Chapter Eight

 

It was late. Thick bands of fog invaded Vauxhall, casting the scene on the Dark Walk in a murky yellow.

“Davies, it appears you have won the lady after all. I suppose I should not have warned you off that day in the Green Room,” the Marquess of Carrisworth drawled. His lazy voice was a contradiction to the blazing anger in his eyes.

Verity was barely aware of Lord Carrisworth’s arrival. She freed herself from the baron by pushing against his chest with all her might. Her eyes filled with tears of frustration and humiliation. “How dare you, sir?”

Lord Davies looked from Miss Pymbroke’s outraged face to the marquess’s dangerous expression. He evidently viewed the lady as less likely to do injury to his person. “Forgive me, my dear. You led me to believe my attentions would not be unwelcome.” With this whopping great lie, he made a jerking bow and disappeared into the fog.

Verity stared after him, unable to believe her ears. And only this morning, her trust in him had grown to the point where she accepted his escort on a drive to the Park.

“How fickle you are, Miss Pymbroke,” Lord Carrisworth said. “And how our roles have reversed. Here I am reminding you of the impropriety of bestowing your kisses haphazardly, while you behave like a light-skirt ... or perhaps I should say like your sister. It must run in the family.”

Verity stood very still. While she was certain he had not meant to, the marquess’s words made her think of her father. She raised her eyes to him and the tears she had held rigidly in check coursed down her cheeks. “I-I never encouraged Lord Davies. He saved me from th-three odious young men wh-who were ... and then he ... oh!”

The marquess produced a large handkerchief and handed it to her. The sight of her small figure tormented, and clearly scandalized, gave him pause. But wait. Had not his mother always resorted to tears when his father had grown angry with her?

Uncertain what to believe, he stood irresolute. Part of him wanted to drag Miss Pymbroke into his arms and comfort her, but the other part did not. Bitterly, he realized it was easy enough for him to draw a female into his arms for seduction, but now under the influence of tender emotions he felt frozen.

He saw she was drying her eyes and attempting to regain her composure, assuming a saintly mien, which was rather marred by a reddened nose.

“I had forgot,” she said. “You are too self-absorbed to think of anyone else’s feelings, and you have none yourself,” she declared as one stating a plain truth.

The marquess felt himself relax. Of course his prim landlady would not have permitted Lord Davies to kiss her. Nor would she lie. He would have something to say to the baron on the morrow. The dastard.

He reached out and tenderly smoothed a curl from her face. “You amaze me, my avenging angel,” he told her and pressed his hand to his heart. “I am all feeling. In truth, it would please me to show you, but, with what you have been through tonight, if I did so I would prove a coarse creature indeed.”

“Thank you! You are all that is kind.” To further her irritation, he suddenly chuckled. She longed to hit him. “If you would be so good to help me, my lord, I must find Lady Hyacinth.”

Lord Carrisworth raised a dark eyebrow. “Why was Lady Hyacinth not with you?”

Verity looked down at her slippers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. In a low voice she explained. “The servants told me Louisa had gone to Vauxhall with Sir Ramsey. I felt I needed to find her, and Lady Hyacinth offered to come with me. Lord Davies escorted us. When we arrived, I saw Louisa with Sir Ramsey and I followed them. That is when I was separated from Lady Hyacinth.”

The marquess felt he could imagine Mrs. Barrington’s anger at the interruption. But to leave her sister alone on the notorious Dark Walk—strumpet!

“Come, Miss Pymbroke,” he said, adjusting the black gauze mantle about her shoulders and then offering her his arm. “We shall no doubt find Lady Hyacinth indulging in some of Vauxhall’s famous ham and their rack punch.”

She accepted his arm and smiled up at him.

Lord Carrisworth’s heart swelled with an emotion he had not thought himself capable. He brutally pushed the feeling aside.

They searched for Lady Hyacinth for almost half an hour, the increasingly thick fog hampering their efforts. Finally, they came upon her ladyship, seated in a box with Lord Killigrew, tucking into a large helping of ham. The elderly lord’s bulldog face was sulky because he had been unable to budge Lady Hyacinth away from her food so he might steal a kiss.

Lady Hyacinth waved her fork at them. “There you are, Verity, dear child. Oh, you are with Lord Carrisworth. That’s all right and tight then.”

They took their leave of Lord Killigrew, and her ladyship babbled on about Vauxhall all the way home in the marquess’s Town coach, never once questioning the whereabouts of Lord Davies.

Both Lord Carrisworth and Verity were quiet.

Verity was tired and upset over the events of the evening. Upon arriving home, she was relieved to find Lady Iris had not yet returned from the Grahams’ musicale.

Betty helped her mistress into a scanty lace shift, informing her anxiously that she had somehow lost one of miss’s red silk garters. Verity dismissed her concern with a yawn. Exhaustion overcame her and she was asleep the minute her head rested upon the pillow.

Next door, lying in Verity’s bed under her pink coverlet, the marquess was not so fortunate. He stared up at the pink and white bed hangings, unable to sleep.

Mr. Wetherall had been frosty upon his return. The servant’s eye twitched convulsively as he reminded his master of the indiscretion he had committed by bringing Roxanna Hollings into the house. Furthermore, when he had taken his lordship’s morning coat belowstairs to be brushed, he had been shocked to find a lady’s red silk garter in the pocket.

The marquess had snatched the scrap of silk from the valet’s fingers and tossed it onto the dressing table, curtly dismissing the servant for the night.

Only after he was alone did he allow his thoughts to return to his feelings for Miss Pymbroke. No, it would not do. He was not the man for her, even though he judged she was not indifferent to him. She was too innocent, too good to align herself with such as him. Besides, he reminded himself firmly, he would never marry and subject himself to the random whims of a woman’s heart.

* * * *

The morning of the Tremaines’ ball, Verity stood in the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s house. The dressmaker had just delivered her ball gown, the one Lady Iris had commissioned in gold silk.

“Oh, my lady, thank you. It is the most beautiful dress I have ever owned.” Verity was struck with awe. The material shimmered like liquid gold. Gold silk roses, embroidered in gold thread, adorned the bodice, the tiny puffed sleeves, and the full hem.

Lady Iris eyed the gown critically and finally pronounced it acceptable. “Have you any jewelry to go with it, gel?’

Verity’s eyes opened wide in delight. “Mama’s hair combs, the ones set with yellow topaz stones, will be the very thing.” Then, she frowned. “Only I am quite certain I left them in my dressing table next door. I suppose the marquess would not mind the intrusion if I sent Betty—

A crafty look came into Lady Iris’s eyes. “Betty is busy helping Beecham repair one of my gowns. Run next door yourself. You needn’t worry about Carrisworth. I saw him ride off earlier.” Lady Iris felt no need to tell her young friend she had also seen his lordship return some fifteen minutes ago. The two needed a bit of prodding, she thought impatiently. Lawks, it was already May. They should be announcing their betrothal by now!

Verity folded the gown and replaced it in the box. “I had better be quick then, before the marquess returns.”

Placing the box on a nearby table, she went out the front door.

Lady Iris’s face creased into a smile. She began climbing the stairs on her way to the drawing room when she saw Empress standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down at her. The cat’s tail swayed back and forth sinuously, and the expression on her face was one of a coconspirator.

Reaching her pet, Lady Iris bent down and scratched Empress’s crowned head. “Not quite as drastic as burning down his townhouse, but with any luck, it might prove interesting.”

Had Lady Iris but known it, she had yet another cohort in her plans for the marquess and Verity. Mr. Wetherall happened to be passing through the hall when Verity knocked. He opened the door wide and recognized her at once. “Good morning, Miss Pymbroke. I am Mr. Wetherall, Lord Carrisworth’s valet. May I be of assistance?”

“Thank you, Mr. Wetherall,” Verity said, entering the house. “I do not wish to disturb anyone. It is only that I have left something in my dressing table I wish to retrieve. I understand his lordship is away from home, so I thought I might just run up and get it.”

A good servant knew how to keep his expression a perfect blank. “Of course, miss. Please go ahead.”

Verity smiled at the old man and then hurried up the stairs.

Mr. Wetherall raised a shaking, veined hand to his brow. Never had he been so blind to the conventions. But, he told himself, the circumstance of seeing that actress Roxanna Hollings in the house yesterday had driven him to extreme measures. He staggered under the weight of his duplicity down to the butler’s sitting room, where he was sure a glass of wine would restore his equanimity.

Upstairs, after throwing open the door to her old bedchamber, Verity quickly crossed the room to the dressing table. Abruptly, she stopped short, staring down at her missing red silk garter resting on the smooth surface. “How on earth—

“So, Empress was correct. It is yours,” a lazy voice drawled.

Verity whirled around. The Marquess of Carrisworth lounged in a bath situated in a corner not ten feet away. His manner did not indicate any uneasiness at finding himself stark naked in the presence of a lady. Instead, his face held an expression of unholy amusement.

Verity’s breath caught in her lungs. She stared, saucer-eyed, and tried to speak, but could not. How muscular his chest and shoulders were! Oh! She must not look. But, unbelievably, she could not stop herself.

“I must say, Miss Pymbroke,” he said casually, ignoring her confusion and discomfort, “my imagination ran rampant when Empress brought me your garter. Tell me, why does such a proper young lady possess such an enticing piece of silk?” His green eyes sparkled.

Ooooh! Empress and her ribbon fetish. How dare the marquess mention . . . this was insupportable. Verity made as if to move toward the door.

Lord Carrisworth placed both hands on the sides of the huge copper basin and slowly began to rise. “If you try to leave before you have answered my question, I shall stand up.”

Verity froze. Averting her head, she answered him in a stilted voice. “If you must know, I enjoy feminine undergarments, my lord. Please, I merely came here for some combs I left in my dressing table. I thought you were out riding.”

The marquess waved a hand negligently, causing some water to splash on the floor, but his gaze never left her. “Ah, red silk. I knew all along you were a romantic. But, please, do not let me distract you from your task.”

A naked gentleman a distraction? Verity felt a nervous giggle rise in her throat. Suppressing it, she turned around awkwardly. While doing so, her treacherous gaze rested for a moment on the light covering of dark hair across his lordship’s chest. A new and unexpected warmth surged through her. Confused and shaking, she turned away. Snatching the garter from the table, she jerked open the drawer and grabbed the combs.

Clutching the articles in a trembling hand, she averted her gaze from his lordship and dashed for the door. Racing down the hallway, her cheeks burning, she heard the marquess’s laughter. There was no sign of Mr. Wetherall downstairs—never again would she place the slightest confidence in him—and, so, she let herself out, mercifully unnoticed.

Bursting into the hall of Lady Iris and Lady Hyacinth’s, Verity came face to face with Gloria, Countess of Northbridge, who was handing Bingwood her card. The butler said, “There you are, miss. I was just going to say you were not at home. Lady Iris informed me you had gone next door to the Marquess of Carrisworth’s house.”

The countess raised an elegant eyebrow and gazed speculatively at her new friend. “Why, Verity, you are looking overset. Have I called at an inopportune time?”

Verity gathered her shaken wits. She crammed the combs and the garter in her pocket. Dismissing the butler, she held out both hands to her guest saying, “Not at all, Gloria. In fact, I had hoped to see you yesterday.”

“Do forgive me,” the countess begged, accepting Verity’s outstretched hands and giving them an affectionate squeeze. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope you are not offended by plain speaking. You see, I was with the physician, hoping he would confirm my suspicions that I might soon be providing Charles with the heir he longs for. But, alas, the doctor said he did not believe me to be with child.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

The countess shook her head and smiled. “Do not be. It is my experience that women know more about these things than even the doctors. It is early days and I still have hope. Now, I did not come here to talk of myself. I hear Perry is to escort you and the Ladies Iris and Hyacinth to the Tremaines’ ball this evening. Charles and I are going as well. We shall have such fun.”

Verity tried to hide her dismay from Gloria’s intelligent gaze. How could she face the marquess again so soon after this morning’s embarrassing episode? Putting a smile on her face, she said, “I am glad to hear you will be attending. But, you must think me rag-mannered, indeed. Let us go up to the drawing room for some tea. We can discuss the ball there.”

“Yes, and I shall show you the steps of the waltz. It is most romantic,” Gloria assured her.

The two women linked arms and climbed the stairs. Each was busy with her own thoughts.

At Gloria’s offer, Verity’s mind flashed back to the night of the Lexhams’ turtle dinner when the marquess had “waltzed” with her in the hall. Really, he had done no more than hold her in his arms, so Gloria’s instruction would be welcome. What was not welcome was the memory of the warm feelings Lord Carrisworth had roused in her that night... as well as only moments ago.

After seeing his lordship in his bath, Verity could not banish the vision of the marquess’s bare chest from her brain. It seemed every encounter with him left her dizzy with an emotion she could not name. Well, that was not exactly true. Certainly she could name annoyance and frustration. But underneath them was this other feeling. The one that frightened her. The one she closed her mind to as she led the countess upstairs.

The Countess of Northbridge was thinking that if Verity had really, as the butler had indicated, come from Perry’s house, it was fascinating intelligence indeed. The girl’s cheeks had been quite pink. What could be going on?

While Perry liked to give the impression he was a rattle, Gloria had long ago determined he had a code of honor as strict as any gentleman. Never would he seduce a young innocent like Verity. Which meant his interest in her must be serious. How wonderful it would be for Charles’s best friend to finally settle down. She could hardly wait to see them together tonight so she might judge for herself.

* * * *

Impeccably garbed in a dark brown evening coat over a white waistcoat and cream-colored knee breeches, the Marquess of Carrisworth stood in Lady Iris’s drawing room waiting for Miss Pymbroke.

He had greeted the ladies warmly, with the exception of Mrs. Barrington, to whom he gave only a chilly nod. The widow, striking in a ruby-colored gown with ruby stones at her ears and neck, had ground her teeth at the slight.

Lady Hyacinth, wrapped in a colorful cashmere shawl, was sipping wine and munching a biscuit.

Lady Iris was clad in an old-fashioned hooped gown of dark green. Beneath her high white wig, her face was covered in its usual white paint, and she wore a heart-shaped patch by her mouth. “I don’t know what’s keeping Verity,” she fibbed. For Lady Iris had given strict instructions to Beecham to delay the girl’s arrival downstairs so she might make an entrance in front of Carrisworth.

Then, Bingwood opened the double doors and Verity stood framed in the doorway. As Lady Iris had known it would, the gold-colored gown set off Verity’s figure and coloring to perfection. Her hair had been fashioned into an elegant style with curls falling from her mother’s jeweled combs. Long white gloves encased her arms, and a gold chain encircled her neck. Her velvet-brown eyes shone with excitement, the preparations for the ball pushing aside her fears of meeting the marquess again. “I do apologize for keeping everyone waiting. Beecham would not stop fussing over my hair.”

When she entered the room, Lord Carrisworth thought he had never seen her more beautiful. He deliberately let his gaze travel down her body. “Miss Pymbroke—” he began, but broke off as an arrested expression came over his face.

Bowing to the ladies, he said, “Excuse me for just one moment, please.”

He walked quickly out the door while everyone looked at one another in confusion. In a few short minutes he returned, and walked directly to Verity.

Standing close to her, he could smell her rose perfume. “For this one night, you must forget Society’s rule regarding the nature of a gift a gentleman may give a lady. When I saw these, I knew they were meant for only you.”

Paying no attention to the bewildered expression on Verity’s face, he reached out and clasped a yellow topaz eardrop on first one ear, then the other. Staring into her startled eyes, he whispered, “You truly are an angel, my landlady.”

Seeming to recall where he was, he stepped back and moved away rather quickly. He poured himself a glass of wine.

“Oh,” gasped Lady Hyacinth. “Dear child, the yellow topaz matches your Mama’s combs and is ideal with your hair and gown.” She and Lady Iris exchanged optimistic glances.

Verity stood too emotion-filled to speak. The touch of Lord Carrisworth’s firm fingers against the softness of her neck and ears had caused an intense craving to fill her body. She wanted him to pull her into his arms then and there. That he had thought of her, had purchased something simply because he judged it would compliment her, sent her spirits soaring. For a moment her strict observation of the rules of Society battled with her growing feelings for the marquess.

Her heart won. She walked over to the mirror and viewed the beautiful eardrops. “Thank you, my lord. I shall agree to forgo the conventions for tonight.”

“What a relief for us all, I’m sure,” Louisa said derisively.

Verity’s happiness crumbled. She turned away from the glass and stared at the carpet. Her sister had avoided her assiduously since Vauxhall, giving the impression she wanted nothing further to do with her. Verity felt the loss acutely.

Lord Carrisworth eyed the widow with dislike.

Suddenly, Louisa let out a shrill cry. “The monster! Look what that horrible animal has done to my gown!”

All eyes turned to where Empress, with a length of ruby-colored ribbon dangling from her mouth, sat wearing an expression that defied anyone to challenge her royal catliness. She had obviously unwound the ribbon from the hem of Louisa’s gown.

Lady Iris barked a laugh. She bent and, from long experience, retrieved the ribbon easily. “Empress, what are we to do with you,” she scolded halfheartedly.

“I can tell you,” Louisa said, her gray eyes like granite. “A trip to the river with a stone tied around its neck is what that cat needs.”

As one, the company glared at Louisa in disapproval. The marquess raised his quizzing glass and studied her. “You know, Mrs. Barrington, in ancient Egypt the penalty for killing a cat was death.”

“Makes good sense to me,” Lady Iris responded roundly. “And what’s more, I’m not going to wait while Beecham repairs that gown or you decide to change. You can send a message to one of your flirts to escort you to the Tremaines’. Come along, Carrisworth, let us take our leave.”

Verity hesitated but a moment before following the others.

Empress trailed after them downstairs. Lady Iris left orders for her pet to be given a dish of cream in the kitchens and kept there until she returned from the ball. “Not that Louisa would dare harm a hair on Empress, but the servants tend to coddle the cat and she’ll be better off there than alone while I’m gone.”

The marquess and Verity exchanged a look behind Lady Iris’s back which clearly expressed the view in both their minds that Lady Iris herself had spoiled Empress. They shared a smile.

Despite the unpleasantness with Louisa, it was a jovial party that rode in the utmost luxury in Lord Carrisworth’s traveling coach. The Duke and Duchess of Tremaine were holding their party at their manor house, which was a few miles outside of London, and the marquess believed the distance was best covered in comfort. He served the ladies wine from a sort of cupboard fixed in one side of the coach and amused them with the latest on dits.

In the dim light inside the coach, Verity thought it wickedly unjust that the marquess should appear so handsome. Her fingers moved to caress the eardrops he had given—no, lent—her. While she had agreed to ignore the conventions for this night, she would return the jewelry in the morning. With a sigh she realized she would do so with no small amount of regret.

A short time later, the coach wound its way down a long, curving drive. The large, sprawling manor house built in the Elizabethan style that sprang into view was an impressive reflection of power and prestige.

Lady Iris peered out of the coach window. “By George, this promises to be the greatest possible fun.  The Duchess of Tremaine is holding the party on the roof!”

Verity gasped in delight. “What a wonderful idea.”

“Bless me,” Lady Hyacinth moaned, her plump hands flying to her cheeks. “I have the most dreadful fear of heights.”

“For God’s sake then, Hyacinth, don’t look over the edge,” her sister instructed her crossly.

A footman accompanied them when they made their way through the grand house and up the stairs, lit by torches.

The duchess had ordered thick Oriental carpets to be laid on the rooftop. Stands of hothouse flowers were spread about, and cloth-covered tables held mountains of

refreshments. A small orchestra played near a larger area that was being used for dancing. Bordering the roof were large stone pillars, turrets, and gargoyles. Above it all, the black sky presented a brilliant backdrop of glowing stars and a full moon.

Lady Hyacinth looked around her wide-eyed. Lord Carrisworth placed an affectionate arm about her shoulders and said, “You see, my lady, there are footmen stationed two feet apart, like guards, around the perimeter of the roof so you may be secure.”

Lady Hyacinth nodded. Gentlemen were so reassuring. “I suspect they are there to prevent tipsy guests from stumbling to their deaths. It does provide one with a great sense of safety.”

Lady Iris grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s find the duke and duchess.”

As they made their way over to where the Tremaines were greeting guests, Verity gazed up at the handsome marquess and smiled. He had handled Lady Hyacinth’s fears gallantly. Indeed, his lordship seemed full of consideration for others this night. Could it be he was not the care-for-nobody she had originally judged him?

The Duke of Tremaine was a crabby old man of at least seventy years. In contrast, his wife was a thirtyish, vibrant woman with auburn hair who gazed at Lord Carrisworth with hungry eyes. Introductions were performed, and Verity curtsied low. She watched gloomily while the marquess flirted expertly with the duchess.

The musicians struck up a waltz. Verity turned and found Beau Brummell, faultlessly attired in evening dress, at her side. He bowed to the ladies and nodded at Lord Carrisworth. “Miss Pymbroke, I have obtained permission for you to waltz from Lady Cowper, one of the patronesses of Almack’s. And you did promise me a dance.” He held out his arm expectantly.

Verity accepted him with a backward glance at the marquess. Why could it not be Lord Carrisworth to twirl her about the floor? She then flushed, realizing the marquess was watching her with that teasing twinkle in his green eyes.

Firmly pushing thoughts of Lord Carrisworth from her mind, she devoted herself to her conversation with Mr. Brummell and their dance. They exchanged pleasantries and then he said, “The duchess has a marvelous sense of style. When she realized the unusually warm weather was perfect for an outdoor party, she immediately ordered everything moved to the roof. Charming, is it not?”

“Yes,” Verity replied distractedly. Her disobedient gaze had returned to the marquess who was leading the duchess out onto the floor. Verity felt her stomach knot when Lord Carrisworth placed a gloved hand at the lady’s waist.

Mr. Brummell was not aware he had less than a captive audience. “Our dear duchess is a romantic, and what could be more suitable for intrigue and stolen kisses than a night under the stars?”

Verity bit her lip as the lady laughed at something Lord Carrisworth had whispered into her ear. “Indeed,” she replied faintly.

“There was already a bit of excitement before you arrived. Lady Althea announced her engagement.”

Mr. Brummell had Verity’s attention now. In the most casual way she glanced around the company searching for the long-nosed Lady Althea. Although she knew the answer, she asked, “Pray, to who is the lady engaged?”

“Cecil Sedgewick, an aspiring cleric. The Foxworths have given him a living. Lady Althea appears happy with her choice, and I believe it will be best for her. She is rather a domineering sort and Sedgewick seems willing enough to be under the cat’s paw.”

Verity spotted the couple in question. Mr. Sedgewick was solicitously adjusting a shawl around his fiancée’s shoulders. For the first time, Verity realized that Cecil Sedgewick was a hypocrite. Oh, how he had pontificated on the evils of Society and the uncaring members of the Nobility! Yet here he was, engaged to one of its most pampered daughters. Lord Carrisworth had been correct regarding Mr. Sedgewick’s motivations. Well, Mr. Sedgewick had what he wanted now, and Verity wished Lady Althea the joy of him. That she had ever considered him desirable as a husband made her shudder.

“You are not cold, are you, Miss Pymbroke?” Mr. Brummell inquired. The dance had ended and they were strolling toward Lady Iris.

“No, thank you for asking, Mr. Brummell.”

The Beau left her with a bow. Lady Iris tapped a closed fan against the palm of her hand while gazing about the gathering. “There is your slut of a sister. She got Sir Ramsey to bring her here. Pah! She’s wasting her time on him. There’s no hope in that direction. The man’s too smart for her. You know, I can’t seem to find Hyacinth.”

Verity took note of Louisa, hanging on Sir Ramsey’s arm, and then looked at Lady Iris in surprise. “My lady, could Lady Hyacinth have not simply, er, retired to the ladies withdrawing room for a moment?”

“Perhaps. But she was with Lord Killigrew and I don’t like him. He looks like a dog on the hunt for a bone.” Her ladyship raised her fan and pointed it at Lord Carrisworth commandingly.

The marquess bowed lo the duchess and came to their side, a brow raised in inquiry.

“Carrisworth, Hyacinth’s missing. I want you to find her.”

The marquess gazed at Lady Iris limpidly. “Missing? Did you look over the edge of the house?”

Lady Iris bridled. “This is no time for funning. Killigrew is with her, and I suspect while my back was turned the dirty dog whisked her away downstairs.”

“Very well. Come, Miss Pymbroke, I may need your help.” Before Verity could protest, he led her away without the slightest protest from Lady Iris.

They made their way back down the torch-lit stairs. When they reached the bottom, Lord Carrisworth paused for a moment to study her. “Have you heard the news about your Mr. Sedgewick? Is your heart broken, Miss Pymbroke?”

Verity pursed her lips. Her brown eyes sparkled when she replied. “I wish them happy.” Seeing the amused expression on his face she went on in a rush. “What do you want? For me to admit I was wrong about him and you were right?”

The marquess grinned wolfishly. “That would be pleasant. But I owe you an apology. I did not live up to my part of our bargain when we agreed I should help you catch Mr. Sedgewick for yourself. I do most humbly beg your pardon.”

“Fudge! You are not in the slightest bit sorry,” she told him.

He acknowledged the truth of this with a nod of his head. “He was not the man for you, my landlady. You have too much spirit for a dull cleric. And one who does not live up to his principles.”

Verity contemplated the sculpture atop a marble base set in the hall where they were standing. In a low voice she said, “It seems I have been a poor judge of people. First, Mr. Sedgewick, then Louisa—

“And me, Miss Pymbroke. I am all sincerity, and on many occasions you have called my integrity into question.”

Verity straightened her shoulders. A discussion of the marquess’s character was not one she wished to enter into when her own thoughts on the subject were so perplexing. “We are supposed to be locating Lady Hyacinth.”

They walked down the hall and peered into the library, then a saloon, and Verity investigated the ladies withdrawing room, all to no avail. Retracing their steps, they encountered Sir Ramsey approaching them from the roof stairs. “I’m for White’s, Perry. Care to join me?”

“No, my friend. But why are you leaving so early?”

Sir Ramsey glanced uncomfortably at Verity. “Forgive me, Miss Pymbroke, but it’s your sister. Don’t know what maggot she’s taken into her head. I swear I never gave her any indication I was the marrying type. Deuced uncomfortable business, but Louisa knows the way the wind blows now and she’s not happy. Thought it best to take my leave.”

Sir Ramsey moved past them. Verity’s mind raced. Her sister must have brought up the subject of marriage to the baronet and he had denied her just as Lady Iris had guessed he would. Poor Louisa!

Lord Carrisworth read her mind. He grasped her arm in a tight hold. “Miss Pymbroke, you cannot be thinking charitably of your sister after the events at Vauxhall. You just admitted you had been wrong about Mrs. Barrington. Confound it, you are an intelligent girl! Realize her way of life is not compatible with yours and you cannot change her.”

Tears formed in Verity’s eyes. “Yes. I shall let her go her own way. I saw last night I have no choice.” She raised pain-filled eyes to his. “Tell me, my lord, why is it that people we love often hurt us so much?”

The marquess caught his breath. He pulled Verity into his arms. She rested her head on his shoulder and he stroked her back gently. His jaw had tensed, and he had a faraway expression in his green eyes. “We give them that power by loving them.”

Verity eased out of his hold. Brown eyes stared into green. “You speak as if from experience. Did someone you love hurt you?”

Lord Carrisworth turned away to adjust the sleeve of his coat. When he looked at her again, his face betrayed no emotion. Verity had a sudden urge to shake him.

From the other end of the hall came the sound of muffled weeping. As one, the marquess and Verity hurried to its source.