by Jane Ashford
She let out a sigh. He could feel it.
“Verity.” He savored the syllables.
She looked up, her face a dim oval in the dark. He kissed her.
Her lips were sweet. Her arms tightened around him, and she pressed closer. A sense of rightness enveloped Randolph, nearly as strong as his desire. This was where she belonged. And he. It was as if their kiss drew the scattered pieces of existence into order, and all was well. He wanted it to go on forever.
Impossible, of course. The kiss ended. He was bereft, and yet joyfully complacent. She couldn’t kiss him like that and not care. “Now tell me about this disastrous thing, and we will dispose of it,” he said.
She pulled away. “My friend—”
“There’s no need to pretend you’re speaking of someone else.”
“Pretend?” She pushed at his chest. With great reluctance Randolph let her go. “Why would I pretend?” she said as she stepped back.
“You needn’t be shy with me.” He groped for words to capture the certainty he’d felt moments ago. But they eluded him. Astonishing. He always had words.
“I’m not shy. I’m perplexed. About my duty and my friend.”
She’d moved farther away. A shaft of golden lantern light caught her from the side, painting her half gilded, half dark. “You look like a renaissance masterpiece,” he said.
“What?”
With a breathless bustle, the couple who’d interrupted them earlier returned. “If you’re just going to stand about, you might leave this prime spot for those with…other plans,” the gentleman said. His companion giggled. Didn’t the constant giggling irritate him? Randolph wondered idiotically.
Miss Sinclair turned and walked away. The look she threw over her shoulder was bewildering.
Verity moved fast, her skirts frothing about her feet, scarcely seeing the other guests strolling in the garden. She was dizzy with the feel of him. She’d wanted to stay forever in his embrace. It had felt like home, and like the most thrilling place on Earth at the same time. And the kiss! She missed a step and nearly fell into a clump of shrubbery.
She moved into the shadow of the bushes and stood still, catching her breath. After a moment she put her hands to her flushed cheeks, as if she could push down the emotion that flooded her. Her fingers felt cold. What was she doing?
Verity had known so many churchmen in her life, from canting prudes to foxhunting parsons who hardly seemed clerical at all. She’d thought Lord Randolph Gresham was the best kind—serious without being condescending, kind without being wishy-washy, intelligent and educated and…so very attractive. Not that the latter was relevant.
But just now he’d seemed positively…cloth-headed, exactly as she’d predicted for a country clergyman.
Her breath caught on a sob, and she swallowed fiercely. This would not do. She wasn’t some feeble twit to be found sniveling at a ton party.
Verity let her hands drop. She straightened and held her head high. She stepped smartly out of the shadows and rejoined the strolling guests, walking as if she had a definite goal in mind. And then she rounded a low tree lit by a crimson lantern and came face-to-face with the Duchess of Langford.
She recoiled and nearly tumbled over backward. The duchess caught her shoulders and held her steady. Verity felt like a clumsy child. “Are you all right?” the older woman asked.
Those blue eyes, so like her son’s, which seemed to see much more than one might have wished, Verity thought. “Not looking where I was going,” she replied. “Sorry.” She pulled free. The duchess made no effort to hold her. “Have you recovered from your dreadful dowsing?” Verity asked. The red light made the other woman look feverish.
“It was rather dreadful, wasn’t it?” The duchess laughed. “A gruesome greeting to the neighborhood for you. I hope you weren’t put off. Nothing like that has ever happened to me before.”
“No.” Verity made a move toward the house. The duchess fell in beside her.
“Miss Fletcher is quite excited about the idea of a music teacher. She’s found a candidate already.”
“Oh, good.” She heard footsteps coming up behind them. Probably, most likely, Lord Randolph.
“She’d be happy to have your opinion when you can find the time to call. Our carriage is at your disposal, of course. As am I.”
The footsteps came closer. She simply couldn’t chat with the man she’d just kissed—and his mother—just now, Verity thought. “Yes, I’ll see when… If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Mama.” Feeling confused and young and rude, she hurried off. When she ventured a glance from the doorway, she saw she’d been right. Lord Randolph had joined his mother on the garden path. What was he saying to her? It was all a great muddle, and to top it off, she still didn’t know what to do about Olivia.
“I’ve made a mistake,” Randolph was, in fact, saying.
“A large one?”
“I hope not. I’m not certain, because I don’t know precisely what I was mistaken about. Only that I was ham-handed, and tongue-tied.”
“You?” His mother smiled up at him.
He had to smile back. “Difficult to believe, I know. The circumstances were…unusual.” Or unprecedented, or revolutionary, Randolph thought. Now that it was too late, his mind teemed with words.
“Pleasantly so?”
“I think…I hope…perhaps.” He sighed. “People say wisdom increases with age, but I never felt so at sea with Rosalie.”
His mother looked him over. The acute assessment was as familiar as childhood. “Can I do anything?”
Could she? Randolph considered the idea. “I don’t think so. I need to make some inquiries. I wonder if Hilda might—”
“Georgina’s sister might help?” the duchess asked when he didn’t go on. She sounded dubious.
He nodded. “There’s no one better at ferreting out secrets. Could she be the friend? No.”
“Must you be so mysterious, Randolph? It’s quite irritating.”
He laughed. “Sorry, Mama. Sometimes a thing isn’t ready to be told.”
“I’m familiar with the concept,” she replied, a touch of asperity in her voice. “I’ve often heard it from you and your brothers. Though less so in recent years. I’m also familiar with a wide variety of results, from hilarity to catastrophe.”
“I hope to avoid either of those.” His mother sighed audibly. She seemed to sway slightly. “Are you well?” Randolph asked her.
“Of course.”
“You look a bit peaked.”
“It’s this red light. Like a beam from the infernal regions.”
Randolph laughed but said, “Shall I take you inside? Where is Papa?”
“Arguing politics with Lord Holland.” She made a shooing motion. “Go on and dig into your secrets. I’m perfectly fine. I like the night air.”
Randolph examined her. She made a face at him. He laughed again and went on his way.
The duchess stood alone in the illuminated garden, an oddly isolated figure. Then a friend came along, and the rhythm of the party overtook her again.
Fourteen
The trouble was, she sympathized with Olivia’s yearning for adventure, Verity thought the following afternoon. She knew so well how it felt to long for excitement, to want something to happen. And to be the one who took action—plunged into uncharted jungles or sailed around the world. She didn’t care for the way her friend had responded to the impulse, but she didn’t want Olivia stifled and confined. Or ruined, of course. That would be the stupid squandering of a lively, clever woman. By narrow-minded biddies who gave her no scope for her abilities. Manifestly unfair, as if society had set a trap precisely for females like them. Her. Olivia. It was infuriating.
And so Verity decided she’d deal with the matter herself. She would betray no confidences, and cause no uproar, if she simply handled th
e matter. No one else would know. It was easier. And also, she had to admit, much more satisfying. Why turn to others? What need for willfully obtuse, distractingly attractive young men? Now that she’d worked it out in her mind, Verity felt perfectly capable of managing the thing. She’d show Olivia how an adventure was done.
As a first step, Verity went to find her mother, pleading malaise, and asked for one of her powerful headache powders.
“I thought you didn’t like them,” Mama said, surprised.
It was true that Verity didn’t care for the strong effect of the medicine. “I just have the most dreadful headache.”
“Oh my dear.” Her mother was all sympathy, as Verity had known she would be. Mama was afflicted by terrible headaches that laid her low for days. Verity felt a bit guilty as her mother jumped up. “I’ll fetch it at once,” she said. In moments, she returned with one of the paper packets the apothecary made up for her. “Is it very bad?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine after a good sleep,” Verity assured her.
“I’ll sit with you and rub your temples.”
This wouldn’t do. “No, you go on to Mrs. Doran’s. She’s counting on you to make up her whist tables.”
“Yes, but—”
Verity held up the paper packet. “I wouldn’t even know you were there.”
“I suppose.”
The headache remedy induced heavy slumber. When Mama took it, she was dead to the world for hours. Verity was counting on this fact for later, in case anyone knocked at her bedroom door while she was gone. “Really, Mama, you should go. Don’t worry.”
“Well…I shan’t be late.”
Verity smiled and nodded and at last saw her mother off. She told the housemaid the same story, and by seven she was alone in her bedchamber, pulling an old, drab cloak from the wardrobe. She’d never been so deceitful in her life. It was thrilling.
At first, Verity had thought she’d catch Olivia before she entered Mr. Rochford’s lair. Pull her away before she could knock on the door, perhaps. But there were problems with that plan. Days ago, Olivia had taken Verity past the man’s small, narrow house, and a number of people, all men, had walked by in the brief time they’d lingered there. Verity couldn’t stand about in that street. Nor did she wish to argue with Olivia on the cobblestones. It would have to be inside. Olivia was always punctual. Verity would arrive at a quarter past nine.
The minutes ticked past. Verity wrote a note explaining where she was going and why, sealed it, and placed it in her jewelry box. Should anything go wrong…but it wouldn’t.
At last it was time. With her cloak over her arm, she checked the corridor outside her room, found it empty, and slipped out. She locked the bedroom door and put the key in her reticule beside the front door key their landlady had provided. Mama never used it, preferring to ring and be let in, so she hadn’t noticed its disappearance from the parlor.
Verity crept down the stairs. The front hall was empty as it always was at this time. The grandfather clock next to the stairs began to strike nine. Verity put on her cloak; the chiming covered the sound of her exit. Outside, she pulled up the hood and set off.
Some light still washed the sky on this long June day, so Verity was able to walk purposefully down the street, like a shopgirl or servant who had urgent business. No one accosted her. She followed a route she’d mapped out in her head and reached Mr. Rochford’s house precisely as planned.
There were lights in the first-floor windows. A figure appeared at one, pulling the draperies closed. Verity set her jaw and knocked sharply on the door.
After a minute, it was opened by a solemn man in black. He looked like a valet. Poised to move, Verity pushed past him and headed for the stairs. “I will see Mr. Rochford,” she said, picking up her skirts and hurrying up them.
“Miss. I beg your pardon. Miss!”
She didn’t pause. She wouldn’t be stopped. With footsteps thudding behind her, she reached the upper floor, turned toward the front of the house, calculated where she’d seen the light, and threw open a door on the left.
She’d judged correctly. Mr. Rochford was there, smoothly handsome in evening dress. He sat in an armchair, a glass of red wine and a deck of cards on the small table beside him.
Verity scanned the room. It was a masculine space, with dark wood paneling, comfortable furnishings, and crossed sabers hanging above the fireplace. It was also empty of other people. “Where is Olivia?” she demanded.
The valet burst in on her heels. “Sir, this…creature shoved right past me.”
“Where is Olivia?” Verity repeated.
“It’s all right, Pearson,” said Mr. Rochford, waving the man off.
The servant departed, shutting the door with an irritated snap.
Verity was left facing Rochford. He didn’t rise as politeness dictated. He simply looked at her, clearly amused. “Olivia?” Verity said. She’d lost her confident tone, she was unhappy to hear.
“Not here,” said Rochford. “It appears that Miss Townsend lost her nerve.” He shrugged. “Or never meant to come. She seems a chancy chit. So, no valiant rescue required.”
He was laughing at her. Verity gritted her teeth.
“Perhaps you’d care for a hand or two?” Rochford tapped the cards with a mocking smile.
“No.”
“A glass of wine then?” He picked up his wine and sipped.
Verity felt very foolish and very angry, chiefly at herself. There was nothing to do but sneak home again. She turned away.
He was suddenly behind her, his hands heavy on her shoulders. “Come, come. I deserve something for my trouble. I refused a very attractive invitation to hang about here like a mooncalf. A kiss at least, I think. Before I send you packing.” He pivoted her on the polished wooden floor. He was very strong. He smiled as he bent toward her.
Given a new target, Verity’s bad temper took control. With the side of her fist, she hit him as hard as she could, square on the nose. She knew from an unfortunate encounter with a cricket ball when she was six years old that this was a very sensitive spot.
“Ow!” Rochford jerked back, though he didn’t let her go. “You vixen.” His blue eyes watered. He shook her. Verity twisted in his grasp and prepared to hit him again.
There was a resounding bang below, followed by pounding footsteps. The door burst open, revealing Lord Randolph Gresham. Verity felt her humiliation complete. Of all the people who might have found her here, he was the last she wished to see.
Rochford released her. “Really?” he said.
Lord Randolph bared his teeth. He hurtled in, plucked one of the sabers from the wall above the fireplace, and brandished it at Rochford.
“What the devil?” said their inadvertent host.
Lord Randolph lunged and slashed at him. Rochford jumped out of the way. “Have you lost your mind?”
The saber whistled through the air again. Rochford leaped aside. Hard pressed, he grabbed the second saber from the wall and defended himself. The clash of metal filled the room as they moved back and forth, striking and parrying. Verity was startled to realize that Lord Randolph was by far the better swordsman. He was astonishing. He moved around the room like a great predatory cat. He made Rochford look clumsy and oafish. This Lord Randolph was nothing like a boring country parson.
“You’ve pinked me, you lunatic!” cried Rochford after a clanging interval. He dropped the saber and gripped his upper arm.
“I’ll do worse if you ever mention this night to a living soul,” Lord Randolph replied.
“Good God, you should go on the stage,” said Rochford. When Lord Randolph waved the saber under his nose, he added, “Yes, yes, I’m sworn to silence. Word of honor, et cetera. Now will you get out?”
Gripping Verity’s upper arm, Lord Randolph pulled her from the room.
Pearson stood on the landin
g, gripping a fireplace poker. “Stand back,” Lord Randolph said to him.
“Have you killed Mr. Rochford?”
“Of course not,” replied Lord Randolph impatiently.
“Pearson!” the former called from inside.
The valet dropped the poker with a clang and shoved past Verity. Lord Randolph pulled her onto the staircase just as the servant’s foot came down on the pooled cloth of her skirts. For a moment, Verity was suspended between the two points, then there was a ripping sound. Seams parted in her old cloak and the waist of her gown before Pearson moved on.
Lord Randolph hustled her down the stairs. “Let go,” Verity said.
He didn’t until they were out the door and across the street to a waiting hack. It was full dark now. The vehicle’s lanterns offered the only light. Lord Randolph practically threw her into the seat. “Drive,” he commanded as he jumped in after her.
He was breathing hard. Verity could hear it above the clop of the horse’s hooves. She could also feel a stream of air along her side where her dress had torn. Her mind was awhirl.
Randolph panted. Not from exertion, but from the lingering effects of the…temporary insanity that had caused him to skewer Rochford in his own home, with one of his own sabers. “I’m a peaceable, reasonable man,” he said. “Yet somehow you, uniquely, drive me to extraordinary excesses.”
“I do?”
“How could you go to that man’s house? If ever there was a bird-witted—”
“I went there to rescue Olivia,” Verity interrupted.
“As did I. But she wasn’t there. You were.” Randolph shook his head, hoping the movement might reorder his scattered wits.
“How did you find out?”
“Hilda.” He shook his head again. “If there’s a secret within a mile of her, that girl discovers it. I thought that if anyone had heard about your friend—”
“Oh, now you admit that I have a friend in trouble. Had. I thought.”
If he’d listened then, perhaps they wouldn’t be here now, Randolph thought. And yet, in an odd way, his jealous thoughts of Rochford had turned out to be prescient, if skewed.
