Oh, blast and damn. “Hush,” she warned, glancing about at the lords and ladies streaming all around them. “It was not because of me.” Are you altogether certain? She ignored that jeering question.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m”—not—“certain. Malcom had business to attend.”
She caught Bertha’s snort and shot the old nursemaid a warning look.
“In his sewers?” Livvie speculated.
“In . . . in . . .” Whatever had been so pressing that he’d opted to not join her. “In matters that are none of our business.”
They reached the front of Hatchards, and stopped. “But he’s your husband. It’s absolutely your business. Furthermore”—Livvie stayed Verity as she reached for the door handle—“it would seem that someone as progressive as you, who believes a countess can and should retain employment if she so wishes it, should also expect to be privy to her husband’s business affairs.”
And blast if her sister wasn’t wholly correct. However, Verity’s was a marriage of pretend. As such, she couldn’t go saying as much to Livvie.
Silence proving safer, Verity drew the door open and motioned her sister in ahead of her.
Bertha followed close.
“Do you truly think you can go on for a year with that one not gathering that something is amiss?” Bertha asked in hushed tones as she shook out her skirts. “She’s too clever by half, and not the small girl you used to bounce on your knee.”
“This isn’t the time or place.” Verity spoke out of the corner of her mouth. She took in the crowded shop, the satin-clad ladies and top hat–wearing gentlemen who moved amongst the floor-to-ceiling rows of books.
“It never is, though, is it, Verity?”
“Bertha!” Livvie’s exuberant cry saved Verity from answering, and also earned a sea of stares from disapproving patrons.
“Go look after her,” Verity urged.
As Bertha made her way over to Livvie brandishing a small leather volume and waving it about, Verity took in the looks her sister and, by default, she herself continued to receive. Her neck heated, and it took a concerted effort to bring her shoulders back and her chin up.
Her gaze collided with that of a young gentleman, yet another patron boldly staring.
She made to take a step but lingered. Something in his warm eyes compelled her to remain. There was something vaguely memorable about him. With the spectacles perched on the edge of an aquiline nose, he had the look of many men she’d worked alongside at The Londoner. His finely cut wool suit, however, set him apart from those other commoners like herself.
Giving her head a shake, she ventured deeper into the shop. She may have written stories on the nobility over the years, but every last one of them was a stranger to her.
Still, some air of familiarity tugged at her, and she tossed another glance to where he stood.
At some point, he’d gone.
Verity resumed her stroll through the bookshop. And as she wandered the rows, she studied titles. Periodically, she’d pluck one from the shelf and tuck it into the fold of her arm. Purposeful in her selection, she’d six titles in hand when she turned to go.
Gooseflesh popped up on her arms.
A different stranger stood at the opposite end of the aisle. Though also well dressed like the other man who’d been studying her a short while ago, that was where all similarities ended. His skin was faintly pockmarked. But it was his eyes. There was a coldness in them. They were eyes that emanated a threat.
Her heart racing, Verity bolted in the opposite direction.
A stockier man blocked that exit, bringing her up short. Trapped.
She spun sideways so she could keep an eye on both foes.
Verity hugged her books tightly, the spine of one of her volumes biting painfully into the soft flesh of her upper arm. “Step out of my way,” she commanded, proud that her voice didn’t shake. “I’ll scream.” Her heart hammered out of control. She whipped her head back and forth between the two men.
“Now why would you go and do that?” The taller of that menacing pair started forward. Stalking her. “If you did, Miss Lovelace, then we’d not have the opportunity to speak on what it is we want.”
Miss Lovelace? It took a moment for that correct usage of her name to register.
A hard, empty smile curled his lips. “Or is it Countess Maxwell? It’s all very confusing, isn’t it?”
Her pulse picked up its beat. He knew. This man knew she wasn’t married. Or mayhap it was merely speculative . . . ?
“Step out of my way,” she repeated.
“I will,” he offered.
At her back, she registered a sharp snap as the shorter stranger cracked his knuckles.
“Once we make something clear to you, Miss Lovelace.”
He stopped before her.
Verity’s mouth went dry. Reflexively she hugged the books in her arms all the tighter.
“Your story? About the earl? Kill it.”
It took a moment for that warning to penetrate her fear.
“What?” she blurted.
“There’s those who don’t want that story out, miss. People who’d rather you be . . . silent.”
Silent. Or silenced?
Verity shivered. Bolingbroke. Who else would these henchmen be here on behalf of? And yet she’d be damned if they quieted her. And she’d certainly not silence Malcom’s story, not when it would open the world’s eyes to the abuses those who lived beyond the lap of luxury suffered. For all the times she’d been silenced before this one, and all the stories she’d been prevented from telling, and the directives she’d taken, they had brought her to this moment. “No.”
He tipped his head. “What did you say?” The brute exchanged a look with his partner.
“I said no. You can go back to whomever has sent you here to try and intimidate me and let them know I’ll not be cowed. Whatever Lord Maxwell, the rightful Lord Maxwell, wishes to share with the world will be shared.” Her chest rose and fell quickly from the force of her emotions. Or fear? Or mayhap a blend of both. “Nor do I truly believe you’re going to kill me in public at an establishment filled with patrons.” Adjusting her hold on her books, Verity gathered her skirts in her other palm, and took a step forward. “Now get out of my way.”
Neither man budged.
“We aren’t going to kill you,” he scoffed. “We only came to warn you.”
He swiftly caught her by the nape of her neck, wringing a gasp from her . . . which he promptly buried under a meaty palm.
The books toppled from Verity’s arms, the sound as they clattered about her feet muted by the pounding of her heart. She scrabbled at those unforgiving hands. Dimly aware of the bespectacled figure charging forward, the unlikeliest of saviors.
“You there!” That shout came from somewhere in Hatchards. That voice vaguely familiar. But everything swirled in her mind; it was twisted and jumbled by fear and panic.
The gentleman with the glasses was quickly brought down by the stocky fellow at her back.
Verity’s eyes bulged, and she scrabbled all the more with her assailant.
“Consider yourself warned,” he whispered against her ear. And then he slammed her headfirst into the wood shelving.