She scoffed, and it was the first hint of her in-command self. “Malcom, I came here of my own volition, just as I searched you out each time. You didn’t make me live with you and take part in your plan. I did that all on my own.”
Aye, not even the Good Lord himself could bend Verity ’round to his thinking if Verity were of a different opinion. That conviction was just one of the reasons he’d fallen so hopelessly for her. God, how he loved her . . . and if she left, he’d never recover from the loss of her. He wanted her in his life forever. If she would have him in all his imperfection. His hands went damp. And never before had he wished he was one of those urbane gentlemen with all the right words so that this moment would be the one she deserved. “Verity, there is something I would—”
“My brother came.”
He cocked his head at that interruption.
She turned her palms up. “My half brother. The Earl of Wakefield. He . . . learned about Livvie and me, and he’s been searching me out. I saw him at the bookstore that morn. I didn’t know who he was. He tried to stop it . . .” She ceased her ramblings.
“And . . . what did he want?” he asked slowly, trying to slog through anything that made sense. Anything past the black dress she now wore. The one he’d given her at their first meeting. Not the pieces she’d adopted since she’d come here. His heart slipped another fraction at the implications of that, and of the articles at her feet.
Verity drew in an uneven breath and ran her hands over her skirts. “My father was useless when it came to finances. My half brother, he’s been working to repair the family fortunes. He’s offered a little cottage to Livvie and me. A place to live, with a small stipend on which to survive.”
The earth swayed under him. “That was a generous offer,” he said, his voice muffled in his ears. The earl had also offered that which Malcom should have unconditionally put forward for Verity. “And what did you say?”
“I thanked him. I appreciated that he cared and sought to make our lives better, but said that I’d different hopes for my future.”
The Londoner.
His throat bobbed.
Verity drifted ever closer. “I told him that I’d fallen in love.” His heart jumped. “That I’d fallen in love with you.” She slowed to a stop before him. “That I wanted to marry you.” Laying her palms on his chest, she leaned back so she could hold his gaze. “If you—”
Malcom swallowed the remainder of that question with a kiss. His body shook from the force of the laughter and light moving through him. “Good God, Verity Lovelace,” he strangled out through the joy. Cupping her face, he rested his forehead against hers. “You’re the only woman who would beat me to a proposal.”
Her eyes formed perfect circles. “Were you—” She gasped as he fell to a knee.
“I’d come here intending to ask you to marry me. To spend your life letting me work to be the man you deserve. Loving you.”
A sob burst from Verity’s lips. “Yes,” she cried out, her arms coming up—
But he stopped her. “And then I’d also intended to offer you . . . your freedom, if you so choose.” He withdrew the notes from inside his jacket.
Her lips parted, Verity took them and quickly worked through them. Another gasp escaped her.
“I was otherwise delayed today because I paid a visit to the owner of The Londoner. I purchased the papers, because what they do is rubbish and what you would do with them would transform the world.”
Tears glazed her eyes. “Malcom,” she whispered, those crystalline drops winding down her cheeks.
He brushed them back.
“And as I wanted to beat your Fairpoint to a pulp, I thought it only appropriate to leave you the honors when you stepped into the office as the proprietress.”
She threw her arms around his neck, toppling the both of them.
Malcom came down hard on his back, grunting as she fell atop him. “By your response I trust you’ve accepted option two?”
“I love you, you silly man,” she rasped. “I want a life with you at my side.” Verity claimed his mouth, and he angled his head to receive her kiss. And infused within was all the joy and love he felt for her, and he tasted it on her lips and in the whisper of her breath. And it made him whole in ways that he’d only ever been empty. Verity broke the kiss. “I accept both options, Malcom North,” she teased. “A future with you and one with The Londoner.” Her smile wavered. “Would you accept that? An unconventional wife who conducts actual work?”
He brushed the strands that had come free from her chignon, tucking them behind her ear. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, Verity,” he said hoarsely. “I’d only ever have you as you are.”
“And I you, Malcom North,” she whispered.
And as Verity leaned down and kissed him once more, Malcom smiled.
At last, he’d been found.
Epilogue
Two months later
St. Giles
Everyone was there.
From the most revered members of the ton to the poorest of the toshers to the wealthiest of the merchant class, all had come out that morn.
The eclectic gathering of people now sat in a crowded auditorium.
As they spoke, their voices rolled together; coarsened Cockneys, blended with the crispest of the King’s English, echoed from the twenty-foot ceilings.
People born of different stations, who rarely acknowledged the others’ existence, had been joined in an unexpected commonality: rabid curiosity. After all, it was the story everyone wanted. Or rather, the latest story everyone wished to hear. Someday there would be a fresher piece of gossip, or a newer story, that men and women would crave the details of.
But for now, this was the one that consumed people.
Once, Malcom would have only been riddled with rage at those interlopers scrounging for details about his life the way the poor begged for scraps in the streets. That anger had since left him.
Because of her . . .
As if she’d heard those unspoken thoughts, Verity slipped her fingers into his. She gave a light squeeze, and raised them to her lips for a gentle kiss. “You are going to be brilliant, Malcom,” she said softly.
“Yes, but will I still be brilliant alone?” When the other key player was missing.
Verity held his gaze. “You’re never alone, Malcom.”
His throat worked. “No. No, you are right on that score, love.” His gaze traveled out, bypassing the strangers in the crowd and homing in on the first row . . . the front row of the auditorium occupied by Bram, Fowler, Giles, and Billy. The four of them sat, shoulder to shoulder, pride beaming in their eyes. Malcom wasn’t alone. In those he’d spent a lifetime with on the streets, he’d found family. And in Verity.
And behind that family, there sat another.
A row of ladies and gentlemen who were strangers, and yet connected to him by another.
Together, they stood there, side by side, surveying the room as one.
“Are you nervous?” Verity asked.
He hesitated. “Yes,” he allowed, giving her that truth. For the first time in the whole of his life, there was no shame in that acknowledgment. Before Verity, he’d have seen the admission as a weakness he couldn’t dare own. Nor was it worry about appearing before that crowd. Rather, his unease came in appearing before them alone. Malcom reached inside his jacket and grabbed the folded paper there. “None of this makes sense if he doesn’t arrive.” As guests began claiming their seats, true panic began to set in. “I’ll have to rewrite it. Only . . .” He grimaced. “There’s not time to rewrite anything. I’ll have to reorder my thoughts.” Malcom cursed. “I should have prepared an alternate speech—”