Page 66 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
Rafe tore into another sandwich, if only to prevent his fists turning into knots at the image of a lonely young girl reading in a dark cellar, then painstakingly choosing which volumes to keep and which to sell. Then going out in the dirty streets of the city to sell them.
“When I was old enough to do business with the bank, my uncle introduced me as his assistant and allowed me to run his notes and receipts back and forth, as needed.”
She pondered this a moment. “I developed a routine, carrying receipts to the bank just before it closed, exchanging them for the cash my uncle needed to start the next day. I’d hand the money over to him, he’d put it into the vault, and I’d go back to my cellar to eat my supper.”
“He lived there too?” Minerva asked. “Did you not share meals with him?”
Verity smiled bleakly, smashing Rafe’s heart. “He kept a family elsewhere, in a more fashionable district, and went home to them in the evening. I was not invited. I only met my aunt twice, at funeral services, when I was barely more than a child. I was not pretty or well-connected. I think she forgot me after a while. I rather preferred it that way. I had my books and my home.”
Rafe wanted to pace impatiently, hurry this up, but she was finally talking. Perhaps she’d never shut up now that the dam had opened.
She sent him a sideways glance, probably recognizing his impatience.
“The only reason I am reciting this tale is to explain what happened to send me fleeing to Miss Edgerton. My house exploded.”
Rafe was off the sofa and stamping his frustration across the uncovered floor before he could detonate like her house. “Exploded? How?”
And that’s when he saw the connection. “Were you supposed to be inside?” he asked in horror. He glared, waiting for answers.
Despite all that she’d been through, rosy patches stained her fair cheeks and fury lit her huge dark eyes. Demurely, she held her teacup and glared back at him.
Not a frail miss. Not a victim. Just a close-mouthed, obstinate female who had been doing for herself so long, that she didn’tknow how to do it any other way. Her house had exploded and she’d picked up and moved on! Rafe’s mind boggled.
“Yes, I normally would have been in my cellar, eating my meat pie, but I had hurt my foot and was running late. And then I stopped to rescue a kitten. I have no idea what makes houses explode. In the newssheets, my uncle blamed it on gas, but we didn’t have gas lines.”
“Your uncle survived?” Rafe asked, his suspicious mind racing ahead to the ramifications, not liking any of them.
“Yes. His carriage had left by the time I arrived in sight of the house, so I knew I was late. It had happened before. I know how to use the vault. When I was late, I’d just lock up the coins without his help, and he’d forget about my tardiness by morning. It was only if I arrived latebeforehe left that he shouted, so I was in no hurry.”
“So he left you in an empty building, in a non-fashionable district, all alone, every night, with no protection?” Rafe asked in incredulity.
She shrugged. “It was my home. The neighbors knew me. Men who used to work for my father were around. Because of the vault, my uncle installed strong locks. I never felt unsafe.”
The women muttered in shock and dismay. They weren’t naïve. There were reasons for even the most sheltered of women to have chaperones at all times.
Rafe wanted to shake Verity for her naivete—but it had become painfully obvious that she was no widow. She had utterly no experience at being a woman. She honestly thought she was dowdy and of no interest... And he choked back his outrage at that idiocy by focusing on the crime.
“The house exploded before you entered, while you were still holding the bank bag?” Rafe knew what he asked and couldn’t say he’d have done anything differently.
She met his gaze defiantly. “Because the person I used to be died that night. What else was I to do? It was in all the newssheets. Faith Palmer died and the world didn’t stopspinning. I lost everything, my clothes, my home, the rest of my father’s library, all that I was.”
“I think that’s enough for now,” Meera said quietly. “Let’s get you up to bed, give you time to recover. We are not your heartless uncle. We care about you.”
Verity refused to leave but awaited Rafe’s verdict. She had stolen her uncle’s bank bag. That much was clear. He’d had time to work his way through even more tangled knots. He didn’t like what he saw, but he wouldn’t force her to look if she wasn’t ready. The timing was still off, but he was closer to understanding.
He held out his hand to assist her up. “One more thing, then you can go. You say your uncle was your father’s heir. Did the solicitor tell you this?”
Taking his callused hand in her bare one, she studied him in puzzlement. “My mother told me. I assume the solicitor told her. She would never have allowed my uncle to take over otherwise. They thoroughly disliked each other.”
A damned innocent... Rafe bowed and let the women carry her off.
It was time he started using his brainbox instead of brute strength.
THIRTY-EIGHT: PAUL
Addinghinges to the shutters young Blackwell had cut, Paul heard the carriage driving past the inn to the manor drive. Hunt and Clare had returned! They must have changed horses and drove half the night to rush home and deal with Clement.
He finished and hurried over to the inn’s kitchen to wash up. Donning his coat over his dirty shirtsleeves, he heard voices up front, and departed through the lobby to see what was happening.
