When the three of them entered the town house, a shocked silence fell over the foyer as the dowager, the countess and Miss Snow rushed forward. Then, in the time it took to draw a collective breath, more ranting began. Lady Broadbent and Anna joined forces against Verity.
Anna tearfully hugged her, then threatened to kill her if she ever did anything foolish like that again.
Lady Broadbent also embraced her, but withheld the death threat in favor of a fond pat to her cheek.
Magnus’s mother stiffly acknowledged her father, then took one look at Verity’s soot-covered skirts and ordered hot water for her bath. Without another word or even a meager “Welcome back. I’m glad you’re not dead,” she retired for the evening.
After everyone had said their piece, some more than others, the foyer gradually cleared.
Her father was shown to his own guest chamber, walking up beside the countess. In the meantime, Magnus moved to the door to escort Anna home. But when he passed Verity, he didn’t say a word. He simply looked at her in that silent brooding way of his as if the world were breaking over his shoulders. And then he and Anna were gone.
Verity knew that any declarations they had made earlier needed to stay in that locked room. The tender feelings they shared did not belong in this reality. He was still a duke in need of a fortune, and she was still a penniless spinster. There was no future laid out for the two of them, no matter how much she wished otherwise.
Resigned to the truth, she went up the stairs with a heavy heart and leaden feet, weary and exhausted.
But hours later, she was still unable to fall asleep.
Clarity strikes a woman when faced with death, she supposed. And all she could think about was the sound of that pistol.
The instant the gun had been fired, she’d felt her own life end. Her heart had twisted into unbearable knots, wrenched into something unrecognizable as she had been able to do nothing more than stand helplessly by. Her hands had reached out. A scream ripped from her throat. And in the space of a single heartbeat, she had died a hundred times.
She was still shaking. The events of the night seemed almost as if they were a disturbing dream. A dream that someone else had experienced and she’d only heard a tale of it.
But it was real. It had happened. And she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep—possibly ever—unless she talked to Magnus.
She couldn’t let it end like this. There was so much more she wanted to say. And she needed to understand his silence, let him rail at her, throttle her. Anything.
So, she slipped into her dressing gown and left her room.
Chamberstick in hand, she crept along the corridor and up the stairs and rapped lightly on his door. But there was no answer.
Wondering if, perhaps, he’d fallen asleep, she tried the door and found it unlocked. But when she peered inside, he wasn’t there.
She frowned and went off in search of him.
Verity found him in his study, his head bent, shoulders hunched as he scribbled a fury of calculations in a ledger. He was so absorbed that he didn’t even notice when she stepped into the room.
“Longhurst?”
“Yes, Verity?” he answered at once without lifting his head. Apparently, he had noticed her. So then his continued coldness was for some other reason.
After everything they had been through this evening, she was fairly sure what that was. “Are you terribly angry with me for going to that building tonight?”
“If I’m to be honest, every time I think about it, I’m torn between wanting to commit murder and whether or not to have shackles fashioned for your ankles and wrists so that I can keep you exactly where you ought to be.”
She nodded to herself, having thought as much. “Would you like to rail at me?”
“Later.”
“Shall I wait here, then?” she asked wryly, padding closer to his desk.
He paused only to dip the nib into the ink pot, then continued writing. “If you like.”
Absently, she picked up the cloth-covered tome resting on the corner and her mouth quirked. It was a book of plays. This was far from the reading material she would have expected from him. Then again, he wasn’t finished. There was a scrap of folded paper peeking out from between the pages.
Curious, she opened the book. And nearly dropped it when she recognized the bookmark.
It was the missive she had sent to him, along with his coat.
She stared at the top of his bent head, a dozen thoughts running through her mind. “I cannot believe you kept my letter.”
“Saving a cat, indeed,” he muttered and dipped the nib again.
His disbelief still abraded her. “I really was, you know. It isn’t as though I climb trees for my own amusement.”
“I should hope not.”
She huffed and tucked the paper against the margin once more, ready to close the book with a snap. But a flash of violet stopped her.
She opened the book wider and saw a slender ribbon nestled against the margin. It took her a moment. Then she recalled throwing it at him in this room. But no. It couldn’t be. “Is this . . . my hair ribbon?”
“I believe so.” He continued scribbling.
Her heart lifted in fluttering wingbeats. “And you kept it?”
“What else was I supposed to do with it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A dozen things,” she said, wishing he would lift his gaze so she could read his expression.
In her mind, they were sharing a rather romantic moment. He had kept her letter and her ribbon. Which meant that, all this time, she wasn’t the only one who’d felt this way.
And yet, he couldn’t spare her a glance.
A frustrated breath left her. “Longhurst, what are you doing?”
“I’m calculating.”
“I gathered that, what with all the numbers and such. But what are you calculating?”
He took another dab of ink and resumed. “How long it will be before we can marry.”