Decidedly not was the immediate and accurate answer that sprang to his mouth. Mayhap he was getting weak through the years, that he could not bring himself to snarl or even utter that response at the young woman. While they sat, tensely studying one another, Malcom considered his response. In the end, he settled for raw truth. “I’ve not been a good person,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be better.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. With that she hopped up, and he was saved from any further questioning. Or, he almost was. Livvie lingered at the doorway. “Do you care about Verity?”
That blunt, unexpected question hit him square between the eyes. “I . . .”
“It is just that I never knew my mother. Verity has been the only one I’ve known. As long as I’ve been alive, she’s worked to support me. And she’s always soothed my hurts and allowed me my dreams. She’s protected me.” A warning glint sparked in Livvie’s eyes. “And I’ll not see her hurt by anyone. And certainly not by you. So if you think you can’t care about her, or that you don’t love her, then we’re done here.” She paused. “All of us.”
“I . . .” His mind swam, and he tried to dredge up a reply. Only, Livvie Lovelace had confounded him. What she spoke of . . . loving Verity . . . was foreign to the world he’d built. One that the elder Miss Lovelace had single-handedly dismantled. And yet to open himself so wholly, so completely . . . “Thank you for the talk,” he replied. For whatever he had to sort through couldn’t be done with this slip of a woman, or any observer, about.
“North,” she murmured. She made to go, and then paused once more. “Oh, and I should mention, in the event that you do care, you should be aware that my sister was attacked earlier today.”
With that, Verity’s sister let herself out. Her words echoed in her wake.
Malcom didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink.
Surely he’d heard Livvie wrong. Surely with the casualness of that deliverance, his mind had simply twisted whatever she’d said.
And then blood went roaring through his ears.
Malcom exploded to his feet and bolted from the library, cursing the endless, winding corridors. Slightly out of breath from fear and his exertions, he reached the stairs and took them two at a time. The moment his feet hit the landing, he took off running once more, skidding to a halt outside Verity’s room.
Breathing hard, he pressed the handle, and let himself in. And then he found her.
Or more specifically . . .
Them. Malcom found them.
Based on the ominous pronouncement Livvie had dropped, during his endless streak to this very moment, Malcom had conjured all the worst imaginings.
Verity: Unconscious. Bleeding. Broken.
Of all the sights he’d expected after his talk with Livvie, this had not been it. Verity perched at the left side of the mattress with her back to him; she had Bram and Fowler before her. The old toshers sat in two delicate, scrolled armchairs like dutiful pups, albeit enormous pups that tested the constraints of that seating. “I told you, it’s an absolute cure-all,” Verity was saying, wholly engrossed in whatever latest apothecary sat next to her bed. Their hands outstretched and dunked in bowls of water, the trio remained focused on whatever it was they were doing. “You’ll want to do this several times a day. It will soften them.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with a callus.” Fowler grunted.
“There is when they break and then you get dirt in them, and well, it’s no different from getting dirt in an open wound.”
Malcom lingered at the entrance.
Mayhap it was relief so strong that managed to stir an even more unfamiliar sentiment—mirth.
And he didn’t know whether to be relieved or irate with the young woman who’d sent him—
Verity glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, hullo,” she greeted.
And the floor fell out from under him.
Since he’d taken his leave of her that morn, a round knot had formed at the right side of her forehead. A vicious knob, a product of a blow.
The air hissed between his teeth.
“Get out.”
Stiffening, Verity shoved to her feet. “I’ll not.”
“Not you, madam,” he ground out.
Those enormous eyes blinked. “Oh, uh . . . well, because I was going to say I’ll not be ordered about.”
Fowler and Bram exchanged a look, and then simultaneously jumped up. The pair of toshers shuffled guiltily over to the door and made their exit.
Good. They should feel guilty, the blighters.
Malcom fixed on that outrage to keep from descending into panic. She was all right. She was . . . sporting an enormous bruise, which according to her sister, was the product of an attack.
And where was I? Diving into sewers, fishing out treasure I don’t need. Wealth that other people in the dire circumstances he’d once found himself in desperately needed.
Malcom slammed the door shut, hard.
“You needn’t do that,” she chided, tidying up the little workstation she’d arranged for herself between the chairs previously occupied by her patients.
Her patients.
When she was the one who should be lying down with a—
“Doctor—” He already had the door opened and was thundering for a servant.
Billy popped out of the shadows. “Ya called, sir,” she piped in.
“The butler . . .” What in blazes was the man’s name? Why hadn’t he bothered to learn it? He’d be the one with those connections Malcom—and Verity—needed in this moment.
“Coleman, my lord.”
“Have Coleman fetch a doctor.”
“Malcom, I don’t need a doctor.”
The girl was already darting down the hall.
“One has already come,” Verity called, sailing over to the door.
“Then you’ll see a different one.” To be certain she wasn’t truly hurt. “You should be in bed,” he squeezed between clenched teeth as she took the panel in her fingers and ducked her head—her injured head—out.
“I don’t need a doctor, Billy.”
The little girl stopped.
“Fetch the doctor.”
Billy took a step forward. She wavered back and forth, her arms outstretched and a hopeless look etched in her small features.
“You’re confusing the girl,” Verity chided. “Stop it.” Stepping out into the hall, she spoke in a gentle but insistent voice. “I don’t require another doctor at this time, Billy, but if I do, I’ll be certain to let you know.”
And in an absolute display of which one of them held actual power in this household and over people, Billy dropped a curtsy. “As ya wish, moi lady.”
It wasn’t enough.
“You need to be checked again, Verity,” he said tightly as she closed the door.
“I’ve been—eep.” Malcom swept her up, an arm under her knees, and cradling her against his chest, he carried her over to the bed. “I can walk, Malcom.”
Had she been able to walk in the immediacy of the attack? Was she even now putting on a brave show through the pain? His chest tightened.
“It doesn’t matter that you can. You’re not doing it.” He lay her down gently in the middle of the mattress. And hovered there, uncertain, when he’d always had answers. When he’d never feared anything. He feared for this woman. It was an enervating, crippling panic that chipped away at all coherent thought. Somewhere along the way, she’d come to mean more to him than anyone. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” he managed when he trusted himself to speak.