A Silent Accord (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #1)
Chapter One
London 1827
M iss Verda Fairclough, sole child of the prestigious Right and Honorable Baron Krupt, paced the thick rug beneath frayed-silk-shod feet while she attempted to hold on to a fragile temper. Hers. “And just why am I learning this now?”
The baron hemmed and hawed about until Verda pointedly cleared her throat. “Er, well, I… It… You see…”
Her fists planted on slim hips, her foot tapped unsatisfyingly light against the rug. “Papa, I shall perish of old age. Get to it, if you please.”
As was his usual reaction when backed against the proverbial wall, his shoulders drew up in a defensive tact like that of a cornered rat for attack. “It wasn’t my fault.”
Her arms fell to her sides, her hands squeezed into tight fists. She snapped her jaws shut and said through clenched teeth, “So, the dealer shoved the cards into your hand, squeezed your fingers until the coins to which you clung clunked to the table. Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
“Don’t be insolent, Verda. No one at the table had coins.” He let out an indignant sniff. “I am a gentleman and bound by my word.”
She drew in a deep breath that did nothing to calm her unraveling nerves. “What of your duty to me, Papa? Am I worth so little to you?”
With a defeated sigh, he pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it along his balding pate. “Of course not.” He fell back into his chair behind a lavish but dusty and cluttered cherrywood desk. “The fact of the matter is our coffers are nearly dry. Those little ribbons and miniatures you paint for pin money…” He shook his head. “Pitiful.”
Verda narrowed her eyes on her father. “Coffers dry? How nearly?” She was determined not to be taken in once again by the guileless innocence he’d always been able to project at will.
“If you don’t marry a, er, gentleman of means, I fear we are bound for debtors’ prison.”
A long exhale deflated Verda’s chest. “Truly?”
His response was a sharp nod. He was not jesting, then.
That was indeed serious. “I’m nine and twenty, Papa. I have no suitors.” She dropped into the chair across from her father. “What do you propose I do? Get caught with a sagging bodice or expose my pantaloons at Peachornsby’s grand ball Friday next?”
Papa stopped and gaped at her. An amusing sight had he not appeared so despondent. He managed a scowl. “Really, Verda. Must you be so explicit? I had another idea entirely. It requires your acquainting yourself with the Duke of Rathbourne.”
“Rathbourne! He has a horrid reputation, Papa,” she sputtered out.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You’ll wear your brightest and most fashionable frock. None of that brown and gray stuff you seem to favor. And, if that doesn’t work…” He shrugged. “Then, well… we shall have to pack for Fleet.”
As if one could pack for gaol, she thought grimly, shuddering at the same time. Nor would she be forced into the workhouse for her father’s irresponsible tomfoolery.
“If you end up in Fleet, Papa, you shall have to manage alone, for I shall not be going with you. Nor will I visit,” she said assured him tightly.
Never would she allow herself subjected to a dank, dark cell that would confine her as if in a grave or, worse, trapped with a dead body. Not again.
She would soon as dive off the cliffs of Dover first.