In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,109
you know I was there?”
“Heightened senses are a product of life on the streets,” he explained almost disinterestedly, his gaze focused on his cluttered desk.
Bonnet in hand, Verity joined him across the room and, not waiting for permission, seated herself. “What are you doing?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her and her nerves.
“Inventorying.”
“Inventorying?”
“It is something that toshers do.” He inked several notes upon a meticulous column of words and numbers. “You can mention that in your article.”
Her article? It took a moment for that word, and then suggestion, to compute.
Malcom briefly lifted his head, and grinned at her. “Or rather, the good toshers do.”
His smile proved contagious. Her lips turned up at the corners. Verity set aside the straw bonnet she’d grabbed from those left by the previous young lady who’d lived here. “May I?”
He hesitated.
He wanted to reject her request.
She’d come to know him enough, however, that not relinquishing the books suggested he cared more than he did. A vulnerability he’d not allow himself.
“Forgive me,” she murmured. “It’s not my place to pry into your important matters.”
There was a wickedness in her that, in a bid to share his world, she’d turn that weakness against him. He grunted. “They aren’t important matters.” Malcom nudged his chin at her.
More than half fearing he’d gather the ploy she’d used and take back that offer, Verity plucked the tome from a pile, opened it, and began to read. She paused. This is what he’d meant by inventorying. Column after column filled the pages, containing an enumeration of items and a value alongside it. Nay, not just any items . . . but rather, articles that belonged to him. She flipped through the accounting. When she reached the end, she looked over at Malcom. These weren’t items found in a sewer. “They are records of your estates and all your belongings.”
“Aye.” Malcom shifted in his seat. “Some of them, at least.”
Returning the ledger to his desk, Verity measured her words for several moments. “There is nothing . . . wrong in taking interest in that which you’ve a right to, Malcom,” she said gently.
An endearing blush splotched his cheeks. “It is a force of habit. I collect items, record their value, and sell or save them.”
He offered a rare unsolicited glimpse into how he’d lived his life these past years. Only it wasn’t her story that she thought of just then but instead him. She flipped through the pages, scanning as she went.
Everything from gold timepieces to embroidered kerchiefs to . . . horses.
“And is that what you intend? To . . . sell them?”
“Yes.”
Verity paused in her searching and briefly looked up. “To what end?” Verity pressed. “When you receive the monies from selling everything, what do you do?”
“What do I do?”
“Malcom.” Verity set the book down on her lap. “On this page alone there must be . . .” She glanced down and silently tabulated in her head, mouthing her count aloud. “One thousand pounds in material items.” She sharply turned the next page, and silently added the numbers there. “And . . . and . . .” Her eyes bulged. “This is another two thousand pounds.” Her voice climbed. “And that is just two pages.” My God, he must be worth . . . She frantically flipped through the book, and sat back, stunned. “You’re richer than Croesus.” And just off the funds he’d inherited. The riches before her had nothing to do with what he’d amassed as a tosher.
“I should expect you’d understand the value in an accumulated fortune,” he said without malice. Then he reached dismissively for his pen, dipped it into the crystal inkwell, and resumed writing.
That was it? That was all he’d say? “But—” He looked up suddenly, his unwavering stare commanding to silence her, and mayhap if she were a different woman with a greater modicum of fear and a desire for self-preservation, she’d have let the matter go . . . But she’d come to know that gruff as he may be, neither was Malcom North one who’d hurt her or anyone. She tried to reason with him. “Malcom,” she said gently, turning the ledger around, “this is so much money.” My God, she could provide for her and Livvie and Bertha for the remainder of their lives, and comfortably, on but one and a half of the items recorded here.
“And you’d have me give it away?”
“What is the point in keeping all of it?” she rebutted.