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Chapter 14

THE LONDONER

SQUALOR!

Upon his kidnapping, the Earl of Maxwell traded wealth and luxury for strife and sorrow. Of that, the world is certain. The world holds its breath, awaiting answers to the questions: What were his struggles, and why should he not gladly embrace his lost life amongst the peerage?

V. Lovelace

This was nothing short of a mistake.

Of course, it was not the first Malcom had made where this damned woman was concerned.

The last had proven costly.

So why did he even now lead her through the halls of his residence, and allow her any more of his time?

Because she possesses some mystifying pull you cannot explain, nor resist ...

He pushed back at the taunting gibe pinging in his head.

It would be far greater folly to send her on her way because of her past wrongs without finding out what the little deceiver sought from him this time.

They reached his offices, and he urged her on ahead of him.

The young woman hesitated; she peered tentatively inside, but made no move to enter. “These are not your offices,” she said with a canny smile, a product of herlastvisit.

“If you think I intend to show you any more of my private suites, then you’re even more cracked in the head than I’d originally taken you for in the sewers. Now move.”

With a snap of her muslin skirts, she swept inside with all the regal bearing of a queen, muttering something under her breath that sounded a good deal like “Well!”

The muscles of his mouth strained from what felt damningly like a grin drawing at the corners.

Entering behind her, Malcom drew the door shut.

Verity’s keen gaze touched on each corner of the room, those shrewd eyes taking in every detail. So that she could no doubt use it against him—again. Her stare briefly lingered on the chess table they’d played upon what felt a lifetime ago. He’d moved the damned thing out of his private suites and into his offices because he’d not wanted to be confronted with the memory of her in his rooms that night. The young woman ripped her gaze from the board and shifted it over to the unique metal piece hanging on the wall. She drifted over, presenting her back to him, highlighting yet another time that she didn’t belong to his world. Men, women, and children who’d lived in these streets knew one never turned their back—on anyone. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she murmured.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, leaning against the panel.

The young woman continued her examination. “What is it?” Her voice was hushed.

“An amputation saw,” he said, taking delight in the way she stiffened. It was best she knew whom—what—she was dealing with. Malcom pushed away from the door, and wound his way over. He stopped at her shoulder. Lowering his mouth close to her ear, he whispered, “Have you ever seen one, Verity?”

She gave an unsteady shake of her head. “N-no.”

He stretched a hand past her, and she drew into herself; the defensive response of her body inadvertently brought her back resting against his chest. Malcom motioned to the rusted steel. “See those locking nuts?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “That holds the blade in place. And here,” he went on in silken tones. “This ornate handle”—the mahogany had been carved into the shape of an eagle—“is what the surgeon would use to saw through muscle, skin, and bone.”

“Would?” She angled her head back slightly, revealing cheeks that sometime in his telling had gone pale.

Not taking his eyes from her, he retrieved the object in question.

Fear spilled from her gaze, and as he brought the saw lower, she recoiled.

Smirking, Malcom pressed the handle into her palm, and curled his hand around hers, forcing her to grip the saw. “The world oftentimes has a preference for the pretty”—he touched his gaze on her face—“things,” he finished. “So much so that they’d allow them where there’s no place for them.” He guided her hand in an up-and-down sawing motion. “See how awkward it is to grip,” he breathed against her ear. “Now imagine cutting through skin and muscle.” She quietly gagged but did not pull away.

“And do you have experience ... with using a surgeon’s saw?” she whispered, her voice faint.

Always working. The woman was always working. With his own devotion to the work he did, he’d be otherwise impressed—if the subject of her assignment weren’t, in fact, him. Either way, he’d hand it to her, that as horrified as she was—as he’d intended her to be—she asked those uncomfortable questions anyway.