Verity and the Villain Page 13

  “Trent, is that you?” A high voice called out over rows of hedges and rosebushes. Trent closed his eyes, the thoughts of the folly and kissing rapidly fading.

  “Mrs. Ludlum,” he said, tearing his gaze away from Verity’s face to watch Mrs. Ludlum, and her daughter Dorothy trotting, up the path.

  “How are you, my dear?” Mrs. Ludlum extended her gloved hand. Until that moment, Trent hadn’t noticed she had a Pekingese pressed against her chest. The creature’s golden fur matched Mrs. Ludlum’s bodice and Trent wondered if it was intentional as it was very difficult to tell where the dog began and the bosom ended, giving him the uncomfortable impression that she had cleavage with teeth. She wore her dark brown hair swept into a knot at the top of her head, every hair perfectly behaved despite the breeze.

  Her daughter, in contrast, had a small, harmless-looking chest and flyaway curls. The fine hair refused to stay tucked into its bonnet and flew around the girl’s face unmindful of the pins’ efforts to secure it.

  “Hello, Dorothy,” Trent said.

  Dorothy stammered and blushed and held out her hand. Trent took it in his and dutifully raised it to his lips.

  Mrs. Ludlum didn’t acknowledge Verity, but Dorothy kept sliding her glance in her direction.

  “How is your grandmother?” Mrs. Ludlum asked, smacking Trent’s arm with a fan. “I haven’t seen her in ages, and I do miss our little chats.”

  Trent had a hard time picturing Mrs. Ludlum and his grandmother chatting. “She’s well, thank you. Mrs. Ludlum, Dorothy, please let me introduce Miss Verity Faye.” He reached for a hand that wasn’t there. He stared at the spot where Verity had been standing then he looked over the garden and through the tombstones.

  No Verity.

  #

  Verity arrived at the house on Sea Point breathless. Meeting with Trent had been awkward: a meeting with Steele would have been disastrous. She smiled, finding grim humor in the fact that she’d spent the afternoon dodging the only two men she’d ever kissed. Looking up at the plain blue clapperboard house, she thought of the resident girls and all the men they’d kissed. Her heart twisted for them. She wondered if any could still harbor dreams of romance.

  Not a spider or dust mite dared trespass on Georgina’s house. The windows sparkled; the brass knocker gleamed. The unpretentious house sat on the corner of a modest street surrounded by the homes of dock workers, shopkeepers, and journeymen. Verity wondered if the neighbors knew, or what they would think, of the inhabitants of number 9 Sea Point. She hoped they wouldn’t judge harshly.

  A stooped gentleman answered the door and led Verity into the small sitting room. The pianoforte gleamed, the books marched in orderly fashion across the shelves, and a large tabby, as if he knew the rules and regulations, sat on the back of the sofa cleaning himself.

  Verity took a chair opposite the fire. Because of her encounter with Trent and her flight through the park, she felt warm and overheated in the tiny room. She bounced to her feet when Georgina entered the room. “Thank you for your message,” she said.

  Georgina greeted Verity with a hug. They pressed cheeks briefly and then Georgina nodded and settled down on the sofa beside the tabby. “I must impress upon you again the need for total confidence.”

  “I want to help,” Verity nodded, sitting back down in the wingback chair. “I’d be devastated if I thought I somehow jeopardized your efforts.”

  Georgina sniffed. Her red pouty lips looked too sweet to be talking about prostitution, her bright flashing eyes were too blue and too round to be taken seriously, but Georgina spoke of her work with passion and steely strength.

  “A woman by the name of Dorrie arrived on my doorstep this morning. The dear had escaped from Lucky Island. She could barely walk, could barely speak through her swollen lips, could hardly see through blackened eyes.”

  Verity blinked hard. “Goodness, did she get medical attention?”

  “I assume you know Doctor Reynolds? No? He’s a longtime friend of your Aunt Tilly. Dorrie refused to see him. She was badly frightened.”

  “No wonder. Will she be all right?”

  “Physically, I believe so. It’s hard to say. The psychological damage will be more difficult to determine.”

  Verity nodded. “Does she fear all men?”

  Georgina shook her head and her blond curls bobbed. “It’s not a man she fears. She’s afraid of the mistress.”

  “Lady Luck?” Verity had heard the dark rumors of the woman running Lucky Island.

  “Dorrie had yet to earn her keep. It seems Madam is a harsh mistress.”

  “Do you mean—”

  “Yes. Dorrie had been purchased, and she’d yet to recoup her costs.”

  Verity sunk a fraction in her chair, overcome with warring emotions: guilt, gratitude, fear. She remembered how she’d passed the streetwalkers in New Yorker without thought or compassion. She thought of how, if not for Aunt Tilly, she might have shared their plight. And then she thought of Belle and Melanie and asked, “Do you worry about repercussions?”

  Georgina fastened her blue gaze at Verity. “I’d be silly not to.”

  Despite her cherubic appearance, Verity knew that Georgina was anything but foolish. She wondered how many people were misled by her petite charm. “What will happen to Dorrie?”

  “She’ll rest here until she’s well, and then we’ll attempt to find her work and suitable housing.” Georgina paused. “She described her kidnapper as a handsome, charming man.”

  “Dark, tall?”

  “No, he’s blond, well built. In fact, she managed to draw a picture. That’s why I invited you here today. Perhaps you’ve seen or met him.” She passed the drawing.

  Verity took it, disappointment welling in her throat. She studied the drawing and something niggled at the back of her mind. She had counted on it being Steele. It wasn’t a good likeness, but it definitely wasn’t Steele. She sighed, shook her head and settled back in her chair.

  “Maybe you’ll meet. I doubt he mingles in your social circle, but he might come into your aunt’s shop. Somehow, we must bring this man to justice.”

  “Involve the police?” Verity considered the drawing.

  Georgina gave a high-pitched laugh that sounded as adorable as her curls. “Goodness, no.” She patted her chest. “We can’t rely on the arm of flesh when we know its weakness!”

  Verity tried to smile in return, but she felt slightly sick. “What’s this mark?” Verity asked, pointing at the man’s chin.

  Georgina leaned forward. “I think it’s meant to be a cleft or a scar.”

  A cleft chin or a scar. Wallace, the man she’d met on the ship, had a cleft chin.

  “What can we do?” Verity asked. They could hardly accost all cleft-chinned men they happened to meet.

  Georgina raised her eyebrows and shrugged. “God knows and will direct us.”

  #

  A light rain had begun to fall by the time Verity reached the steps of 22 Lily Hill. Despite the rain and falling twilight, she leaned against the door, unwilling and unable to face Tilly’s friendly chatter. She loved her new home and budding life in Seattle. She didn’t want to run away. Again.

  The memory of the gleaming knife made her shiver. Steele had meant her harm and he had a partnership in Lucky Island, but that didn’t mean he rustled girls, the way some hustle cattle and sell them. The drawing could be of Wallace and she already knew that somehow the two men were connected. She thought back to the picture, wishing it’d been a better likeness. At first, when she’d seen the picture, the disappointment that it hadn’t been Steele had been overwhelming, but looking back, the likeness to Wallace had been vague. Her thoughts raced as she tried to catalog all the men she’d met since her arrival. Had she met others with a cleft chin?

  She looked out over the lights twinkling in the early gloaming. Lily Hill had a view of Lake Washington to the east and a view of Elliot’s Bay to the west. Boats in the harbor and on the lake sent pale wavering beams of light
across the water. Everyone’s coming or going somewhere, she thought. She hated the thought of leaving. She had nowhere to go. She thought of the sapphires and the stories her mother had told her of Lord Bren and the elfin bride. They could provide her with a new life.

  Such folk tales have guaranteed happy endings, but she had lived long enough and hard enough to know that life didn’t provide guarantees. When she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine her mother’s voice, telling her how Lord Bren loved his elf and how she led him home, even when he’d believed he’d lost her to the King of the Elves.

  Kings. A pair of Kings. The last time and the first time she’d seen Wallace he’d been playing cards, maybe it was a habit.

  “Where were you?”

  The voice in the near darkness scared her and she jumped. Trent stood under the light of a street lamp, a tall dark shadow in a circle of shimmering falling mist. He mustn’t see me flustered, she thought.

  “You frightened me,” Verity said, her hand to her chest.

  “Tit for tat,” Trent said, moving away from the light and in her direction. “Your vanishing act frightened me.”

  Verity attempted to keep her voice light. “You? Afraid? I sincerely doubt that.”

  Trent opened the picket gate and moved slowly up the walk. He walked as stealthily as a cat stalking prey. She held her breath, remembering how it felt to be pressed against him. He climbed the step and joined her on the stoop. All she had to do was open the door. Somewhere in the upstairs rooms she imagined Tilly sitting with her spectacles, bending over a workman’s shirt with a needle and thread. She could call out and Tilly would be at the door. Her heart picked up speed, not for fear, she realized, but because of her memories of last night.

  Trent stopped beside her, leaned forward and braced his hand on the door, looming over Verity. She looked up at him, his face inches from her. He smelled of leather and of something unrecognizable and yet appealing. He exuded warmth and strength. She wanted to trust him, to tell him the sad and sorry story of her parents’ death, her brief infatuation with Steele, the spark of hope, the flash of anger, and the night with the fire poker.

  Everyone has a reptilian brain, she remembered a client, Professor Bing, telling her. We are each capable of violence, even murder, he’d said. Violence is but a small price to some, he’d told her. Some would kill for your pastries, he’d said. Professor Bing had been a small man with bottle lens glasses who liked berry tarts. He hadn’t been a man she found increasingly hard to resist.

  Could she tell Trent about the fire poker? Would he understand the reptilian brain? For a moment, she felt homesick for Professor Bing and her bakery. With flour, berries, and eggs she knew the outcome, follow the recipe and the desired result was inevitable. The problem now, or one of the many problems, was she didn’t know the recipe. She didn’t even know the desired results.

  “Why did you disappear?” Trent asked, bowing his head even lower.

  Verity arched her neck to look at him. She turned up her lips in the smile that she’d seen so often on Minnie’s face, the one that had sent half the Seattle male population to their knees with declarations of love. “I’m here with you now, am I not?”

  Trent leaned back, but stepped closer and folded his arms across his chest. “You are here with me, because I’m here.”

  Deciding that he could be useful, she reached out and took his arm. “Mr. Michaels, that is, perhaps, one of the most profound things I’ve ever heard.” She took his hand and drew him away from the porch. “I shall have to think about that. You are here, because you are here. Brilliant. Have I ever told you about Professor Bing? He taught philosophy at Columbia.” She led him down the path and she was surprised at how easily he followed. Thank you, Professor Bing. “Shall we leave here? And then we shall be somewhere else?”

  He allowed her to tow him and she liked having his solid frame beside her. She would use him to accompany her to the gaming salon.

  If he’d let her.

  Most of Seattle’s business establishments followed the blue laws and closed for the Sabbath. The gaming salons, taverns, and brothels were the exceptions. Their patrons, Verity guessed, preferred other forms of worship.

  “Is there somewhere else you’d like to be?” Suspicion laced his voice.

  “Really, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I love it here.” She cleared her throat to cover her emotion. “Still, I could use a walk. Will you join me?”

  “It’ll be dark soon.” He seemed reluctant to leave.

  “Do you mind?” She blinked up at him. Above his head, she could see the curl of the pale moon poking through a smattering of clouds.

  He looked down at her and she squirmed beneath his stare. “No, but I would think that you might. Or, have you given up on your reputation?”

  She hesitated. “Last night—”

  “I should apologize—”

  She tugged him along. “No. It was my…doing. But I’m safe with you, am I not?” She paused at the gate. “Really, you must tell me if I’m not safe.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it.

  She turned to him, her eyes dancing. “Will you or will you not be a gentleman and accompany me?” She was glad to see him smile because she knew if she told him where they were going, he’d certainly stop smiling.

  Trent’s voice dropped to a dangerous octave. “Accompany you where?”

  CHAPTER 13

  A fairy cake may refer to a cupcake or a poisonous mushroom.

  From The Recipes of Verity Faye

  He’d already come this far, he supposed he would continue, but there were times when all he could think of was scooping Verity up and carrying her home and keeping her there. With him. Away from the men she seemed to have an unnatural and unhealthy obsession with following. It made him crazy. She always danced about an inch away from danger, just beyond his fingertips. They’d taken Main to First, but then just outside the Salon de Chance, Verity had taken a sudden right. Trent suspected that they were following a man in a dark jacket who had been half a block ahead of them since they’d left the salon.

  “I want to watch the moon rise over the Sound,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s a smiley moon. The sort that elves and fairies sit upon, curled into the circle.” She smiled as he stepped beside her. She tucked her arm in his and without taking her eyes of the man ahead of them, she began to tell a story.

  He watched her face as she talked. Bright eyes, laughing lips, a sense of purpose, direction. He watched the man that they were supposedly not following and wondered why it was always some other man that chose their course. His footsteps slowed as he wondered if he could carry her home. What would she say and do if he slung her over his shoulder?

  “My mother’s people were Irish and Lord Bren, my very distant ancestor, fell in love with the princess of the elves,” she told him.

  “Does this have anything to do with the man we’re following?”

  Verity tapped his arm with her fingers. “Hush. I listened to your story about Serendip, you can listen to my story. Light elves, such as Ingrid, live in the sky and can be radiantly bright and mistaken as stars. Bren, a fisherman, spent many late nights on the dark sea. When lost, he’d sing to the stars until one would come and light his way home.”

  Would she cry out or kick if he picked her up? He looked around at the deserted street. They’d traveled to a rough neighborhood made of wooden buildings hastily constructed to suit Seattle’s rapidly growing population. Many of the structures’ weathered boards had been recycled and while most of the planks were gray and aged, some had been painted. Green stripes sat next to brown. Even some of the nails looked like they were in their second life—rusty nail heads lined up beside shiny ones. He watched Verity’s face lit with animation. She glowed like a white pebble in a dirty pool. She didn’t belong in this rough neighborhood.

  “He didn’t know he sang to Ingrid,” Verity continued. “He didn’t know that she lit his way home or that she had fallen in lov
e with him. Ingrid couldn’t resist the pull of his lovely tenor voice. Because he grew more and more secure in his ability to fish on the dark sea, his trips grew longer and longer, and he fished long after the other fishermen returned home.”

  Trent watched her lips as she spoke. He loved her voice. He realized he’d grown accustomed, addicted even, to everything about her.

  “He grew rich and prosperous and thought of taking a wife, and one late night his song turned to yearning for love. Ingrid, hearing his song, was filled with jealousy and called to Poseidon who brought a storm.”

  They had followed the man down the hill that led to the harbor, but when a dark figure emerged from the alley, Verity slowed.

  Trent asked, “And then what happened?”

  He followed Verity’s gaze to the man in the cloak.

  “Do you mind if we slow down? These shoes are beginning to pinch,” Verity asked.

  Trent looked at the two men ahead of them and then back at Verity. “Why are we following them?”

  She sent him a cross look and whispered, “You’re ruining my story.”

  He softly swore.

  Verity drew herself up, straightened her back. “You needn’t curse.”

  Trent let out a woof of air. Part school-marm, part seductress, part social reformist, everything about her was a contradiction that made his head spin.

  She gave him a hurt look. “If you’re going to be unpleasant…”

  Trent shook his head. “I apologize. Please continue.”

  Verity stopped beside a lamp light and shot him a glance. “Are you even listening?”

  Trent waved his hand in front of him as if to say, please go on.

  Verity resumed walking and continued her story, but her voice sounded hurt and less sure. “Ingrid left her home in the sky and rescued Bren from the sea. For weeks as he convalesced, a bright light would radiate from his cottage. None of the villagers who visited or brought him meals could understand the lustrous light that shone from his windows or why as Bren grew weaker and weaker his countenance grew brighter and brighter. And then one day, the light disappeared. The villagers ran to the cottage, found not Bren, but a brilliant sapphire lying on the bed where Bren had lain.”