twenty. She’d had more courage at fifteen. Desperately Verity tried to remember the child who had crept out in a blinding downpour to try and give her father’s burial some honour.
Would she dare to do it now? Shame and self-loathing lashed at her. How could she have become so subservient? Grimly, she tied off her thread and snipped it. She had stood up for Sukey. What if she stood up for herself? Now? What if she refused to be Selina any more?
She rose and took the mended gown to the armoire. She had become Selina in order to survive. So she would have to make a decision. Survival, or self-respect.
The next item in her mending pile was a shirt of Godfrey’s. A button had come off. Even after laundering, the shirt still smelt of him, reminding her of what was likely to happen after the conclusion of the house party. Sick fear clenched her stomach. She had thought she had nothing left to lose. Apparently she did: survival, or self-respect. She doubted that she could have both.
Celia came up to change for dinner in a foul temper and Verity learned that Lord Blakehurst had disappeared straight after breakfast and gone riding all day. By himself. Again.
Stepping out of her afternoon gown, Celia sat down at her dressing table in her chemise and petticoat and said, ‘He was at breakfast, they told me, and then he simply vanished. Oh, and Mama is furious.’ She turned to Verity with a sneer and said, ‘Something to do with you, I believe. You’re for it when she comes up. She said you had tried to intrigue Lord Blakehurst.’
Fingers suddenly numb, Verity dropped the slipper she had just picked up. Someone had seen them.
‘Imagine,’ continued Celia, ‘you! Attempting to intrigue a connoisseur like Blakehurst! They say all his mistresses are stunningly beautiful and that he flaunts them all over London. But it is all of a piece, I dare say. Obviously cowardice runs in your family and now you have attempted to become a whore.’
Beyond the churning fear something stirred deep inside Verity. Something that had stayed chained for years.
Celia pouted at her reflection and caught up a handful of hair, twisting it this way and that. ‘I think I shall have a new coiffure tonight. I’m so bored with my old one. See to it, girl.’
Verity’s self-control shattered into a thousand gleaming, deadly fragments and her temper stepped free. ‘Certainly, cousin,’ she said, sweeping up the sewing scissors on her way to the dressing table. ‘How about this?’ She snatched up a section of hair and slashed with the scissors. ‘And this!’ Another bunch of curls joined their fellows on the floor.
Celia’s shrieks and screams, as she clutched the shorn patches by her left temple and ear, had their inevitable aftermath.
Verity turned calmly enough as Lady Faringdon rushed in. Her ladyship took one look at the ruin of Celia’s hair and rounded on her niece. ‘Get out,’ she shouted. ‘Return to your room. I’ll see to you in the morning, after I bid farewell to Lord Blakehurst.’
Verity drew in a horrified breath which her aunt observed.
‘Yes, that’s right. He’s leaving. Did you think that you had caught his attention? No doubt your attempt to insinuate yourself into his notice has disgusted him. Now go!’
Refusing to be cowed, Verity said cheerfully, ‘Goodnight, Aunt, Cousin. I dare say one of the maids can brush your hair before bed, now that I’ve lightened the task for her. Enjoy your evening.’
Tearing herself from her mama’s enveloping bosom, Celia leapt at her with a shriek of rage, but Verity stood her ground with a little smile and lifted the scissors again. ‘Do you want me to even it up a trifle, Celia?’
Celia shrank back. ‘Mama! She threatened me!’
‘Yes, well,’ said Verity, ‘after all, what else could you expect of a coward and a whore?’ She dropped the scissors and stalked out, slamming the door.
She barely remembered reaching her chamber. Vaguely she noticed several guests appear from their rooms, excitedly wondering what all the commotion was about. One or two even asked if she knew, but she was too shocked at the enormity of what she had done to respond.
Eventually she lay on her narrow bed, staring into the darkness, trying to hold back despair. There was no time to think of a plan for escape, or try to find a position. She had to leave. At once. She’d burned an entire armada of boats to the waterline.
But, oh! It had been worth it to see the look on Celia’s face! Despite her fear, she giggled. And Aunt’s face! As though the silent, cowed poor relation had suddenly gone mad.
Enough. Now she had to think what to do. Shivering, she faced the truth. If she remained, she was ruined. After this, her aunt would look the other way while Godfrey debauched her. If she left and sought shelter in the workhouse, it would only be a matter of time before some other man took her.
A whore.
Whichever way she turned, she was trapped. Unless…unless she accepted Lord Blakehurst’s offer. She couldn’t! She didn’t dare…did she? Carefully she thought it over. If she took some precautions, misled him a little about her intentions, he would never realise who she was. If he took her, she would be free. Even if they realised who she had gone to, they wouldn’t dare take her back, because to do so they would have to admit who she was. The risk of scandal would be too great.
She would have to remain Selina Dering. With a queer sense of foreboding, she realised that, to all intents and purposes, Verity would cease to exist. There would be only Selina. Max must never know the truth. Any of it.
Straight after dinner Max excused himself, muttered something about an early start and went up to his room. Not even the prospect of finding out what had caused the explosion of feminine hysteria shortly before dinner tempted him to remain for longer than was absolutely required by the dictates of courtesy.
That Celia Faringdon had been at the centre of the outburst was evidenced by the fact that she had not appeared at dinner. Lady Faringdon’s explanation of a sensitive and easily cast-down temperament, Max translated as spoiled brat who didn’t get her own way over something trivial.
Once in his room, he rang the bell and when Harding arrived, said, ‘We’ll leave first thing. Have you packed?’
Harding nodded. ‘Aye, sir. Everything’s ready. Will there be aught else tonight?’
Max shook his head, and then reconsidered. ‘On second thoughts, send up a bottle of brandy, and then get an early night.’
Harding hesitated. ‘Brandy, sir? You’ll have a devilish head in the morning.’
Earl Blakehurst raised his brows. ‘I beg your pardon, Sergeant?’
Holding his ground gallantly, Harding repeated, ‘You’ll have a devilish head, sir. The brandy’s damned awful!’
Max managed a disclipinary sort of stare. ‘In which case you have my full permission to say “I told you so” and gloat. Just do it.’
‘Yes, sir. One hangover coming up, sir.’
Max’s mouth twitched. ‘Impudent dog! God knows why I bear with you!’
Harding grinned. ‘Probably, sir. Omniscient, isn’t He?’
Max burst out laughing and sat down on the bed to pull his shoes off.
‘Sir?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Dessay it’s not my place to ask, but did you hear anything about the Colonel’s lass?’
The laughter drained away. ‘I’m sorry, Harding, I should have told you,’ he said quietly. ‘She’s dead. Faringdon hinted that she took her own life. I was too late. Again.’
Harding blanched. ‘Oh, Gawd! I’m that sorry, sir.’
‘So am I. Goodnight.’
When the brandy came Max uncorked it