Chapter Twenty-Six

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

N ATHAN ' S FURY CARRIED him halfway home before it turned to heartache. Was I born under some unlucky star? Every time he loved a woman, she broke his heart.

Nathan thought about drinking himself to unconsciousness, but he couldn't see what a raging headache tomorrow would do to improve his situation. It was the sort of showy and unreasonable thing Sloane would do, not him. So he spent a sleepless night fruitlessly thinking of all the things he'd said wrong and the things he hadn't said, all the ways in which Verity was utterly in the wrong, and all the days that stretched out in loneliness before him.

He decided he would go back to her the next morning. He'd say he was sorry and tell her that he would run away to France with her—or anywhere else she wanted to go. He would say he didn't need marriage or her undying declaration of love.

Only it wasn't true. His heart had shriveled inside him when she could say nothing more than she "cared" for him. One cared for a friend or for one's aunt. It wasn't what you felt for the love of your life. And he could admit that to himself even if Verity wouldn't hear it—Verity was the love of his life.

It was unfair to expect her to feel as he did, given that he had only realized that he loved her last night. But he had been in love with her long before he awoke to that fact. Surely she knew that—women often seemed to know what a man felt before he did. And certainly they knew what they felt themselves.

Of course, Verity was not like most women. Maybe she didn't recognize her feelings any better than he had. She had said she loved him, but that had been in the aftermath of passion, right before slumber. Was it possible she had not even realized what she'd said?

And of course she was frightened. With Stanhope grabbing her tonight, how could she not be? She'd had bitter experience with a man's protection in the past, but, still, it hurt that she obviously didn't believe Nathan could keep her safe. It wasn't his fault that she assumed she could not trust a man, but he supposed it wasn't her fault, either.

And there he was, being reasonable again. But reason didn't fill the hole in his chest. He could tell himself that he would put her out of his mind, that he would go on with his life, that he would get over her, just as he had with Annabeth.

The problem was that he felt much worse than he had when he called off his engagement with Annabeth. Then he had felt sad but—admittedly—also a bit righteous in his sacrifice. Now, with Verity, he felt as if his guts had been ripped out of him.

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.

"Yes." Verity dug a lorgnette out of her reticule and held it to her eyes. She handed it to Nathan. "Look."

"I think you're right." He looked at her. "I never really expected this to work."

"Sometimes you get lucky." Verity slid out of the carriage and, after a word to her driver, she walked in the same direction as Hill, staying somewhat behind him and on the opposite side of the street.

Nathan joined her, letting Verity keep her sights on their quarry through the shield of her veil while he gazed in shop windows and the streets ahead, mapping where they were going in his mind. It was no surprise when Hill made his way into the narrow streets of less prosperous areas. No longer having the distance of the wider thoroughfares between them and the man they pursued, Nathan and Verity hung farther back.

Their attire made them stand out more here, and more than one person looked at them oddly. Nathan glanced pointedly at her veiled hat, which made them even more conspicuous, and Verity nodded, and, with a little sigh, pulled it from her head and handed it to an astonished woman standing at a cart.

Fortunately, Hill never even glanced behind him, but continued at an unhurried pace. He stopped to buy a meat pie from a cart, which caused them a moment of anxiety as they did their best to disappear by squeezing into a doorway. Then their quarry continued on his way, carrying the pastry but not eating it.

He crossed a broad street into the area of the docks, and Nathan exchanged a surprised look with Verity. He had expected the man to return to a residence. If Hill was just going to work on the docks, they would have a difficult time keeping themselves hidden the whole while.

Hill turned before he reached the busiest area and made his way toward an old dilapidated warehouse. He entered the building, and Nathan and Verity trotted after him, cautiously easing open the door and peering inside. The large building was empty but for a few crates, all coated with dust. A set of sagging stairs led upward, but the ruffian had passed the stairs, continuing toward the opposite end of the building.

Nathan and Verity glanced at each other. There was no cover for them here, but they had to follow. It seemed unlikely that the imposter they sought was here, but it did seem like a perfect place for a prisoner to be hidden. Verity slipped across the floor, noiseless as a cat, and Nathan emulated her as best he could. Hill, ahead of them, still seemed completely unaware of their presence.

Just then there was the sound of feet and a short square man rounded the corner, saying, "Bloody 'ell, man, I thought you was never com—"

Shoemaker! Verity and Nathan froze at the sight of him, but there was nowhere to hide nor time to do it. Shoemaker saw Verity and Nathan, and yelled, pointing his finger at them. "It's them! Hill, you bloomin' idiot."

He charged toward them as Hill swung around, gaping. Shoemaker pulled out a knife as he ran, and Nathan rushed forward to meet him.

"Duck," Verity called out and Nathan hit the ground instantly. He heard a whizzing sound above his head and looked up in time to see the knife Verity had thrown hit Shoemaker in the arm. The man roared, turning toward Verity at this attack, and Nathan used the distraction to leap forward the last few feet, crashing into Shoemaker and taking him to the floor.

The two men grappled, rolling across the ground, and Verity dived for her knife. There was the sound of footsteps running—apparently Hill had taken the opportunity to flee, leaving his companion to fend for himself. Out of the corner of his eye, Nathan glimpsed Verity half rise, twisting, and fling her knife at Hill, but the knife clattered onto the floor and Verity cursed. The outer door crashed open, and Verity took off running.

Nathan hadn't the time to look over to see where she went. He was too busy struggling to his feet, pulling Shoemaker up with him. Shoemaker swung, but Nathan dodged and the man's meaty fist only grazed the side of Nathan's ear. Nathan punched him in the stomach, following it with a forceful jab to the jaw. Shoemaker's head snapped back and he staggered, windmilling his arms to avoid falling. Nathan risked taking his eyes off the man to glance over, looking for Verity.

Neither she nor Hill were there, only her knife and pieces of a smashed meat pie on the floor. Nathan's opponent took advantage of his momentary inattention and darted for the door. Nathan pursued, but before he could catch Shoemaker, Nathan saw Verity limping back to the warehouse, and he ran to her instead of chasing his man.

"Verity! Are you all right?" He skidded to a halt beside her.

"I'm fine," she said in a disgusted tone.

"You aren't fine. You're limping."

"I broke the heel on my shoe, that's all. I fell, but I couldn't have caught him anyway. That blasted Hill is fast."

"I know," Nathan said drily. "Sloane and I chased him through Cheapside."

Verity sighed, putting her hands on her hips, and looked around. "So they're in the wind again."

"'Fraid so. But..." Nathan took her arm and started back into the warehouse. "I think we may find Malcolm here. There's bound to be a reason they're hanging about in an abandoned warehouse. It's not a pleasant venue, but a good place to hold a prisoner. No one around to hear him or see him. Shoemaker sounded impatient, as though he'd been waiting for Hill. Maybe Hill was coming to take over his watch. And bringing the prisoner's meal."

Verity grimaced. "That blasted meat pie. I threw my knife at him and it hit the pie. I ask you, what are the chances of that?"

They walked through the warehouse, stepping around the splattered pie, to the hall where they'd seen Shoemaker emerge. It had three doors. Two of them stood open, revealing empty rooms. But the last door had a wooden bar across it.

With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, Nathan lifted the bar and pulled the door open. They peered into the dim room, lit only by two barred windows high on the wall. They could see a bed with a thin mattress and a chain attached to its heavy iron frame.

The chain stretched out of sight, and when they stepped farther into the chamber, they saw that the chain led to the ankle of a tall thin man with shaggy blond hair and a reddish beard as unkempt as his hair. One eye had a fading yellow bruise beside it. He was dressed in a shirt and breeches, both liberally sprinkled with dirt and stains. Even though he was thinner and wilder looking, he was clearly the man in the portrait of Malcolm Douglas.

He held a wooden bucket above his head, clearly about to throw it, but at the sight of them, he stopped, looking astonished, and lowered the bucket. "Who the devil are you?"

"Well, actually, I'm your brother," Nathan said.