There was silence. And then—
“Impossible.”
“Moi eyes are clear,” Bram reminded the other white-haired fellow.
“You can find Epsom salt for purchase. Add a liberal dose to a hot bath, and soak your hurt limbs. I trust that should help greatly.”
Some of the tension left his frame, and he took a step away from the stairwell, abandoning his spot.
“You’ve also been with Mr. North for some time.”
He grunted. “Aye,” he allowed, unwittingly confirming that bit of information she’d sought. Just as she’d intended when she’d tacked that statement onto the idea that he should somehow know her.
It was a knack she’d perfected in the work she’d done over the years. Subtle questions that people didn’t know they’d been asked, which resulted in them revealing information they had never intended to share.
“How was it again that you came to know Mr. North, Mr. . . . ?” She cloaked the more probing question behind another.
“Fowler,” he blurted, and Verity tucked that detail away. It was another skill she’d learned over the years. One proffered two questions, with one safer that lowered defenses and made a person more susceptible to revealing an answer to the first.
“And how—”
“Good God, you do not quit.”
Her stomach dropped out from under her, and with a slow dread, she faced the one she’d come here requesting an audience with. He stepped from the shadows, more broadly powerful than even she recalled of the man who’d occupied her thoughts, both sleeping and awake.
For reasons not solely about the story she’d hoped to have from him, and shamefully having to do with the brief but explosive moment he’d taken her in his arms.
And previously unsettled by the darkness cloaking the halls, she gave thanks for the cover it provided her flaming cheeks. “Lord Maxwell,” she greeted, and automatically dropped a curtsy as he stepped closer.
Both old toshers chuckled, earning a sharp glare from Malcom.
The pair immediately went silent.
And the desperation that had sent her fleeing to Malcom North gave way to a belated unease. After all, what did she truly know about the man who’d saved her, and who’d then sent her fleeing at their first—and last—meeting?
“I’ll deal with you later, Bram.”
At that cryptic threat, Verity took a commiserative step closer to the old man. “Now,” she chided. “There isn’t a need for that. Mr. Bram has done nothing to merit your displeasure.” She patted the old man’s coarse, coal-stained fingers and earned a besotted-looking, crooked smile. “He simply let me—”
“If you know what is good for you, Miss Lovelace, you won’t go ordering my people about.”
His people. Not servants. Not staff. Not family.
Malcom gave a jerk of his head, and Fowler and Bram went rushing off. Both of their gaits were slightly uneven as they walked, but still quick. Aye, that she could understand. Malcom North had that effect on people. Verity followed their retreat, more than half-envying the men their escape.
“You needn’t be so surly,” she said after they’d gone. “Unless you’re always in such a state?” She pressed him with her gaze, and when no confirmation or denial was forthcoming, she sighed. “I took your surliness a couple of weeks ago as a product of our tense circumstances that night. Either way, you should be a good deal kinder to them.”
“Would you rather I let you continue on, grilling those in my world with questions about me?”
By the hard smile on his face, he expected—and relished—her unease. As such, she’d be damned if she let him see her fear. Verity brought her shoulders back when another figure started down the stairs.
Verity gasped. Whereas Malcom wore his experience on the streets in the scars on his rugged face, the even taller stranger bearing down on them had the face of Gabriel, and the ice-hardened eyes and smile of Satan. And . . . he was missing a hand.
That realization gave her pause. All the men who resided here were scarred in some way.
And you should be a good deal more worried about how they’ve come by those injuries than the marks they possess . . .
Despite herself, Verity shivered.
The stranger stopped at the bottom of the stairwell.
“Shall I handle this one for you?” he asked, almost cheerfully beating the empty nub where a hand should be against his open, callused palm. It was not, however, that menacing gesture that snagged her focus but rather the stretch of his vowels as he spoke, ones that glided from a high pitch to a low pitch, and whispered at a Welshness to his tonality.
“I do not need to be handled.”
“I have her,” Malcom advised, as though Verity hadn’t spoken, as though the two men were more than content to carry on their conversation about her as if she weren’t present.
She gnashed her teeth. “I’ll say it once more—”
They turned simultaneous stares upon her, withering the rest of that brave retort.
That black-haired Lucifer touched that nub to the brim of his cap and then, with one last look for Verity, let himself out. The London street sounds spilled inside before he closed the panel, swallowing the noise once more so that only an agonizingly thick silence fell upon the cramped foyer.
Verity wanted to be the one to break the quiet. She wanted to be brave in the face of bullying—even if it was veiled intimidation, and yet, fear sapped the moisture from her throat and mouth, making words impossible.
Malcom dropped a shoulder against the wall, and she jumped. “You next.”
Confusion settled in her already-muddled mind. “Me next?” she asked slowly, seeking clarification.
“The door, Miss Lovelace,” he said tightly. “See yourself out.”
He wanted her gone. Did you expect he’d want you to stay? “You’re displeased with me,” she murmured, getting to the heart of the matter.
He stilled, and then tossed his head back, bellowing a sharp, short bark of laughter that echoed from the ceiling. It ended as quickly as it burst from his hard lips. “Good God, mad or stupid—I can’t determine which you are.”
It was faintly similar to an insult he’d leveled at her a fortnight ago, and it stirred indignation. His ill opinion, on the heel of her firing and society’s disregard of all women, was too much. She snapped. “Does it make you feel good to bully a woman about?” She stalked over until the tips of their shoes brushed. “To go about shouting names and insulting me?”
“My charges have nothing to do with your gender,” he said coolly. “I know very many women who are plenty smart and capable.”
And oddly, that rankled even more, that insult that found her wanting, compared to the women he kept company with.
“And do you know, Miss Lovelace?” he whispered, dropping his face near hers, so near his breath fanned her lips.
All the earlier confidence that had sent her forward to confront him to his face flagged. “Wh-what?”
“Every one of those women would have the sense God gave a London sewer rat to not seek me out as you’ve done—again.”
She trembled, a never-ending shiver that rolled through her. One that should be ripples of fear. And yet her body’s awareness made a lie of sense and good reason. Verity wetted her lips. “Because of my column,” she ventured, her voice husky and breathless.