clear that I find this idea a dangerous one.”
Entering into the house of a man who’d warned her to never again cross him? Aye, there was nothing safe in that decision, and everything risky. She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “He needn’t ever find out.”
Except she wasn’t certain whether those assurances were for herself or the other woman.
Several hours later, when the streets had cleared and the cobblestones were quiet, Verity, Livvie, and Bertha descended from the hired hack in front of the unlikeliest of havens.
“The person who lives there is going to let us in?” Livvie whispered.
“Aye.” Even if he didn’t know it.
Quelling her own awe of the impressive stucco structure, Verity forced herself to close her mouth. She stole a glance about. The longer they remained out on these fancy sidewalks, the more they risked being caught about the streets of Grosvenor Square. There was no doubt that were someone to pass by or glance out their window at the trio with their mismatched luggage, they would summon a constable with rightful suspicions.
“Come,” she said gruffly, taking one handle of the luggage while Bertha took the other.
Livvie hurriedly gathered the two valises and set out after them. “Is he a friend of Father’s?”
“Shh,” Verity and Bertha simultaneously whispered.
“Is he?” Livvie repeated in more measured tones.
“No,” Verity said tersely. A friend of Father’s? Pfft. If there’d been such a generous figure, he’d failed the Lovelaces magnificently these past years.
At last, her inquisitive sister ceased with her questions. When they reached the servants’ door, Verity tried the handle.
Locked.
“What did you expect? That it would be left open?” Bertha muttered. “Here.” Reaching past Verity, she slid a stickpin inside the lock.
Verity rounded her eyes. When in blazes had their nursemaid learned to pick locks?
“What are you doing?” Livvie asked the other woman. “What is she doing?” she demanded, putting that same question to Verity when the nursemaid remained fixed on the task of breaking them inside.
Verity touched a fingertip to her lips and gave a slight shake of her head.
A moment later, the lock gave with a satisfying click. “There.” Bertha pushed the door panel open and grabbed one end of the trunk.
When Verity made no attempt to take the other side, she gave her a look.
Springing into movement, Verity took the opposite handle, and followed the older woman inside. Verity hurriedly closed the door behind them, erasing the miniscule hint of light that had peeked down from the night sky, and replacing it with a shroud of darkness.
“Can I talk now?” Livvie whispered.
Could she?
Could they?
Bertha glanced around uneasily. “You’re certain he sacked the servants? Didn’t keep on the butler and housekeeper, as is the way of the lords?”
“Who?” Livvie pressed.
Giving Bertha a warning look, Verity set down her end of the trunk and moved close to her sister. “Someone I know. A friend.”
“The gentleman who saved you in the sewers?”
“Of a sort,” she hedged.
Several lines of confusion creased Livvie’s brow. “Either it is or isn’t.”
“Shh.” Verity and Bertha spoke in unison.
Verity cleared her throat. “You were . . . correct earlier. In your supposition of Lord Maxwell and his kindness.” She grimaced around that last word.
“Kind, indeed,” Bertha muttered, and Verity shot her another warning look.
“But you said—”
“I was wrong. I heeded your advice. I called on him as you suggested.”
Livvie’s eyebrows touched her hairline.
And even in the pitch-dark kitchens, Verity caught the romantic glimmer in her sister’s eye, followed by a sigh. There’d be time enough for alarm about that naivete. For now, it served its purpose.
Except . . . Livvie did a sweep of the rooms. “If he’s allowed us to live here, why are we sneaking in?” Suspicion laced her question.
Why, indeed? Verity had drafted enough stories over the years that it should come as second nature as breathing to her. Only the work she’d done had never been fiction. She’d given facts and honesties the world had sought . . . to the point of offense in the opinion of many of those nobles who found themselves plastered upon the scandal pages.
“Well . . .” She felt Bertha’s stare. The one Verity had faced many times as a girl trying to dance herself out of some mischief. Her sister, however, was deserving of the truth. When Verity had been her age, she’d been serving in the role of mother. “Livvie,” she began, “you’re correct. I’ve not been entirely forthcoming.”
The door between the kitchens and the entrance of the corridors burst open, and two figures exploded