Silently mouthing a list of items, Verity did a sweep of Mr. North’s quarters until she found a stack of still-untouched white linens. Gathering one, and thinking better of it, she grabbed another, and then made a beeline for the bath. “Well, this won’t do,” she murmured, studying the grimy film coating the top. Her gaze landed on the untouched brown bucket of water that had gone unused. Falling to a knee, she rinsed her two cloths, wrung them out, and returned to Mr. No-Name’s side.
“Wot’s that?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
It did not escape her notice, however, that the harsh, clipped edge when he spoke had gone.
“They’re compresses.” She held one of the soaked linens aloft. “May I, sir?”
“Ain’t a ‘sir.’ Moi name’s Bram.” He hesitated, then gave a small nod.
Verity applied the warm cloth. “This will soothe them some.” She proceeded to explain. “I believe the air dries out the eyes, and they require moisture. That, and who knows what becomes trapped within them.” She applied the second damp linen to his other eye. “How does that feel?”
A little groan escaped him.
She smiled. “My nursemaid said that her eyes often feel gritty, and this will help with that sensation. But you should take care to do it often to ease that discomfort.” When the cloths had gone from warm to lukewarm to cool to the touch, she removed the compresses, soaked them, and reapplied those damp cloths. “This is not all you can do to help them.”
“Oh?”
That response was muffled by the fabric covering his mouth.
“There’s any number of easy treatments. Why, Bertha hardly suffers any bouts of rheumy.”
“Ya don’t shut up, do ya?” he murmured from behind the towels, this time without the previous malice.
“I told you I didn’t. But I prefer to think of it as ‘speaking a lot’ and not so much as ‘not shutting up.’”
His shoulders shook slightly in a silent laugh.
“Now, pay attention. The remedies, I’ll write them down for you.” Verity scanned the gleaming surface of Malcom’s immaculate desk. There wasn’t so much as an inkwell or pen contained within the neat tray along the top. “A pencil. A pencil,” she muttered, bringing the lid up; the well-oiled hinges didn’t so much as squeak a warning.
Bending over the desk, she peered inside, and her gaze collided with a small, official scrap of paper.
Mr. North,
I well understand the most recent of your instructions; however, as your man-of-affairs, it is my duty to inform you that I will require an additional meeting so we might discuss the transfer of ownership of properties.
“Wot are they?”
“What, indeed,” she murmured. It took a moment to register that it had been Mr. Bram who’d spoken. “Hmm.” She blinked slowly, still riveted by the intriguing words dashed in a flawless scrawl. And then she jolted. “Oh, uh—yes! The remedies. The first is rose water. You’ll need to mix it with a dash of diluted honey, and it will make a fine paste that you can apply to both eyes.”
Even as she prattled on those directives, her mind spun and raced. It wasn’t her business. Mr. North’s affairs were his own . . . and yet, as a woman whose entire existence had become shaped by asking questions and exploring peculiarities, she could no sooner halt her questions from coming than she could will herself to stop breathing.
Mr. North had a man-of-affairs? It was as though Mr. North had carried her to some upside-down world where nothing made sense and everything was murky. How else to explain why a ruthless stranger running through the sewers should have . . . a man-of-affairs.
“And then, there’s chamomile,” she murmured distractedly. “You’ll need a dash of dried flowers, and add it to a cup of hot water.” By rote, she recited the remainder of the instructions to Mr. Bram, and resumed reading.
Baron Bolingbroke’s been divested of all his properties.
“Bolingbroke,” she whispered, that name blaring in her mind, familiar for the number of times she’d seen it and written of it herself. Her heart kicked up a beat, this frantic rhythm having nothing to do with the earlier fear. She quickly worked her gaze over the handful of sentences written there in that meticulous scrawl.
“Wot?” Mr. Bram asked, reaching for the linen.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, and that stayed his hands. She read the remainder of the words written there.
In the meantime, per your request, I’ve issued severance to the staff at your property located at:
4 Grosvenor Square.
Each will be suitably vacant, per your request.
Respectfully,
Sanders
Your Man-of-Affairs
Verity remained absolutely motionless; unable to so much as draw a single breath into her lungs, her mind whirred and careened. Impossible. Only . . . Verity did a sweep of the lavish furnishings. Considered the man who lived amongst this palace in the pits of hell. Devilishly handsome, wicked, and yet possessed of a smooth, clipped English suited for any fine parlor.
She rocked back on her heels as the truth slammed into her. He was . . . Maxwell. The man whose story her future—Bertha’s and Livvie’s futures—hinged upon.
She’d found him. Giddy in ways that she’d not been in more years than she could recall, Verity found a giggle climbing up her throat as she worked her eyes once more over the words written to the Earl of Maxwell. Afraid they’d change. Afraid that, in her hope for a future and security, she’d even now merely imagined the words written there.
“May I help you, Miss Lovelace?”
That lethal purr sounded from the front of the room, a silky taunt.
With a gasp, the page slipped from her fingers and fluttered to a damning place at her feet.
Mr. Bram yanked the cloths from his eyes, and he took in Verity beside Mr. North’s open desk. And all the color left his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”
Oh, bloody hell, indeed. And all thoughts of having been rescued by a savior, and even the importance of this story, fled in the face of the danger staring back at her in his ruthless gaze.
He is going to kill me . . .
Verity swallowed hard.
“If you’ll excuse us?” Mr. North . . . Lord Maxwell murmured.
Verity took a step toward the door.
“Not you, Miss Lovelace.”
Mr. Bram climbed awkwardly to his feet. “Oi’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely, an apology that went ignored by Mr. North.
Her heart lurched. Every muscle in her body lurched. This was bad. Which would have been the understatement of the century. She curled her toes into the soles of her borrowed slippers and followed the stranger’s—nay, he was no longer a stranger in name—the Earl of Maxwell’s gaze. As dread slowly wound its way through her, Verity curled those digits all the tighter.
And as it was all the easier to focus on matters within her control, she looked to her older patient as he limped across the room. “Be sure and try out those remedies, Mr. Bram.” She felt Mr. North sharpen his gaze on her person. “And I’ve something that might help with that limp, too,” she promised.
The older man stopped. “Do ya, now?”
She may as well have promised him the sun, moon, and stars for the way he looked at her. “Oh, yes. You’ll require—”