Verity’s steps slowed, and she forced herself to continue on. Knowing he was close.
She felt him and his presence.
Mayhap he’d been correct and she was mad, after all. For no sane woman would have ventured into the lair of Lord Maxwell.
But she’d not known what had awaited her there . . . who had awaited her.
At last, the bakery that had come to be home pulled into focus, and a relief so great swept through her she was nearly dizzy from the power of it. Verity forced her screaming muscles to move the remaining way to the bakery and the small stairwell that led to her apartments. The moment she reached the landing, the door exploded open.
“Verity,” her younger sister cried out. She burst through the doorway and tossed herself into Verity’s arms.
With a grunt, Verity staggered under that slight weight, and managed to keep them both from tumbling back down the stairs.
She folded her arms around her younger sister.
“Bertha came back and you didn’t, and she didn’t know where you were.” Her sister’s words rolled together, muffled against the fabric of her dress.
Nay, this wasn’t her dress. This belonged to another.
She glanced over her shoulder, more than half-fearing that Malcom would even now be there, waiting. Watching.
“Come,” she said, setting her sister aside. “We should go inside.”
Bertha stood wringing her hands. “Oh, saints preserve, gel.” The old woman’s eyes closed. “You made it.”
The moment Verity closed and locked the door, the questions came flying.
“Where were you?” Livvie demanded.
“You said you’d return in thirty minutes, gel,” Bertha chided, slapping a palm on the table. “Thirty minutes. It’s been hours, and—”
“What are you wearing?” Livvie blurted, silencing the room of all further questions.
Verity smoothed the fine muslin skirts. “A dress . . .”
Her sister frowned. “Don’t be obtuse. Of course it’s a dress. It’s not, however, your dress.”
Bertha came forward and stroked her fingers along the puffed sleeve. She whistled softly. “Fine garment. Finest you’ve ever worn.”
The pair stepped back, and lining up, they directed accusatory stares at Verity.
“I can explain . . .” And then she proceeded to do just that; in her telling, she took care to avoid the details that would most alarm her sister: The perils in the tunnels. The stranger who’d carried her to safety and then to his lair. And who’d then kissed her. “I lost your slippers, Livvie,” she said, her voice breaking. Those finest of articles her young sister had cherished.
There were several beats of silence.
“You found him,” Livvie whispered. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You did it.”
“Yes, I found him.” Avoiding their eyes, Verity made her way to the kitchens. She picked up the copper kettle and proceeded to make a cup of tea.
“That’s it?” Bertha asked flatly.
Verity gave thanks that her back was to the older woman. With her sharp gaze and nearly six decades of life on this earth, she was savvy enough to detect the details Verity sought to conceal.
“This fine gent brought you back to his household, bathed you, and gave you a fancy garment, and that’s all there is to the story?”
Verity made herself face her former nursemaid, damning the blush that scorched her cheeks. “He didn’t”—she glanced pointedly at her ingenuous sister—“bathe me.”
Confusion lit Livvie’s eyes. Of course, she was clever enough to know that she was missing out on the undercurrents of a conversation, but still innocent enough to not be able to identify what those undercurrents, in fact, were.
“Men don’t simply give fancy articles from the goodness of their hearts,” Bertha persisted. “And certainly not a filthy tosher.”
“He’s not—” Verity made herself go silent.
“Oh?” Bertha prodded.
“Dirty,” she settled for, the simplest and easiest truth about Malcom North, the Earl of Maxwell. Regal and chiseled, with a hint of sandalwood clinging to his frame, he was nothing like what Bertha expected him to be . . . Nor, for that matter, what Verity had expected.
“Hmph,” Bertha muttered as Verity, in a show of calm, settled into one of the kitchen chairs and proceeded to sip her tea.
Livvie climbed into the opposite seat. Scrambling onto her knees the way she had as a young girl, eager for the mints Verity would sometimes bring home after work, she leaned across the oak slab. “Your work is saved, then?”
Guilt assailed her, an all-too-familiar emotion.
At the fact that Livvie carried the worries she did.
At herself for having fled instead of demanding answers from Malcom.
Though she’d wager her soul to Satan on a Sunday that Malcom North wasn’t one who’d have given over those answers to Verity . . . or anyone.
“Verity?” her sister prodded, impatiently.
“I . . .” She studied the tea leaves at the bottom of her glass. Which left Verity and her sister and Bertha where? The muscles of her stomach knotted.
Livvie fell back on her haunches. “You don’t have the information.”
God, how intuitive she was.
“I have enough. Some,” she allowed the lie. An address. An address was all she had.
And the taste of his mouth on yours still. Unbidden, she touched her fingertips to her lips.
“Why are you touching your mouth like that?” Livvie blurted. “Have you hurt it?” Then her golden eyebrows went shooting up. “Did he hurt you?”
“No!” Verity hurriedly dropped her hand to the table, and took another sip of her drink to avoid Bertha’s knowing eyes. “He didn’t hurt me.”
“And if he didn’t give you the story, then neither did he help you.”
Aye, there was truth there. And yet it was vastly more complicated than Bertha’s blunt assessment. For Malcom had helped her. Saved her, even. The moment danger had crept up, he’d swept her into his arms and then brought her into his home.
A little tug at her sleeve startled Verity from her reverie. She found her sister staring at her with wide, worried eyes. “What now?”
Verity mustered a smile for Livvie’s benefit. “Why, I offer Mr. Lowery the story I have, silly.”
And then she prayed that the information she gave him was enough to spare her work and assuage society’s fascination with the man known as the Lost Heir.
Chapter 12
THE LONDONER
SAVED!
RESCUED BY A HERO IN THE SEWERS TUNNELS OF THE SEVEN DIALS!
The world has long wondered about the Earl of Maxwell. At last, he has been found. By me . . . I am a woman who was rescued by him. I learned firsthand that despite what he’s endured in his time outside of the peerage, Lord Maxwell is first and foremost . . . a gentleman.
V. Lovelace
A fortnight later
Verity had managed that which no one else in London, of any station, had accomplished—she’d not only located the Earl of Maxwell but also brought forth the story that the world craved.
The story that had all London abuzz, talking about it.
The one people had pored over as they read their papers on the streets of the city, devouring each word.