Malcom looked away, confirming everything that had just slid into place.
It all made sense now.
He made sense now.
“I did it because I hated them.” Fury rolled off Malcom in palpable waves, and there could be no doubting he spoke of Lord Bolingbroke and his family. He seethed as he spoke. “I took it all because why should they have known any comfort when they’d stripped me of mine?”
She weighed her words a moment. “No one will ever believe you aren’t deserving of your hatred and every other emotion you’re feeling for what was taken from you . . . and what was lost. And yet”—Verity tapped the ledger—“you didn’t let your hatred destroy you.” Hadn’t that been her earliest opinion of him? “You used your resentment to give to others whom you saw as more deserving than that family who’d wronged you. You gave away belongings that were rightfully yours, the ones linking you to your past and your family, Malcom, and gave them new beginnings to help others.”
A muscle rippled along his jaw in the only outward reaction that he’d been affected by her words. “I don’t have a family.”
And then it hit her like a blow to the chest all over again. They were the reason he kept the world at bay. Even if he himself didn’t realize the intent behind his guardedness. His insistence that friends were associates and his desire for complete isolation. “You did. And now, you have a new family. In Fowler, Bram, and Giles.”
The grip he had upon the arms of his chair drained all the blood from his knuckles, leaving that scarred flesh white.
“I thought we’d agreed your interviews would be conducted in the evening.”
She was unable to stifle the hurt at his response. “That isn’t the reason for my questions or words, Malcom. Not everything is about . . . that.”
“Isn’t it?” he asked curiously. He leaned forward in his chair, dropping his elbows on the desk, and proceeded to study her the way she’d observed the tiniest bugs crawling in the soil of her and her mother’s Surrey cottage property.
“Not for me.”
He continued to search her face. “Then why did you seek me out?”
Her heart broke for the wary way in which he moved through life. How very exhausting . . . How very lonely it must be for him. “Livvie and I intended to journey to Hatchards. I thought you might join us.” There was a beat of silence.
“Hatchards.”
“It is a bookshop.”
His gaze grew distant over her shoulder. “I know what Hatchards is.”
Just as he’d been familiar with Gunter’s and Hyde Park. Whether he knew it or not, those small revelations offered a window into who his parents had been. Only . . . mayhap he did know it. Mayhap that was what made him so very determined to keep out the memories of what had been. And of what he’d lost.
“For appearances’ sake, of course,” she said when he still didn’t speak. Not because I yearn for your company and enjoy being about with you. Liar. “Simply, it would be beneficial if we were seen about.” Stop talking. Verity bunched her skirts, noisily wrinkling the light silk cloak. She made herself stop, and smoothed her palms along the top of one of his many ledgers. “If we were seen out together.”
Setting down his pen, he cracked his knuckles. “I’ve an appointment.”
Did she simply hear regret in his voice because she wished it? “Oh,” she said dumbly, unable to explain the flood of disappointment that swept her.
What did you expect him to say? That he wanted to join you?
As if on cue, there was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Malcom’s voice boomed.
A moment later, the aging butler pushed the door open and admitted a tall, heavily scarred man. A very familiar one.
“A . . . Mr. Giles,” the servant announced, his wizened features pulled as if pained by that introduction.
Verity sat upright.
With a wool cap and coarse garments, none would ever dare confuse the man for one of the Grosvenor Square world. Having feared him at their first meeting, Verity now found there was a comfort in being in the company of someone who didn’t fit with Polite Society. People who were like her. In ways that even Malcom wasn’t.
The ancient butler shifted on his feet. “Do you require anything else, my lord?” he asked when no directives were coming.
A bark of laughter burst from Mr. Giles, earning a dark glare from Malcom. A look that would have quelled most men. Except this one.
“That’ll be all,” Malcom excused the servant, and with a speed suited to one thirty years his junior, Coleman bolted from the room.
The moment the butler had closed the door, Malcom’s associate exploded into another round of laughter. “Why, hello, my lord.” He sketched a bow so deep as to be mocking. “And here I thought you were going to invite me for a spot of tea,” he jested in an impressive rendition of the crispest English accent.
“Go to hell,” Malcom muttered as he snapped his books closed, and set to organizing them.
Verity hovered in her seat, forgotten, taking in the exchange between Malcom and the other tosher. At their first meeting, she’d been riddled with unease at his presence. And yet, unlike her make-believe husband, who kept a careful mask in place, his smile creeping out with the same reluctance as the English sun, Mr. Giles freely teased and laughed. Mayhap that was why Malcom had taken him on as the friend he referred to as an associate. Mayhap he unknowingly welcomed that levity in his otherwise stark world.
When it became apparent that no introductions were forthcoming, Verity stood, and setting down Malcom’s ledger, she crossed over to his friend. “Mr. Giles. As Malcom will not do the honors and no formal introduction was made at our last exchange, welcome.” She held her hand out. “I am”—not truly a countess, and neither of them had been born to the nobility as Malcom had been—“Verity,” she settled for. “Please, call me Verity.”
As Mr. Giles placed his sole palm in hers, she caught the glare Malcom leveled her way. Or mayhap it was reserved for Mr. Giles.
More likely, it was reserved for the both of them.
Giles looked at her for a moment and then doffed his hat. “These are altogether different circumstances than our first meeting.”
A smile pulled at her lips. “Indeed.”
He leaned down. “If anyone had told me the day you arrived to speak with North that he’d go and marry you, I’d have directed that blighter on to Bedlam.” He winked.
“And I would have clarified the directions for that blighter,” she said, her smile deepening.
Tossing his head back, Mr. Giles erupted into another booming chuckle.
“If you’re quite done,” Malcom snapped, “we’ve business to see to.”
Verity’s smile instantly withered. Malcom’s words were a reminder that all this was pretend: Their relationship. Even the introductions between her and his associate. She wasn’t part of his world. Even the exchanges in which they’d shared parts of themselves—all of it had been driven by their arrangement. And she’d be wise to remember as much. “Forgive me; I’ll leave you both to your meeting.”
And as she let herself out, foolish as it was, she found herself wishing that Malcom had wanted to join her at Hatchards.
Chapter 24
THE LONDONER
Despite appearances amongst Polite Society, it is reported that at various points of the day, the Earl of Maxwell . . . disappears. And the ton is left with one more question about the gentleman: Where does he go?
M. Fairpoint
Having ridden from Grosvenor Square to the wharves of London, Malcom had thought he’d managed to escape the questioning.
Alas, knowing Giles as he had through the years, he’d merely been deluding himself.
“How is married life?” Giles asked as they walked the less traveled shore of the Thames.
“Go to hell,” he muttered.
“So as well as one would expect,” the other man said dryly with his nub adjusting his tosher pole against his should
er. “And yet, also well enough that you’ve not gone out nightly.”
There was a question there. “I’ve had other work I’ve had to see to.” It was why he’d put Giles in charge in his absence. “Unless it’s been too difficult—”
The other man snorted. “Now you can go to hell.”
Malcom kept his gaze forward. Giles was entitled to his skepticism. Since Malcom had started scavenging sewers as a boy, there’d not been a single day of rest. His had been a purpose-driven existence.
It hadn’t been eating ices at Gunter’s and skipping stones at Hyde Park. It hadn’t been her . . . Verity Lovelace . . . with her endearing tendency to prattle on about Epsom salts and English history with like skill.
And yet, now that it was . . . now . . . those moments held on.
Beckoned.
And suddenly, this wasn’t quite what it once had been.
It wasn’t what it had been at all.
“Are you ready?”
There was a hesitancy in Giles’s voice.
And Malcom glanced around.
They’d arrived.
“Of course I’m ready,” he said tightly, and not allowing another question, he made his way into the tunnel first. Giles followed close behind, dragging the grate back into place, shutting out the light and plunging them into darkness.
There’d always been a thrill in stealing under London’s cobblestones and uncovering the treasures buried below.
Except as they ventured along, slogging through the murky water, why was the thrill missing this time? Why, as he waded through muck and refuse, was Malcom even now thinking about Verity walking the aisles of Hatchards? Or wondering about the books she read? He’d venture material related to the work she did. Or mayhap she didn’t? Mayhap she sought a diversion—
Something slammed into him.
Grunting, Malcom went flying forward. He managed to bring his tosher pole up, catching himself in time before he hit the water.
Behind him there was a sharp rumble and a crash.
Heart pounding, he stared at the small pile of bricks that rested where he’d been standing. Good God. It was the height of carelessness. Underground, a man had to be even more alert than one was on the streets. Here, even the ceiling and walls represented danger. And Malcom hadn’t made a misstep, hadn’t allowed himself to be distracted from the work at hand . . . since he’d started out at this life.
“I don’t . . . Thank—”
Giles waved him off. “That’s what friends do.”
Friends.
You refer to Bram and Fowler as “your people.” You call Giles an “associate.” All of these defenses that you put up, these choices of words that strip away closeness from your connections, they cannot truly conceal the truth . . . I know that you’re protecting yourself by pretending that they don’t matter . . .
They were friends. He and Giles. And they had been since the moment he’d rescued the other man from certain death, and had been all the times Giles had been there for him. And owning that connection to another person didn’t leave him weak. Verity had shown him that.
Everything was changing.
And he’d been so damned certain he didn’t want any of it to change.
He’d been content with his life as it was and hadn’t desired anything more.
At least, that was what he’d told himself. He’d told himself as much so many times, he’d actually believed it.
He scrubbed a hand over his face.
She’d been right about so much.
“You’re out of practice,” Giles said without inflection. And at any time before this moment, Malcom would have lashed out like a wounded beast at the insinuation. He’d have driven the other man into the pavement and asserted his place in these parts.
“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice softly echoing off the bricks.
“And . . . it’s all right if you are,” the other man—his friend—went on. “If you don’t want to spend your nights scrounging sewers, you could stop now.” Giles chuckled. “You could have stopped almost ten years ago, by my estimation.”
Malcom stared at the tosher pole in his fingers, the one Fowler had given him and commanded him to never let go of. And he hadn’t. “It’s all I’ve known.” It is all I want to know.
Isn’t that what he’d meant? Why hadn’t he said that?
“Aye.” They resumed their trek through the ankle-deep water, skimming their poles over the stone flooring as they went, dragging a small current in their wake, when Giles paused. “But do you know something?” The other man didn’t wait for an answer. “This.” He gestured with the place his left hand should be. “This is all I’ve known, too. But, North?” Giles held his gaze. “If someone came to me tomorrow and told me I was a damned baron, duke, or any other fancy lord, I wouldn’t spit in the face of the universe. I’d grab that chance to get out of these parts and never look back.” He jammed his tosher pole toward Malcom. “And none of us, not Bram, not Fowler, not me, nor anyone, would begrudge you leaving this shitehole.”
How easy Giles made it all sound. Only this wasn’t simply about living in the lap of luxury; it was where that lap was located. And all that went with it. And in Malcom’s case . . . all that had once gone with it, too.
“And don’t be a smug, all-knowing bastard.”
“I didn’t say anything,” he muttered.
“I know you well enough. You didn’t need to. You’re thinking you don’t belong there. Well, I’ve news for you, Lord Maxwell: you don’t belong here, either.”
That barb struck.
“Oh, go to hell, North. I didn’t say what I said to get under your skin.”
The other man’s words, however he’d intended them, had grated because of their unswerving accuracy.
For what Giles proposed . . . it wasn’t just about Malcom leaving this world . . . It was about entering a new one. One that he’d been born to, but didn’t truly belong to. Not because of what he’d done. But rather, because of who he’d been. The darkest parts of him were indelibly tied to who he would always be. “Like I said, I’ve got no place there,” he said with an underscore of finality. Even as he acknowledged as much aloud, memories slipped in: Verity with her palms over his eyes as they played word riddles. Verity stuffing a spoon of ice in his mouth.
Could he live that life away from this place . . . and could he do it with her?
Sweat slicked his palms, and he adjusted his hold on his tosher pole.
“You’ve got someone who can help you figure out how to navigate there, too.”
It took a moment for both the statement and the meaning behind Giles’s suggestion to sink in.
Verity.
His neck heated. “You’re mad.” Except . . . why is it such a mad idea? a voice whispered at the back of his brain.
“Because you don’t like the gel?”
Nay, Malcom liked her well enough. He winced. Nay, he liked her a good deal more than that. A good deal more than he’d liked anyone.
“Or is it the whole matter of her being with the newspaper and whatever deal you forced her to agree to?”
“That’s decidedly closer,” he mumbled, and started on. “We’re business partners, and nothing more.”
Giles snorted. “Aye, business partners. Though in fairness, we’re business partners, and I’ve never seen you eyeing me the way you eye that—” The remainder of that thought dissolved in laughter as Malcom splashed him.
“Can we get on with our work?” he groused, resuming his forward march through the tunnels. The bottom of his pole snagged something hard on the stone floor, and he shoved at it. He felt around the perimeter of the object, and then spearing it in the middle, he dragged the finding up along the wall. Wading through the water, Malcom removed the artifact from the end of his pole and studied it, turning the item over in his hands. An ornate gold-and-silver cuff bracelet.
It’d fetch a small fortune, and once would have elicited some greater sense of satisfaction.
> These belong to them, do they not? Lord Bolingbroke’s three sisters? . . . They are no more responsible for the decisions of their parents than you are responsible for what happened to you that night . . .
A bitter-to-his-own-ears-sounding chuckle shook his frame as he eyed the piece.
Oh, the bloody humor of it all. Here was he, the most merciless tosher of the rookeries, fishing out treasure and feeling badly about three women whom he’d never met and would never meet . . . women whose family had stolen all that had been slated in life for Malcom.
Good God, what madness had Verity Lovelace wrought upon both his sanity and his existence?
He tossed the bracelet back.
Whistling, Giles leapt forward with his arm outstretched, and caught the jewel before it struck the water, ringing it around his tosher pole. “I’ll take that.” Removing the bangle, he stuffed it into one of his many jacket pockets.
And as they continued their hunt, thankfully, the remainder in silence, Malcom couldn’t shake the thought his friend had put forward . . . about a future with he and Verity in it, together.
Chapter 25
THE LONDONER
TROUBLE IN PARADISE?
Lady Maxwell has been spotted at Hatchards . . . sans the Earl of Maxwell. Polite Society can only speculate as to whether there’s been a falling-out between the couple . . .
M. Fairpoint
Forty-two.
That was officially the count of questions her sister had put to Verity since the carriage ride and now short walk along the pavement to 89–90 Piccadilly, London.
“How come Malcom didn’t join us?” Because he continued to push her away. Nay, because he wanted to keep her out. Alas, neither were suitable responses for her young sister. “Or is it you that he didn’t wish to be with?” Verity opened her mouth. “Or mayhap it makes more sense that it is because I was coming that he didn’t wish to join?”
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