“Are you not?” Livvie latched on with a remarkable astuteness for one her age.
“How could I not be hopelessly enthralled by a woman who’d climb into the sewers of London?” A twinkle glinted in his eyes.
Hopelessly enthralled, indeed. “Enough,” she mouthed.
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t think I shall.” He clearly enunciated each syllable.
Oh, this had really gone on long enough. Dismissing Malcom outright, Verity turned to her sister. “Livvie, His Lordship and I have more pressing matters to—”
“Verity pointed out that you’d gone to Gunter’s.”
“We did,” he confirmed with such smug glee it was all Verity could do to keep from delivering a kick to the back of his legs.
This was to be her penance, then, for the years she’d spent prying information from others. “His Lordship and I have pressing matters to attend.” Which wasn’t untrue. She needed to be gathering information for her article, and those funds would be all that saved them after Malcom saw her banished to the English countryside.
He scoffed. “Not at all. I cannot imagine anything more pressing at this moment.”
The pair continued on as though Verity’s interruption had never happened. Folding her arms, she stuck a foot out and tapped it in an impatient staccato rhythm.
“I pointed out to Verity that you’re otherwise rarely together.”
Verity and Malcom spoke at once.
“We are not rarely—”
“You are not incorrect,” his words continued over Verity’s.
He would opt for blunt honesty, even with her innocent sister.
Livvie beamed, positively glowing in ways Verity was certain she herself never had been.
And there was surely a wicked deficit in Verity’s character at the stab of envy at the attention . . . and warmth . . . trained on her blushing sibling. And the ease with which the pair of them got on.
Livvie ceased swinging her legs. “Are you? Happy, that is?”
I never smile . . . What do you have to smile about? Her stomach tightened. Her sister wasn’t one who could understand—
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
Undoubtedly?
And with that, he shot a glance over the top of Livvie’s head and favored Verity with a wink.
That brief but deliberate flicker of his lashes that alluded to a teasing game they two shared. Which, with the way he felt about Verity, was as preposterous as it was impossible, and yet in that very moment, she believed whatever game of pretend he put on for Livvie’s benefit.
“Then where do you go during the day?” Livvie peered up at him through thick, golden lashes. Their mother’s lashes, as Verity had thought of them through the years. The ones Bertha had claimed snagged an earl’s improper attention and would be the crux of many problems for her—and them—in the future. It appeared the future was now. “Why aren’t you ever about for mealtime?”
Verity ceased her distracted foot tapping. “Livvie,” she said sharply. “His Lordship doesn’t want to take questions . . .”
Malcom merely peered back. And then he crooked his four fingers, urging the girl closer.
Livvie hesitated, and then springing to her feet, she drifted over.
“I search the sewers of London,” he said in a loud whisper.
“Stilllll?” Livvie’s mouth pulled. “I’ve heard as much. Crawling in tunnels for coins? I cannot see how you’d prefer spending your days in the sewers to living”—she threw her arms wide—“here.”
He scoffed. “Where’s the excitement in that?”
“Security. There’s security in it,” Verity said before she could call the quiet words back.
Malcom briefly sharpened his gaze on her face. “There’s long been greatness buried underground and in water, there for the taking. Have you ever heard of Decebalus?”
Who?
“Who?” Livvie gave voice to Verity’s own question.
“He was king of a small kingdom in the Danube. He ordered the slaves to bury gold and silver in the riverbed Sargetia. Afterward, to keep concealed the treasures that dwelled below, he ordered the men executed.”
If Verity were a proper lady and caregiver to her sister, there would have been horror at the story Malcom even now told. And Verity was filled with something unexpected . . . shame. She’d been so fixed on providing for Livvie she’d not thought of the education her sister was deserving of.
“Why would he do that?” Livvie piped up.
With a flair, he tossed his arms wide. “Why, to ensure that no one knew what was buried below.”
This was another side of Malcom North. A new side of him. Kind and patient with an artless young woman, and God help Verity, that tenderness sent her heart into somersaults.
“And did anyone discover it?” The question tumbled out, and her cheeks instantly warmed as Malcom swung his attention back to her.
“Years later, one of his nobles revealed its location to the Romans, and it was uncovered.”
And then it hit her . . . “They were pirates,” she blurted.
Malcom pointed a finger in her direction, confirming her supposition.
“And that is how you see yourself,” Livvie ventured slowly, as one puzzling through a riddle. “As a pirate of the sewers?”
“I see myself as one who came about a fortune by fair means. When people are forced to steal and . . . worse, there are those who dig deeper and find greater wealth than had by many noblemen.”
And one more piece fell into the puzzle that was Malcom North. This gentleman who looked after crippled toshers and street urchins was the same man who’d refused to filch pockets, and instead had made his fortune as honestly as the fates had enabled him to.
And Verity was sure a corner of her heart would forever belong to him for it.
“Livvie, run along now,” she said quietly. “There’ll be time aplenty to speak with Lord Maxwell.”
This time, her sister must have heard something in her tone that marked the end of the games she’d played. With a beleaguered sigh, Livvie hopped up. “Very well.” She dropped another curtsy, this one smoother and more relaxed than the previous one. “My lord.”
“No need for fancy titles.” He bowed his head. “Malcom will suffice.” His melodious voice came in crisp, refined tones that raised no question as to the gentleman’s identity. He was noble born, in every way. And in every way that Verity wasn’t.
It was a reminder that she’d not truly considered . . . all the ways in which they were . . . different. Why should that cause this peculiar tightening in her chest? After all, it didn’t matter whether she was wholly unsuitable for the role of his actual bride; their arrangement was one forged of mutual necessity, insisted upon by a man who, if he didn’t hate her, carried an immense dislike for her.
Chapter 21
THE LONDON GAZETTE
All Polite Society is aware that the more servants gossip, the less regard they have for their employers. Given the absolute silence from Lord and Lady Maxwell’s staff, it is apparent that the earl and countess are very much respected by a staff determined to protect the family’s secrets . . .
E. Daubin
Malcom didn’t want to be here.