The other woman’s eyes slowly widened into circles. “You’re off your head.” She made to hand the sheet over.
Verity ignored it. “I’m resourceful.”
Bertha snorted. “Is that what you be calling it? You stealing from a lord?”
“Is it really stealing, Bertha—”
“Yes.”
“If he has no intention of using it?”
The other woman paused; it was a discernible, pregnant one that indicated Verity’s logic had forced her way past Bertha’s reservations.
And then—
Bertha shook her head. “One such as him would happily see you hang.”
On the heel of that warning came the ruthless words spoken by the gentleman in question . . .
Ah, yes, but then, I’m not the pitiable one humbling myself before a stranger, abandoning honor and good sense because of a sibling, am I?
Despite the sticky warmth of the early-summer day, Verity shivered. Nay, there could be no doubting that if he discovered she’d taken anything from him, again, he’d see her destroyed. She rubbed at her arms in a bid to rid them of the chill.
“You know I’m right about him, too, gel,” Bertha murmured with a canniness that could only come from having bounced her on a knee when Verity had been just a babe. Sighing, her former nursemaid pressed the sheet into Verity’s fingers, forcing her to take those notes about the earl.
The rub of it was, Verity did know it. However, until she managed to secure new employment, and then a residence, her life and those dependent upon her were in peril. “Our future is already forfeit, Bertha.”
“You don’t know the meaning of a forfeit life, Verity. You think this is the bottom.” Bertha’s eyes darkened. “But this is not it. This is not even close.”
“Having no roof over one’s head is as damned close to bottom as one could fall,” she snapped, her voice carrying around the room. Verity looked to her sister’s closed door, and this time when she spoke, she did so in hushed tones. “We’ll be careful.”
“You expect we’re going to come and go as we please in some fancy end of London? Waltz through the front door without attracting any attention to the fact that we’re commoners invading their fancy world?”
Verity chewed at an already-ragged nail. No, they could hardly venture through the front doors of some Grosvenor Square property. “We’ll use the servants’ entrance, and we’ll do so when it’s dark. Well after the respectable sorts take their beds.”
Bertha snorted. “What do you know about their goings-on?”
Bastard born to an earl, it certainly wasn’t her father and his connections to the peerage that had given her most of her understanding about that world. “You forget,” she reminded the older woman. “My money over the years has been earned by understanding and writing about every detail around the lives of the nobility. I learned when they move about. When they retire for the evening. The hours they socialize. Just like I know the patterns of their servants.” With every counterargument she put forward that silenced the old woman, her confidence in her plan grew. “Until I find work, we’ll simply become shadows to the living.”
Bertha pursed her mouth. “Ain’t possible to become a shadow if you’re going to have to leave the damned townhouse in search of work during the respectable hours.”
“I’ll be careful,” she vowed. When the other woman went quiet, Verity moved closer. “What other choice do we have that you see? Where do you expect we’ll go? Use the small amount of funds we do have on renting rooms for a night or two?”
They remained locked in a silent battle of wills.
Bertha sighed. “Very well,” she said tersely. “But let it be clear that I find this idea a dangerous one.”
Entering into the house of a man who’d warned her to never again cross him? Aye, there was nothing safe in that decision, and everything risky. She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “He needn’t ever find out.”
Except she wasn’t certain whether those assurances were for herself or the other woman.
Several hours later, when the streets had cleared and the cobblestones were quiet, Verity, Livvie, and Bertha descended from the hired hack in front of the unlikeliest of havens.
“The person who lives there is going to let us in?” Livvie whispered.
“Aye.” Even if he didn’t know it.
Quelling her own awe of the impressive stucco structure, Verity forced herself to close her mouth. She stole a glance about. The longer they remained out on these fancy sidewalks, the more they risked being caught about the streets of Grosvenor Square. There was no doubt that were someone to pass by or glance out their window at the trio with their mismatched luggage, they would summon a constable with rightful suspicions.
“Come,” she said gruffly, taking one handle of the luggage while Bertha took the other.
Livvie hurriedly gathered the two valises and set out after them. “Is he a friend of Father’s?”
“Shh,” Verity and Bertha simultaneously whispered.
“Is he?” Livvie repeated in more measured tones.
“No,” Verity said tersely. A friend of Father’s? Pfft. If there’d been such a generous figure, he’d failed the Lovelaces magnificently these past years.
At last, her inquisitive sister ceased with her questions. When they reached the servants’ door, Verity tried the handle.
Locked.
“What did you expect? That it would be left open?” Bertha muttered. “Here.” Reaching past Verity, she slid a stickpin inside the lock.
Verity rounded her eyes. When in blazes had their nursemaid learned to pick locks?
“What are you doing?” Livvie asked the other woman. “What is she doing?” she demanded, putting that same question to Verity when the nursemaid remained fixed on the task of breaking them inside.
Verity touched a fingertip to her lips and gave a slight shake of her head.
A moment later, the lock gave with a satisfying click. “There.” Bertha pushed the door panel open and grabbed one end of the trunk.
When Verity made no attempt to take the other side, she gave her a look.
Springing into movement, Verity took the opposite handle, and followed the older woman inside. Verity hurriedly closed the door behind them, erasing the miniscule hint of light that had peeked down from the night sky, and replacing it with a shroud of darkness.
“Can I talk now?” Livvie whispered.
Could she?
Could they?
Bertha glanced around uneasily. “You’re certain he sacked the servants? Didn’t keep on the butler and housekeeper, as is the way of the lords?”
“Who?” Livvie pressed.
Giving Bertha a warning look, Verity set down her end of the trunk and moved close to her sister. “Someone I know. A friend.”
“The gentleman who saved you in the sewers?”
“Of a sort,” she hedged.
Several lines of confusion creased Livvie’s brow. “Either it is or isn’t.”
“Shh.” Verity and Bertha spoke in unison.
Verity cleared her throat. “You were . . . correct earlier. In your supposition of Lord Maxwell and his kindness.” She grimaced around that last word.