Verity didn’t blink. Surely, she was supposed to cry out. To make some sound. The vicious crack of her skull. The agonizing thud surely merited even just a sigh or whisper of breath. Except she couldn’t make a noise. Her ears buzzed. Her vision swam.
And then, collapsing against the bookcase, Verity crumpled onto the floor—and remembered nothing more.
Chapter 26
THE LONDONER
ATTACKED!
The Countess of Maxwell was assaulted in the middle of Hatchards. Her attack serves as a reminder of the Countess of Maxwell’s and the Earl of Maxwell’s dark pasts. As long as he moves amongst Polite Society, there will be a threat . . .
M. Fairpoint
She hadn’t come.
Or rather, she was late.
Standing at the empty hearth, his arms clasped behind his back, Malcom stole a glance at the porcelain ormolu clock. He squinted in a bid to bring the small circular dial into focus in the dimmer lighting of the room. Grabbing the gilded cherub by the head, Malcom picked it up and consulted the piece once more.
Ten minutes late, to be precise. When she’d never been late before. He set the clock down.
Mayhap because she’d found her books or even now saw to her work.
Or mayhap it was because she was fine enough without him.
He began to pace.
And furthermore, he should be just fine with her tardiness. Hell, he should be even more thrilled if she didn’t come. Because then there wouldn’t be questions and probing into his past, and yet—
He stopped midstride, the tails of his jacket slapping wildly at the abrupt cessation of movement.
Somewhere along the way, he’d ceased minding the questions. At some point, sharing those parts he’d buried or fought to repress had ceased to be a battle. Instead, with every remembrance she’d coaxed forward, there’d come an ease in accepting his past and those memories as ones that had belonged to him.
Footsteps echoed from out in the corridor.
Even as he turned to face the entrance of the library, he knew it wasn’t Verity.
The steps were more minced than Verity’s deliberate, confident ones.
And yet, as he faced the interloper, there was also a striking similarity, an unrepentantly direct Lovelace gaze.
“Malcom,” Livvie greeted with a flawless curtsy.
He yanked at his collar. Girls and curtsying. Aye, this was a realm of foreignness of which he’d no finesse. He cast a glance over her shoulder, searching hopefully for the elder Miss Lovelace. “Miss Lovelace, would you care to . . .” Livvie was already shutting the door behind her.
“. . . join me,” he finished wryly.
“I’ll not waste either of our time, Mr. North.” She stalked over with long, purposeful strides. Grabbing one of the leather wing chairs, she used her hip to shove it into her desired place. When it was almost perfectly aligned with the button sofa, she jabbed a finger at it. “If you will?”
And under siege, and wholly outmaneuvered by a slip of a girl, Malcom did the only thing that made sense.
He sat.
Livvie Lovelace plopped herself into the opposite seat so they faced one another . . . and drumming her fingertips on the leather arms of her chair, she waited. Silently assessing him. Her impressively unflinching stare remained unwavering.
Over the years, Malcom had faced any number of opponents, people of all ages and sizes. In thinking of that impressive catalog of adversaries, he’d venture the one before him might prove to be the most formidable. For in that moment, Malcom acknowledged the gross underestimation he’d made—there was nothing mincing about this one. In fact, he’d wager her entrance a deliberate show to set him off-kilter. And he tipped his proverbial hat to the young woman, and notched his appreciation for her tenfold.
Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap-Tap. As she drummed along to that rhythm, Livvie slowly brought her eyebrows into a single line. “My sister thinks I’m an idiot, North.”
Well, of all that he anticipated she might have said . . . that had not been in it. He’d brokered peace in the rookery, but never had it been between quarreling sisters. As such, he was completely useless of words.
Fortunately, Livvie had enough for the both of them. “I’m not an idiot. I’m quite observant, you know.”
“Indeed.”
There, that was certainly a suitable reply.
By the further narrowing of her eyes, however, the young woman remained suitably unimpressed.
Malcom shifted on the bench, and stole a hopeful look at the door. Alas, rescue would not be coming from Verity.
“And do you know why my sister believes I’m an idiot?”
“I couldn’t even begin to imagine.” There, that much was true.
“Because Verity believes that I believe that you’re really married.”
The ticking of the clock was inordinately loud.
“And as you seem to think that I believe that, as well, Lord Maxwell”—Livvie ceased tapping her fingers—“then on the matter of my intelligence, that would mean you are of a like opinion as Verity.”
He’d danced through knife battles in the street less precarious than this exchange. “I would never presume to question your intelligence; however, I feel this might be a discussion—”
“Better reserved for my sister?” She shot a brow up. “Never tell me you think you can be free of this discussion that easily? If that’s the case . . .” She muttered the remaining something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “You’re, in fact, the lackwit.” “And do you know why I have no intention of leaving?”
“Because you’re stubborn?”
“Because of my sister.”
“I . . . see . . .” And he saw not at all.
“No, you don’t. Don’t simply say you do so that you’ve some reply. You’re better off saying nothing.”
Aye, Verity’s sister was clever, after all. Even more clever than he’d credited at the start of their dialogue.
“Either way, I’ve not the time to lecture you on how to have a proper conversation. I was the one who insisted Verity go to you, and do you know why I did that?”
“Because you are a romantic?”
Unlike Verity, who’d bristled at having that descriptor applied to her, Livvie Lovelace preened. She sat up all the straighter in her chair. “Precisely. As such, when she recounted what happened that night you met, I heard what she didn’t hear. And I was the one who believed if you could be heroic, then you’d be the one to help us.”
Us.
That was what had set Verity apart from him and how he’d lived his existence. It had marked him different from her or her sister. They saw themselves as a family; they never divorced themselves from that connection.
While Malcom had taken more than fifteen years to own up to such a bond with his own . . . kin.
And with her faith in him, he’d failed to meet those expectations she’d had. Instead, Verity had come to him, and he’d turned her away. Shame pitted his belly.
“Well, do you have anything to say? Speak up.”
Aye, terrifying now, she was going to rule England should she so wish it, come ten years from now.
“What I am trying to sort through, Mr. North, is whether you are actually a good man or not . . . so which is it?”