Eighteen

Seething, Verity endured the short ride back to her lodgings. Protests wanted to burst out of her, but she wouldn’t begin in a hack. She intended to prevail, and that meant no useless rants.

Up until now, Verity’s rebellions had been silent and secret. Her longing for adventure and a life far different from her parents’ steady round had manifested through books and quiet practice and her plan for London. She hadn’t indulged in fruitless complaints or grand pronouncements. But she was done with discretion now. She was going to fight for what she wanted, and she wanted Randolph.

How gratifying it would be, she thought, to snatch up a sword, as he’d done at Rochford’s, and slash her way through obstacles. Such violent physical activity must be a great relief to the feelings. Not that she’d actually wound anyone. But to astonish and terrify—that would be splendid. As soon as matters were set straight, she’d ask Randolph to teach her fencing. The idea took fire in her mind. His lessons would be delightful in so many ways.

Verity remembered the duchess’s remark about finding adventures all around her. Fencing with Randolph should qualify. And other activities—with Randolph. Squashing her father’s objections was another example, she supposed, though far less appealing.

“You know, Verity, your welfare is always my foremost consideration,” said her father.

She knew that he thought so. And she had contrary arguments. Which he would hear when she was ready. He gave her an uneasy sidelong glance. Good!

The cab pulled up before the house. Verity got out and knocked as her father paid the driver. The landlady’s maid admitted them, and they walked up the stairs side by side. But not together, Verity thought.

Their set of rooms seemed quiet and unpopulated after her stay at Langford House. Mama had made their London dwelling as much like her quiet spot in Chester as she could. However, the version of her mother waiting for them was not that bookish lady. “So!” she said, standing as they walked in. Her eyes snapped with anger. “Here is my dear family, who conspired to keep me in the dark.”

“There was no conspiracy,” said Verity’s father.

Not a good tack to take, Verity thought.

Mama pointed at him, a vulgar gesture that was unlike her. “You had concerns that you chose to keep from me when we came down to London.” She swiveled to point at Verity. “You were told of them and said nothing.” She turned back. “As to why Verity was informed and I was not, that is a mystery.”

“I trusted her to behave properly, and I saw no reason—”

“No reason!”

Papa really was botching this, Verity thought. Had he never noticed how that slightly pompous tone always irritated Mama? Didn’t he see how her lips had tightened? Verity left him to it. Her task might be easier if they were at odds. Perhaps she could play them off against each other. That was a calculation she’d never made before. The Sinclair household avoided disputes. Indeed, any displays of strong emotion were characterized as vulgar and lower class. Verity realized she was glad to see her parents aflame.

“No reason to tell me, or consult me,” her mother continued. “Thank you very much.”

“The story isn’t fit for female ears,” her father attempted. He didn’t whine, Verity thought. It was more of an aggrieved grumble.

“Bosh!”

“Molly!”

She couldn’t be distracted by this new version of her parents, fascinating as it was. She had things to accomplish. “Enough!” said Verity. “Just tell me, now, what Randolph did to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

“He didn’t do it himself,” replied her father, looking shocked.

“Whoever did it, whatever it was, I will know. At once.”

“It’s improper,” he murmured.

“Stephen!” said her mother.

Verity pulled off her bonnet and threw it on a side table. It bounced and fell off the other side. The gesture was a mild relief. She did the same with her pelisse, purposely crumpling it before she threw. “Embarrassing, improper, scandalous… I don’t care. Tell me or I’ll go up to Canterbury and ask the archbishop myself.” She’d rather like to do that, she realized. She longed for action.

“What has that man done to you, Verity?” replied her father. “You were so sweet and mild before you became embroiled with him.”

“I was silent, Papa. That’s not the same as sweet. And those days are over.” Did her mother look approving? Did she have an ally? “Tell us the story,” Verity finished.

Her father gave a low grumble, like an angry bear. He paced, then sat on the sofa. “It happened up North.”

“In Randolph’s parish in Northumberland?” Verity asked when it seemed her father wouldn’t go on.

“Right. At a Christmas pageant.”

“The archbishop attended?” Verity prompted. It was odd for the chief prelate to be so far from home at that time of year, but she wasn’t going to distract her father with questions.

“He was in the area. Some favor for a noble family, I believe.”

“And so, at the pageant.”

Her father spoke in a rush. “Some irreverent jokester had put a ram in the manger instead of a lamb. And the creature assaulted the archbishop.”

“That’s it?” Verity had imagined so much worse—quite wild scandals in fact. She was actually disappointed.

“Knocked him down?” said her mother, as if she was thinking something similar.

“No.” Papa sighed, looking resigned. “The ram mistook His Grace’s white vestments for a ewe. He was bent over, speaking to a child, I believe. And the ram…addressed himself to the archbishop’s…hindquarters.” Under the stares of his wife and daughter, he added, “There. I’ve told you. Let us not speak of it again.”

Verity’s mother choked. On a laugh? Verity wasn’t sure. She’d figure it out, as soon as she could stop thinking of rams she’d seen among the flocks near Chester. And the high-nosed archbishop. “So, well, of course they pulled the ram off.”

“Eventually,” said her father. “But the incident was not only deeply humiliating, it was dangerous.”

“And not Randolph’s fault,” Verity said. “He didn’t bring in the ram. I’m sure he knew nothing about it. It’s unfair to blame him for the stupid prank of a parishioner.”

“When he learned the archbishop would be attending, he should have checked every element of the arrangements,” her father said. “I would have. And discovered the ram, too. And gotten rid of it well ahead of time.” There was no doubt in his voice.

“Even when you were in your first parish?”

“At any time.”

Silently, Verity admitted that he was probably right. Papa was a stickler for detail. “It was just a silly accident,” she tried.

“Which became a scurrilous jest. You don’t know what it’s like to stand before a congregation and preach to them, Verity. If a churchman is to help people, he must be listened to and heeded. And for that, he requires respect. Not sniggering whispers behind dirty hands.”

Verity could see how fervently Papa believed this. The archbishop must feel it far more keenly. She might have argued that a hearty laugh over the ram, even telling the story on himself, could have dissipated the effect. But she didn’t think the point would weigh with Papa. Anyway, it was too late for that. “This was years ago, wasn’t it? What about forgiveness?”

“I’m sure the archbishop has forgiven Lord Randolph.”

“But not forgotten, eh?” said Verity’s mother.

“I would say, rather, that His Grace formed a judgment of Lord Randolph’s character and feels that he’s not a person to trust with heavy responsibilities.”

“You mean he’ll never allow Randolph to advance in the church,” Verity said. Having lived in a cathedral close for much of her youth, she knew that the church hierarchy encompassed all the emotions seen among the laity. There were politics. Revenge was not unknown, despite the scriptures.

Papa acknowledged her point with a nod. “So you see why he isn’t the husband for you.”

Verity had so much to say about this that words crowded her tongue and stopped it.

And then her father startled her by adding, “I’m well aware that you don’t want to spend your life in a country parish, Verity, or even a provincial deanery.”

“You are?”

“My dear girl, what demure miss spends all her free time buried in Cook’s voyages, or throwing kitchen knives at a defenseless log?”

“I didn’t think you noticed.”

“When we had to call on the knife sharpener every month?” Her mother looked amused. “But Stephen, has anyone tried to fix this? Lord Randolph is the son of a duke.”

“I’m sure he’s done what he can. And failed, demonstrably.”

But had he? Verity wondered. She needed to find out.

“Couldn’t you speak to the archbishop?” her mother added. “You have a respected position.”

“I have it because I know when to intervene and when to keep out of a matter.”

“You won’t then?” Verity asked.

“I’m not acquainted with the young man. I can’t vouch for him.”

“Even if I tell you he’s a truly admirable person?”

“I can see that he’s earned your regard. But this is a decision for your whole life, Verity. And you are choosing the very thing you wished to escape. There are many other estimable young men in London.”

He was right, and completely wrong. “You think if…when I marry Randolph, it will reduce your credit with the archbishop,” Verity accused.

Her father drew himself up. “No such thing!”

But Verity glimpsed a hint of guilt in his eyes. Before she could mention it, or decide it was kinder not to, the housemaid came in. “Miss Townsend,” she announced.

“She’s called each day to see how things go on,” Verity’s mother murmured. “The Townsends invited me to dinner, too.”

Verity was touched, and a bit surprised, to hear it.

“You’re home again,” Olivia exclaimed when she entered. “Splendid.”

“The duchess is much better.”

“That’s splendid, too.” She plumped down on the sofa.

Verity introduced her father. Olivia gave him a brilliant smile. “You can’t think how I’ve missed your company, Verity,” she went on. She seemed perfectly sincere. “You will come with me to the Randalls’ rout party?”

It was only half a question. Verity agreed before either of her parents could speak. She needed to get out and talk to Randolph. And others perhaps; she had to think and make a list.

“Oh good.” Olivia chattered on about all that had happened since Verity entered what she insisted upon calling seclusion at Langford House. After a bit, though, she appeared to sense the fraught atmosphere among the Sinclairs. Dropping curious looks and airy farewells, she took her leave.

“A vivacious young lady,” said Verity’s father when she was gone. “Townsend. Is she the daughter of Mr. Peter Townsend? The one who endowed all the new windows at Saint Anselm’s?”

“He might have. He’s quite rich,” Verity said.

“Doesn’t he have a son?” was the plaintive reply.

“He’s some sort of merchant,” said Verity’s mother.

“Hoity-toity. Your grand relative the Duke of Rutland didn’t think a great deal of me when we met.”

Verity blinked. She’d never heard of this before.

“The party tonight,” her father continued. “Are you likely to meet Lord Randolph there?”

“I hope so!”

“Perhaps it would be better not to go then. Until matters are—”

“They are settled,” Verity interrupted. “And I promised Olivia.” She was going, if she had to climb out her bedroom window.

“Well, you are not to—”

“What?” It was rude to break in, but Verity was wild with impatience. “All the world knows I’m engaged to Randolph.”

“That is very awkward.”

And was going to become much more so before they were done, Verity thought.

* * *

That evening, rejoining the festivities of the season, Verity found the party a bit…repetitive. She felt as if she’d returned from another country and found that society had changed. It wasn’t the endless round of variety and excitement she’d imagined when she’d begged to come to town. And thought she’d found when she arrived. That seemed so long ago now.

Many people approached her to ask about the duchess’s illness, and some of them seemed genuinely concerned. Others treated her recovery like another bit of gossip, collected to fill time at a morning call. Verity wondered if these latter individuals would have spoken in the same curious tones if Her Grace had died. And then she was shocked at herself. Fortunately, Olivia pulled her away from this languid question and out of her unsettling reflections.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” her friend said. “I’ve had no one to talk to.”

Verity gestured at the chattering crowd.

“No one interesting,” Olivia amended.

“I don’t know how interesting I am tonight.” Verity could think of nothing but Randolph and when she might talk to him.

“You’ve worn yourself out nursing your almost mother-in-law,” said Olivia. “How tedious it must have been.”

“I wasn’t really nursing. Mostly, I—”

“Listen, I’ve heard the most delicious on-dit,” Olivia interrupted. “Charles Wrentham has challenged Mr. Rochford to a duel.”

“What?”

Olivia nodded, her eyes sparkling.

“Why? Isn’t dueling illegal?”

“Yes.” Olivia waved this consideration aside. “As to why, I believe he might have heard some garbled story about a young lady visiting Rochford’s house. Alone. In the evening.”

Verity’s blood seemed to freeze in her veins. “Olivia, you didn’t!”

“You know I didn’t. Quite improper.” She giggled.

“I mean, you didn’t tell Mr. Wrentham that it was Frances.” Too late, Verity realized that her phrasing implied a young lady had visited, and she knew about it.

“Of course not. I’m not so inept. Or untruthful.” Olivia practically wriggled with glee. “I was angry at the time, not to go. But this is so much better.”

“You arranged for Mr. Wrentham to hear the tale. The lie.”

“I may have let fall a bit of encouragement, here and there,” was the airy reply.

“And if they kill each other?” Verity asked. Her mind was still awhirl.

“Nonsense. How stuffy you’re being. One of them will nick the other with a sword point, and that will be that.”

“How do you know it’s to be swords?” A memory of Randolph slashing at Rochford rose vividly in her mind.

Olivia looked sly. “I’ve been cultivating Mr. Wrentham’s second. Lord Carrick. I met him at Salbridge in the autumn. A very dramatic young man.” She laughed. “Isn’t it exciting?”

“It’s dreadful, Olivia. You must speak to someone, this Carrick perhaps. Tell the truth and stop the duel from happening.”

“Are you mad? I’m going to find out where they’re meeting and sneak out to watch. Lord Carrick will tell me where, eventually.”

“Then I’ll have to do it,” Verity replied. She didn’t like the idea. She was barely acquainted with Mr. Wrentham, but from what she’d seen he wasn’t one to listen. As for Mr. Rochford, if he’d been challenged, perhaps insulted, he wouldn’t draw back. Indeed, he was probably as thrilled as Olivia at the outing.

“I’ll never forgive you if you do,” Olivia declared. Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “Why would you ruin all the fun? And expose me to scandal.”

“I wouldn’t mention you.”

“Indeed? What truth would you share then?”

That was the crucial question. Verity wondered if she’d be obliged to confess her own visit to Rochford. “When is this duel?”

“I shan’t tell you. Indeed I’m sorry now that I mentioned it at all.”

“Olivia, you must see that this isn’t—”

“I see that you’ve become a grandiose Gresham before you’re even married,” Olivia said.

“I’m not grandiose. Neither are they.”

“Oh, Verity,” Olivia answered with exaggerated patience. “It’s just wit.”

“Wit is striking because it’s so true. That wasn’t.”

“How priggish you’ve become.” Her expression hardened. “So you insist on being serious, I see. Very well. Seriously, it isn’t wise to cross me, Verity. If you interfere with my amusements, I’ll make certain you regret it.” She walked away.

Verity stood alone in the noisy room and considered adventures. It was easier to read about them than to participate, she acknowledged. Books told of slogging through leech-ridden swamps, subsisting on maggot-infested ship’s biscuit, and fighting off hostile man and beast, yes. But one could read right over those bits and on to the triumphs. Also, the narrators hadn’t paid nearly enough heed to the human element, she thought resentfully. It seemed to Verity that people complicated everything one tried to do. Not that she was giving up. She scanned the room. She wanted Randolph—to tell him, to consult with him. Which was a good sign, wasn’t it?

She didn’t see him. Lord Robert was standing on the other side of the chamber, however. Verity walked over to him. “Good evening.”

He greeted her more gravely than usual.

Verity had no time for subtleties. “Is Randolph coming tonight?”

“If he’d imagined you’d be here, I’m sure he would have,” Lord Robert said. “I believe he thought you’d be locked away in a tower or some such thing.”

“This isn’t a fairy tale,” she replied. She saw the irony—that she should be the prosaic one—and dismissed it. “Will you give him a message for me?” This was better than trying to send a note under her father’s eye.

“Of course.” Lord Robert looked amenable, and curious.

“Tell him I know about the ram.”

“The… Did you say ram?”

“Yes.”

“As in a male sheep?”

So he didn’t know about Randolph’s problem with the archbishop, Verity concluded. Well, she wasn’t going to tell him. “Yes. And I must talk to him as soon as possible.”

“About the ram?”

“Among other things. Quite a few other things.”

“I’m sure he’ll call on you first thing.”

“That won’t work.” Papa would hover. “Tell him to meet me in the park outside Gunter’s, where we had the ices, at eleven.”

“At your service,” replied Lord Robert dryly. “Is there a secret password?”

“Matters are snarled enough without sarcasm,” Verity said.

“So they are.” He hesitated, then added, “Randolph takes things hard. He’s always been that way.”

Verity liked Randolph’s family. Very much. But Lord Robert could be just a bit irritating. “Things like an engagement?”

“That seems to be good for him.”

Verity thought of repeating seems in a caustic tone. But it was always wise—intellectually frugal—to use the opportunities you were given. “What about the other time?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The other engagement,” she said.

Lord Robert gazed at her, one auburn brow raised. “Whose?” He looked only inquiring, a bit confused.

She might as well make the final throw, Verity decided. “Rosalie’s?”

He cocked his head as if reviewing a store of information. “I don’t believe I know any young lady named Rosalie. Is she a friend of yours?”

There was no trace of deception in his face. So he was no help. Verity shifted impatiently, wondering if this evening would ever end.

The crowd of chattering guests shifted, and she saw Georgina and Emma through a gap. Lord Sebastian’s wife was as beautiful as ever, but Emma looked positively radiant. Verity had never seen her appear so happy.

“Interesting,” Lord Robert said.

“What?”

“Lady Emma’s new glow. We must go and investigate.”

“You notice such things?” So how could he have missed his brother’s youthful attachment?

“A pink of the ton knows all,” replied Lord Robert lightly. “It is part of our…compelling appeal. So I have to make sure that I do.”

“Know all?”

“Precisely.”

“But no one can, can they? All is far too big.” They moved toward the Stane ladies.

“Very perceptive, Miss Sinclair. A great deal of it is sleight of hand. Or sleight of mind, I should say.” He seemed to be amusing himself. “Switch ideas so adroitly that people don’t even notice they’ve been diverted. Better yet, make them laugh.”

Emma did when they joined her, without any ploy from the famous Pink. “I’m going to marry Mr. Lionel Packenham,” she told Verity. “He called this morning and made an offer. It was the most romantic thing.”

“Ah,” said Lord Robert. “Splendid.” Having discovered the cause of Emma’s glow, he fell into conversation with Georgina. They moved away a little.

Mr. Packenham was the gentleman Olivia had characterized as a wet fish, Verity remembered. The one with such a perfect pedigree and pile of money that he didn’t “require a chin.” She could picture him. He wasn’t handsome, but he had a shy, pleasant smile. “I’m not well acquainted with Mr. Packenham.”

Emma nodded. “He doesn’t push himself forward. Or foist his opinions on people who aren’t the least interested.”

This seemed a curious encomium for a bridegroom.

“Indeed, he doesn’t have a head full of opinions,” Emma added.

“And you like that about him?” Verity asked.

“Excessively. He’s very kind and…peaceful.” She blinked and nodded. “We are agreed that we shall have a calm, regular life. I will set my own routines. And no one will get me into trouble when I don’t even want to do the thing,” she finished fiercely.

Verity had never seen Emma so vehement.

“Lionel thinks I’m perfect,” she went on. “He said so. He doesn’t dismiss me as a less pretty version of Georgina, or stupider and less lively than Hilda. He hasn’t even met Hilda.” She said it triumphantly.

“Of course you aren’t those things.”

“I’ll get up each morning knowing just what will happen,” Emma said. “My household will be quiet and ordered and soothing.”

“You don’t think that will be a bit boring?” Verity couldn’t help but ask.

“Not in the least! It sounds like…heaven.”

And probably a pipe dream, Verity thought. But there was no reason to spoil her friend’s mood.

“Also, Lionel is not particularly fond of dogs.” Emma spoke as if this was a precious virtue. “Did you know that my mama has twenty-three pugs? She breeds them. We shall have no canines, of any kind. Lionel’s not interested in history either. Not at all. He would never make a child of his memorize some moldy old saga! He was shocked at the idea that I had to do so. And he thinks, very rightly, that creatures like badgers should be left to gamekeepers.”

Rather bewildered, Verity realized that Emma’s glow was partly smug satisfaction. She was pleased with herself, with her purposeful acquisition of Mr. Packenham. Verity tried to picture dire encounters between her friend and ravening badgers. Her imagination failed. You never knew about people, she thought. Even the quiet individuals had stories lurking beneath their placid surfaces, and unexpected passions. “I wish you very happy,” she said.

“I intend to be. You and Randolph must come and visit us in Somerset. You won’t want to bring a dog, will you?”

Unlike Emma, she had no clear picture of her future, Verity thought. It had veered into uncharted territory. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, you should,” Emma said. “If you want things to be as you wish, you have to think about it. Not just dogs, I mean. Everything.”

From an unexpected source came wise advice.