Page 43

Verity gave her head a slight, almost clearing, shake. “Do you believe he’s gone?”

It didn’t matter. She needed to leave.Thatwas the only answer that made sense. So why couldn’t he bring himself to get those words out?

For some inexplicable reason, he settled for vagueness. “I’m not certain.”

She sighed, and with a restless energy resumed her circle about his private rooms.

Making a show of watching the streets, he alternated his study of the outside view and the woman reflected back in the slightly smudged lead panels. Her steps were gliding ones. More in line with the men and women he’d spied at a frost fair years ago, skating on silver blades over the frozen Thames, than with a woman walking on her own two feet. Her hair hung loose down her back; the dark curls glistened in the candle’s glow. There was something compelling about her.

“It’s a stunning set.”

He started. His neck went hot at being caught woolgathering. “Beg pardon?” he asked gruffly.

Verity motioned before her, and he followed her vague gesturing to the burled-wood chess table and the embroidered chess set that rested atop it.

Malcom grunted. “Never played it.”

“Oh, you should learn,” she said almost cheerfully. One might forget what had brought them together this night and that she even now hid from those wishing her harm. “It’s been years since I’ve played.” There was a wistful quality to that admission. “We could always ...”

“What?” he asked tightly.

She lifted one shoulder. “It’s just, while we wait to be sure he’s gone, we might ...” She nodded at him as if he were supposed to understand what she was suggesting. Which would be bloody nigh impossible with this one. Every last word out of her mouth left him spun around, and upside down.

“What are you saying?” His question emerged sharper than he intended.

Either way, she gave no indication that she’d detected the crisp edge.

“That we might play chess, of course. I could teach you.”

“You, teach me?”

“Chess,” she reiterated. Pulling out a chair, she sat, and urged him over.

Good God, the minx was mad. Of course, he’d had confirmation of as much when he’d stumbled upon her. This was just a needless reminder. “I didn’t invite you for tea and biscuits,” he said flatly. Dismissing her outright, he tugged the curtains back for another sweep of the streets.

“No,” she murmured. “I know that. It just seemed a way for us to keep busy.”

Keep busy.He scoffed. What a rubbish phrase. The whole of his existence was devoted to his work and scouring the sewers. There was no need to “keep busy.” Hewasbusy.

Or perhaps he was the mad one, for Malcom found himself abandoning his place at the window, and joining her at the other end of that table. He yanked out the chair and seated himself.

Verity beamed, her full cheeks dimpling and her soft violet eyes aglow.

He’d never known a person could smile like that. All honest and real and luminous.

And then, as if she feared revealing her joy might make him quit the table, her smile slipped, and he lamented the loss of that earlier lightness. “Now,” she began, all matter-of-fact business that strangely proved as endearing as her earlier joy. “The chessboard is always arranged the same way. The second row”—she pointed to the area in question—“is filled with pawns. The rooks”—she gestured to those pieces—“they go in the corners, and the knights are next to them.” She held one of her two knights aloft. “Then there’re the bishops, and lastly the queen, who always goes on her own matching color, and the king on the remaining square.” Verity briefly paused in her telling to look up. “Have you gathered all that?”

“I think I’m following along sufficiently,” he drawled.

“Now, each of the six pieces are capable of different moves. You cannot go through another.” As if to illustrate that point, she knocked the rook in her hand against the pawn on her end of the board. “The knight, however, can jump”—she demonstrated, leaping one of her two knights over one of her pawns—“but you can’t ever move onto an area with one of his own pieces. You can use him to take the place of your opponent’s piece, which is then captured. This is the king,” she went on, lifting hers up. “He’s the most important but the weakest.”

As she prattled on with her instructions on that piece and all the remaining ones, he found his gaze drawn to her mouth as she spoke. That full lower lip and slightly narrower upper one that set her mouth into a perpetual pout. Hers was a mouth that conjured all manner of wicked imaginings of even more wicked delights to be known. “The other special rule is called ‘castling,’” she was saying, completely oblivious to his lust-filled musings over her mouth.

He tamped down a wave of disgust.

Get control of yourself.

Malcom forced himself to focus on his unlikely tutor’s words.