The walls of Thomas Baker's cottage were thin, and Verity, cleaning the breakfast service in the kitchen, could hear every word of her father's conversation with the strange, distinguished guest, whose elegant carriage looked so out of place sitting out the front of their run-down home.

"My friend," her father wheedled, in the way that always made Verity grit her teeth, "you understand that my circumstances are not what they used to be."

"You are not my friend, Sir. And I do not care for your circumstances. I come only to tell you that I expect the debt to be paid by the end of the month."

Verity curled her upper lip in an expression of disgust that transformed her cold, beautiful face into something suddenly hot, and animated, and ugly. More debt. She flung her wash cloth savagely into the sink and dried her hands on her stained brown dress. She was nineteen, and she had been wearing this dress since she was a child of twelve. It hung awkwardly several inches above her ankles, and had been let out around her bust and arms, pleated with pale blue cotton that was all too obviously a repair. It was not that Verity was vain, but she did feel the shame of being constantly underdressed. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not wear hand-me-downs from the vicarage poor pile. In the ordinary way of things, a girl of her birth did not end up with a drunkard gambler for a father.

She moulded her bitter expression into a mask of cold superiority as her father called her from the next room.

"Verity, get us the brandy."

"I'm coming." She glanced at the visitor as she went to the sideboard, a cold, challenging glance, like a caged tiger might give a hunter. He was tall, and obviously wealthy, with his pale grey waistcoat and impeccably black cravat. The casual way he leaned against the fireplace suggested he owned it, and the shabby room it was in, and the people in it too. He met her glance out of amused grey eyes, and nodded slightly.

"Your kitchen maid is uncommonly beautiful, Mr Baker," the visitor observed quietly and improperly, as Verity poured them thimbles of watered down brandy.

"I suppose so," said Thomas Baker idly, giving Verity a glance that as usual didn't seem to see her. He was far more interested in the glass of brandy. No sooner than Verity had placed it in front of him, he gulped it down. Then, he realized his visitor's actual words. "Though it is my daughter you mean."

The gentleman gave Verity another, longer, look, a strange, unpleasant smile rising on his face.

"Then why do you dress her in rags?"

Verity felt the heat of shame rise to her cheeks, and turned away to plug the decanter.

"As I said, Sir, my circumstances are not what they used to be."

"You have come down in the world? I've only recently arrived in Houglen. I'm not yet aware of the stories of all its inhabitants."

"Mine is a sad story to tell," Mr Baker said, with a forced sigh, obviously seeing the chance to plea out of his debt to the visitor. Verity rolled her eyes at his back and went back to the kitchen to prepare a rabbit and mushroom pie for lunch. The rabbits had been poached from the Hough Woods, and the mushrooms found there too. It was one of those months where her father could not seem to keep enough money about even to buy himself soap and bread.

Through the open door, she heard her father tell the story she knew so well, suitably embellished for the illustrious guest's ears.

Thomas Baker had been a ne're-do-well from birth. A Londoner born and bred, he had made money in his early years through odd jobs and trickery. By twenty, he earned his bread through trickery alone. His main game was cards, and the way he talked about it you would think he was a benevolent trickster, not a common cardsharp.

At twenty-two, he happened by chance to cross paths with young Anne Duvalle, a debutante in London to find a husband. It was love at first sight, and, without the permission of her cantankerous parents, they eloped. The next few years were a period of domestic bliss and economic hardship. Baker was trying to go it straight, which is always hard for a man born crooked. Then Verity was born, and the Duvalles forgave their errant daughter long enough to set her and her husband up near them, in a little cottage in the country, on a small annuity.

"We could have lived like that, quiet, and poor, and happy," Mr Baker said nobly, while Verity gritted her teeth kneading the dough in the kitchen. "For a short while, we did."

"And then?"

"My wife... passed away." Verity slammed the dough against the board, and hissed a word no lady ought to know. "Her parents of course would not continue to support me, but I had supposed they would help their grand daughter... unfortunately, they snubbed her. And I. We continue to live here, but times are no longer so generous. I do what I can to keep her happy, but..."

Mr Baker sighed. Verity stood heaving over her dough, the texture completely ruined by her brutal treatment of it.

"A very sad tale indeed." Did she imagine that the visitor's tone was slightly ironic? "And to support yourself and your daughter, you have returned to your old habits?"

"It's the only thing I know how to do."

"Then, I suppose, you must do it well enough to pay me back by the end of the month." The irony in the visitor's tone was clear now. Verity flushed with shame. How dare her father tell her past to some stranger, and how dare that stranger be so callous about it?

"I - I am sure I cannot, Good Sir. I beg of you, another chance to win back what I lost."

"Men like you only waste their chances." The visitor's tone was suddenly very cold.

"I'll do anything, Sir, but I cannot pay."

"Anything?"

Verity slunk behind the door, listening very closely, her heart pounding hard. Her father was always, always, making things worse.

"Anything."

The visitor laughed. "Would you send your beloved daughter to me for the night?"

"Yes."

"No!"

Verity burst out of the kitchen, her hands covered in flour, her cheeks red with anger.

Her father and the visitor looked at her in surprise. The visitor narrowed his eyes, and looked very severe, with his dark, long brows pulled together in a frown. He looked almost, to Verity, like the devil.

"Father, you cannot!" Verity gave a strange, all body shudder. "I will not!"

"Come, child," the visitor mocked. "It's only one night. Don't you want to sacrifice as much for your father as he has sacrificed for you?"

Again, the irony in his tone. Verity met his eyes, unable to look away, unaware how contorted with disgust her own face looked at that moment.

"Verity." Her father was pleading with her. "I don't have any money."

And whose fault is that, she thought savagely.

"Just pass one night with me, Child, from dusk to dawn, and your father's debt is forgiven. It does sound rather easy."

Again, the mocking, ironic tone. Verity threw her gaze to the floor, to avoid looking at his smiling face. The floorboards were splintered, and stained with splashes of spilled whisky. "If that is all I have to do, I accept," she said quietly. "I will pass one night with you."

She looked up just in time to see the expression on her father's guest's face turn from amusement to surprise, and then to impassive superiority.

"Very well." The irony was gone from his tone now.

"Where do you live? I shall be at your door at dusk."

"Waverly Manor, in Greater Hough."

Verity felt her stomach drop, and went pale. "Then you are Mr Armiger, who has recently taken residence there?"

"Yes. I am."

She had heard the eager village gossip about Mr Armiger, who had just that summer bought, and moved into, the long abandoned Waverly Manor over in Greater Hough, the father-town of Verity's little village. He was young, and handsome, and rich, and unmarried, and men like that always attract gossip, especially from single young country-women. How upset they will be when they discover his character, Verity thought snidely.

"Since my father has failed to introduce us, my name is Verity Baker. I have lived here all my life." She curtsied, while meeting his eyes with a challenging glare. "I will be at your door at dusk, Sir."

* * *

Neil Armiger did not expect her to come, but at five o clock, as the autumn sun was beginning to set, the bell rang angrily throughout his manor. It continued to ring, even as he went to the door. The butler was running, a polishing rag in his hand, but Neil waved him back.

"I'll get this."

The bell continued to ring, making his head ache. Stubborn, arrogant girl, he thought contemptuously. And then he opened the door.

She stood on the step, still attired in the ragged brown dress, her finger still upon the bell cord. Her curls had fallen out of their severe style, and she had clearly taken no steps to improve her appearance since he had seen her last. She looked more suitable to ringing at the servants' entrance, and he caught a faint exclamation of shock from the butler behind him, but if she knew how poorly she looked, she showed no shame in it. There was only pride in her posture.

"It is dusk," said Verity, as the sun met the horizon behind her. Suddenly, with the golden sunlight behind her, a halo of gold appeared around her dark curls, bringing out the copper tones in what he had thought was black hair, and casting her in the light of an angel.

Neil stepped back. "Come in," he said faintly.

She stepped in, and with an insolent curiosity, cast her gaze around the hall. The floor was bedecked in marble, and the panels had been freshly polished, but white cloth hung over the stairs, as yet uncarpeted, and pictures rested on the floor against the walls, waiting to be hung.

"You are renovating."

"It needed it." He shut the front door. For a moment, he stared at her, and she stared at him. With the sunset halo gone, she was once more an ordinarily beautiful woman, and Neil regained his composure. "So do you. There is a woman in a bedroom above. She will dress you."

"I am dressed." Verity looked pointedly down at her dress, still stained with flour.

"No you're not. Not what any civilized person would call dressed."

She tossed her head, and scowled. "Very well. Where is your woman?"

"Upstairs, down the left. First room. I shall be in the library. Come down when you are done, and don't trip on the stairs."

Verity started up the stairs, but half-way she turned. "Are your servants here? Or have you sent them off? The house is very quiet."

"They are here. They leave at ten every night. Their quarters are not yet ready for them."

She seemed to consider it carefully. Perhaps she was reconsidering whatever rash impulse had caused her to take up his strange offer. Neil opened his mouth to explain that it had just been a poor joke, that he never meant for her father to take up on the offer, he had only meant to mock Mr Baker's air of holy martyrdom, but before he could Miss Baker said, quietly and coldly, "Very well," and turned and went up the stairs. He watched her, wondering just how ugly a soul her father must have, to accept such a proposition, and just how resigned to it she must be, to have come, on her own, without a fight, and not show any qualms.

Or perhaps, he thought coldly, she was not the angel she appeared, and this was not the first time she had cleaned up her father's mess.

-----

Author Note: This is a very loose historical fiction. It's set in Regency England but it's more about the flavour of history than it is the reality of history. Don't expect all the details to be correct. They won't be. This is just for fun, for me, not a serious project.

Also, I wrote very long chapters and split them into pieces for easy reading on Wattpad. If any of the breaks seem to come at strange points, it's probably actually the middle of the chapter.

For now, I've put up the first full chapter in two pieces. I'll be updating it in pieces though, probably one each week. Please let me know what you think! Every read is appreciated!