“I would have been terrified to live alone for so long, surrounded by wild animals,” Verity said, offering him a bonbon. “You’re so brave.”
“Desperate.” He took one and popped it into his mouth, savouring its sweet, fruity taste. He’d never realised how lucky he was when he’d been a foolish young man, taking food and shelter for granted. Never again. “Some of those monkeys were my friends.”
“Friends?” Mr. Merriweather asked, earning a glare of disapproval from Maddie.
“They would bring me fruits sometimes, and I returned the favour.” Hector practised the sequence of the steps again. “I believe they could be considered friends since we took care of each other.”
Maddie arched a brow at Mr. Merriweather as if challenging him to say anything. But he bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“Heavens, that painting is terrible.” Verity pointed at the bucolic landscape on the wall. “Sorry, Mr. Wentworth, for my bluntness. I blame Maddie for having taught me what a good painting is. I’m afraid she ruined my enjoyment of art for good.”
He grinned. “I agree with your assessment. Quentin chose it.” He practised the bow again in front of Maddie.
She rewarded him with a smile that stopped his heart for a moment.
“Are the shoes too uncomfortable?” she asked.
He twirled his foot. “These larger shoes are better, and I—”
The door swung open, and Quentin sauntered inside with a lady Hector had never met and who clung to Quentin’s arm like an extra limb. Her silk dress and velvet cloak were of the finest quality, and her large brown eyes and dark hair made her an attractive woman, but somehow her lopsided, smug smile ruined her beauty a little.
The sudden entrance caused Hector’s throat to tighten and his muscles to contract. He stepped in front of Maddie, almost blocking her view. Instead, Verity withdrew to a corner of the sofa and focused on its floral pattern.
“Merriweather. Will I ever get rid of you?” Quentin’s mouth formed a displeased line.
The solicitor didn’t flinch. “Only time will tell, sir.”
“Cousin. I didn’t know you were here,” Quentin said. “Mr. Jones told me you left the house today.”
“I went to see the factory in Clerkenwell.”
A deep crease appeared between Quentin’s eyebrows. “For what reason?”
“To show Lord Hector in what terrible conditions your employees work,” Mr. Merriweather said with too much passion.
Quentin didn’t flinch. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”
Mr. Merriweather opened his mouth, but the lady cut him off.
“Verity!” Her glossy black curls bounced on her rouged cheeks. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Do you know Hector’s friends?” Quentin sounded shocked.
The lady smiled. “I know Verity, who always tells the truth, don’t you, darling?”
Verity flushed to the roots of her hair. “Annabelle, fancy that.”
Mr. Merriweather offered a stiff bow. “I’m Mr. Ernest Merriweather, and may I present Miss Madeline Debenham and Lord Hector.”
Annabelle dropped a half curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Merriweather. Verity told me everything about you. I doubt she told you everything—”
“Everyone, this is Miss Annabelle Fanshaw.” Verity sprang up from the sofa and let out a cheerful laugh.
Quentin wrapped an arm around Annabelle’s waist. “How do you and Annabelle know each other?”
Verity waved a hand. “We met here and there and at the piano concerts each week.”
“Indeed.” Annabelle propped her elbow over Quentin’s shoulder. “But Verity and I have other interests in common. For example—”
