Page 23 of Lady Liar (A Series of Senseless Complications #5)

“The point is, you could have done it. Would it have cost a lot?”

“No, not too much. My friend would’ve sketched it for free, so then it was just the printing to pay for. I was only to do it on Berwick Street, not paper all of London with it.”

Well, that was something to think about, was it not? Lilith very much doubted that Lord Wembly would continue to be interested in a lady if she’d made herself notorious for being a liar. Perhaps Lilith could even assign a nickname. “Lady Fiction” sounded just about right.

“Clara,” she said, “might you arrange a meeting with this young man who sketches?”

*

Though Valor and Winsome were beyond put out that they did not win the scavenger hunt and therefore did not win the bejeweled mirror, Verity could not give a toss about it.

As far as she was concerned, the thing had come off perfectly.

Somehow, she’d solved two clues! She’d been so afraid that she’d be found out as stupid, but she’d solved two clues. It almost felt like a miracle.

It occurred to her that since she was effectively locked out of all the knowledge in books, she’d paid careful attention to any piece of information she’d heard.

Winsome might have remembered the vicar’s sermon about Moses and the bronze snake, but she hadn’t.

Her head was too filled up with information she’d read in books to recall a passing word from the vicar. Verity’s own head was not so filled up.

Thomas had brought in the tea tray, replete with the miniature apple cakes.

Winsome said, “The apple cakes are special, only our cook makes them exactly like this. But don’t try to find out how. Our aunt, Lady Marchfield, tried to get the recipe for her own cook but ours said no.”

“Papa calls our aunt Lady Misery,” Valor said, laughing, “and she was pretty miserable that day! Also, Papa says she’s a polecat sticking her nose into hen houses that are not her own. It’s so funny because she gets so mad about it.”

Lord Wembly’s eyes had gone rather wide at those descriptions. Verity said, “My father and my aunt often…cross swords.”

Sir Galahad made his appearance in the drawing room, no doubt having been napping in Valor’s room.

“There he is,” Lord Wembly said, as Sir Galahad trotted in. “It cannot be denied—he really is tremendous.”

“I know,” Valor said. “And just think, he could have been drowned in the Thames if I hadn’t got my father’s gun and put a stop to it. If anybody ever tries to hurt him again, I’ll shoot them full of holes. Or I’ll have Thomas do it. Then who will be sorry?”

Not surprisingly, Lord Wembly appeared even more startled to hear this information.

“Perhaps no actual guns were involved,” Verity said softly.

“They practically were, though,” Valor said. “Because I would have got one if I had to. It’s the same.”

“If not precisely the same,” Lord Wembly said, “then at least very like. After all, it is the thought and intent behind the thing that really matters.”

“That’s what I think,” Valor said. “If I would have got a gun, then I practically did get a gun.”

“Quite right,” Lord Wembly said.

Valor nodded. Then she paused. “Oh no,” she whispered. She pointed at Lord Wembly. “I know what you’re doing! You’re trying to get me to like you.”

Lord Wembly laughed. “Would that be a crime?”

Valor hopped from the sofa and swept Sir Galahad into her arms. “We’re going!” she said, marching out of the drawing room.

“Good effort, though,” the duke said as his youngest daughter flounced out.

The duke had so far been enjoying his second apple cake.

He gestured to Winsome. “Why don’t you show me that book on the back bookshelf you’ve been talking about for days.

The one with the innocent girl trapped in a damp castle full of ghosts. ”

Winsome agreed, though Verity knew perfectly well that the last thing her father would be interested in was a book about an innocent girl trapped in a damp castle full of ghosts. She hoped she was not blushing over this obvious gambit to give her a moment alone with Lord Wembly.

Her father and sister went to the back of the drawing room. Verity said, “It was very kind to indulge Valor. And you ought not feel singled out for her disapproval. She’s done it to everybody.”

“Who is everybody?” Lord Wembly asked, looking amused.

“Oh, well, you know how it is. Any gentleman coming into the house.”

“Ah. Suitors, then.”

Verity felt very backed into a corner. Yes, of course it was suitors that Valor disapproved of. However, she had not meant to hint that Lord Wembly was a suitor. She thought he was. She hoped he was. But she could not say so!

“All men. All men who come into the house,” she said nonsensically.

“I see. As for me, I hope to win Lady Valor over at some point. She now understands my intentions.”

“Intentions. Yes,” she said. It was a very stupid sort of answer. But what did he mean by it? His intentions to do what?

“I suppose my intentions, in general, would be hard to misunderstand,” Lord Wembly said.

Verity smiled dumbly. Was he saying what she thought he said? Or was he saying something she did not comprehend? Was he saying his intentions were toward her? It seemed as if that was what he said. But he did not say that exactly.

She felt she ought to be more sure of what he meant. For all she knew, this type of thing was explained in a book somewhere and everybody knew about it. All she had to go on was her instincts and sometimes her instincts were not very good. She could not make a mistake here.

“I hope I don’t flatter myself in imagining our intentions are similar?” Lord Wembly said.

“No, I would not think so,” Verity said.

If he said what she thought he said, then he said that they both had intentions toward each other.

Romantic intentions. Which, of course, she could heartily agree with.

But why could he not come out and say it?

Gracious, this sort of cloudy and roundabout speech would not be put up with in the Dales.

There, a person would be directed to say what they meant.

Or, as Mr. Wicker was forever shouting, “Say it as it is!” She could not demand it like Mr. Wicker would, though.

They sat in silence for some moments and the awkwardness of it was almost painful. Then, Lord Wembly said, “Have you read any good books lately?”

“Books?” Verity said, her teacup clattering on its saucer. The question had so startled her. It had also brought back around the question of what she was to tell Lord Wembly about her relationship with books, which was no relationship at all. Or when. Or how.

What was she to say? No, Lord Wembly, I’ve not read any good books lately because I’ve not read a book in my entire life. I’ve pretended to read them, if that helps.

It was hard to know how to mention it. It was hard to know when to say something.

If she were to broach it now, was she presuming an intent on his side that she thought was there, but he’d not come out and said was there?

Because, of course, it would be revealing very personal information.

But then, if she waited too long…If he proposed and then she told him… He would not be able to back out then.

It would crush her if he turned from her over her inability to read. But then it would crush her more if he were to feel stuck with her. If he were to think he would not have gone forward if he’d known.

But how did one tell somebody that they were stupid? Particularly, how did one tell an intellectual who belonged to The Royal Society that they were stupid?

The duke and Winsome returned to the tea tray, the duke with a book in his hand. “Well,” he said, “Winny has finally done it. She’s talked me into reading one of these masterpieces of murder and mayhem that she likes so well.”

“You’ll like it, Papa,” Winsome said. “Arabella is such an innocent creature, and she is surrounded by evil forces. I will admit, I was a little bit aggravated with her in the beginning, as who goes to live in a damp and dreary castle with only the old grandmother who never comes out of her rooms, and the baron who looks as if he’s thinking evil thoughts all the time, and doors slamming on their own, and a misty lady who keeps disappearing down corridors?

I thought, why does she not just leave?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a story if she did,” the duke said, laughing. “Arabella went to the castle, and it was eerie so she left and went on to live happily. The end.”

“That’s true,” Winsome admitted. “In any case, aside from her lack of judgment about not leaving, it’s a cracking good story.”

“You hear that, Wembly?” the duke said, laughing. “This is the sort of literature I allow my girls to read. I ought to be more strict about it, I suppose.”

The longer the conversation centered on books, the more uncomfortable Verity got. Winsome seemed to sense it and said, “Lord Wembly, my papa and Verity will attend Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic on the morrow. I suppose you go too?”

“Oh yes, the candlelight picnic. I’ve not gone in the past, as I have been too taken up with Royal Society matters. However, my aunt favors it and I will escort her.”

“Hah!” the duke said, “not so taken up with that society of yours these days, are you? Well, good thing, is what I say. You’re welcome to stay on for dinner today if you like. We eat early. Valor, you know. Gets tired if we run it too late.”

Winsome nodded. “Tired Valor is scary Valor,” she said with a snort.

“It would be welcome, indeed, Your Grace. But I have promised to take Lady Pegatha to a card party this evening.”

“Hard duty, that,” the duke said.

Lord Wembly laughed. “I rather think it will be. Things like that never seem too onerous when one agrees to them, but then on the day…”

“Well, nothing for it,” the duke said. “Can’t let the old girl down.”

Lord Wembly rose to take his leave. “I will see you both at Lady Jellerbey’s candlelight picnic on the morrow.”

“Yes, yes,” the duke said. “Dashed strange evening but the sideboards are good. Find us in the dark!”

Lord Wembly smiled. “I certainly will do.” He bowed. “Lady Verity, until tomorrow.”

“Yes, Lord Wembly,” she said, for utter lack of any other words. What an afternoon! Had he positively said something? Had he not?

Verity had not really understood her older sisters’ confusion and bouncing feelings from one thing to the next when it had been their seasons. It had felt as if it were all much ado about nothing. But really, if this is how they’d been talked to, it was not very surprising!

Of course, her sisters did not have the added burden of trying to figure out how and when to acquaint Lord Wembly with her less than impressive intellect.

Verity did not know where she stood. She did not know what to do. She must make a decision, though.

Perhaps if he hinted again about intentions. That must be the right time. Even if she discovered she’d misread the situation.

Of course, she might never know if she’d misread it. He was a gentleman. If he wished to run the other direction upon becoming acquainted with her lack of intellect, he would do so politely.

On the other hand, she could not let it go on too late. She could not trap him into a commitment he’d wish he never made. If the intentions he spoke about were what she thought they were, then he must go into it cleareyed.

Yes, that really was the right choice. The very next time he mentioned intentions or anything at all like it, she would tell him.

The decision filled her with dread. She might lose her chance at real happiness.

Still, it must be done.