His Lady Mistress. Elizabeth Rolls

he could ask if Verity Scott had been important—before he could choke Lord Faringdon into a sense of his iniquities.

      He went up to his bedchamber, where he found his ex-batman folding shirts.

      ‘What the devil are you doing here?’ he growled.

      Harding grinned. ‘Doing me job, sir. It’s better than the servants’ hall here. Stuck-up lot, they are. Any luck, sir?’

      Max dragged in a breath. Then let it out. Verity Scott’s death was too raw a wound. ‘No. Goodnight, Harding.’

      Harding’s brows lifted. ‘Goodnight, sir.’

      The door shut behind him and Max slumped into a chair. All he wanted was some peace and quiet in which to think. To accept that he had failed Verity Scott as badly as he had failed her father. He had assumed that all was well, that she was safe with her relatives. He had thought there was nothing he could do.

      The silence pounded the same message into his brain over and over. He had assumed wrongly. What the hell had they done to her? An image of Godfrey Faringdon flashed into his thoughts. Had Godfrey bullied her? Persecuted her the way he was apparently persecuting that poor girl, Selina?

      Bitterly Max accepted that he would never know. That no one would talk for fear of scandal. And he had no way of finding out where the poor child was buried. He couldn’t even do as much for her as she had done for her father.

      Shutting his eyes, he saw again the despairing child’s face. He’d never even seen her clearly in the firelight. Just the bleak misery and fear in her dark eyes. And the trusting gratitude. He didn’t even know what colour they had been.

      Enthroned on a canopied sofa in her boudoir the following morning, Lady Faringdon ranted at her errant niece. ‘And just what did you intend by insinuating yourself into Lord Blakehurst’s presence? You conniving little slut!’ Without giving Verity a chance to respond, Lady Faringdon swept on. ‘To think that we have given you a home all these years, lent you our countenance! How dare you!’

      Verity drew a deep breath, reminding herself not to strike her aunt’s countenance. ‘You can get rid of me easily enough, Aunt Faringdon. Write me a reference so that I can find a position and I’ll be gone.’

      ‘Why, you ungrateful wretch! Do you think—?’

      She broke off as the door opened and Godfrey walked in. A night’s sleep had not improved the livid scratches, and Verity’s satisfaction burned coldly.

      ‘Godfrey! How frightful! Whatever happened?’ gasped Lady Faringdon.

      He shrugged. ‘Nothing much. Just her—’ he cast Verity a spiteful look ‘—taking exception to something I asked of her.’

      Verity shut her eyes briefly as churning fear replaced satisfaction. She could tell the truth about what Godfrey wanted—and be accused of trying to trap him into marriage. To share that particular trap with Godfrey… Better dead.

      Breathing deeply, she sank into herself, away from the stream of invective, away from the hatred, letting it wash over her. She forced her eyes to remain blank, uncaring. It was the only defence she had left. A cloak of meekness over the boiling fury within.

      The door opened abruptly to admit Lord Faringdon. His bulging gaze lit on Verity. ‘Out,’ he snapped.

      Only too glad to remove herself, Verity headed for the door. And heard Lord Faringdon ask as she opened it, ‘What the devil happened between you and Blakehurst last night, boy?’ Shock held her, but she dared not remain. She shut the door with a shaking hand and glanced around the corridor. Empty.

      Swiftly she bent to the keyhole. She was used to hearing nothing good of herself, and sometimes knowledge was safety.

      ‘Enough, sirrah! You will leave that chit alone until Blakehurst is out of the house! Do you hear me?’

      Godfrey whinged unintelligibly, but Lord Faringdon’s response came through loud and clear.

      ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll cut off your allowance for a year. The last thing we need is—’

      Whatever the last thing was, Verity missed it. Hearing footsteps, she straightened and fled. She’d heard enough. For the next few days she was safe. Perhaps that would give her time to think of some escape that had not occurred to her in the last five years. In the meantime, she must stay out of Lord Blakehurst’s way.

      Verity folded another sheet and added it to the mended pile. Three to go. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that she had plenty of time. Everyone was still out on their river-boating expedition. She had at least two hours before she need expect them. Plenty of time to finish the mending, slip out into the gardens and still get back before there was any risk of being seen. Aunt Faringdon had made it perfectly plain yesterday morning that if she…had the impudence to importune any other guests…she would regret it.

      There was nowhere else to go. She couldn’t afford to be thrown out. Not unless hell froze over and Aunt Faringdon gave her a reference as a governess or companion.

      ‘Which she won’t,’ muttered Verity, as she reached for another sheet. ‘She may hate me, but she’d hate paying twenty pounds a year for a governess even more.’ That was the only explanation she could think of for their refusal to let her go. Without a reference she was helpless.

      The door opened abruptly and a tall, familiar figure whipped into the room, shutting the door with a speed only equalled by the silence with which he managed the feat. He spoke not a word, but looked around wildly.

      Verity blinked as Lord Blakehurst made for the large cupboard in the corner. The doors stood wide and to her utter amazement he slipped into the corner behind the door. Still without a word.

      ‘Umm…my lord…’

      He glared at her from his hiding place. ‘Ssshhh!’

      Returning the glare with interest, Verity asked politely, ‘And your boots, my lord?’

      ‘My…?’ He looked down. ‘Oh, damn!’ His boots were clearly visible beneath the door. ‘Quick. Shove that mending basket in front, girl.’

      Verity obliged, wondering what could have sent one of the wealthiest peers in the realm scuttling for cover like a startled coney.

      A moment later she had her answer. The door opened and Lady Moncrieff looked in.

      ‘Is his lordship about, wench?’

      Verity couldn’t help her eyes narrowing slightly. From her position she could see the lordship in question. And the very faint shake of his head.

      Blandly she answered in her best servant’s voice. ‘Oh, no, mum. The master went boatin’ wiv all the other quality. Do you need summat mending?’

      ‘Lord Blakehurst, girl!’

      Verity gritted her teeth. ‘Lord Blakehurst? Up here, mum? What would his lordship want wiv the likes of me?’

      The delicately curved lips curled. ‘Nothing, I dare say. You’ve little enough to recommend you!’

      The door shut with a snap and Verity muttered one pungent and graphic word more usually associated with the kennels.

      ‘Yes. Quite.’

      She spun around and met her unwanted companion’s smile as he emerged from behind the door. Heat surged across her cheeks. In her anger she’d forgotten his presence.

      ‘She was wrong, you know,’ he added conversationally.

      ‘Wrong?’

      ‘Wrong,’ he affirmed. ‘You have plenty to recommend you,’ he went on. ‘Brains for one thing. Your accent was inspired.’ The smile in his eyes deepened. ‘Thank you,’ he added.

      She resisted the urge to smile back and said shortly, ‘I think you’d better go.’ Before her lungs forgot how to function.

      His