Page 121 of The Earl She Once Saved

The fear in Win’s voice told her the rest. Verity’s hand fell from the pendant.

“He is here.”

Win nodded. “Lord Edgeworth. And another gentleman.”

For five years, Verity had imagined this moment. In some versions Roland came in secret, ashamed of what he had done. In others, he strode through the doors and demanded everything as though no time had passed. Sometimes she sent him away. Sometimes he laughed. She had never imagined herself standing before a mirror with his brother’s jewel around her throat.

“Who is the other man?”

“He gave his name as Mr. Crote.”

Of all Roland’s creditors, Crote had been the most patient. He never shouted upon the steps or threatened to summon officers. He simply returned, month after month, certain that Edgeworth must eventually yield something worth taking.

Verity looked once at her reflection. The woman in the glass was pale, but she did not appear frightened. She had been frightened too often for it to show easily now.

“Where is Rafe?”

“He has just ridden in.”

From Celestine.

The thought came sharp and unwanted.

Verity turned from the mirror. “Then we must not keep our guests waiting.”

Sergeant rose from the hearth as she crossed the room. He followed without being called.

Win caught up with her in the passage. “You do not have to go down yet. You are allowed a few moments to compose yourself, if you need to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“My lady—”

“If I wait, Roland will believe I am hiding from him.”

“Does it matter what he believes?”

“It always matters what Roland believes. It is only the truth that has never concerned him.”

They reached the stairs. Voices rose from the hall below. One was warm, smooth and painfully familiar. Five years vanished at the sound of it. Verity’s hand closed around the banister.

Roland stood near the center of the hall. He looked older. Gray touched his temples, though it suited him. His coat was dark blue, perfectly cut. His boots shone despite the dust upon his carriage. He wore the Edgeworth signet as though it had never left his hand.

Mr. Crote stood near the door, broader and less elegant, with his black coat stretched across his shoulders. His pale eyes moved over the hall with the measuring attention of a man valuing goods before an auction.

Rafe stood farther back. He had not removed his riding coat. Wind had disordered his hair, and dust marked one shoulder. His gaze found Verity at once. She could not read his face.

She descended. Roland looked up.

His smile came slowly, perfectly. “Verity.”

She stopped upon the last step. He crossed the hall before she could speak and took her in his arms. The embrace was warm, confident, and entirely for the benefit of those watching. His coat smelled of expensive soap, road dust, and the faint sweetness of wine. Verity’s body remembered the scent before her mind did. For one sickening instant, she was again the young wife who had waited in dark rooms for the sound of his key.

Roland held her more tightly.

“My dear,” he murmured near her ear. “How I have missed you.”

Verity kept her arms at her sides. His hand spread across her back as though he possessed the right to comfort her. Across the hall, Sergeant growled. Roland released her. He looked down at her face, with his hands resting upon her shoulders.