Dair merely raised a brow.
“I only know this from Verity’s letters over that month, but… It was all so bloody tragic. Her poor father was lost at the hands of highwaymen, his carriage found the next morn out on the hills, both him and the coachman dead.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Hell, how I wanted to rush to her side but it was a good four days’ ride and Mother was alone so…” He shook his head. “I sent messages, dried flowers and books to Verity. For a while, I received no answer, understandably so, but when she finally did… Her letters were brief and…emotionless. I would try to comfort her with writings of our future adventures. I sent maps of where we could travel, hoping to cheer her…but something had changed overmuch.”
“Reasonable, perhaps.”
Miles nodded. “I thought so too. Until the letters just…ceased. I sent more. No reply.” He breathed deep. “Finally, my father returned home and we spoke but…” Miles pressed his thumb to his brow, eyes closing briefly. “The important part isthat a day later, I sent a message to Verity saying I would be with her in four days’ time and to meet me in our orchard.”
“Don’t tell me, she didn’t turn up.”
“Oh no, she turned up.” He rubbed his stubbled cheek. “I knew she’d still be in deep grief yet immediately she was so…distant, so hard. I’d never seen the like.” He knocked back his liquor. “Without ado, she explained that she no longer…no longer cared for me. That it had been a brief infatuation, more with botany than me. I remonstrated, could not reconcile such a change, thought perhaps she needed time to come to terms with the loss of her father, so I offered, but…” He swallowed. “She told me bluntly it had merely been a youthful summer dalliance. That it would pass. Could I not see that? Then…”
Dair now sat up, blue eyes avid in the candlelight. “Yes?”
“Then she said that in the weeks since her father’s death, she’d become goodly acquainted with a Mr Locksley, a companion of a cousin who’d come to pay his respects. They’d much in common and he had some large botanical garden in Devon. Or Cornwall. And connections with publishers whom she might be able to work with. All she’d ever wished for. She…she stated that the two of them would return to his estate, almost immediately, and marry. That she…admired and adored him. That he was…” He breathed deep. “A man, not a boy.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry, Miles.”
At that time, it had been the deepest of wounds, not only to his youthful pride but to his callow heart. On the ride home, in the pouring rain, he’d decided henceforth to avoid the messy chaos of love. He’d been taught a lesson and he’d not make the same mistake twice. Ever.
Dair returned his boots to the chaise, waggled them. “Yet she never married this Locksley?”
“No. Which I’ve only just discovered. And she never went to Devon or Cornwall either. As a matter of fact, it sounds like she’s never been anywhere, which is odd in itself.”
His cousin rose and wandered to the decanters before returning to fill Miles’ glass. “Do you believe Miss Seymour…lied about this Locksley fellow?”
“I have to confess I do. But why?”
Dair shrugged. “More the question is, do you wish to find out?”
With a sip of liquor, Miles pondered.
Doubtless, any feelings for Verity had been shattered that night and he would never fall beneath her spell again, but he could not deny he was…intrigued.
What a damn tangle his life had become since arriving in London: damn dinners, damn artists and not to mention these damn suspicious mishaps to befall him.
“No. There’s no time for Verity Seymour. She and Locksley can stay metaphorically buried within their large botanical garden.”
Dair cast his sardonic side-glance. “So, you do then?”
“What? No. I just said–”
“Miles, I watch men bluff at cards all night. Little escapes me.”
“Well…” Miles tapped his fingers against his glass. “I suppose a delve into the past could not hurt, a light interrogation. Maybe at the fair.”
Dair finished his whisky in a gulp. “The fair isn’t for a fortnight. You need to strike while the iron is hot.”
“How?” he groused. “Follow her around Town?”
“No, not you. Get Lynch to do that. And note her habitual haunts. Then you inadvertently bump into her, commence interrogation, get her on the back foot, get answers, forget about her and get some debutante like Miss Juliet Tait to marry you.”His cousin stretched. “I’m off to Mrs Harlow’s nymphs. Want to come along?”
Miles blinked. “No. And that plan is ridiculous. I want to sit and think.”
“Dull dogs die early, you know.”
Miles’ eyes flicked up. But his cousin had already reached the door.
“Dair,” he called, “meet me at The Wellington. Friday at six on the chime to discuss this further. Don’t be late.”
