Page 143 of The Earl She Once Saved

“I will know if anyone comes to this floor asking after you.”

“Win—”

“I will know,” she repeated.

Verity bent to pick up the gown. Win took it gently from her hands.

“Let me see to this. You must sleep.”

The bed was turned down. Beside it stood a jug of water and the small lamp Win always left when Verity came home late from a tenant’s cottage. Verity had believed she was leaving all of it behind. She sat upon the mattress while Win drew the curtains against the growing light.

Sergeant settled outside the door with a heavy sigh. Verity lay down still wearing her riding habit. She listened until Win’s footsteps faded along the passage, then at last closed her eyes.

When she woke, the house was full of voices. Sunlight made a narrow bar across the coverlet. Verity sat up too quickly and waited for the room to steady. The memory of Roland's threat lingered longer than she wished.

She washed and changed into a plain brown gown. On her writing table lay the letter she had left for Win. It had been folded once more, carefully, along its first creases. Verity put it in a drawer. She could neither read it nor throw it away, for fear of it being used against her.

From the landing she heard carriage wheels on the drive. By the time she reached the front hall, Celestine Marchmont was passing through it with two neighbors Verity knew by sight: Mrs. Fenwick and Mr. Lacey, whose farms adjoined the eastern boundary. Celestine wore pale green and had the fresh, composed appearance of someone who had slept soundly after the ball. She greeted Verity with perfect civility.

“We heard you were unwell.”

“I am recovered, thank you.”

“I am glad.” Celestine’s glance rested on her a moment longer, then moved to the open front door. “Lord Edgeworth is showing Mr. Lacey the improvements.”

Beyond them, voices carried from the yard. Verity recognized Roland’s first, agreeable and loud enough to reach his visitors. She stepped outside.

Mr. Harris, the estate clerk, stood beside a cart stacked with timber. Several laborers waited near it. Coombes was among them, with his cap in his hands. His youngest son had lain feverish for weeks after the winter floods, and the family’s savings had gone on coal, broth, and the journey to fetch a physician.

Verity entered a hardship allowance against their rent and arranged extra wages for the work Coombes could manage at the north culvert. Without it, they would have fallen behind before the spring planting.

Roland held the open ledger. He spoke as Verity came down the steps.

“This allowance is excessive. Strike it out, Harris.”

Harris’ pen remained above the page. “My lord, the amount was agreed in January.”

“I can see when it was entered. Strike it out.”

Coombes rubbed the brim of his cap between his fingers. The timber was for the culvert. His team was to take it north. No one had loaded the horses. A few yards away, Celestine and the neighbors paused under the portico, close enough to hear without appearing to join the business of the yard.

Verity could have spoken at once. She stopped beside the steps to hear what Coombes would say.

Roland shut the ledger halfway, leaving a finger between its pages. “You understand, I hope, that your rent remains due.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And that we cannot pay men for work they have not done.”

Coombes lifted his head. “The mistress settled it, my lord. I’d want to hear it from her before it changes.”

Nothing in his voice challenged Roland’s title. That made the words harder to dismiss. Harris still held his pen. The laborers waited beside the timber, their work halted until someone told them where to take it.

Roland saw Verity then. For an instant his pleasant expression held. She watched him take in the visitors beneath the portico and the men who would repeat what happened here at home that evening.

“My dear,” he spoke. “You are well enough to join us.”

“I am.”