“Kind, indeed,” Bertha muttered, and Verity shot her another warning look.
“But you said—”
“I was wrong. I heeded your advice. I called on him as you suggested.”
Livvie’s eyebrows touched her hairline.
And even in the pitch-dark kitchens, Verity caught the romantic glimmer in her sister’s eye, followed by a sigh. There’d be time enough for alarm about that naivete. For now, it served its purpose.
Except . . . Livvie did a sweep of the rooms. “If he’s allowed us to live here, why are we sneaking in?” Suspicion laced her question.
Why, indeed? Verity had drafted enough stories over the years that it should come as second nature as breathing to her. Only the work she’d done had never been fiction. She’d given facts and honesties the world had sought . . . to the point of offense in the opinion of many of those nobles who found themselves plastered upon the scandal pages.
“Well . . .” She felt Bertha’s stare. The one Verity had faced many times as a girl trying to dance herself out of some mischief. Her sister, however, was deserving of the truth. When Verity had been her age, she’d been serving in the role of mother. “Livvie,” she began, “you’re correct. I’ve not been entirely forthcoming.”
The door between the kitchens and the entrance of the corridors burst open, and two figures exploded through the doorway with seven-foot poles leveled at their trio. Gasping, Verity shoved Bertha and Livvie behind her. “Here, now,” one of the voices boomed. “Wot’s this—”
That familiar Cockney cut out as an even more familiar pair of men with white hair and thick brows stared back in dumbstruck silence.
Verity mustered her best smile. “Bram. Fowler. How very good it is to see you both again.”
Chapter 16
THE LONDONER
INHABITED!
It has come to the attention of Polite Society that the servants previously dismissed by Lord Maxwell have been rehired, which remains nothing short of a curious development!
M. Fairpoint
Mayhap the world had accepted the truth: a tosher in the Dials would make no proper husband for any woman—lady or otherwise. Or mayhap it was that the gentlemen had witnessed the crude existence he’d lived, wholly apart from their fine, safe world, and had accepted, even with the title now affixed to his name, that he’d never be a gentleman.
Or mayhap it was just luck, which Malcom had possessed in spades through the years.
But the parade of debutantes and their desperate papas had at last ended.
His limbs straining from the exertion of holding himself aloft, Malcom focused his gaze on the front of the room, shutting out the pain that pulsated in his arms. His life had settled back into a familiar routine. His days were spent preparing physically for his search of the sewers. His nights were spent pillaging them.
His exchanges with those he called associates were no longer laced with ribbing and amusement at Malcom’s changed circumstances.
There were no unwanted guests.
And there was no return of Miss Verity Lovelace.
That alone should have been cause for victory. The miserable termagant who’d shaken the foundations of his existence and signaled his identity—and whereabouts—to the world was one he would be fortunate to never again cross paths with. Single-minded in her attempt for nothing more than information about him, so that she could sell it to those rubbish pages that for all their meaningful contributions would be better served wiping arses than actually being read.
And yet . . . he had thought about her.
Every day since she’d proudly marched out, closing the door not with a bang, but with a damning and decisive soft click that had rung of its finality.
Of their finality.
“Good,” he gritted out. Levering himself up another inch, and then carefully shifting his weight, he whipped his body around so that he remained perfectly balanced.
You don’t know how lucky you are . . . You’re content in this miserable end of London any one of us would sell our souls to climb out of. And all the while you sulk . . .
And Malcom didn’t want to think of her as she’d been, vulnerable and pleading, desperate for the information only he could provide so that she might help her sister. “If there was even a sister,” he muttered, sweat trickling down his cheek. Because it was no doubt another lie. Self-serving as the summer was insufferable in the Seven Dials, the woman wasn’t capable of anything more.
Except even as he preferred thinking of Verity Lovelace as only a liar, in her words as she’d spoken them, there’d been such truth not even the greatest London stage actress could feign. That willingness to sell one’s soul, because it was a sentiment he was all too familiar with. In the absolute absence of God, he’d bartered with Satan enough that not even his blackened soul was worth anything to that dark liege.
Raw in her honesty, her vulnerability reminded him too much of himself as he’d been long ago. So long that he’d forgotten what it had been like to be her: afraid.
Cursing, Malcom released himself. His feet landed on the floor. Whipping his arms back and forth, he brought blood rushing back to the limbs.
What was it about Verity that had left him haunted by the memory of her? That he remained unable to shake free of the thought of her? Or the feel of her in his arms?
And worse, the desire to feel her in his arms once more. To taste her. All the while exploring the voluptuous curves of her hips and buttocks. Desire surged through him.
KnockKnockKnock.
That rhythmic pounding at the door broke through his thoughts of her, and that usually unwanted intrusion proved a welcome diversion. Grabbing a towel, he wiped it over his face. “What is it?” he called, the white linen muffling his voice.
Giles entered, his sack looped over his arm. “North.”
Treating those close to you as though they are somehow less . . . That is a sad way to go through life, Mr. North . . .
“It has nothing to do with that,” he snapped.
Giles puzzled his brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Malcom grumbled. How dare she call out the method by which he dealt with his associates. “Giles.” He issued that belated greeting. Malcom looked to the clock. Ten past nine o’clock. The other man’s evening work should be beginning.
“A greeting and not a ‘What the hell are you doing here’? I say, you’re more cheerful than usual,” Giles drawled. “Though I can certainly venture why . . .”
“I’d hardly say I’m cheerful,” he muttered. The only cheer he’d allowed himself had been involuntary, and that amusement had been unwitting, a product of the mouthy minx who’d not hesitated to go toe-to-toe with him. In fact, he’d not even known he could enjoy himself in that way—or in any way.
“And you haven’t tossed me out on my arse. I’d say that is as cheerful as I recall you in”—he perched himself on the arm of the carved, dark-walnut lounge chair—“ever.” He let his bag fall with a thump. “I trust this has something to do with a certain . . . lady?”
By God, were his damned cheeks turning red? They felt hot. Only he didn’t blush or give in to any other shows of emotion. “You’d be”—right—“wrong,” he said, toweling the moisture from his arms, and then dropping the cloth. Giving his back to Giles, Malcom proceeded to the washbasin and pitcher and splashed his face. “If this is why you’re interrupting me, you’re in need of more work.” He brushed the water from his eyes, and when he opened them, he caught the entirely too amused expression reflected back in the bevel mirror affixed to the stand.