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Four figures appeared at the hall, blocking Malcom’s line of vision. He quietly cursed. “What are you—”

“Ya surely aren’t going to ask wot we’re doing?” Bram cut him off.

“Actually, I had—”

“Because the only person deserving of that question isya,” the old tosher went on. “Wot in blazes are yadoing?”

“Wot’s the girl doing?” Fowler demanded.

“Righting wrongs,” Malcom murmured, not taking his gaze from his wife.

An elbow collided with his side. Grunting, he glanced over at the old toshers.

Bram and Fowler wore matching frowns.

“What in hell was that for?” Malcom muttered, rubbing at the wounded flesh.

Fowler gave him another hard nudge. “Ya should be there when the Mrs. speaks to that bastard.”

“They are worried again,” Livvie said by way of explanation. As if there could be a doubt to the “they” in question, the girl motioned to Bram and Fowler.

“Bloody right, we are worried.” Bram nodded. “Go to her now, boy.”

This time, Malcom evaded the next blow the old toshers sent flying.

“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.”