In Bed with the Earl (Lost Lords of London #1) - Christi Caldwell Page 0,131
worth.
“He’s a greater man than, with your twisted soul, you can ever know or appreciate.”
Bertha scoffed, “He’s a bounder just like your father.”
Verity snapped. “He is nothing like my father,” she spat, flying across the room, a finger outstretched. “My father left us nothing. He left me, and Livvie, selling our things and me working as a child. And Malcom?” Her heart flipped over in love and sorrow at a dream which had ended too soon. Even as that dream would have never been enough, she’d have greedily stolen all those moments as she could have. “Malcom has cared for those he called family. He’s given a home to them. Provided security—”
“Bah,” Bertha spat, spittle forming at the corners of her tense mouth. “You’d hold him up on a pedestal for what he’s done for others. Tell me this, Verity: What has he done for you? He’s trapped you, that’s what. He’s used you.” Her voice pitched around the room. “He’s bedded you. And in the end, he’d turn you out.”
“They were my decisions,” she cried out, shaking. “All of them. Everything I did was because I wanted to.”
“You’re just like your mother.”
Once that would have struck like the insult it was surely intended as. Verity lifted her chin a notch. “At least she was capable of love. Your heart is only full of hate.”
The old woman jerked like she’d been slapped. “I did this for you.”
“You didn’t do this for me. You did it for you. Get out,” she said tiredly, and for the first time in her life, she turned and presented the former nursemaid with her back.
“After all the years we’ve been together, you should doubt me?” Bertha whispered.
Verity stiffened as her nursemaid came around and faced her, with a hand outstretched.
Wordlessly, Verity took the page, and read it.
Two hundred pounds paid out by Mr. Fairpoint.
I’m going to be ill . . . “You worked with him?” Verity cried.
“He gave me coin here and there to tell him little things. Things that didn’t matter.”
Verity felt the blood leave her face.
“What?” Bertha said defensively. “I used that coin to help pay our rent and put food upon our table.”
“What things did you tell him?” she asked, her voice pitched.
Bertha frowned. “Where you were going to conduct your research. When you’d be working on cases. And for that he gave us a sizable coin for a story you wouldn’t have made half for, had your name been put to it. He was always going to see you sacked, Verity.” The old woman shrugged. “I just managed to secure us funds before he did.”
Verity’s knees weakened. “Oh, my God,” she breathed.
The threat at Hatchards. Her stomach revolved. Why, even the night she’d been followed. Fairpoint had been attempting to scare her out of doing her work in order to secure his own position. And Verity’s loyal nursemaid had gone and thrown all her support to one such as him. Verity made to tear up the note, but crying out, Bertha surged forward.
Verity froze. For all that had come to pass, Bertha had still spent the whole of her life with Verity and Livvie. Wrinkling the note into a ball, she tossed it at the other woman. “Get out. I never want to see you again.”
“Verity.” The old woman shook her head, disbelief stamped on her features. “This is me. You don’t mean that.”
“I’ve never meant anything more, Bertha.”
Tears glassed the nursemaid’s eyes. A moment later, she turned . . . and was gone.
Verity didn’t move for several moments, and then all the life drained from her legs and she sank onto the edge of the nearest seat.
The rapid clip of determined steps carried from the corridor.
Her heart squeezed. She wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet. Feeling like one facing her executioner, Verity climbed to her feet.
Only, two figures filled the doorway. Neither of whom was Malcom. The butler and a stranger who was . . . not a stranger. Bespectacled, tall, the gentleman was since sporting a bruise from their last encounter. “You,” she blurted. The man she’d come across at various outings. But who yesterday at Hatchards had attempted to come to her rescue.
The butler cleared his throat. “The Earl of Wakefield to see you.”
The Earl . . .
She whipped shocked eyes up to his.
The young man doffed his hat and dropped it awkwardly to his side. “Hello,” he said quietly. “Please, if you’d call me Benedict.”
And Verity found herself struck dumb for a second time that day.