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Verity jumped to her feet with such speed her chair flew backward, landing with a heavy crash. Her heart pounding, she raced across the room and scrabbled with the door handle.

Locked.

Verity’s neck prickled with the heat of his approach. Her clumsy fingers struggled with the lock, and as it gave with a satisfying twist, she tossed the door open and raced out.

The hulking figure who’d greeted them at the back of the earl’s residence waited in the hall. Gathering her skirts, Verity darted around him. Waiting for him to shoot a hand out and catch the back of her skirts. Braced for it.

But it did not come.

Hurrying down the narrow stairwell, she followed the same path Malcom North had carried her down. An hour ago? A lifetime ago. As soon as she reached the outside, she lengthened her strides. And she didn’t stop running. She ran until her breath came in great, heaving spurts. Painful ones. And a stitch formed in her side.

Verity’s steps slowed, and she forced herself to continue on. Knowing he was close.

She felt him and his presence.

Mayhap he’d been correct and she was mad, after all. For no sane woman would have ventured into the lair of Lord Maxwell.

But she’d not known what had awaited her there ... who had awaited her.

At last, the bakery that had come to be home pulled into focus, and a relief so great swept through her she was nearly dizzy from the power of it. Verity forced her screaming muscles to move the remaining way to the bakery and the small stairwell that led to her apartments. The moment she reached the landing, the door exploded open.

“Verity,” her younger sister cried out. She burst through the doorway and tossed herself into Verity’s arms.

With a grunt, Verity staggered under that slight weight, and managed to keep them both from tumbling back down the stairs.

She folded her arms around her younger sister.

“Bertha came back and you didn’t, and she didn’t know where you were.” Her sister’s words rolled together, muffled against the fabric of her dress.

Nay, this wasn’t her dress. This belonged to another.

She glanced over her shoulder, more than half-fearing that Malcom would even now be there, waiting. Watching.

“Come,” she said, setting her sister aside. “We should go inside.”

Bertha stood wringing her hands. “Oh, saints preserve, gel.” The old woman’s eyes closed. “You made it.”

The moment Verity closed and locked the door, the questions came flying.

“Where were you?” Livvie demanded.

“You said you’d return in thirty minutes, gel,” Bertha chided, slapping a palm on the table. “Thirty minutes. It’s been hours, and—”

“What are you wearing?” Livvie blurted, silencing the room of all further questions.

Verity smoothed the fine muslin skirts. “A dress ...”

Her sister frowned. “Don’t be obtuse. Of course it’s a dress. It’s not, however,yourdress.”

Bertha came forward and stroked her fingers along the puffed sleeve. She whistled softly. “Fine garment. Finest you’ve ever worn.”

The pair stepped back, and lining up, they directed accusatory stares at Verity.

“I can explain ...” And then she proceeded to do just that; in her telling, she took care to avoid the details that would most alarm her sister: The perils in the tunnels. The stranger who’d carried her to safety and then to his lair. And who’d then kissed her. “I lost your slippers, Livvie,” she said, her voice breaking. Those finest of articles her young sister had cherished.

There were several beats of silence.

“You found him,” Livvie whispered. She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You did it.”