“Mrs. North ain’t need anyone’s help,” Billy piped in, her worshipping gaze centered on Verity. The girl’s adoration had been there from the moment Verity had entered Malcom’s household, and since Billy had been relieved of her work as a servant and made another member of the family, those sentiments had only intensified.
Now, as one, they watched Verity move with the grace of a queen. “Billy is correct,” Livvie announced with a toss of her curls. “My sister doesn’t require assistance.”
“Aye, listen to the ladies, you old toshers.” Warmth spiraled in Malcom’s chest as he fell in love with Verity all over again. “Verity is capable of handling her own battles.”
“Don’t ya want to beat the blighter within an inch of his goddamned life?” Fowler demanded.
“Lord knows Oi do.” Bram slammed a fist against his open palm and glowered at the source of his hatred. Several young fops and ladies turned white and immediately scurried off in the opposite direction.
“Aye, I want to beat him senseless.” In fact, it had taken every last shred of restraint he’d honed on the streets of East London not to. Just then, Verity reached Fairpoint’s side.
He’d no right to be here.
And more, Mitchell Fairpoint had no right to this story. Not because of any sense of ownership on Verity’s part, but because of the significance of this day and how it should be preserved in papers.
Verity reached the back of the hall.
Fairpoint, with his back to her, towered over a small woman with elfin features and enormous spectacles. “You’ve no right to this seat,” he was saying. He thumped his notepad. “Do you know who I am? Do you know what newspaper I’m with?”
The young woman shook her head wildly. But still, she hesitated, not immediately relinquishing her spot. It was a detail another person might have missed or underestimated. Verity, however, had been this woman. She’d journeyed to the point of finding her voice in a world dominated by males so very determined to keep the respectable work to themselves.
“Mr. Fairpoint.” Verity finally spoke to him, relishing the way Fairpoint stiffened, and the slowness to his movements as he turned and faced her.
“Miss—”
She lifted a brow.
“My lady . . .” And she reveled in the pained way he delivered that proper form of address and taut bow.
Dismissing him and his greeting, she looked to the young woman. “Is there a problem here, Miss—”
“Daubin,” she said quickly, adding a curtsy. “Miss Daubin.”
“And you are with . . . ?”
“The London Gazette.”
With that information, Verity turned back to Mitchell Fairpoint. “As I see it, Miss Daubin of The London Gazette has every right to be here.” She paused. “In fact, I’d argue, given her work with that respected newspaper, she has even more right to be here, Mr. Fairpoint, than you do.”
He sputtered, “That is preposterous! The Londoner has a longer history, one that affords me a greater respect than some inkwell filler sent here by her employers.”
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong.”
He tipped his head.
Verity took a step closer. “You see, that seat”—she pointed to the source of the earlier contention—“is not your seat. And the paper you reference?” She paused. “It is not your paper.”
“What are you on about?”
With glee, Verity leaned in. “I mean, my husband and I purchased The Londoner from Lowery.”
Fairpoint stared at her a moment, and then exploded laughing. “Lowery wouldn’t ever sell to you. He knows women don’t belong in this business.”
Verity waited until his amusement abated. “Lowery never truly cared about this business, Fairpoint. He only cared about the coin to be made in it.” As she spoke, she took relish in the way the color slowly seeped from his cheeks. “And so even his archaic views on a woman’s role fell second to his greed.”
“What are you saying?”
Reaching inside the pocket sewn along the front of her dress, Verity extracted the page that was never far from her person and handed it over. “I suggest you have a read, Fairpoint.”
He grabbed the sheet from her fingers, and as he read, color flooded his cheeks and the page shook in his hand. “What is this?” he demanded, turning the document over, back and forth, several times, as if doing so would somehow miraculously alter the words written there.
Verity folded her arms at her waist. “My husband paid a sizable sum with the stipulation that the transaction remain secret until I was ready to claim ownership.” She smiled coldly. “And I’ve never been more ready. Therefore, Miss Daubin’s seat”—Verity gestured to the wide-eyed young woman—“belongs to her. And The Londoner? The Londoner is mine, and you’ve no place here.”
Mitchell Fairpoint’s cheeks drained of all color. “This is . . . I don’t . . . You can’t . . . He wouldn’t . . .”
“Ah, words fail you again,” she taunted. “Only, now there’s no one to rob for a proper response, is there?”
His reed-thin frame shook violently.
All these weeks, since she’d learned of the gift Malcom had given her and bided her time for the right moment, she’d wondered what it would be like. Nothing could have prepared her for the thrill of triumph. This revenge taken on behalf of every woman he’d robbed of a place at The Londoner. For the story he’d stolen from her. For the misery he’d made her existence. “Now, my husband is set to speak, and you are neither wanted nor allowed to be here. I suggest you go of your own volition, Fairpoint, or I’ll have you thrown out on your thieving arse.”
And with the row of reporters staring in wide-eyed wonderment, Fairpoint scrabbled with his collar, and then turning jerkily on his heel, he scurried off.
“That was well done, my lady,” Miss Daubin said softly.
“That was long overdue.” Fishing inside her pocket once more, Verity withdrew a card. “Your refusing to relinquish your place was impressive as well, Miss Daubin. If you are ever in need of work, please seek me out.”
Scrambling to take the card, the young woman strung together a series of incoherent thank-yous.
Her shoulders back, Verity started to the front of the auditorium. She made the long march past the rows of lords and ladies present: most strangers . . . some not. Her gaze found her half siblings. The twin sisters sat beside their husbands, and at the end sat the bespectacled Benedict. He caught her stare, and tipped his head in acknowledgment. A watery smile formed on her lips as she returned that silent greeting.
She reached the front row, and Bram and Fowler immediately jumped up.
“Do we need to kill ’im?” Bram asked without preamble.
“Because we’ll do it,” Fowler jumped in.
Still seated, Livvie rolled her eyes.
“Behave,” Verity warned her sister before looking once more to the old men. Going up on tiptoe, she kissed each tosher on the cheek. “I’ve handled it.”
“Told ya she would,” Billy chimed in with a victorious grin as they resettled into their seats . . . and waited.
From her spot at the end of the row, Verity glanced to the corridor where Malcom stood speaking with his cousin, Bolingbroke. The pair of them conversed as easily as ones who’d known one another their entire lives. And though their reunion had been recent, most days since had involved visits between the men: Planning and discussions. Dinners. And with every exchange had come a greater and more visible peace in her husband.