Page 76 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

Trying not to think about Verity was like trying not to think about a knife in his chest—she was all he could think about. He wanted to know if she was sleeping or lying awake like him. Did she regret what she’d said? Might she change her mind—or was that just wishful thinking? Was she over there packing her bags, getting ready to run? And where would she run to? At least when you fell in love with someone with roots, you knew where they’d be. That was some sort of comfort—you could avoid them or seek them out, whichever was salve for your wound. But someone like Verity...Nathan really might never see her ever again. And that thought was more terrifying than anything else he could imagine.

Far earlier in the morning than was polite, he went to her house. He did not simply enter as he had become used to doing, but knocked and waited for the housekeeper to answer. Whatever hopes Nathan had that they could fix what had occurred last night were secondary to his most fundamental wish. Please, just don’t let her be gone.

Verity was walking down the hall, tucking something into a reticule, and she looked up, saw him, and stopped. She was dressed in severe black, and her face was pale, her eyes a bit swollen and red. Clearly she had not emerged from last night unscathed, either.

It gave him a little burst of bitter satisfaction, which was no doubt petty of him—but, dammit, he was getting tired of being the only one who got hurt. Though, even as he thought it, it squeezed his heart to see her unhappy.

“Nathan.” There was surprise in Verity’s voice. Did she really think that I would simply walk away from her and never give her another thought?

“Verity.” He hoped he wasn’t imagining that there was a moment of happiness in her eyes that sparked when she saw him. He glanced at her attire. “Are we mourning Herbert again?”

Her face relaxed. “Hubert. Really, Nathan, one would think you would remember your best friend’s name.”

“Ah, but he was only a classmate.”

She sighed. And both of them said in chorus, “Poor Hubert.”

It was so much the same, so painfully different.

“It’s my new disguise,” Verity went on, taking a black bonnet from the hat rack and putting it on. She pulled down the black veil attached to the hat.

“Deep mourning indeed. I can hardly see you through that veil.”

“That’s rather the point.” Verity pushed the veil back up atop the brim. “I doubled the gauze.”

“It’s conspicuous, though,” he pointed out. “People will remember you.”

“They’ll remember a widow. That’s all people see.”

An awkward silence fell. All Nathan could think of was how lovely Verity looked even like this—fine-boned and fragile, her golden eyes made somehow more luminous after her tears. He pulled his thoughts back. “Um, I came by to see...have you...are you leaving soon? Do you know where you’re going?”

“I can’t leave yet. I must find Malcolm Douglas first.”

“What?” He hadn’t expected this. “No. I don’t want you to put yourself in danger. I will continue to look for him myself.”

“I don’t leave a job unfinished,” Verity said, iron in her voice. “I am a professional.” She paused, then added, “Are you terminating my employment?”

“Well, that would be difficult since I’m not paying you. You’re doing it as my friend, remember? And I will always be your friend.”

“Nathan...” Verity said through gritted teeth. “You make it exceedingly difficult to remain angry at you.”

He smiled faintly. “I try my best.”

Verity rolled her eyes, and he supposed it was a sign of just how far lost he was that it warmed him to see it. She went on, “Lord Stanhope can find out who I am—or, rather, who I’m pretending to be—fairly easily, but no one in the ton knows where I live. Except you, of course, and I think I can trust you not to reveal it. He’ll discover where I am eventually, but it’s bound to take him at least a few days. We don’t have much time to find Malcolm, anyway. I don’t want the imposter deciding the scheme’s not going to work and getting rid of him.”

“Of course.” Nathan thought he should try again to get her to leave. It was selfish of him to want her with him. What if Stanhope did find her? He looked at her set chin and almost smiled. As if he could stop Verity from doing exactly what she pleased.

They drove again to Fairborn’s shop, first touring all the streets and lanes around it before settling across the street from the sweets store. Verity sat close to the opposite wall, inches of room between them, stiff and poised as if ready to jump out of the carriage. Nathan missed the feel of her body against his side, and it was hard not to reach out to touch her arm or take her hand, as he usually did.

He wished Lord Stanhope seven ways to hell for bringing all this on them. He wanted badly to confront the man, to have it out with him, force him to leave Verity alone. But Verity was right in not wanting Stanhope to connect Nathan to her—he might use Nathan to track Verity down. Right now, there was the chance that he didn’t know who Nathan was. After all, Nathan didn’t know him.

And that was a bit odd, now that he thought about it. Nathan didn’t know everyone in the ton, of course, and Stanhope had looked a few years younger than he, but still... Perhaps he ought to investigate Stanhope, find a lever he could use against him, as Nathan had with Lord Arden. If the son was anything like his father, there was probably something wicked in his past.

He considered asking Lady Lockwood, the fount of all social knowledge, about Stanhope, but there he’d run the risk of revealing Verity’s secret. Her ladyship was a bloodhound—she would figure it out. Perhaps he could just ask around casually at his club about the man.

“Nathan!” He was pulled from his thoughts by Verity clutching his arm, her voice rising in excitement. “I think that’s Hill.”

“Hill?” Nathan straightened and peered out the window.