Page 48

“Oh?”

That response was muffled by the fabric covering his mouth.

“There’s any number of easy treatments. Why, Bertha hardly suffers any bouts of rheumy.”

“Ya don’t shut up, do ya?” he murmured from behind the towels, this time without the previous malice.

“I told you I didn’t. But I prefer to think of it as ‘speaking a lot’ and not so much as ‘not shutting up.’”

His shoulders shook slightly in a silent laugh.

“Now, pay attention. The remedies, I’ll write them down for you.” Verity scanned the gleaming surface of Malcom’s immaculate desk. There wasn’t so much as an inkwell or pen contained within the neat tray along the top. “A pencil. A pencil,” she muttered, bringing the lid up; the well-oiled hinges didn’t so much as squeak a warning.

Bending over the desk, she peered inside, and her gaze collided with a small, official scrap of paper.

Mr. North,

I well understand the most recent of your instructions; however, as your man-of-affairs, it is my duty to inform you that I will require an additional meeting so we might discuss the transfer of ownership of properties.

“Wot are they?”

“What, indeed,” she murmured. It took a moment to register that it had been Mr. Bram who’d spoken.“Hmm.”She blinked slowly, still riveted by the intriguing words dashed in a flawless scrawl. And then she jolted. “Oh, uh—yes! The remedies. The first is rose water. You’ll need to mix it with a dash of diluted honey, and it will make a fine paste that you can apply to both eyes.”

Even as she prattled on those directives, her mind spun and raced. It wasn’t her business. Mr. North’s affairs were his own ... and yet, as a woman whose entire existence had become shaped by asking questions and exploring peculiarities, she could no sooner halt her questions from coming than she could will herself to stop breathing.

Mr. North had a man-of-affairs? It was as though Mr. North had carried her to some upside-down world where nothing made sense and everything was murky. How else to explain why a ruthless stranger running through the sewers should have ... a man-of-affairs.

“And then, there’s chamomile,” she murmured distractedly. “You’ll need a dash of dried flowers, and add it to a cup of hot water.” By rote, she recited the remainder of the instructions to Mr. Bram, and resumed reading.

Baron Bolingbroke’s been divested of all his properties.

“Bolingbroke,” she whispered, that name blaring in her mind, familiar for the number of times she’d seen it and written of it herself. Her heart kicked up a beat, this frantic rhythm having nothing to do with the earlier fear. She quickly worked her gaze over the handful of sentences written there in that meticulous scrawl.

“Wot?” Mr. Bram asked, reaching for the linen.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, and that stayed his hands. She read the remainder of the words written there.

In the meantime, per your request, I’ve issued severance to the staff at your property located at:

4 Grosvenor Square.

Each will be suitably vacant, per your request.

Respectfully,

Sanders

Your Man-of-Affairs

Verity remained absolutely motionless; unable to so much as draw a single breath into her lungs, her mind whirred and careened. Impossible. Only ... Verity did a sweep of the lavish furnishings. Considered the man who lived amongst this palace in the pits of hell. Devilishly handsome, wicked, and yet possessed of a smooth, clipped English suited for any fine parlor.

She rocked back on her heels as the truth slammed into her. He was ... Maxwell. The man whose story her future—Bertha’s and Livvie’s futures—hinged upon.

She’d found him. Giddy in ways that she’d not been in more years than she could recall, Verity found a giggle climbing up her throat as she worked her eyes once more over the words written to the Earl of Maxwell. Afraid they’d change. Afraid that, in her hope for a future and security, she’d even now merely imagined the words written there.

“May I help you, Miss Lovelace?”

That lethal purr sounded from the front of the room, a silky taunt.