At Langford House, Randolph squelched up to his bedchamber and changed into dry clothes. He went out again immediately, into the abating rain, and paid a visit to Angelo’s. Wrentham wasn’t at the fencing academy. Randolph hadn’t really expected him to be. But there were rumors of a duel floating about the place, as Randolph had anticipated. Here and at the clubs, that sort of gossip would be rife. No one seemed to have specifics, at least. Not yet. He was able to procure Charles Wrentham’s London address, but no word of Carrick. Going on to White’s, he discovered that the latter had lodgings in Duke Street.
Randolph went directly there, impatient with the obstacles being thrown up before him. He wanted to marry; Verity wanted the same. Why must things be so complicated?
Lord Carrick was not at home. Nor was Mr. Wrentham when Randolph tried at his rooms a little later. It was vastly frustrating. Fierce in his desire to have Verity, Randolph wanted to shake sense into both of them until this idiotic idea of a duel rattled out their ears. And then do the same to the ram-obsessed Archbishop of Canterbury.
Which would be conduct unbecoming to his profession, Randolph thought as he turned for home. Of course he’d never do it. But he could imagine how satisfying it might feel.
Back at home, he found that his mother had heard about the sodden pile of clothing he’d left on his bedroom hearth. She made an unusual fuss about his soaking and insisted he wrap up in a blanket and drink hot tea at her side before an early bedtime. The entire household had developed a sensitivity about chills. Randolph would have objected, if he hadn’t already sent a note to Verity to make certain she was unaffected by their drenching.
The next morning, Randolph was up betimes and in Duke Street right after breakfast. He sent up his card at Lord Carrick’s lodgings and was asked upstairs. Fortunately, as a churchman, he was used to calling on near strangers, not that a parson was wanted in this case.
Carrick was as Randolph remembered him, a handsome young man—not tall but well-set-up, with regular features and reddish hair nearly the color of Robert’s. His ivy-green eyes looked mystified just now. “We met at Salbridge last autumn,” Randolph reminded him. “When I came over to see my brother Robert.”
“Oh yes.” It wasn’t clear that Carrick remembered Randolph.
“And your play.”
Carrick stiffened. His eyebrows drew together.
Shouldn’t have mentioned the play, Randolph acknowledged silently. Not the way it had turned out. Chatting was no good—too many potential pitfalls. “There’s no sense beating about the bush,” he said. “I came to talk to you about the duel.”
“Ah.” Carrick’s expression cleared. “You want to attend? I’m afraid I can’t accommodate you. It’s becoming rather a crowd. Which won’t do at such an occasion, you know.” He smiled.
Randolph’s spirits sank. Carrick’s excitement and enthusiasm and heedlessness were all in that smile. He wasn’t going to be helpful. “It is being talked about. No one’s sharing the cause, I hope.”
Carrick looked haughty. “The honor of a young lady is involved. Of course the reason will not be divulged.”
Which pretty much guaranteed it would be, Randolph thought. And who used a word like divulged in normal conversation?
“There’s a good deal of speculation of course,” Carrick added. “But naturally my lips are sealed.” He was the picture of smug satisfaction.
Rochford trailed a string of dalliances, Randolph thought. There was no reason for anyone to think of Verity, or associate her with any of the parties to the duel. But people would be chattering and trying to dig up dirt. Randolph didn’t trust Rochford’s valet to resist bribery. And there was Miss Reynolds to think of, too. No one seemed to be considering her. Who else knew the details of this ridiculous dispute? “How did the challenge go down?” he asked, pretending to be the sort of fellow who relished such details.
“It was at Easton’s,” replied Carrick, naming one of London’s gaming hells. “Rochford was playing vingt-et-un. Devilish high stakes, too. Charles found him there and issued his challenge, complete with a glove. He said Rochford looked dumbfounded to be brought to book. I must say, I never would have thought it of Miss… But no more on that score.” He put his finger to his lips, his eyes dancing.
Yes, the whole rigmarole would be out before long, Randolph thought. Carrick put a good story above all else; he wouldn’t be able to resist. They scarcely knew each other, and he’d nearly let Miss Reynolds’s name slip. How must he speak to his cronies? Randolph felt a flash of irritation—at Carrick and his smirks, at Miss Olivia Townsend. Sneaking mischief and malice could do more damage than outright attack. He’d seen it before. But it did no good to get angry. “I called to ask you to quash the meeting,” he said without much hope. “Won’t you urge Wrentham to call it off?”
“Why would I do that?” Carrick seemed genuinely perplexed.
“Dueling is never wise,” Randolph tried. “Beyond the danger, it simply draws more attention to the…cause. People who knew nothing about it start trying to guess.”
Carrick shrugged. Clearly Miss Reynolds’s reputation was of little interest to him. “You’re a clergyman, aren’t you? I forgot. I suppose you have to be a wet blanket.”
Rather than a childish care-for-nobody, Randolph thought, fuming. “Dueling is illegal,” he pointed out.
“You wouldn’t lay information?” Carrick glared at him. “You may be a parson, but you’re also the son of a duke. You wouldn’t peach on us.”
Were they schoolboys talking of stolen cakes? But Randolph didn’t want to involve the magistrates. That would spread the story even further.
He gave up on Carrick. He would try Wrentham himself next, though after their encounter at Angelo’s, Randolph had little hope that hotheaded young man would listen. Perhaps Rochford? It was more difficult for the challenged man to draw back, especially with two idiots like Carrick and Wrentham likely to crow and call him a coward. Still, he would try. He looked for a hack.
* * *
At that same moment, Verity was being admitted to Langford House to inquire about the duchess’s progress. She’d chosen a time when her parents were out and told the servants only that she had an errand to do. The landlady’s footman who accompanied her through the streets wasn’t privy to her father’s objections. And if she should encounter Randolph and spend some time alone with him, who would know? Verity hugged their last conversation to her chest, where it hummed like a favorite love song. It was a moment that would always be the most cherished of her collection.
There was no sign of her betrothed when she arrived, however, and for now, she was the only visitor. The duchess was propped up on a stack of pillows eating a nourishing egg custard. “You look better,” said Verity as she sat down beside the bed.
“I must have looked positively ghastly before then,” the older woman replied with a smile.
Verity remembered the duchess’s terrible delirium. She thrust the picture away.
“I’m very happy to be better,” the duchess continued. “And grateful. But I’ve discovered the unique frustration of being more than ready to get up while unable to do so.” She examined Verity. “And how are you?”
Verity felt her smile broaden until it was more like a grin. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to shout her happiness from the rooftops. “I’m quite well.”
“You look it.” The duchess put her empty dish aside. “Brighter than I’ve ever seen you. Did you and Randolph have a good talk?”
“You know about that?” Verity was surprised. And then she wasn’t. Randolph’s parents seemed to specialize in omniscience.
“His father thought it was in the wind.”
“Well, we did.” The phrase love you with all my heart echoed in Verity’s brain. She was still grinning, she realized.
The older woman examined her face. Verity felt she was being weighed by a compassionate but demanding intellect. What was the duchess looking for? “So you know about—”
“The archbishop and the ram,” Verity answered.
“Heavens, it sounds like an Aesop’s fable.” The duchess waited.
“And Rosalie. Why was she such a secret?” Verity’s curiosity stirred. “Sebastian doesn’t know about her. Nor Robert. I asked them.”
“Did you?” The older woman shrugged. “Not a secret really. Randolph simply enjoyed keeping the matter private.”
“You knew the whole time though.”
“I did.”
“Randolph thinks you know everything.”
“It’s a useful illusion for a mother of six boys.” The duchess paused, then said, “You don’t care that Randolph was engaged before?”
“Of course. Who wouldn’t?”
“A young lady marrying for position or convenience or convention.”
Verity flushed. Fleetingly, she feared that Randolph had told the duchess about their indiscretion at Quinn’s cottage. But in the next instant she was certain he hadn’t. “I’m not doing that.” The duchess was watching her. It felt like a test, and an opportunity. Verity spoke in a rush. “I love him so much!”
The reaction was gratifying. The older woman slowly smiled at Verity, a warm, delighted smile. “That makes all easier, and occasionally harder.”
“All?”
“You haven’t asked for my advice,” the duchess said slowly.
“Yes, I have. Now.”
She laughed. “Well, I will tell you this: not talking openly can ruin a marriage. Or a family. I’ve seen numerous examples during my life.”
“What if the other person won’t talk?” Verity asked, interested.
“That is…unfortunate. But as we’re speaking of Randolph, I don’t think you need to worry. He’s the most introspective and…sensitive of my sons.”
Tears suddenly burned in Verity’s eyes.
“The two of you haven’t had much time for confidences, have you? I’m afraid my illness got in the way. But the unspoken isn’t unheard.”
“I can see where Randolph gets his oracular tendency.”
The duchess laughed again, but added, “I believe unsaid words pile up and push people farther and farther apart. Until, eventually, they become a wall. The forms of life may look the same, but inside all is…distance.”
It was a chilling thought. “What you’re suggesting sounds rather difficult,” Verity commented.
“Oh yes.” The duchess raised one eyebrow, just like Lord Robert.
“So I must talk openly, and endure whatever I hear in return. Without saying anything unforgiveable.”
“I wouldn’t choose the word endure.” The duchess shook her head. “We all say silly things when we’re angry or wounded. A good marriage includes quite a few apologies and a large helping of forgiveness.”
“You argue with the duke?”
“Of course. Does this surprise you?”
“You seem so well suited.”
“We’re strong-willed people with marked moods and opinions. Why would we always agree?”
Verity took this in with considerable relief.
“I want to say again how kind you were to play for me, for us all,” the duchess added.
Verity wondered at the abrupt change in tone until a deeper voice said, “Allow me to add my thanks.” The duke stood in the doorway. “It was such a kindness. And hard work, I know.” He came in and sat on the other side of the bed, taking the duchess’s hand.
“I was happy to help.” Verity noticed that the duchess looked tired. She’d taken up a good deal of her time. And the air of the room was different now that her husband was present. “I should go,” Verity said, rising. The duke and duchess’s farewells were warm, but they didn’t urge her to stay.
* * *
“I’m rather curious to attend a ton party,” said Verity’s father as the family walked into a crowded reception room on Friday evening. “It’s been years since I did so, and not often then.”
Verity looked around the busy chamber and felt only impatience. Did all adventures have these sagging, frustrating parts where nothing seemed to happen? To ask the question was to confirm it, she supposed. Their lack of progress was just maddening. She almost felt she’d rather be dangling from a crumbling cliff face or fighting crocodiles.
Olivia joined them. “There’s to be another phrenology exhibition tonight,” she said. “I suppose Herr Grossmann’s appointments have fallen off, and he’s here to drum up more business.”
“Indeed,” replied Verity’s father. “I’m curious to see this fellow. You wrote me about him, Molly.”
Verity’s mother nodded. “He had a session with Mr. Rochford at one of our first outings, didn’t he, Verity? It seems so long ago now.”
Excessive politeness had fallen back over the Sinclair household like an outmoded cloak. It made Verity want to race around the room like a maddened cat, clawing draperies and knocking over vases.
“What do you think of Herr Grossmann’s system?” Olivia asked.
Verity’s father made a face. “Phrenology is like saying our lives are written in the palms of our hands, or that a person is hot-tempered if she has red hair.”
Verity resisted raising a hand to her hair.
“There he is,” her mother added.
They all turned to see Herr Grossmann coming in. The plump German gentleman wore his customary frock coat and narrow trousers, his beard bushy below shrewd blue eyes. His gangly young assistant was with him. Michael, Verity recalled. The lad’s black hair and pale skin was a marked contrast to his employer. Herr Grossmann offered the crowd a bow and moved on. “He’s to set up in one of the side parlors,” Olivia said. “We should go and watch. We may not see Herr Grossmann again.”
“Why not?” asked Verity.
“The fad for phrenology is fading. Which is too bad. It gives one so many opportunities for raillery.”
The four of them followed others into the parlor. As before, Herr Grossmann’s cranial diagram sat on an easel. A scatter of gilt chairs stood before it. Verity looked at the image of a man’s bare head in profile, and the sections marked out hope, combativeness, self-esteem, parental love, acquisitiveness, benevolence. Herr Grossmann positioned himself beside the single chair next to it. Michael went to stand at the side with his notepad and pencil.
“Oh yes,” said Olivia. She darted away.
In a moment she was back with Charles Wrentham, tugging at his arm. She practically dragged him to the chair. His protests were quiet, but obvious.
“Nonsense,” said Olivia. “Here, Herr Grossmann. Your first subject of the evening.” She gave Mr. Wrentham a shove. He almost tripped. Staggering, he grabbed the back of the chair.
“Very good,” said the German. He grasped Mr. Wrentham’s elbow and executed a neat twist to seat him. Before the young man could protest further, Grossmann had his fingers in his hair. Mr. Wrentham’s jaw tightened.
“I’ve heard Mr. Wrentham is a dab hand with a sword,” said Olivia.
“Olivia!” Verity hissed.
“Hmm,” said Herr Grossmann, shifting his fingertips. “I find a marked tendency toward combativeness.”
Verity wondered. It seemed that a truly combative man would have fought Olivia off. Or, if he wouldn’t contend with a woman, he’d have repulsed the phrenologist.
“The bump of firmness is pronounced,” the German continued. He addressed his audience. “This can indicate stubbornness, or it may simply signal a tenacious temperament.” His assistant scribbled in his notebook.
“This gentleman is somewhat lacking in eventuality,” Herr Grossmann continued. “That is the area of the factual memory. It can also be referred to as the historical faculty.”
“Ha!” said a female voice behind Verity. She turned to find that Frances Reynolds had entered behind her. “He can’t remember what really happened, you mean.”
Verity thought that Charles Wrentham growled. She wasn’t close enough to be certain. As Miss Reynolds moved away, Verity felt a pang of guilt. She’d known Olivia was going too far with those two. She’d done nothing to stop Olivia, and now they were all very nearly in the soup. Perhaps she deserved it. But Miss Reynolds didn’t. And then Verity had an idea.
The Duke of Langford appeared at her side, and Verity suppressed a start. “Good evening,” he said. “What do you think of this system?” He indicated Herr Grossmann.
Verity stole shamelessly from her father. “It’s rather like palm reading, isn’t it? I don’t think it’s so easy to discover people’s characters.”
“I’ve observed that good palm readers are experts at a kind of Socratic dialogue.”
Verity had once felt, talking to the duchess, that she was being evaluated. She had that sense again now. “They ask the questions that give them the information they need to…prognosticate?”
“Exactly.” He looked approving.
“I can see how that would work. But Herr Grossmann doesn’t ask questions.”
“No. I wonder if he has spies?”
“Spies?”
“I haven’t paid much attention to the craze for having one’s skull examined,” the duke went on. “But I suppose a clever man could gather information and gossip in advance, and use them to formulate his findings.”
“He prefers that his clients make appointments,” Verity observed. She looked at Michael. Might he be more than a passive recorder? And bribe taker, of course. “But he didn’t know who would present themselves tonight.”
“True. And research would take him only so far. Beyond that, we remain mysteries to each other.”
Verity looked up at him, curious. “Even after many years of…close acquaintanceship?”
He met her gaze. The duke’s blue eyes were so like Randolph’s in shape and color, and yet so different in their depths. “The mathematicians have a word,” he replied. “Asymptotic. It describes a thing that approaches another, closer and closer, but never finally reaches it.”
“Asymptotic,” repeated Verity.
“People are like that, I think. We may understand a great deal about someone, but never all. There are always surprises.”
This sounded right, Verity thought. As this man so often did. “Which is the fun of life,” she concluded.
He smiled at her, and Verity’s breath caught. The Duke of Langford’s wholehearted smile was blindingly charming. It subsumed the smiles of all his handsome sons, and surpassed them. “You’re very welcome to our family, you know,” he said. “And we will make sure you get to join us.”
Verity found she couldn’t speak. She coughed to remind her throat of its proper function. “Th-thank you.”
Olivia appeared at Verity’s side. “Will you try Herr Grossmann, Your Grace? He’s ready for another…subject.”
“I believe you almost said victim, Miss Townsend.”
“I would never be so clumsy.”
“Wouldn’t you? Ah, there’s Conyingham. If you young ladies will excuse me.” He gave them an exquisite half bow and walked away.
Olivia watched him go. “You know those tiresome old men who leer at one and say, ‘If only I were thirty years younger’?”
“Yes?” replied Verity.
“Well, if only he was.”
Verity laughed.
They walked together back into the main room. Verity saw Emma deep in conversation with her future husband. They looked happy, and quite unaware of the crowd surrounding them. Then she noticed Frances Reynolds standing against the wall not far away. She was pretending not to look at Charles Wrentham, talking fiercely with a group of friends on the opposite side of the room. The duchess’s advice came back to Verity like a branch of candles carried into a dark room. If there’d ever been a pair who needed some plain speaking, it was these two.
Verity searched the busy room. Where was Randolph? She needed Randolph. She finally had a plan.
“Where are you going?” Olivia asked.
“To fix things,” Verity replied as she walked away.