She chuckled, the sound devoid of any mirth or happiness in an unexpected display of cynicism. “My father loved my mother, but he was a wastrel. He drank. My mum said his misery was because he could never be with us as he wished. My nursemaid always insisted it was because he was endlessly weak.”
He was of a like opinion as the nursemaid. Malcom had killed many times in the name of survival. Even as every one of those devils had deserved it, he’d regretted that blood on his hands. And yet if her father weren’t already dead, Malcom would have gladly done the deed all over for the state he’d left his daughters in. “You became a sibling and parent to Livvie.”
Verity shrugged. “What else would I do?”
“You’d protect yourself,” he said automatically.
“Protect myself, by . . . remaining alone?”
He went silent.
Verity, however, was tenacious. She scooted around so that she faced him. “And is that what you’ve done, Malcom?”
His body went whipcord straight. “Yes. Of course it is.” Everyone in the rookeries knew as much about him.
“No.”
He cocked his head.
“No,” she repeated. “That is what you think you’ve done. You refer to Bram and Fowler as ‘your people.’ You call Giles an ‘associate.’ All of these defenses that you put up, these choices of words that strip away closeness from your connections, they cannot truly conceal the truth.”
A sweat broke out on the back of his nape. Moisture trickled down his collar and streaked his back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Or was it that he didn’t know what he was talking about? Everything was twisted. Illogical and confused.
“I do, though. I know that you’re protecting yourself by pretending that they don’t matter. But, Malcom.” She rested a hand lightly on his sleeve.
He stared at those ink-stained fingers to keep from looking into her eyes and owning all the truths that spilled from her too-insightful lips. “What?”
“A man who doesn’t care about others doesn’t rescue men from the sewers. He doesn’t stay with them, looking after them when they are old men who can barely walk from the injuries they’ve sustained.” His hands formed balls at his sides. He wanted her to stop. He needed her to. But she was relentless. Verity moved closer so that barely a handbreadth separated them. “A man who doesn’t care doesn’t send those old toshers to the finest residence in London so that they might live in comfort and never have to pillage a sewer again.”
He glanced away, unable to meet her piercing gaze. That gaze that saw too much and knew even more. A million vises twisted his insides into knots. How had she known . . . ?
Verity proved unfaltering, wreaking further havoc upon him. “You wouldn’t have made your right-hand man, one who is surviving on the streets with just one hand to defend and protect himself with, your associate.” Giles. Verity laid her palms against his chest, and his heart thumped hard under that tender touch. “And do you know what I also know?”
He managed to shake his head.
“A man who’ll do all that, who’ll take in the woman who’d wronged him, along with her family, giving them security, is an honorable one.”
Just like the romantic article she’d written about him in The Londoner, Verity simply saw that which she wished. “I’m not.” A man who’d done the things he had could never be considered anything of the sort.
Verity smiled tremulously. She stroked her palms down the front of his chest, her touch soothing. “You continue to believe if you say one thing, that the words will, in fact, mean another.”
Chapter 22
THE LONDON GAZETTE
A MATCH MADE . . . OF LOVE?
For all the original speculation about a nefarious union between the Earl of Maxwell and his mysterious wife, the couple is seen frequently about Polite Society, and the ton is left with but one question: Is it love?
E. Daubin
In the following weeks, Malcom and Verity settled into their world of pretend.
His days were spent courting his wife.
Their nights were spent conversing. Interviews that never truly felt like interviews.
And somewhere along the way, make-believe had come to feel . . . all too real.
Lying upon a blanket in Hyde Park with Verity’s palms over his eyes, Malcom knew there’d be time later for proper horror at the vulnerable place he’d let himself fall into.
“You’re not paying attention,” Verity accused.
“Very well.”
She cleared her throat. “My first: the Serpentine doth wind.
“On to my second: which can only be a mistake.
“The third: abandoning of Eden.”
His mouth moved silently as he repeated back those three clues. “You know, you really can remove your—”
“You’re stalling for time, Malcom.”
His lips curved up in a grin. Not even three weeks ago, he’d have sooner split his tosher pole in half than take part in any game. Since he’d been a boy, Malcom craved the dark and dank, and despised the light for the perils it posed. For in the day, there were no shadows in which to hide. As such, he’d not known what it was to have the sun on his face. Or a soft breeze upon his skin. At this end of London, he’d come to find just how very different this world was, and that its allure was even greater.
“Malcom,” she said warningly.
“I assure you, I remain completely focused on the task at hand,” he said drolly. “Ouch.” He winced as she freed one of her hands and pinched his cheek. “What was that for?”
“You’re not even—”
“A flower,” he said over her. “It is a flower.”
“Impossible!” Verity dragged her hands from his eyes. He blinked as the early-summer sun blinded him.
“Impossible that it’s a flower? Or impossible that I’ve bested you . . . again?”
She swatted at him. “You are a poor winner.”
“That seems quite contradictory, love.”
“Oh, yes, I assure you it’s not. You’re very gloaty.”
He flipped onto his side and braced himself on an elbow. “Is that a word?”
“It’s not.” She paused. “But if it were, it would be applied to you.”
He grinned. A lightness suffused him, touching every corner of a place inside him that had once been dark, until he was buoyant. Malcom waggled his eyebrows. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m quite good at charades.”
“And chess.” Verity delivered another well-placed pinch.
“What was that for?” he mumbled, rubbing at the offended area.
“That one was just because,” she said with a toss of her head.
“You are a ruthless competitor, you know.”
“If you think I’m ruthless with charades, you should see me with”—air wafted over his cheeks, and the scent of mint flooded his senses—“lawn bowling,” she whispered against his ear.
His heart pounded faster at her nearness. “Indeed?” he asked, as he was surely supposed to issue some reply, and a more meaningful one eluded him.
“Hardly,” Verity clarified. “I’ve never played. I’ve always wanted to, though. My father would speak of bringing a set and teaching me.”