The Bride Sale

Chapter 11

Spring came early to Cornwall and by April was in full bloom. The sharp tang of chamomile and the limelike fragrance of bracken tinged the air when Verity strolled the lower grounds. Even the village of St. Perran’s had been transformed. The squat little cottages with their ugly slate roofs took on a special charm as the flat slates became covered in a yellow lichen burnished gold by the afternoon sun.

Once the roads had recovered from the incessant March rains and become more passable, James took Verity and Mrs. Tregelly into Bodmin. He had agreed to meet with the manager of a troupe of local players, and Mrs. Tregelly wanted to confirm plans with a few tradesmen. Verity wanted to come along for no other reason than she hadn’t been farther than Bosreath since she arrived at Pendurgan.

Feeling as giddy as a child at Christmas, she had dressed in her best kerseymere pelisse and Angoulême bonnet, with little care for how unfashionably outdated she must appear. Perhaps Bodmin was a small backwater town, several years behind London in style, and would find her quite the thing. It did not matter. She was happy to be going somewhere new, and secretly glad Mrs. Tregelly had come along. It was to be a long day, and to spend it alone with James would have been exquisite torture.

It was a glorious sunny day and the town was bustling. It was not a grand town, to be sure, though it boasted the Assize Court and a lovely old church missing its steeple. But the main street was crowded with shops and businesses and inns as it climbed its long way up to the top of a hill.

James left them to go about his business. “After I meet with the stage manager, I have an appointment with my solicitor,” he said, giving Verity an unreadable look. They agreed to meet at the White Hart for tea in two hours.

Verity and Mrs. Tregelly spent a great deal of time with two notions sellers who each agreed to bring a stall to the festival for selling ribbons and lace and other trinkets for the ladies. They also made arrangements with a toy maker to set up a stall of carved wooden toys for the children. Verity discovered the Pendurgan housekeeper to be a persuasive and formidable negotiator. She had exacting requirements and brooked neither unnecessary extravagances nor economies. When Verity pulled her into an herbalist’s shop to pick up a few herbs she had not been able to locate at Pendurgan, Mrs. Tregelley was able to cajole the dour proprietor into setting up shop at the festival.

The two women were on their way to a pie maker’s shop when they realized the time, and set off for the White Hart instead. James was awaiting them, and led them to a small parlor he had engaged, where fresh tea and cakes were laid out.

“The players are set to come,” he said as Verity poured their tea.

“Oh, famous!” she exclaimed. “The people will be sure to come now.” She caught an uncertain look in his eye as she handed him a cup. Though he never said so, she knew he was still wary of the whole festival idea. Yet he went along with her wishes without complaint, not only securing the acting troupe, but engaging the local kiddly keeper, Old Artful, into providing ale, setting the St. Perran’s blacksmith to making extra quoits for the games, and rounding up workers from the tenant farms to build stalls and wrestling rings and a makeshift stage. Most difficult of all, he had not ignored the bonfire. He set Tomas to the task of rounding up enough wood to build the huge pile.

Verity wanted to throw her arms around him and thank him for all he’d done, despite his misgivings.

“Verity?”

She jerked herself to attention. Good Lord, she’d been staring at him. What must he think of her? “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I was woolgathering.”

“I asked how your day progressed. Were you able to engage a few sellers?”

Verity pulled herself together and told him what they’d accomplished. She kept up a lively chatter, regaling him with more detail than he probably cared to know. But at least it kept her mind from wandering to foolish fantasies.

“There are still several others to visit,” she said, pulling out her list of Bodmin vendors and tradesmen. “First, there is the pie maker and then—”

“Mrs. Tregelly,” James interrupted, “I trust you can manage with the baker and the others on your own?”

“Yes, of course, my lord.”

“I thought as much. Here, you take Mrs. Osborne’s list. I should like to borrow her for a while, if she has no objections.”

Verity experienced the merest tingle of anticipation. After a confirming nod from Mrs. Tregelly, Verity said, “I have no objections.”

“Good,” he said. He made arrangements to meet the housekeeper in one hour, then rose and offered his arm to Verity.

He led her along the main street, obviously with some destination in mind, though he said not a word. Something in his manner made her decidedly nervous. What was he up to?

“Did your meeting with your solicitor go well?” she asked, too jittery to allow the silence to continue.

He glanced down at her and gave her one of his enigmatic half smiles. “Yes, I believe so. I found out what I needed to know. Ah, look there, Verity. What do you think of that hat?”

He had stopped before a shop window that displayed hats and shawls and reticules. He indicated a charming leghorn bonnet trimmed with flowers, with an up-to-the-moment broad brim and low crown. It was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen. She gave him a questioning look. “It is quite lovely.”

“And would look even lovelier on you.” He flashed one of his rare smiles in response to the startled look she must surely be wearing. He reached up a hand and briefly touched her cheek. “My dear Verity, you are still wearing the same dresses, the same cloak, and same two bonnets that you brought with you to Pendurgan. And I suspect none of them was new even then. Let me buy you something new to wear.”

She colored up. “Oh, James, I couldn’t let you do that. I already owe you—”

“If you are going to mention that two hundred guineas, I will let you walk home to Pendurgan!” The laughter in his eyes belied his harsh words. “You owe me nothing, and you certainly deserve a new dress for the festival. And a new bonnet as well, I think. Shall we see what Mrs. Renfree has to offer?”

It had indeed been so long since she’d had anything new to wear—since her marriage to Gilbert, in fact—that Verity was tempted once again to throw her arms around his neck. Though she attempted a smile, her lower lip began to tremble.

“Now, don’t get all weepy, I beg you. You’ll have the whole town thinking I beat you.”

She gave a quavery chuckle and blinked away her tears until she felt more composed. “You really don’t have to do this, James.”

“Yes, I do. You’ve been working so hard and I know why you’re doing it. You deserve much more than a few dresses.”

“You are too good to me.”

He pressed his hand against the small of her back to lead her into the shop. “Not as good as I’d like to be,” he mumbled under his breath.

“What are you going to do?”

Gilbert Russell stopped pacing and gazed down at his friend. Anthony Northrup sat sprawled on the sofa as calm as you please while Gilbert’s life threatened to crumble into pieces.

“I need this position, Tony,” he said. “You know I do. But Beddingfield is as stiff-rumped as they come. If he were to find out…”

“He won’t find out.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Northrup swung his legs down and leaned his elbows on his knees. “In the first place,” he said, “don’t assume the old poop is such a puritan. The man went to school. He would have experimented just like everyone else.”

“Even so—”

“Besides, you have the perfect cover. All you need to do is present yourself as the traditional family man in public. So long as you have a wife to trot out to the occasional affair, no one cares what you do on the side.”

Gilbert felt the blood drain from his face. “A wife?”

“You do still have a wife, don’t you? Assuming that Heartless fellow hasn’t murdered her.”

Anxiety simmered like acid in Gilbert’s stomach. Ever since he’d learned the reputation of the man who’d given him two hundred guineas for Verity, his conscience had gnawed at him like a dog with a bone. He knew he ought to have done something, but instead he simply tried to ignore it, to forget it. “Dear God, Tony, are you saying I should—”

“You want to stay in Beddingfield’s good graces, do you not?”

“Of course I do.” He ran agitated fingers through his hair. “I’m all done up. I need that position on his staff.”

“Then keep his suspicions at bay. Get your wife back.”

“Ain’t he wunerful, Miz Osborne? Ain’t he?”

Davey Chenhalls stared at the new moorland foal with total infatuation. It had been love at first sight a week ago when the pony was born. Every day Davey had dragged Verity out to the old stables where the ponies were kept to admire the new foal.

“He certainly is wonderful,” Verity said, tousling the boy’s bright hair. “Have you thought of a name for him yet?”

“I been thinkin’ and thinkin’,” the boy said. “It gots to be special, ’cuz he be my very first pony. I gets to ride him, Da says, soon’s he do be old ’nuff and big ’nuff.”

“He’ll be a fine pony for you to ride.”

“He sure will!” Davey said. “If he’d a been a girl, I did be gonna name him Verity, ’cuz that be yer name.”

“Oh, Davey!”

“But that don’t be soundin’ right fer a boy pony. So I do figure to name him Osborne, ’cuz that be yer name, too, and it do sound more like a boy’s name.”

Verity knelt down on her haunches and hugged the little boy, blinking back tears. “Davey, my dear, I am so honored that you wish to name your pony after me.”

“Well,” he said, squirming out of her grip to gaze again at the tiny foal, “it did have to be a special name, like I said, and you do be the most specialest person I do know.”

She kissed the top of his head and thought how she’d grown to love this impish little heartbreaker. “Come along, Davey,” she said. “The festival is only two days away and I have lots of work to do. Do you want to go to the village with me? I must see if the smithy finished those quoits.”

“You bet I would! Could I go see Benjie Spruggins, too?”

“Yes, of course. You may visit with Benjie while I have a visit with Grannie Pascow. Come along, then.”

With a final glance at the foal, Davey skipped down the path that snaked through the western pastures before it joined up with the lane to St. Perran’s. Verity watched his high-spirited gamboling and a sudden wave of longing swept over her. Idiot! She had years ago abandoned dreams of having children of her own. What had brought on such foolishness? Was it simply Davey’s endearing attachment to her? Or something more?

When they reached the edge of the village, just before the Dunstan cottage, Verity’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp whistle. She spun around to find Digory Clegg beckoning her, and heaved a weary sigh.

“Mr. Clegg, I know what you are going to say and I do not wish to hear it.” Ever since she had thrown herself into the festival plans, the dark little man had been plaguing Verity, going out of his way to spew his words of doom. She had recognized him at once as the man who’d approached her at Wheal Devoran, warning her even then. She felt sorry for the man, but his constant prognosticating was becoming tiresome.

“I just do be warnin’ ’ee, mistress,” the little man said, eyes narrowed, finger wagging. “An’ this little ’un, too. And ever’one else up to that house. There do be only fire and death in that place, mistress, fire and death.”

“Good afternoon to you, Mr. Clegg.”

“Fire and death,” he repeated as Verity walked quickly away, dragging Davey by the hand. “If ’ee has that festival up there with that demon lord, there’ll be fire and death, mark my words. Fire and death!”

Verity was almost running to get away from his horrible words. Davey looked up at her in confusion as he scurried along beside her.

“Who is that man, Miz Osborne?”

“Don’t pay him any mind, Davey. He’s just a sick, crazy old man. You stay away from him.”

“I will. He looks scary.”

“You run along to Benjie’s cottage. I’m going to stop in on Grannie. Come by in an hour or so and we’ll go get the quoits together. All right?”

Verity stood in the lane and watched until she saw him safely inside the Spruggins’s cottage. She hoped to God Digory Clegg stayed away from him. She did not at all appreciate that he had included Davey in his predictions of doom. It so upset her, in fact, that she wanted to sit with Grannie Pascow a while and allow the old woman’s easy company and wise counsel to calm her.

“Here come Verity Osborne,” Grannie said when Verity arrived, “with her festival lists. Don’t know how her pockets be big enough to hold all them lists.”

Verity chuckled at the old woman’s teasing as she entered the parlor. Kate Pascow and Borra Nanpean were there as well.

“What do be ailin’ ’ee, Verity Osborne?” Grannie asked when a mug of weak tea had been passed to Verity.

“Hm?”

“Sumthin’ on yer mind, child?”

“Oh, it is just Digory Clegg. Davey and I saw him as we came into the village.”

“Still spoutin’ gloom and doom?” Kate asked. “Preachin’ fire and death?”

“Yes, but this time he included Davey in his ranting and it made me especially uneasy.”

“Oh, dear,” Borra said.

“What am I going to do about him, Grannie?” Verity asked. “I’ve worked so hard to make this festival a success. What if he scares people away?”

“Don’t ’ee be worrin’ ’bout that,” Grannie said. “Ever’one do know about Digory Clegg. They’ll likely feel sorry fer him, but they won’t listen to what he do say. Most folk think his mind do be gone, anyway.”

“Do you think he might be dangerous?” Verity asked. “Liable to cause some sort of mischief?”

“Poor man,” Borra said. “It must be hard to lose a child.”

“Aye, and that child were all he did have,” Kate said. “After his Gracie died, he doted on that boy. That fire at Pendurgan might as well o’ kilt him, too, fer all the misery it did cause. The man ain’t never been the same.”

“Kinda like what did happen to Jammez, ain’t it, Kate?” Grannie said.

Kate snorted but did not reply.

Verity stayed and chatted until Davey returned and dragged her to the smithy. The quoits were ready, and they soon set off back up the path to Pendurgan. Before they had reached the main drive, they saw Captain Poldrennan coming from that direction. Verity sent Davey on ahead and waited for the captain’s approach.

“Good afternoon,” Verity said, offering a cheerful smile. “I did not expect you today or I would have come back earlier. Would you like to come in again and share a pot of tea?”

He looked somewhat surprised, and not especially happy to see her. His smile did not quite reach his eyes. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you, Mrs. Osborne,” he said. “And I thank you for the offer, but I have just had tea with Agnes.”

“With Agnes?”

“Yes. I visit her from time to time. She and I are old friends, you know.”

“No, I did not know,” Verity said, and wondered how she could have been unaware of his visits. “I am pleased to hear it, though,” she said. “Poor Agnes always seems so lonely and does not seem to want to be friendly with me, much as I try. And she’s become more and more irritable as the festival nears. I worry about her.”

“It is hard for her to see someone taking Rowena’s place.”

“But I am not—”

The captain cocked a brow. “Aren’t you?”

“When I offered to plan the festival,” she said, “it was not with any thought of supplanting the memory of Lady Harkness. It was merely to help James restore his good name in the district.”

“Ah, yes. The festival. I am so looking forward to it. How are plans coming along? It is but a few days away, is it not?”

“Indeed it is. And the planning has gone extremely well. Have you not heard of my famous lists?”

He gave a genuine laugh that softened the look in his eyes. “I have, actually. Wellington could have used you on the quartermaster general’s staff.”

“I sometimes feel like a general directing my troops.”

“Then may you have the luck of Wellington at your midsummer siege.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I predict it will be the most brilliant event this district has seen in many years.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Oh, it will be.” He flashed her a broad smile. “Believe me, it will be.”

Verity told him how she had found enough local musicians so that none had to be hired from outside the district. He told her how he had arranged for the tar barrels to be delivered the morning of the festival and how they would be set up all about the estate. He seemed to have lost the oddly strained manner he had shown at first, and was now the amiable gentleman she’d come to admire. They continued chatting for what must have been a half hour before Verity recollected they were standing in the middle of the path. She again invited him back to Pendurgan but he declined, and they parted in high spirits.

Verity’s mind was thoroughly distracted on the walk back to Pendurgan. There were so many details, so much to be done in the next two days. She did not even notice the carriage on the far side of the central courtyard.

She pushed open the big oaken doors and entered the Great Hall. She turned toward the corridor leading to the main staircase, but was halted by Mrs. Tregelly’s voice.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” she said. “But there’s a gentleman here to see you.”

Verity stuffed a list back into her pocket and looked up at the housekeeper. “Pardon?”

“A gentleman, ma’am. He asked for you. I put him in the New Drawing Room.”

“A gentleman?” Verity stared at Mrs. Tregelly, her brows lifted in question. Surely there was some mistake. She had met no gentleman other than Captain Poldrennan and he had just left Pendurgan. Who could it be, then?

“Do you know who it is?” she asked.

“No ma’am. But he was adamant he would speak only to you.”

Verity sighed. Whoever he was, she would simply have to deal with him. She hoped he would not take much of her time. But perhaps he had come to discuss something about the festival. Perhaps he had heard of the plans, which were spreading like wildfire throughout the district, and represented some troupe of players or musicians or merchants, someone who wanted to participate in the event.

“I must certainly see him, then,” Verity said. “Would you take my bonnet please, Mrs. Tregelly, and my pelisse. Heavens, I am dusty from the walk. Do I look a fright?”

“Not a bit, ma’am. There is one loose curl, just there. That’s it. Now you look fine as five pence. Shall I send in tea and biscuits?”

“I don’t know,” Verity said. “Let me see what his business is first. I will ring if I need you.”

“As you like, ma’am.”

Verity checked her reflection in the high polish of a Civil War breastplate hung on the wall. She plumped her hair as best she could, shook out her skirts, and rubbed the toes of her half boots against the back of her stockings. It was the best she could do. She proceeded down the opposite corridor to the east wing.

The door to the drawing room was open. She could see the flickering light of a fire inside. She entered and found a man standing with his back to her, facing the fire.

“Sir? I understand you wish to see me?”

The man turned, and Verity gasped as she looked into the eyes of her husband, Gilbert Russell.

Jago Chenhalls was oddly quiet when James returned from the fields, but James was so exhausted he did not have the energy to wonder about the man’s strange behavior. James and Mark Penneck had been mowing hay and it had been a long, tiring day. It was on days like this that he most missed having a steward.

James had depended heavily upon Mark Penneck over the months after Bargwanath’s departure. It had been uncomfortable asking for help since Mark’s attitude toward James had been no different than that of the other locals. But the Penneck holding was the largest on the Pendurgan estate and Mark was the most experienced farmer, so James had approached him.

The partnership had been awkward at first. Over the months of working side by side, however, the two of them had gained a new respect for each other and the work had gone well. It occurred to James that Verity’s reasoning in regard to his black reputation might have some validity. Keeping his distance might indeed have merely increased the hostility toward him. What Verity did not seem to understand, however, was that keeping his distance had never been a choice. It was necessary.

James ducked beneath the low archway into the central courtyard and then stopped to stretch his back. His muscles ached like the very devil and he was likely to be stiff as a corpse in the morning. He pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Great Hall, and groaned at the effort. Lord, he was getting old. He would like nothing better than to soak in a hot bath. Perhaps Verity had some herbal remedy to soothe the strained muscles in his back and shoulders and hips.

Before facing the climb up the long staircase to his tower room, James wanted to check the day’s post. He was expecting a letter from Woolfe regarding an enlarged steam cylinder, as well as a new issue of The Edinburgh Review. If they had arrived, he could take them both upstairs and leisurely read them while soaking in a hot bath.

He walked into the library and over to the desk where Mrs. Tregelly always left the daily post for him to review. A fat leather purse sat on the center of the desk. What the devil? James lifted the purse. It was heavy with coins. He drew aside the leather thong holding it closed and saw a mass of gold coins inside. There must have been well over a hundred of them, maybe two hundred.

A cold shudder of fear crawled down his spine.

A folded and sealed note lay next to the pouch. He picked it up gingerly, as though it might scald his fingers, terrified of what it would say. His throat dried up so that he could hardly swallow and his breathing became ragged. He stared at the parchment for several long moments before garnering the courage to break open the seal.

A second folded paper fell out and dropped to the desk. James ignored it as his eyes scanned the brief words written in a spidery scrawl.

I am taking my wife home. You will find a purse reimbursing you for the ￡200 outlaid in November along with an additional portion for your trouble. I enclose the original bill of sale. Let us consider this transaction null and void. I regret any inconvenience.

Yrs,

Gilbert Russell

It was as though a large fist had punched him in the gut and knocked the wind out of him. He could not breathe. He could not move. He could only stare at the words on the page, reading them again and again, as though another reading would somehow change their meaning.

I am taking my wife home.James studied each word, the way the letters were formed, the way the ink broadened here and thinned to wispy lines there.

He stared and stared until a huge knot of despair began to twist in his belly and worked its way up through his chest and into his throat and out his mouth.

“No.” It was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost a whimper. “No. No. No.”

She was gone. Verity was gone.

His fingers closed slowly around the crisp parchment, which crackled as he crushed it into fanlike folds. James looked about him and felt lost, disoriented, the way he sometimes felt after a blackout.

She was gone. He could not seem to get his mind around the idea. She was gone. Russell had taken her home.

But this was her home. She belonged here as surely as James did. How could she be gone?

How could he go on without her?

James closed his eyes tightly, fighting against the pain building up behind them. Misery and despair threatened to overwhelm him. Those few penned lines had ripped a vast hole through his soul, leaving him dry and empty and dead inside.

He had no right to love her, should never have allowed himself to fall in love with her. But he had, and now she was gone. He wanted to die.

“No!” He crushed the parchment into a tiny crinkled ball and tossed it across the floor. He picked up the money pouch and flung it as hard as he could against the opposite wall. It struck a Chinese vase and sent it flying to the floor with a thunderous crash amidst a rain of gold sovereigns.

“My lord?”

The noise had brought Mrs. Tregelly. Oh, God, he was not prepared to face anyone just now.

“My lord?”

He took a deep breath and concentrated on the anger flickering in his breast. Anger was something he understood. He knew how to deal with it. He knew how to use it. He knew how to take refuge in it. He tested it, enticed it, savored it until it had spread throughout him as pure, unadulterated, all encompassing rage.

He spun around to face his gentle housekeeper. The raw fury in his eyes sent her retreating back a step.

“What the devil happened here while I was gone?” The roar of his voice reverberated against the thick stone walls and shook the very air with its rumble.

Mrs. Tregelly flinched slightly, but kept her sweet, sorrowful eyes on him. “She’s gone, my lord.”

The words tore through him like a blade. “I know she’s gone, goddammit,” he shouted. “What happened?”

“She left with that young man, Mr. Russell. She said he was…her husband. She was quite upset, my lord.”

“Good God. Did he use force? Did he—”

“No, my lord. She went quietly with him, took all her things, too. It was a dreadful thing to watch. Gonetta and Cook sobbing to break your heart, and little Davey clinging to her neck and begging her to stay. Poor Tomas had to pull the boy off her. By then, Miz Verity was crying as hard as Davey.”

Her voice trembled and she paused to wipe a hand across her eyes. “She hugged every one of us,” Mrs. Tregelly continued, “just like we was family. She wanted to wait until you returned, but Mr. Russell wouldn’t have it. Said they had to leave then and there. She left a note for you, though. On your desk. Did you see it?”

“No.” James whirled around and bent over the desk. He picked up the paper that had fallen out of Russell’s note, but it was only a copy of the bill of sale, the same receipt James had kept safely locked away all these months. “I don’t see it,” he said and riffled through the papers on his desk. “Where is it? Where is it?”

“Here, my lord.” Mrs. Tregelly pointed to a sealed note propped up against the inkwell on his father’s silver writing set.

James grabbed at the note, upending the pounce pot and spilling the fine powder across the desk. “Lord Harkness” was written on the folded sheet in an elegant, flowing script. Not even “James,” only the formal title. He choked back disappointment, ripped open the seal, and read hungrily.

James,

I am sorry to have left without a chance to say good-bye. My husband has returned for me and, because the law is on his side, I am forced to leave Pendurgan. Please accept my gratitude for your kindness and your friendship and the chance to know the good people of Pendurgan and St. Perran’s. I shall miss you all. I regret that I will be unable to be here for the midsummer’s eve festival. It is sure to be a great success. The people are so looking forward to it.

To have known you will remain one of the greatest pleasures of my life.

Yrs in friendship,

Verity Osborne Russell

James turned his back to Mrs. Tregelly and read it again, savoring each word, seeking hope beneath the pain. He found it glimmering in the last line. One of the greatest pleasures of my life. Oh indeed, he thought, and you were that to me.

James stood for several long moments, mining each word for precious meaning. She was sorry to leave. She was grateful for his kindness—ha!—and his friendship. She had wanted to say good-bye. She would miss him. No, she would miss them all, but he was certainly included in that sentiment. She would miss him. She was sorry. She was grateful. She cared.

Surely that was the meaning to be read between the lines. She cared. Perhaps she even loved him. No, that was stretching it too far. But she did care for him. He had known that for some time.

But what good did it do to realize she cared, now that she was gone? To give validity to the ache in his heart?

In such a short time, Verity had made an impact on his life, on the lives of everyone at Pendurgan and St. Perran’s. She had wrought so many changes in this grim house. It would never be the same.

The biggest change of all was James himself. She had begun to bring him back to life, back to living. It might be only the tiniest seed buried deep within his wretched black soul, but it struggled to break through and send its shoots toward the sun. That it struggled at all was because of Verity, because she believed in him, because she offered hope when he never dared to dream.

She had made him want to live again, to take control of the demons that plagued him, to reclaim his life. Verity had planted that seed, and by God, he was not ready to let it wither and die. He knew, though, just as surely as he breathed, that there would be no other chance for him. She had been his last chance. And she was gone.

I am forced to leave Pendurgan. She had not gone by choice. That bastard Russell had waved the law in her face and forced her to go. He had not cared much for the law last fall, when he had led his proud young wife to auction at Gunnisloe. The wife whose marriage had never been consummated.

By God, he was not going to let Russell cause her any further pain and humiliation. He might have legal marriage lines, but he did not have the right. James, of course, had no rights at all, except that he loved her. Russell could never have loved her. James was not about to let that blackguard jerk Verity around like a marionette. James would fight for her, for her right to make her own choice.

He would go after her. Perhaps he would make a widow of her, if that’s what it took. But by God, he would fight to get her back.

“Mrs. Tregelly?”

She had quietly left the room, leaving him to his solitary misery.

“Mrs. Tregelly!”

His bellow brought the poor woman scurrying as fast as her plump legs would carry her. “Yes, my lord?” she asked breathlessly.

“How long ago did they leave, Verity and Russell?”

“Oh, well. Let me see, now.” She pursed her lips and tapped her chin with a finger while she considered the matter. “It must be several hours ago. Just afore eleven, I’d guess.”

“Eleven?” James checked the mantel clock. It had just gone three. They’d been gone at least four hours, a hell of a head start. “What sort of carriage did he have?”

Mrs. Tregelly looked puzzled. “What sort of carriage?”

“Yes, yes,” James said, unable to keep the impatience from his voice. “How many horses? Two or four?”

“Oh, I believe it was four, my lord. Yes, I’m sure of it. Four horses.”

They would make good time, then. But on horseback, he might be able to catch up with them. He would ask Jago Chenhalls for more detail on the carriage so he could follow its trail. There was no time to waste. He tucked Verity’s note in his waistcoat pocket and rushed toward the door.

“My lord?”

He paused reluctantly. “Yes, what is it?”

“Are you going after her, my lord? Are you going to bring Miz Verity back to Pendurgan?”

“I am certainly going to try,” he said.

Mrs. Tregelly heaved a sigh. “Thank the good Lord.”

James cast her a broad smile then hurried to the main staircase. He bounded up the stairs, heedless of the stiff muscles that had so troubled him earlier, and was headed for the tower stairs when he came face to face with Agnes Bodinar. She stood in the main corridor, silhouetted against the dim light of a wall sconce. She moved to block his path to the tower.

“You’re going after her, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Agnes. Let me pass.”

“You do not need her, Harkness. Let her go.”

James tried to move around her, but she sidestepped him and continued to block his path. “Agnes, please.”

“Don’t be such a fool. She’s not worth it.”

He stopped and looked into his mother-in-law’s steely gray eyes. “Ah, but she is, Agnes.” He thought of the two hundred and more gold sovereigns scattered on the library floor. “She’s worth every penny.”

Verity shifted on the carriage seat and tried once again to find a more comfortable position. It was useless. Her muscles were cramped and stiff from endless hours spent bumping along rutted and muddy roads. Gilbert had insisted they travel into the evening hours. He seemed anxious to reach London.

If she had to leave Cornwall, Verity would have preferred to go back to Berkshire, to the ramshackle house nestled in the downs where she had spent the first two and a half years of her marriage. Gilbert had told her, though, that he had sold the house in order to pay back Lord Harkness, and now had only a small leased townhouse in London.

He needed her there. He had come in line for a government post and could not afford an investigation into his wife’s disappearance.

Verity had been wretched with despair as their carriage had wound its way through the rough, granite-strewn landscape of Bodmin Moor.

“What a bleak and dreary land this is,” Gilbert had said. “I am more sorry than I can say that I have forced you to live in such a godforsaken place. You must be happy to see the last of it.”

His words had caused a flood of tears that he misunderstood as relief. She was far from happy to see the last of it. She had never been more miserable. Except perhaps when Davey Chenhall’s skinny arms had to be forcibly removed from around her neck, or when a sobbing Gonetta had returned Verity’s hug with such force she’d thought her stays would crack, or when she had watched the gray mass of Pendurgan disappear from view for the last time.

Verity would forever recollect with profound regret the thick, cold, stone walls of the old house, fraught with the desolation of its master and the tragedy of its recent past. She had grown to love the old place and had so looked forward to seeing its gardens in full summer. She would never get to see what became of the tiny green seedlings she’d planted in the kitchen garden that had just begun to sprout. Nor would she ever know if the midsummer festival took place as planned. She would forever regret leaving all that behind at Pendurgan.

She would regret leaving its master most of all.

“I should not have done what I did to you, Verity,” Gilbert said as she silently wept. “I do not suppose I can ever explain it to you, explain why I did it. That doesn’t matter now. But when I heard who it was I had…I had left you with, well, I tell you I was devastated. Lord Heartless of Pendurgan!”

Verity had let him prattle on about how contrite he was for turning her over to a renowned monster, a wife murderer. He never once used the word “sold.” But he had sold her—something Verity would neither forget nor forgive.

Gilbert had convinced himself he was rescuing her from a horrible fate, some unnamed terror at the hands of Lord Heartless. For Verity, though, the real monster in all this was Gilbert. So quiet, so reserved, so unassuming, and yet a monster who had sold his wife without a qualm, until he’d learned the reputation of the buyer. He might convince himself of the noble act of rescue. Verity would never forgive him for taking her away from the only man she’d ever loved.

It did not matter that James had been dark and angry and brooding and potentially dangerous. She had grown to love the man beneath the mask and to understand the root of his anger and self-loathing. Even recognizing the cause of his pain, though, Verity could not really be sure that she could ever have helped him, that she could have helped heal his wounds.

But, oh, how she would like to have tried. The ache in her heart was for that more than almost anything else—that she would never know if her love for him could have made a difference.

She wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. She would not be done in by this new twist of fate. She had survived all the rest, though this was the most painful change she had yet endured. To leave behind all that was unfinished at Pendurgan, to leave behind James…

She would survive. She always did. What she must remember was that James had not felt anything beyond friendship for her, and one night of something more. It was her own arrogance that caused her to hope and dream of things that could never be.

You are nothing like Rowena.His words had reminded her that she could never fill that special place in his heart.

She had hoped there had been some affection between them, that their friendship mattered to him. But in the end she could never be that important to him, for she was nothing like Rowena, the one true love of his life.

Throughout the long, uncomfortable carriage ride, Verity brooded over all that had happened, coming to grips with her broken heart, her shattered dreams. She rebuffed Gilbert’s attempts at conversation. She had nothing to say to him and preferred to be alone with her thoughts. He had finally recognized that fact, and fell silent.

Verity closed her eyes but could not sleep. Her mind was in too much turmoil and her body too stiff. How she wished they would stop for the night. It had been dark for hours.

When the carriage began to slow and pull into yet another posting inn for a change of team, Verity was finally compelled to speak.

“May we not stop here for the night?” she asked. “It is late and I am tired and uncomfortable. May we not rest for a while?”

Gilbert looked out the carriage window. “Yes, it looks to be decent enough. Let me see if there are rooms available.”

Verity would have been agreeable to sleeping on a bench in the taproom if necessary, but she kept quiet. Gilbert bounded out of the carriage and closed the door behind him. Verity was too tired to watch and leaned her head against the squabs and closed her eyes. She heard the voices of ostlers and the rattle of harnesses, and felt the jostling of the carriage as the horses were unhitched.

Gilbert returned after a few moments and reached out a hand to help her down the folding steps of the carriage. “They have one small bedchamber and a private parlor. We can have a quick meal before retiring, if you like. I will stretch out on a chair in the parlor. Or the taproom.”

He need not have added that last bit of information. Verity had no fear that her husband would finally seek her bed after all these years.

She found that, as tired as she was, she was nevertheless hungry, and so they ordered a cold collation to be served in the private parlor. Gilbert seemed to find her continued silence oppressive, and once again he attempted conversation.

“I hope we can start over, Verity,” he said, and passed her a slice of cold ham. “I hope that we can view this as a new beginning for us. I know our marriage has not been…has not been much of a marriage. And I have not been much of a husband. I will try to do better by you this time, my dear. You will see. We will live in London together and start over.”

Verity spread butter on a piece of grainy bread, and reached deep within herself to locate the courage she had nurtured over the months at Pendurgan.

“I do not wish to start over with you, Gilbert,” she said. “I have no wish to live with a man who has seen fit to sell me at auction for two hundred pounds.”

Verity marveled that she was able to say the words. There had been a time when she would have bitten her tongue out rather than cross her husband. She had certainly kept her silence when he led her to the market square at Gunnisloe and placed a leather halter around her neck.

Something had happened to her, though. Something essential deep inside her had changed. She would go where life took her, as she always did; but she would no longer be silent about how she felt, about what she wanted. Somehow, during the months at Pendurgan, she had developed a bit of backbone. Not a terribly strong one, to be sure, or she would not have gone with Gilbert at all, legal rights be damned. But she would no longer be the silent little mouse she’d been before.

Gilbert stared at her wide-eyed. He had difficulty swallowing his food and seemed almost to choke on it. He took a long swallow of ale and it appeared to calm him. He continued to stare at her, a hint of apprehension in his hazel eyes.

“Verity? Do you mean you would rather have stayed with that…that murderer?”

“Yes,” she replied without hesitation, “that is what I mean.”

“Why, for God’s sake? The man’s a monster.”

“I was happy there. I was useful. And he is not a monster.”

“Oh.” Gilbert looked thoroughly abashed. “I see. Well, I am glad, at least, that it was not as bad as I had believed. You cannot know the unspeakable horrors I imagined were being inflicted upon you.”

“And yet it took you eight months to come for me,” Verity said. “Eight months of unspeakable horrors. You must have been astonished to find me alive.”

Gilbert paled at her words. His hands began to fidget nervously. “I…I did not have the funds to…to…”

“To buy me back?”

He fumbled with his neckcloth and squirmed in his seat. “I had to repay the money Harkness had given me. I could not simply steal you away without worrying that he would come tearing after us.”

“And you had already spent the two hundred pounds.”

He pushed away his plate, though he had hardly touched his food. “Yes. There had been debts, you see. I used the money to help repay them.”

“Ah, I see. You sold your wife to redeem your vowels. Others might have sold a horse or a painting. How clever of you to think of selling a wife you never wanted.”

“Verity.” He looked miserable, as though he might actually break into sobs. “It was hateful and wrong. I know it. I must live with what I’ve done. I don’t expect your forgiveness. But I will make it up to you, I promise, once I have this position in the Home Office. You will see, Verity. I promise you will never want for anything ever again.”

Really? And how was he going to make her stop wanting that dark stranger she’d left behind?

She fell silent again. She had made her point; there was no need to pound it into the ground. Gilbert was her legal husband and she was bound to do as he wished. Perhaps she would forge a new and interesting life in London. If she could be occupied and useful, perhaps it would be enough.

But would it ever be enough to quell the ache in her heart for all she’d left behind—for Cornwall, for Pendurgan, for the red-haired Chenhalls family and sweet-faced Mrs. Tregelly, for Grannie Pascow and the women of St. Perran’s, for James?

No. Nothing would ever be enough to dull the ache in her heart for James.