escape. There are many other estimable young men in London.”
He was right, and completely wrong. “You think if…when I marry Randolph, it will reduce your credit with the archbishop,” Verity accused.
Her father drew himself up. “No such thing!”
But Verity glimpsed a hint of guilt in his eyes. Before she could mention it, or decide it was kinder not to, the housemaid came in. “Miss Townsend,” she announced.
“She’s called each day to see how things go on,” Verity’s mother murmured. “The Townsends invited me to dinner, too.”
Verity was touched, and a bit surprised, to hear it.
“You’re home again,” Olivia exclaimed when she entered. “Splendid.”
“The duchess is much better.”
“That’s splendid, too.” She plumped down on the sofa.
Verity introduced her father. Olivia gave him a brilliant smile. “You can’t think how I’ve missed your company, Verity,” she went on. She seemed perfectly sincere. “You will come with me to the Randalls’ rout party?”
It was only half a question. Verity agreed before either of her parents could speak. She needed to get out and talk to Randolph. And others perhaps; she had to think and make a list.
“Oh good.” Olivia chattered on about all that had happened since Verity entered what she insisted upon calling seclusion at Langford House. After a bit, though, she appeared to sense the fraught atmosphere among the Sinclairs. Dropping curious looks and airy farewells, she took her leave.
“A vivacious young lady,” said Verity’s father when she was gone. “Townsend. Is she the daughter of Mr. Peter Townsend? The one who endowed all the new windows at Saint Anselm’s?”
“He might have. He’s quite rich,” Verity said.
“Doesn’t he have a son?” was the plaintive reply.
“He’s some sort of merchant,” said Verity’s mother.
“Hoity-toity. Your grand relative the Duke of Rutland didn’t think a great deal of me when we met.”
Verity blinked. She’d never heard of this before.
“The party tonight,” her father continued. “Are you likely to meet Lord Randolph there?”
“I hope so!”
“Perhaps it would be better not to go then. Until matters are—”
“They are settled,” Verity interrupted. “And I promised Olivia.” She was going, if she had to climb out her bedroom window.
“Well, you are not to—”
“What?” It was rude to break in, but Verity was wild with impatience. “All the world knows I’m engaged to Randolph.”
“That is very awkward.”
And was going to become much more so before they were done, Verity thought.
* * *
That evening, rejoining the festivities of the season, Verity found the party a bit…repetitive. She felt as if she’d returned from another country and found that society had changed. It wasn’t the endless round of variety and excitement she’d imagined when she’d begged to come to town. And thought she’d found when she arrived. That seemed so long ago now.
Many people approached her to ask about the duchess’s illness, and some of them seemed genuinely concerned. Others treated her recovery like another bit of gossip, collected to fill time at a morning call. Verity wondered if these latter individuals would have spoken in the same curious tones if Her Grace had died. And then she was shocked at herself. Fortunately, Olivia pulled her away from this languid question and out of her unsettling reflections.
“I’m so glad you’re back,” her friend said. “I’ve had no one to talk to.”
Verity gestured at the chattering crowd.
“No one interesting,” Olivia amended.
“I don’t know how interesting I am tonight.” Verity could think of nothing but Randolph and when she might talk to him.
“You’ve worn yourself out nursing your almost mother-in-law,” said Olivia. “How tedious it must have been.”
“I wasn’t really nursing. Mostly, I—”
“Listen, I’ve heard the most delicious on-dit,” Olivia interrupted. “Charles Wrentham has challenged Mr. Rochford to a duel.”
“What?”
Olivia nodded, her eyes sparkling.
“Why? Isn’t dueling illegal?”
“Yes.” Olivia waved this consideration aside. “As to why, I believe he might have heard some garbled story about a young lady visiting Rochford’s house. Alone. In the evening.”
Verity’s blood seemed to freeze in her veins. “Olivia, you didn’t!”
“You know I didn’t. Quite improper.” She giggled.
“I mean, you didn’t tell Mr. Wrentham that it was Frances.” Too late, Verity realized that her phrasing implied a young lady had visited, and she knew about it.
“Of course not. I’m not so inept. Or untruthful.” Olivia practically wriggled with glee. “I was angry at the time, not to go. But this is so much better.”
“You arranged for Mr. Wrentham to hear the tale. The lie.”
“I may have let fall a bit of encouragement, here and there,” was the airy reply.
“And if they kill each other?” Verity asked. Her mind was