“A . . . Mr. Giles,” the servant announced, his wizened features pulled as if pained by that introduction.
Verity sat upright.
With a wool cap and coarse garments, none would ever dare confuse the man for one of the Grosvenor Square world. Having feared him at their first meeting, Verity now found there was a comfort in being in the company of someone who didn’t fit with Polite Society. People who were like her. In ways that even Malcom wasn’t.
The ancient butler shifted on his feet. “Do you require anything else, my lord?” he asked when no directives were coming.
A bark of laughter burst from Mr. Giles, earning a dark glare from Malcom. A look that would have quelled most men. Except this one.
“That’ll be all,” Malcom excused the servant, and with a speed suited to one thirty years his junior, Coleman bolted from the room.
The moment the butler had closed the door, Malcom’s associate exploded into another round of laughter. “Why, hello, my lord.” He sketched a bow so deep as to be mocking. “And here I thought you were going to invite me for a spot of tea,” he jested in an impressive rendition of the crispest English accent.
“Go to hell,” Malcom muttered as he snapped his books closed, and set to organizing them.
Verity hovered in her seat, forgotten, taking in the exchange between Malcom and the other tosher. At their first meeting, she’d been riddled with unease at his presence. And yet, unlike her make-believe husband, who kept a careful mask in place, his smile creeping out with the same reluctance as the English sun, Mr. Giles freely teased and laughed. Mayhap that was why Malcom had taken him on as the friend he referred to as an associate. Mayhap he unknowingly welcomed that levity in his otherwise stark world.
When it became apparent that no introductions were forthcoming, Verity stood, and setting down Malcom’s ledger, she crossed over to his friend. “Mr. Giles. As Malcom will not do the honors and no formal introduction was made at our last exchange, welcome.” She held her hand out. “I am”—not truly a countess, and neither of them had been born to the nobility as Malcom had been—“Verity,” she settled for. “Please, call me Verity.”
As Mr. Giles placed his sole palm in hers, she caught the glare Malcom leveled her way. Or mayhap it was reserved for Mr. Giles.
More likely, it was reserved for the both of them.
Giles looked at her for a moment and then doffed his hat. “These are altogether different circumstances than our first meeting.”
A smile pulled at her lips. “Indeed.”
He leaned down. “If anyone had told me the day you arrived to speak with North that he’d go and marry you, I’d have directed that blighter on to Bedlam.” He winked.
“And I would have clarified the directions for that blighter,” she said, her smile deepening.
Tossing his head back, Mr. Giles erupted into another booming chuckle.
“If you’re quite done,” Malcom snapped, “we’ve business to see to.”
Verity’s smile instantly withered. Malcom’s words were a reminder that all this was pretend: Their relationship. Even the introductions between her and his associate. She wasn’t part of his world. Even the exchanges in which they’d shared parts of themselves—all of it had been driven by their arrangement. And she’d be wise to remember as much. “Forgive me; I’ll leave you both to your meeting.”
And as she let herself out, foolish as it was, she found herself wishing that Malcom had wanted to join her at Hatchards.
Chapter 24
THE LONDONER
Despite appearances amongst Polite Society, it is reported that at various points of the day, the Earl of Maxwell . . . disappears. And the ton is left with one more question about the gentleman: Where does he go?
M. Fairpoint
Having ridden from Grosvenor Square to the wharves of London, Malcom had thought he’d managed to escape the questioning.
Alas, knowing Giles as he had through the years, he’d merely been deluding himself.
“How is married life?” Giles asked as they walked the less traveled shore of the Thames.
“Go to hell,” he muttered.
“So as well as one would expect,” the other man said dryly with his nub adjusting his tosher pole against his shoulder. “And yet, also well enough that you’ve not gone out nightly.”
There was a question there. “I’ve had other work I’ve had to see to.” It was why he’d put Giles in charge in his absence. “Unless it’s been too difficult—”
The other man snorted. “Now you can go to hell.”
Malcom kept his gaze forward. Giles was entitled to his skepticism. Since Malcom had started scavenging sewers as a boy, there’d not been a single day of rest. His had been a purpose-driven existence.
It hadn’t been eating ices at Gunter’s and skipping stones at Hyde Park. It hadn’t been her . . . Verity Lovelace . . . with her endearing tendency to prattle on about Epsom salts and English history with like skill.
And yet, now that it was . . . now . . . those moments held on.
Beckoned.
And suddenly, this wasn’t quite what it once had been.
It wasn’t what it had been at all.
“Are you ready?”
There was a hesitancy in Giles’s voice.
And Malcom glanced around.
They’d arrived.
“Of course I’m ready,” he said tightly, and not allowing another question, he made his way into the tunnel first. Giles followed close behind, dragging the grate back into place, shutting out the light and plunging them into darkness.
There’d always been a thrill in stealing under London’s cobblestones and uncovering the treasures buried below.
Except as they ventured along, slogging through the murky water, why was the thrill missing this time? Why, as he waded through muck and refuse, was Malcom even now thinking about Verity walking the aisles of Hatchards? Or wondering about the books she read? He’d venture material related to the work she did. Or mayhap she didn’t? Mayhap she sought a diversion—
Something slammed into him.
Grunting, Malcom went flying forward. He managed to bring his tosher pole up, catching himself in time before he hit the water.
Behind him there was a sharp rumble and a crash.
Heart pounding, he stared at the small pile of bricks that rested where he’d been standing. Good God. It was the height of carelessness. Underground, a man had to be even more alert than one was on the streets. Here, even the ceiling and walls represented danger. And Malcom hadn’t made a misstep, hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted from the work at hand . . . since he’d started out at this life.
“I don’t . . . Thank—”
Giles waved him off. “That’s what friends do.”
Friends.
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 . . . I know that you’re protecting yourself by pretending that they don’t matter . . .
They were friends. He and Giles. And they had been since the moment he’d rescued the other man from certain death, and had been all the times Giles had been there for him. And owning that connection to another person didn’t leave him weak. Verity had shown him that.