In Bed with the Earl Read online

  They locked gazes in a tense battle—and yet, this battle was altogether different from any he’d ever fought before. This had nothing to do with life or death or a fortune to be made and then grown. This was simply about . . . playing a damned game. And damned if he wasn’t enjoying himself . . . and her company.

  Verity was the first to relent. “I suppose not,” she conceded, going back to her study of the board. Another fifteen beats of the clock passed as she hovered her hand over her pieces before settling on a pawn.

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the game. And this companionable silence was just as comfortable as their earlier discourse.

  Malcom slid his piece and knocked her queen. “Checkmate.”

  Verity didn’t move for several moments. Her eyes widened as she frantically scoured the board. “But . . . that’s . . . not possible.” She scrambled forward in her chair, and then moved her hand around the chessboard as if she re-created each of her previous steps.

  His lips twitched. “You were done at the beginning. Not only did it take away your control of the center, it blocked the center square for the knight. It didn’t allow development of any pieces, and also it seriously weakens safety of your king. Hence . . .” He waved the captured piece. “Chess pieces are like people. They should all be working for you.” It was how he’d built his empire. “Even your queen, at the onset.”

  Sputtering, Verity sat back in her seat. “Why . . . why . . . you’ve swindled me.”

  “Nay. One has to be playing for something in order to be swindled out of it.”

  “I don’t know if that’s true,” she groused.

  “It is,” he said bluntly.

  “But you said—”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t play, Verity. I said I hadn’t played this chessboard. You incorrectly assumed I hadn’t played with another.”

  She peered at him. “Are you a barrister?”

  “A . . . ?” And then that question fully registered. A laugh exploded from his chest, shaking his frame. Good God. Hers would be the first and last time that Malcom would ever find himself confused for a man on the right side of the law. “No.”

  “You argue like one,” she mumbled.

  A sharp knock at the door shattered their exchange, and with it ushered in reality.

  Climbing to his feet, Malcom stalked over to the door and yanked it open. “What?” he snapped.

  Bram peered boldly beyond his shoulder, over to where Verity remained seated, toying with a chess piece.

  “I asked ‘what,’” Malcom repeated.

  “Giles arrived. Wants to speak with you.”

  “I’m not taking company.” He made to shut the panel, but Bram shoved an elbow in the doorway.

  “Said it’s important.”

  Giles wasn’t one to ask for help. Not even when Malcom had first come upon him, buried under bricks from a cave-in, and his hand severed. Instead, he’d lifted up the middle finger on his sole remaining hand to convey just how much “help” he wanted from the then-stranger. In short, it was the one reason he’d taken him on as one of his associates.

  He let the old tosher in. “Keep Miss Lovelace . . . company, if you will?”

  He’d hand it to the woman. Anyone else would have wilted or plain fainted dead away at the sight of the towering, burly Bram. She dropped her head in greeting and, with the exception of a slight tremble to her hands, revealed no outward display of her nervousness. “Hullo.”

  More wary of strangers than even Malcom himself, which was saying much, the old man narrowed his eyes.

  Before Malcom turned to go, Verity called out. “Has he located our whereabouts?” she asked quietly.

  Our whereabouts.

  It was a singularly odd pairing of words from one in the rookeries. Here, people knew better than to put the collective welfare before one’s own well-being. Unnerved, he ignored her question. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  With that, he quit the rooms and found his way to the kitchens. Unable to make sense as he made the march through his household of the pull Verity Lovelace had that made him want to stay in his damned rooms, playing chess and baiting the spirited young woman.

  He reached the kitchens.

  Still attired in his heavily pocketed tosher trousers and jacket, Giles stood at the center of the kitchen, slopping water onto the floor. The moment he spied Malcom, he straightened. “There’s someone searching for you.”

  Again.

  Malcom tensed, as with that revelation, he at last managed to set aside thoughts of Verity Lovelace. Prior to that damned title being thrust upon him, Malcom had always faced threats from other men seeking to usurp him from his position of power in the sewers of London. Now, since Steele and the discovery of Malcom’s title, there’d been any number of others in pursuit of him, which had made it all the harder to discern who was the threat to be dealt with. “Who is he?”

  Giles glanced over to Fowler and back to Malcom. “There’ve been several strangers looking for a ‘lost earl.’”

  Oh, bloody hell. His stomach knotted.

  “Who?” he asked impatiently.

  “This time, they are reporters with newspapers.” Giles held his gaze. “And according to the people talking, they’ve begun searching the sewers for you.”

  Damn it all to hell.

  Chapter 9

  THE LONDONER

  ALONE!

  Though there is no confirmation from sources, the safe conclusion has been drawn, he’s been a man alone. Otherwise, surely there would have been someone to share his whereabouts . . .

  V. Lovelace

  This evening, Verity had nearly been killed.

  First by rats. Then by water. And then by a ruthless stranger on the street.

  And now the latest threat: the old man who may as well have been carved of stone for as much as he’d moved since Mr. North had left Verity.

  He was her guard.

  It hadn’t been stated, either explicitly or implicitly.

  But neither could there be a doubt as to what Mr. North had intended with the older man’s presence.

  With his back against the wall and his arms folded at a barrel-size chest, her guard remained motionless with his rheumy gaze firmly locked on Verity and her every movement. She repressed the nervous shudder that ran the length of her spine. He is just a man. He is just a man. Albeit a large man. But a man. Harmless, surely. With long white hair lazily drawn back and equally white brows, the nameless man put her in mind of the wizard Merlin from the book her father had brought her as a girl and read passages from each time he visited.

  That memory of her father proved strengthening.

  Verity forced a smile. “My name is Verity Lovelace.”

  He grunted. “Don’t. Care.”

  Well, then.

  Verity tried again. “Do you have a name?”

  Another grunt. “Of course I have a name.”

  And mayhap it was the madness of this entire night, but a smile pulled at her lips. “Do you wish to share it?”

  “No.”

  Hmph.

  They were a tight-lipped bunch, the peculiar men who lived here . . . wherever “here” was.

  With a sigh, Verity stole another restless glance around at the chambers which had become a prison of sorts. That was, a comfortable prison with porcelain baths and delicious soap and warm garments, but a cell, nonetheless. Verity tried again. “Given that we are keeping one another company, mayhap it would be important for us to exchange n—”

  “No.”

  She tapped her foot on the gleaming hardwood floor . . . Mahogany floors that gleamed. It was another peculiarity in this place. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  “I don’t like anyone,” he said instantly.

  “Do you like Mr. North?” she asked, rabidly curious about the older man’s relationship to her savior that night.

  “Do ya ever shut up?”

  “Actually, no. Very rarely,” she allowed. Such had been the way
since she’d been a girl, which, in the work she’d eventually come to do, had proven only a skill and a benefit to her.

  Alas, Mr. No-Name went even more tight-lipped. Who would have imagined that was possible?

  That deliberate silence only intensified her intrigue. Was the bear of a man Mr. North’s father? They certainly were both of a similar impressive height and size. Except their tonality was altogether . . . different. She nibbled at her lower lip, her mind growing with questions as it was wont to do. Or perhaps the older man was a servant?

  Except if he was one . . . what manner of man was Mr. North that he had them in this place?

  A small crystalline drop leaked out of the inside corner of Mr. No-Name’s left eye. In the candle’s glow, she caught the trail it wound, and also the discreet attempt made by her guard to hide it.

  “Do your eyes always leak in that manner?”

  And with that question, she managed to unsettle the older fellow into uttering something other than “no” or some other condescending response.

  He angled his head, sending a shock of white hair toppling over one of those leaking eyes in question. “Wot?”

  Encouraged, Verity took a step toward him. “Your eyes.” She motioned to the slight crystalline leakages, tear-like in color and consistency, which had left his eyes red. “They’re rheumy.”

  “So wot about it?” he snapped like a cornered pup.

  “It is just I’ve some experience with them.”

  He remained unbending in his silence.

  Abandoning any attempts at discourse, Verity resumed her study of Mr. North’s rooms when the surly stranger at last spoke.

  “You have experience with it?”

  “My former nursemaid,” she murmured. Verity crooked four fingers, urging him over. “I’ve several ways to help with that.”

  Reluctantly, he quit his place at the wall and ventured over. And for a moment, with him unfurled to his full height, she questioned the wisdom of engaging the giant of a man in any way. He had to be nearly two feet taller than her. Broad, like the ancient oak she’d climbed in Surrey. And as scarred as that old tree, too.

  When he stopped before her, Verity craned her head all the way back until her neck muscles arched and ached. “This isn’t going to work,” she muttered. “You’re entirely too tall. If you will.”

  He followed her gaze over to one of the chairs in Mr. North’s rooms. “If Oi will, wot?”

  Drawing out the scrolled green armchair at Mr. North’s desk, she patted the watersilk squab cushion. “I can’t very well help you from all the way down here.” She flashed a smile.

  And then, miracle of miracles that day, Mr. No-Name sat.

  Verity reached for his face, and the older stranger jerked away, giving her his cheek.

  She sighed and let her arms fall to her side. “I cannot help you unless I have a look.”

  “Didn’t ask for help.”

  No, he was correct on that score, but he had claimed a seat.

  Just then another tear slipped from his eye, and wound a path down his cheek. “It’s just me eyes,” he barked. “Oi ain’t crying.”

  “Of course you aren’t.” She spoke in the gentling voice she’d used when Livvie had suffered a fall and scraped knee over the years. “That’s the rheumy. It’s quite common, I’ll have you know,” she explained, probing at the swollen corner of his right eye, and his like-swollen left eye.

  “Is it?”

  It was a grudging concession from a man who seemed more likely to toss her out the pair of windows than answer any query.

  “Oh, yes,” she said conversationally. “The older a person gets, the more their eyes tend to tear, and then this coal and soot in London certainly doesn’t help anyone.”

  “Aye, ya’re correct there.”

  “Though mine are also quite bloodshot from the quality of the air.” To demonstrate as much, Verity lowered her head a fraction so she faced the old man squarely.

  There was another one of those familiar grunts from him. “Yar eyes are foine enough.”

  Knowing the stranger even just a handful of minutes, she’d wager everything that it was as close to a compliment as the old codger had ever allowed.

  Silently mouthing a list of items, Verity did a sweep of Mr. North’s quarters until she found a stack of still-untouched white linens. Gathering one, and thinking better of it, she grabbed another, and then made a beeline for the bath. “Well, this won’t do,” she murmured, studying the grimy film coating the top. Her gaze landed on the untouched brown bucket of water that had gone unused. Falling to a knee, she rinsed her two cloths, wrung them out, and returned to Mr. No-Name’s side.

  “Wot’s that?” he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

  It did not escape her notice, however, that the harsh, clipped edge when he spoke had gone.

  “They’re compresses.” She held one of the soaked linens aloft. “May I, sir?”

  “Ain’t a ‘sir.’ Moi name’s Bram.” He hesitated, then gave a small nod.

  Verity applied the warm cloth. “This will soothe them some.” She proceeded to explain. “I believe the air dries out the eyes, and they require moisture. That, and who knows what becomes trapped within them.” She applied the second damp linen to his other eye. “How does that feel?”

  A little groan escaped him.

  She smiled. “My nursemaid said that her eyes often feel gritty, and this will help with that sensation. But you should take care to do it often to ease that discomfort.” When the cloths had gone from warm to lukewarm to cool to the touch, she removed the compresses, soaked them, and reapplied those damp cloths. “This is not all you can do to help them.”

  “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.

  With a gasp, the page slipped from her fingers and fluttered to a damning place at her feet.

  Mr. Bram yanked the cloths from his eyes, and he took in Verity beside Mr. North’s open desk. And all the color left his face. “Oh, bloody hell.”

  Oh, bloody hell, indeed. And all thoughts of having been rescued by a savior, and even the importance of this story, fled in the face of the danger staring back at her in his ruthless gaze.