Mr Trent swallowed deeply. Beneath the hard, glassy look in his eyes, she saw something else. For a foolish second, she thought it was fear. “You have done nothing to lose my charity. Vulnerability is not something I deal well with, Miss Vale. My mind tends to conjure pessimistic views of current events.”
Then she was right on another point, too. Someone had hurt this man in the past, and the wound still wept.
“And despite being the most capable member of my family, sir, my sex meant my parents treated me no better than a disobedient pet.” The command to marry Mr Rowan had caused great conflict. Their sudden deaths from the ague after a visit to friends in Lincolnshire meant her parents never witnessed her eloquent refusal. “Consequently, I tend to bite at the first sign of a leash.”
The gentleman’s shoulders relaxed. “Then, as you’ve made the journey to town,” he said in a much calmer voice, “I trust you have new information to impart.”
Verity relaxed, too. Now, why couldn’t it have been like this in the beginning?
“Yes, it was while daydreaming in the bathtub that the thought first occurred to me.” Perhaps guilt and grief had made it difficult to make the connection before.
“No doubt you were dreaming about saving the maidens in the kingdom,” he said, and for the first time this evening she glimpsed the man who’d escorted her home.
“Indeed. You see, the book returned to me by Sebastian’s valet was not a book from my library. While curious as to the subject matter, I certainly did not make the purchase. And I can guarantee neither of my parents would have permitted such a novel in the house.”
Mr Trent arched a brow. “Then it is a book filled with illicit content?”
Verity blinked. “Heavens, no!” That said, she was more than curious to know what occurred between a man and a woman in the bedchamber. “It is a novel of gothic persuasion. A tale of horror and the supernatural.” Verity turned and snatched her satchel from the sofa. “Allow me to show you.”
“That’s a rather large reticule, Miss Vale,” Mr Wycliff said as she delved into the brown leather bag and rummaged around.
Verity smiled. “I think we both know it is a man’s satchel, Mr Wycliff. I find a lady’s silk purse is of no use if one hopes to carry anything worthwhile.”
“Reticules are highly impractical,” Mrs Wycliff agreed.
“Particularly when carrying a book.” With the book lying flat in the bottom of the bag, Verity removed her pocket pistol and handed it to Mr Trent. “Hold this for a moment. And do be careful.”
“Good God!” Mr Wycliff raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ve taken one lead ball to the arm and would rather not take another. Tell me that thing isn’t loaded.”
“Of course it’s l
oaded,” his wife retorted. “How else is Miss Vale to shoot a devil keen to try his luck?”
“One cannot be too careful in town, Mr Wycliff.” Verity glanced at Mr Trent, whose wide-eyed gaze shifted between her face and the pistol.
“What? No blade?” he mocked.
“The blade is in a sheath strapped to my thigh.” After the attack in her bedchamber, she never left the house without a weapon. “And I have a vial of pepper somewhere in my bag, though it’s hardly any use if I cannot find it.”
The three people in the room gaped.
Heat warmed Verity’s cheeks. She supposed some might consider her behaviour odd for a lady.
Mr Trent’s lips curled into a half smile. “Then I’m lucky you didn’t throw pepper in my face the night we met in the graveyard.”
“I did reach covertly into the bag hidden beneath my cloak, but my fingers only brushed the bottle of blessed water.”
Mr Wycliff chuckled and slapped his friend on the back, though offered no comment. He sauntered to the decanters on the console table and poured two drinks.
“There’ve been times in my life when it would have served me well to have a satchel like that,” Mrs Wycliff said.
Mr Wycliff handed Mr Trent a crystal tumbler of what looked like brandy. “But now you have me as your protector, my love, and I’m more lethal than any weapon.”
Verity tried not to stare at the couple whose love shone like a brilliant beacon. As a distraction, she continued ferreting around in her bag and finally pulled the leather-bound book free.
“Here we are, Mr Trent.” Verity offered him the book, noted he had no hands free and so retrieved the small pistol from his grasp and returned it carefully to her bag.
The gentleman placed his glass on the side table in order to study the cover of the book. “Vathek. An Arabian Tale. Is this the book that carries the warning about the Brethren?”