a cell, nonetheless. Verity tried again. “Given that we are keeping one another company, mayhap it would be important for us to exchange n—”
“No.”
She tapped her foot on the gleaming hardwood floor . . . Mahogany floors that gleamed. It was another peculiarity in this place. “You don’t like me, do you?”
“I don’t like anyone,” he said instantly.
“Do you like Mr. North?” she asked, rabidly curious about the older man’s relationship to her savior that night.
“Do ya ever shut up?”
“Actually, no. Very rarely,” she allowed. Such had been the way since she’d been a girl, which, in the work she’d eventually come to do, had proven only a skill and a benefit to her.
Alas, Mr. No-Name went even more tight-lipped. Who would have imagined that was possible?
That deliberate silence only intensified her intrigue. Was the bear of a man Mr. North’s father? They certainly were both of a similar impressive height and size. Except their tonality was altogether . . . different. She nibbled at her lower lip, her mind growing with questions as it was wont to do. Or perhaps the older man was a servant?
Except if he was one . . . what manner of man was Mr. North that he had them in this place?
A small crystalline drop leaked out of the inside corner of Mr. No-Name’s left eye. In the candle’s glow, she caught the trail it wound, and also the discreet attempt made by her guard to hide it.
“Do your eyes always leak in that manner?”
And with that question, she managed to unsettle the older fellow into uttering something other than “no” or some other condescending response.
He angled his head, sending a shock of white hair toppling over one of those leaking eyes in question. “Wot?”
Encouraged, Verity took a step toward him. “Your eyes.” She motioned to the slight crystalline leakages, tear-like in color and consistency, which had left his eyes red. “They’re rheumy.”
“So wot about it?” he snapped like a cornered pup.
“It is just I’ve some experience with them.”
He remained unbending in his silence.
Abandoning any attempts at discourse, Verity resumed her study of Mr. North’s rooms when the surly stranger at last spoke.
“You have experience with it?”
“My former nursemaid,” she murmured. Verity crooked four fingers, urging him over. “I’ve several ways to help with that.”
Reluctantly, he quit his place at the wall and ventured over. And for a moment, with him unfurled to his full height, she questioned the wisdom of engaging the giant of a man in any way. He had to be nearly two feet taller than her. Broad, like the ancient oak she’d climbed in Surrey. And as scarred as that old tree, too.
When he stopped before her, Verity craned her head all the way back until her neck muscles arched and ached. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered. “You’re entirely too tall. If you will.”
He followed her gaze over to one of the chairs in Mr. North’s rooms. “If Oi will, wot?”
Drawing out the scrolled green armchair at Mr. North’s desk, she patted the watersilk squab cushion. “I can’t very well help you from all the way down here.” She flashed a smile.
And then, miracle of miracles that day, Mr. No-Name sat.
Verity reached for his face, and the older stranger jerked away, giving her his cheek.
She sighed and let her arms fall to her side. “I cannot help you unless I have a look.”
“Didn’t ask for help.”
No, he was correct on that score, but he had claimed a seat.
Just then another tear slipped from his eye, and wound a path down his cheek. “It’s just me eyes,” he barked. “Oi ain’t crying.”
“Of course you aren’t.” She spoke in the gentling voice she’d used when Livvie had suffered a fall and scraped knee over the years. “That’s the rheumy. It’s quite common, I’ll have you know,” she explained, probing at the swollen corner of his right eye, and his like-swollen left eye.
“Is it?”
It was a grudging concession from a man who seemed more likely to toss her out the pair of windows than answer any query.
“Oh, yes,” she said conversationally. “The older a person gets, the more their eyes tend to tear, and then this coal and soot in London certainly doesn’t help anyone.”
“Aye, ya’re correct there.”
“Though mine are also quite bloodshot from the quality of the air.” To demonstrate as much, Verity lowered her head a fraction so she faced the old man squarely.
There was another one of those familiar grunts from him. “Yar eyes are foine enough.”
Knowing the stranger even just a handful of minutes, she’d wager everything that it was as close to a compliment as the old codger had ever allowed.