Page 21 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

“I would hope we will not have to go so far. I have no desire to cause you—or your mother—any pain. We both know that she is the one who will suffer most from the scandal.”

Nathan itched to plant a hard fist into the man’s jaw, but he maintained his poise, crossing his arms to make sure he didn’t do exactly that. “I assume you have some proposal to make—out of the goodness of your heart, of course—to save my mother from suffering.”

Malcolm’s eyes hardened. “Aye, scoff if you like. But I’ve no desire to have my name dragged through the mud in the courts, either. I am willing to settle this thing between us.”

“Gentleman to gentleman,” Nathan echoed, his voice acidic. He dropped his arms and took a step forward. “Mrs. Billingham was right—you’re nothing but a swindler. And I have no intention of becoming your next victim. I will not pay you blackmail. I have a counter proposal to make—you go away, and I won’t report you to a magistrate.”

“Blackmail? I am the party who has been wronged in this matter, not you. Clearly I should not have come to you—a man who can’t even speak for himself, but lets a woman do it for him. I should have dealt with your mother instead.”

With a snarl, Nathan grabbed Malcolm by the lapels and shoved him back against the side of the building. “Don’t you dare go near my mother. You take your tale to her, cause her any distress, and I will hunt you down.” He gave Malcolm a shake for emphasis. “Do you understand me?”

Malcolm tore out of Nathan’s grasp. “I understand that you’re a bloody fool. You think I’m scared of a man who hides behind a woman’s skirts? You understand this, Dunbridge.” He jabbed his forefinger in the air at Nathan. “You consider my offer very carefully. Think how much your mother’s tears are worth to you.” He turned and started away, then swung back and added, “And how much you want to keep Mrs. Billingham. If news of this gets out, she won’t stay around to let your scandal taint her, as well. You’ll lose her as surely as you will your good name.”

FOR A MOMENT Verity had thought that Nathan simply wanted to take her to a party, that he wanted her company. But of course there had been a practical reason for it. It was in aid of what was truly important to him. It was irritating, even maddening—to know that she wished he had had no such motive in mind.

Still, she couldn’t help but feel eager for tomorrow. She had attended parties before, usually in one guise or another, but she had never enjoyed them in the same way she had the other evening at the Ardens’ ball. Men had flirted and danced with her, done their best to charm her. But they had been doing those things to an illusion. Nathan had been bantering with her. And that made all the difference.

However, much as the thought of a party appealed, Verity could not ignore the difficulties. Not that she thought she and Nathan couldn’t carry off the roles—she had no doubt of that. But there was the worrisome issue of Jonathan Stanhope.

She had come to decide that her fears of Stanhope recognizing her were groundless. He had glanced in her direction for only an instant, and it was as likely as not that he hadn’t even noticed her to begin with. Verity had not recognized him, really; it was just that he looked enough like his father to make her blood run cold.

It had been many years since they’d seen each other, and the sophisticated Mrs. Billingham did not look the same as Verity had sixteen years ago. Her form was more curvaceous, and the soft girlish face had been honed by time and experience. Her hair had been red then too, of course, but even it had turned a darker shade as she had grown older.

But Verity could not simply dismiss the possibility, either. She had to be practical, had to consider the risks. However impulsive and incautious someone like Nathan might think she was, she had not stayed alive all those years as a spy in an enemy country without considering the dangers and making plans to circumvent them.

Right now she needed to consider that she might be pressing her luck to continue to attend ton parties. She could not let her desire to go to a ball with Nathan overrule her common sense. The more often she appeared in London Society, the more likely she was to run into Stanhope again.

On the other hand, it seemed most unlikely that the grand Lord Stanhope would be attending a party that Nathan had termed small and consisting primarily of friends and family and Scots. Besides, Verity would know to watch out for him now; she would not be taken by surprise as she had been the other night. She would make sure to attract no notice until she had made a survey of the guests at the party, and she would keep an eye out for his arrival all during the party, ready to slip away at a moment’s notice—on the off chance he even showed up.

There was no reason to deny herself a dance—maybe two—with Nathan.

*

VERITY SLEPT POORLY and awoke early the next morning doubting her decision. Not one to waffle usually, she also wasn’t one to distrust her instincts. She was still contemplating whether she was being wise, and felt she needed to investigate further.

Throughout the past few years that she had spent in London, Verity had not seen or heard any mention of Stanhope, even in the cases she had taken that involved members of the ton, which had reinforced her opinion that, like his father, Jonathan preferred to live at the family’s country house. The fact that he had been at one party did not mean that he would continue to remain in London.

With this thought in mind, Verity went to the flower market, where she astonished a flower girl by purchasing her flowers, basket and all, as well as the girl’s discolored and fraying straw hat. Returning home, Verity darkened her eyebrows, brushed a yellowish powder over her face to make it appear sallow, and pulled on a drab worn gown and old scuffed half boots. She tucked her hair under the ragged straw hat and finished off the transformation by scrubbing her hands with dirt and adding a smudge to her jaw.

Then she set out for the Stanhopes’ townhome. She considered it a testament to the accuracy of her disguise that a gentleman stopped her to buy a posy for an afternoon call. As she neared the house, Verity’s steps became slower, and when she reached the end of its block, she stopped.

It had been many years since she last saw the place, but still it set the nerves jittering in her stomach. She realized with a touch of surprise that for the last few years, as she built her life in London, she had avoided any route that would take her past the Stanhope home.

It was an ordinary enough dwelling for a wealthy man, one among a row of houses the color of pale butter, lying in a crescent across the street from a quiet green park that completed the half-moon shape. On the back side of the park lay a busier thoroughfare, but here everything was peaceful and pristine. Except for her memories.

Verity drew in a little breath. She was no coward. She didn’t balk at doing things just because they were hard. Don’t be a ninny, girl. Move.

She started forward, her eyes scanning the area. A lady, carrying a parasol and followed by her maid, turned into the little park. A footman at the end of the curve came out of the house to water the pots of flowers that bracketed the front door. Verity slowed her pace. There was no sign of anyone at the Stanhope house.

She crossed the street, reminding herself that it was unlikely the same servants would still be there, and even if they were, no one would recognize her as a Cockney flower girl. Before she reached the steps down to the servants’ door, a maid emerged from it, carrying a bucket of water and a scrub brush.

“’Scuse me, miss,” Verity called. “Buy a flower?”

The girl goggled at her. “What would the likes of me do with a flower?”

“Brighten up the ’ouse, they do,” Verity said. “Go on, ’elp a poor girl out.”

The maid laughed. “I don’t buy the flowers.”