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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 hedidknow 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 outtogether.”

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.”