chair, one of the remaining pieces left from the lifetime of comfort they’d enjoyed while the earl had lived. “And . . . who is this gent?”
“He’s a tosher.”
What . . . ? Puzzling her brow, Verity glanced over at Livvie, but the younger girl merely stared back with wide eyes.
“What is a tosher?” Verity pressed Bertha.
“Pfft. One would think you were two fancy gels.” Instead of the by-blows they were. The implication hung there . . . without inflection, and yet, still stinging as it always had . . . being bastard born—even if it was to an earl. “Tosshher,” she repeated, as if adding an extra syllable and slight emphasis to the word might somehow make it mean something to Verity. “He’s a sewer hunter. Scavenges. Pans and retrieves tosh. Well, more than tosh because ‘tosh’ is copper,” she explained. “This fellow finds himself a whole lot of riches down in that waste-filled water.”
Livvie’s face pulled. “That is disgusting.”
“Be that as it may, the fellows doing it are better off than your sister here, trying to write a story for a gossip column.”
Her mind racing, Verity fell back on her heels. It made sense. All these months she’d been scouring London for anyone with a hint of the gentleman’s identity, she’d been searching the wrong places. Asking the wrong people. In short, the Earl of Maxwell didn’t walk amongst them. Rather, he’d been under her all the while.
There was a tug at Verity’s sleeve, and she glanced over.
“What are you thinking?” her sister asked.
And for the first time since she’d been handed the impossible assignment, Verity smiled. “I’m going toshing.”
“That isn’t a word,” Bertha corrected, much as she had when instructing Verity as a child.
Verity’s smile deepened. “It is now.”
Chapter 3
THE LONDONER
THE HUNT!
All of London is in search of the gentleman whose fortunes have been reversed. He remains a mystery to all . . . There is only one certainty: the Lost Heir has no wish to be found!
M. Fairpoint
Verity had done next to everything in order to survive.
Or so she’d believed.
The following evening, attired in one of her only three dresses and a pair of too-tight slippers belonging to her sister, Verity realized just how wrong she’d been.
“Are you having second doubts, gel?” Bertha asked loud enough that her voice carried damningly down Brook’s Mews.
Nay, more like third and fourth and fifth doubts. “Shh,” Verity said gently.
“Now you’re so worried about getting yourself caught? We’ve been standing here for the better part of five minutes.”
“I’m going, I’m going,” she muttered, and then forced herself to kneel. Ignoring the cold of the pavement penetrating her thin skirts. Wishing all the while she’d had Livvie accompany her instead. Knowing this was no place for her sister. Furthermore, Bertha was the one with connections to the toshers, and having two women and a sheltered young woman hovering around the sewer opening would only risk notice. As it was, Bertha, with her failure to appreciate the importance of silence, posed danger enough. Verity wrestled with the grate, her muscles straining under the unexpected weight of the protective covering. At last, the unrelenting cover gave, and she used all her strength heaving it up.
The stench of rot filled her nostrils, and she gagged, covering her nose in a futile bid to block the smell of it.
Bertha leaned forward, and then swiftly drew back. “Good God.” She pressed her forearm over her face.
Nay, there was no God down there.
“I suspect it is going to get a good deal harder when you’re in there,” the older woman pointed out with her usual blunt honesty.
And damn if she wasn’t right. Forcing her arm to her side, Verity eyed the opening.
She could do this.
How difficult could it be? Climb down—
And search for a man who didn’t wish to be found? So much so that he’d forsake a title in place of . . . this?
Verity scrabbled with her lip. Mayhap Bertha was right, after all. Verity was a-hunting a madman. For no sane person could prefer this life to the one awaiting him if he simply claimed his fortune. And for the first time since she’d been handed her assignment from Lowery, unease wound its way through her for altogether different reasons. Not from the sheer desperation to locate and tell the story, but from what would happen if—when?—she did locate the man in question.
An image slipped in: a beastlike figure, with the stench of filth clinging to him. Wild eyes. A feral mouth.
I cannot do