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Wasn’t it? Even as Verity spent her days searching for work at other scandal sheets and newspapers, she returned in the early-afternoon hours with a greater relief than she’d ever known to have a safe, comfortable roof over her head. One that did not leak. “This is for all of us,” she finally said.

“We have to leave, Verity,” Bertha warned, helping slide the dress off; the fine French satin rippled over her skin, gloriously soft and smooth.

And the rub of it was ... Verity knew as much. Even as Fowler and Bram had been gracious enough to give her and her family shelter, now that the papers had run free with the erroneous story about Verity’s actual place in this household, she was on borrowed time. She knew that she merely played make-believe and had stolen these moments of security, but they could only ever be temporary. Malcom wasn’t one who’d remain ignorant to the sham she’d perpetuated here in West London, and he was not one who’d turn a cheek to that affront.

Particularly not when the guilty party is you ...

“Here, step into the water, gel,” her old nursemaid said gruffly, misinterpreting the reason for Verity’s shivering.

Verity tugged off her undergarments and dunked one foot into the steaming bath.

She sighed and sank under the scented depths until the bubbled water concealed her shoulders. “No one was supposed to be here,” she reminded Bertha.

“Aye, but they are. And we’ve worn out our welcome with the one who matters. It’s only a matter of time before he comes for you ...” That ominous warning echoed in the air.

“We’ll leave.” All her stomach muscles contracted, and Verity closed her eyes. They’d perish. A sheltered Livvie, an older woman, and Verity, with her experience working at a newspaper, didn’t have the skills or references to do anything other than the career she’d come to love.

Bertha grunted. “That’s the wise choice. We’ve coin enough to find smaller apartments.”

Yes, but for how long? A week?

“Verity, if we stay here, we hang,” Bertha said quietly.

Oh, and Miss Lovelace? If you cross me again, I’ll ruin you ...

Verity bit the inside of her cheek, scrabbling that flesh, welcoming the sting of discomfort over the fear that the mere echo of his warning instilled. She rested her head along the back of the porcelain tub and stared at the cheerful mural overhead. The recessed ceiling was intricately lined in gold with an oval carved at the center. Set within was a pale-blue, cloud-filled sky, that pretend window out to the world, as make-believe as the life Verity had stolen these past days as her own.

Except the faintest sheen of dust dulled the green inlay border, a taunting reminder that all this was a sham. All of it.

“Soon,” she allowed before her courage deserted her.

“It’s the right decision, gel.” And as if she worried Verity might change her mind and debate her on the point if she lingered, Bertha quit the rooms.

As soon as she’d gone, Verity slipped under the water, submerging her ears and tunneling out all sounds but for the muted beat of her heart. She hated that Bertha was right, just as she hated that there were no options for them now. But then, there’d never truly been options. Not for women born outside the peerage. For that was what Verity had been the moment her mother had given her heart and body to an earl unwilling to marry outside his station. And for it, the pair that had been Verity’s parents had doomed her and Livvie to their untenable fate.

Verity exploded from the water, gasping for a proper breath.

Damn them both.

She reached around for the cloth that had been draped somewhere along the side of the tub ... when someone slipped that cloth into her hands.

Bertha. Verity set her teeth. She’d already secured Verity’s agreement. “I’ve already agreed with you. Tomorrow is the day. You needn’t worry that I’ve changed my mind.”

“And tell me, Verity, what might you have changed your mindabout?” At that steely whisper, Verity went absolutely motionless. Blood whooshed in her ears, smothering that voice. Slowly, she wiped the cloth over her eyes, brushing away the moisture. And then she held that fabric there.

Because as long as she didn’t look at the owner of that low baritone, she needn’t confront him and his fury. A palpable, thrumming one that vibrated in that coolly asked question.

Except ... she’d made many mistakes in her life, but there was one certainty: she was no coward.

Reluctantly, Verity lowered the cloth.

Malcom sat with a hip perched on the opposite end of the bath; his gaze trained on her face. “Hello, Verity.” That all-too-familiar, menacing grin that she’d come to recognize as patently false. “Or should I say ...wife?”

Chapter 17

THE LONDON GAZETTE

THE HEART OF A GENTLEMAN ...