what she had done, it was entirely possible that Miss Verity Scott had remained at the cottage on purpose. Much easier to slip out unnoticed from here.
He glanced around the small room. It might be empty and cheerless, but at least it was clean. No doubt Verity had seen to that. According to the villagers, Scott had became a complete recluse towards the end, refusing to allow anyone else in the cottage, completely in thrall to his opium.
A chill stole through him. No doubt the loss of his arm had been a terrible shock for Scott, but suicide… He grimaced. Probably it hadn’t just been the arm. He remembered what he’d been told… Damn shame, Max. Seems the poor fellow got back after Waterloo to discover his wife had died in childbed. Understand he’s been drinking laudanum ever since. Why don’t you go down and see if you can help them? I tried but he wouldn’t even open the door. I saw only the child. She came out and apologised. Said he wasn’t well…
No. It hadn’t been his fault… But still, if only Scott hadn’t deflected that bayonet. A clean death on the battlefield for Max Blakehurst would not have been such a tragedy. If only he hadn’t been swayed by the family insistence that he go to the embassy in Vienna, he might have heard sooner of Scott’s difficulties, been able to do something. Now all he could do was mourn.
He couldn’t even help the child sleeping upstairs. Her family would look after her now. And the last thing she needed was to be reminded of this dreadful night. No. She was better off without him hanging around.
He’d find out where she was going. Perhaps if the family taking her needed some help he could offer it anonymously, but otherwise he should stay out of her life.
Verity came downstairs shortly after dawn, wishing she had defied Max over her supper and left some of it for breakfast. And whatever had she done with her wet clothes the previous night? Surely she’d simply dropped them on the floor of her bedchamber, but they certainly weren’t there this morning.
Her stomach rumbled hopefully. She ignored it. She’d have to set the fire again to dry her clothes when she found them. There was a little fuel left.
She reached the kitchen and stared. The fire blazed brightly and her clothes hung over the back of the chair. Nearly dry.
Tears pricking at her eyes, she looked around. On the table were four eggs, bacon, a fresh loaf of bread, a pat of butter, some cheese and six apples. And a jug of…she peeped in…milk. The tears spilt over. Judging by the state of the fire, he hadn’t been gone long. He’d stayed all night, then gone out to find her breakfast.
He’d even dried her clothes for her. She looked more closely. The mudstains were nearly gone. He’d sponged them. The grey, bleak dawn brightened suddenly. She had one friend. Even if she never saw him again, somewhere in the world was Max. Someone she could love.
Chapter One
Late summer 1822
‘What are you doing here, girl? How dare you waste time reading when Celia’s flounce requires mending!’
The girl known as Selina Dering scrambled up and hurriedly put the book away in the bottom half of the battered campaign chest at the foot of her bed.
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Faringdon. I…I didn’t know that Celia’s flounce was torn.’
Lady Faringdon was plainly not minded to accept this excuse. ‘How would you know anything if you sneak away to your bedchamber to loll about reading? And no lady sits on her bed like that! She sits properly with ladylike decorum.’
‘You and Celia both told me to stay out of the way,’ protested Verity. She refrained from pointing out that there was nothing at all in the room save the bed and the campaign chest, its bottom at the foot of the bed and the top acting as a window seat. Certainly nothing upon which anyone could sit with ladylike decorum. Or even reasonable comfort.
‘Don’t answer back, girl! Do you want another whipping? Go down to Celia now and mend that flounce! Before his lordship and our other guests arrive!’
‘Yes, Aunt.’
She spoke to thin air, since Lady Faringdon had already stormed from the room. Arguing was a waste of breath. The mildest protest drew as heavy a retribution as full-scale rebellion. Not even over the hated name Selina did she object now.
Resigned, Verity locked the chest with the key she wore on a plaited string around her neck. Giving the chest an affectionate pat, she gathered herself together, picked up her workbasket and left the bleak little room in her aunt’s wake. Celia, of course, would be hysterical with fury over the torn flounce, blaming everything and everyone for the catastrophe save her own carelessness.
‘Where have you been?’ screeched Celia, as Verity entered the elegant bedchamber. ‘Just look at this! And Lord Blakehurst may arrive at any minute!’
Verity selected the matching cotton and threaded her needle, biting back the urge to point out that Lord Blakehurst would be admitted to the house by the butler and every footman available and would be greeted with all due ceremony by his host and hostess. Furthermore, since he would doubtless repair immediately to his bedchamber to adjust his cravat and swill brandy, he would scarcely notice the absence of his hosts’ eldest daughter, with or without a torn flounce. At least that was her considered opinion, based on the observation of other visiting gentlemen. There was no reason to suspect that Earl Blakehurst would differ from the rest in any degree. Except, of course, in being richer.
She knelt down at Celia’s hem and began to stitch.
‘Hurry up!’ whined Celia, whirling away to the window and dragging the offending flounce out of Verity’s grasp. A ripping sound rewarded this indiscretion.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ Celia’s shriek of fury outdid her previous efforts. ‘Oh, Mama! Look what she’s done! She did it on purpose, too!’
Biting back some very unladylike language, Verity turned to see her aunt advancing into the room.
‘Ungrateful girl!’ cried Lady Faringdon. ‘After all we’ve done for you! The very clothes on your back!’
Verity rather thought the light-devouring black dress she wore was one discarded by the Rectory housekeeper, but she bit her tongue and concentrated grimly on stitching up Celia’s flounce as efficiently as possible. With a modicum of luck Lord Blakehurst would marry the girl and prove to be a veritable Bluebeard.
Nothing she heard about Lord Blakehurst in the next twenty-four hours led her to revise her estimate that it would be a match richly deserved by both parties. Lord Blakehurst had arrived late, snubbed at least three people at dinner, whom he plainly considered beneath his exalted touch, and everyone was hanging upon his every utterance.
‘Such a personable man!’ sighed Celia the following evening as she prepared for bed. ‘Terribly rich of course. One can only wonder that he has left it so long to marry! Of course, he came into the title unexpectedly when his brother died three years ago.’
Verity, tidying away her cousin’s clothes, thought it entirely possible that no female would have so conceited a man as his lordship must be, only to dismiss the idea. Anyone that rich could be as conceited as he liked and society would still deem him a personable man.
‘And, of course, he must be seeking a bride if he has come here,’ continued Celia.
Verity
