Page 68 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
In his country tweed, Rafe was pacing angrily up and down along the far wall, next to the mostly empty bookshelves. In counterpoint, Hunt had propped himself behind the massive desk with one booted foot casually flung over the arm of his chair. Walker, as always, preferred the comfortable wing chair in the far corner, where he could set his journals and notes on an empty shelf. Behind his quiet demeanor, the African steward’s brilliant brain was a force to be reckoned with.
Per usual, Hunt didn’t rise when the ladies entered. Walker, Arnaud, and Henri did. The study didn’t provide the same number of seats as the great hall Hunt used for his trials, but over the last months, several leather armchairs and miscellaneous others had found their way in here. Minerva and Verity accepted the two the gentlemen offered. They pulled them right in front of the desk so Minerva could drop her notes on the nearly empty surface. Nothing shy about his intended.
Paul settled Clare in the corner behind Hunt and propped his shoulders against the door jamb to keep an eye on the hall.
“Your tale first, Miss... Porter? Palmer?” Hunt leaned back in his chair as if having a chat with one of his friends. A big man with an intimidating scar down the side of his face, he knew how to use his size when necessary. Apparently that wasn’t now. Yet.
“Please, I prefer to be called Verity Porter now. Faith Palmer died the night of the fire. I see no need to resurrect her. She had no family or friends. If I am allowed to stay in Gravesyde, I would like to believe that Verity Porter might become someone useful.”
Rafe snorted. “In one week she has organized the town into restoring the inn and given a home to a widow, until some wretch destroyed the cottage. Upon my honor, she is furnishing a town library! Had she been a man, she’d be a general by now.”
Verity appeared to blink in surprise, then cast her eyesdownward, to her folded hands. “I have done nothing but bring trouble. I will understand if you prefer that I leave.”
“Stop that foolishness!” Rafe roared. “Captain, this is a waste of all our time. We need to be out hunting the villain who tried to shove her down the stairs. There is good reason to believe he killed Miss Edgerton.”
Verity’s head jerked up at that. Along with everyone in the room, she turned to stare at the outraged sergeant.
“What makes you say that Sgt. Russell?” Hunt asked implacably.
“Because he tried to murder Verity in London, first.”
A gasp ran around the room and Hunt sat up straight. Verity stared at Rafe with eyes so wide that Paul thought they’d come off her face.
Relentlessly, the sergeant continued. “When he thought he succeeded, the killer had someone poison Miss Edgerton, who hid evidence of Verity’s father’s murder. This man lacks any conscience whatsoever. Once he realized Faith Palmer might not be dead, he tried to have her killed again. Verity, tell them when your birthday is.” Rafe quit his pacing to glare at her, as if she should have known all this.
Which, Paul thought, she probably ought to have, except she’d grown up inside of books and trusted the people around her.
“I’ll be twenty-five this Friday,” she offered tentatively.
Hunt frowned. “That’s the age when Lady Elsa came into her trust funds. Thea, did you not say you gain some control of your funds when you reach that age?”
Wide-eyed, Thea nodded. “I was supposed to marry and let my husband take charge of them. Apparently, the law fears women will foolishly marry the wrong sort or spend the funds irrationally unless we are firmly on the shelf.”
Verity shook her head. “I have no trust fund, no wealth. There is no one looking after my non-existent funds.”
“Except your uncle,” Rafe proclaimed ominously. “Who kept you hidden from any possible suitors.”
Before anyone could react, boots pounded down the uncarpeted hallway. Paul stepped aside for one of the new young footmen.
“Captain, sir, Adam says as how there’s an altercation in the stable yard and your coachman is about to get killed!”
THIRTY-NINE: VERITY
Verity clutchedher hands as half the men rushed out to rescue a coachman. Mrs. Huntley called for tea. Lady Elsa arrived with maids carrying trays. Verity wasn’t in the least hungry. Her stomach felt like stone, and her head whirled.
Minerva patted Verity’s arm, then stood to confer with the steward and curate in the corner. They whispered between themselves, then sent the footman on another errand. Clare poured tea, but Verity was afraid to hold the cup. She was shivering again.
Uncle Warren? She could not work her mind around Rafe’s accusation. If her stout, miserly uncle wanted her dead, he could have pushed her down stairs any number of times these last years. No one would have missed her. Why would he care if she lived or died? He already had everything she’d ever wanted.
Rafe seemed to believe it had to do with the painting. Was he saying the man pushing her father was heruncle? Had he taken all she had ever loved as well? Her shivering intensified. It made no sense.
The men returned, shoving and dragging two rather bruised and disheveled... prisoners? Their hands were bound anyway. Distracted by this novelty, Verity appraised the new arrivals.
“Luther?” she whispered in dismay, recognizing the insolentyoung man who had been assigned to escort her to the bank. He hadn’t been a bad sort, just rude and lazy. What was he doing here?
At the sound of his name, Luther quit protesting and went white as any of the manor’s ghosts.
The other prisoner was female—the woman in black? Verity considered what little she could see of the personage wrapped in heavy skirts, full sleeves held back with bedraggled ribbons, and an ugly bonnet hiding her hair. Of middling age, middling size, jowls drooping toward her wrinkled neck, mouth pinched and angry, she did not look like anyone Verity knew.
