Lady Duvalle, who always pretended to be above gossip, generally arrived late to it, and it wasn't until a week later that she learned her unpleasant grand-daughter had spent the night in a man's bed to pay for her unpleasant father's debts. When she heard of it, her thin upper lip curled, and she thought again how lucky it was that she refused to have anything to do with the girl or her father. It was a pity, but every family had its rotten apples, and sometimes you had to trim the branches that bore them.

It was not until several days later that she learned the man in question was in fact Mr Neil Armiger, and when she heard of that, her ears pricked up and she began to reconsider matters with a more forgiving attitude. The Duvalle fortune was great, but could stand to be greater still, and rumour had it that Mr Armiger was a very rich man. The Waverly estate was one of the largest in the valley, and his butler had boasted to Lady Duvalle's butler that the some of the letters Mr Armiger recieved were addressed to The Hon Neil Armiger. And since her grand-daughter was by blood a lady, it did not do for such a man to abuse her and then discard her.

So Lady Duvalle invited Mr Armiger to tea the next day.

When he came, she was pleasantly impressed by the fineness of his carriage, and the elegance of his dress. He was also very handsome, though rather younger than she had thought, and she regarded his grey hair with suspicion. It might speak of poor humours.

She poured the tea, and sent the maid away.

"This is not just a social engagement, Mr Armiger." She smiled coldly, as she handed him his cup. "I am both curious about the newcomer to our neighbourhood, and... upset by certain rumours that have come my way."

"Then I suppose you would like to get to know me." Mr Armiger crossed his legs and sipped tea calmly, but the tone of his voice made Lady Diane Duvalle suspect that he did not like to know her.

"It would be nice. I have heard you have been on the continent."

"It is the first time I have been in England in eight years."

"And what caused you to leave it so long?" the lady inquired, breaking a biscuit into her tea.

"I always found the company wanting."

There was no doubt, now, of the quiet animosity in his tone. Diane wondered irritably what had prejudiced him against her. No doubt some paltry village gossip. She had thought a peer's son would be above such nonsense, but the village people always were vicious about her.

"It can be." She ignored the slight. "But, oh, Mr Armiger, I have been given to understand that you found good company in my grand-daughter. And it's such a shame, you see, but now I fear, the village, they are such backward folk here, and they do not like when a young lady lets herself be taken advantage of by a man."

Mr Armiger raised one black eyebrow. "Then you are Miss Baker's illustrious grandmother. I thought the story too farfetched to be true. What kind of woman would allow her grandchild to be brought up by a drunken weakling like Mr Baker? I can see, now, what kind of woman."

The words stung Diane Duvalle to the quick. More so, because Mr Armiger was smiling a placid, bland smile, that like his words, said nothing, and like his words, felt like poison.

"It was difficult, to care for the child." Diane put down her tea. "Mr Armiger, please, let me be honest with you, despite her father, I had always hoped that dear Verity would marry someone of a respectable station. And now, I find the village is burning with the gossip of my granddaughter spending the night in your manor, no, Sir, in your bed. She is disgraced. She is ruined."

Armiger put down his tea, and shrugged. "If I may be honest with you, my lady, I suspect the girl was ruined years ago."

"How dare you!" Diane faked an indignation she did not feel. "My granddaughter was a pure woman until she met you."

"Well there are all kinds of women, and as to the purity of your grand-daughter..." Armiger smiled a strange smile, as though he was remembering something pleasant. "As far as I can tell, she is as pure as the driven snow. Utterly devoid of charm, rude, poorly socialized, poorly educated, and catastrophically beautiful. A tragedy of character."

"Then you do not deny that she spent the night with you?" said Diane cunningly.

"I do and I do not. I dispute the definition of spend."

"You call her pure, and beautiful."

"And charmless and rude and unfortunate."

"I think, Sir, that you have no choice, but to marry the unfortunate beauty."

"And I think, my lady, that you are wrong." Armiger nodded smilingly, chilly, and cold.

"The village will never forgive her for that night. She is tainted now. She might as well be a scarlet woman."

"She is not in need of forgiveness."

"No suitor shall ever believe that. Nor, for that matter, do I. There is nothing innocent that a girl can be up to, alone with a man for a night. I am an old woman. I know these things."

Armiger stood up, and stretched out his long legs. "My lady, I can see now that this tea party was everything I expected it to be. I can tell you categorically that I will not be blackmailed into marrying your granddaughter. And furthermore, I doubt, if you deigned to ask her opinion on the matter, that she would marry me. She is a woman of her own ideas. She is not so easily ruined."

"If you think that, Mr Armiger, you have been out of England far too long. But I can see we have nothing further to discuss. Good day."

The dismissal was absolute, Armiger did not attempt to linger. Diane watched him stalk to his carriage on his long legs, sighing to herself. At least, if her granddaughter was not to bag that catch, then she could go on pretending the brat did not exist. The gossip would die down eventually, and then she could again forget about Verity all together. Besides, Diane thought, rich, handsome and ennobled he might be, but she was not sure even all that could entirely make up for Mr Armiger's vast defects of character. Perhaps it was better not to let him into the family.

* * *

On weekday afternoons, Verity acted as companion to young Miss Abernathy at the vicarage. Miss Abernathy was several years younger, and in need of what the vicar considered genteel companionship. Verity might not have a genteel father, but the vicar had found that her mother's blood showed through. Besides, with what pittance he paid the girl, he could be sure that she at least had money to make sure she ate, and perhaps enough to squirrel away too, for whatever necessities her father did not grant her. And Miss Abernathy seemed to admire Miss Baker, despite her patched clothes, and Miss Baker seemed to be a calming influence on Miss Abernathy, who was prone to tantrums and hysterics. To both the vicar and Verity, it was a convenient arrangement.

But this Wednesday, when Verity called at the vicarage in her best blue dress, which might just pass as a parlour maid's weekly, she found the vicar met her red-faced at the front door, and that Miss Abernathy was nowhere to be seen.

"Is something wrong with Clare?" Verity inquired, in concern, upon seeing the vicar's pained expression.

"Clare is well. She is in her room. It is you I must speak to, Miss Baker."

The vicar was quiet, and now Verity could see his expression was as guilty as it was sad.

"I see," she said quietly, knowing what was coming next. "You do not want me to speak with her today. You are worried I am a bad influence. I did not know vicars paid so much attention to gossip."

"It is my job to pay attention to gossip," the vicar protested quietly. "Oh, Miss Baker, I am so sorry, but..."

"I conduct myself according to the gospel, Mr Abernathy. I am not an unprincipled woman. Can you not trust me in this?"

"I do trust you," the vicar lied, obviously and miserably, "but I can't be seen having my daughter being chaperoned by a ... by a woman who spends her nights as you do."

"And how do I spend my nights?"

Mr Abernathy blushed a deeper shade of red, unbecoming on his plump face. "In men's bedrooms," he blurted.

"I do not."

"But people think you do!"

"They think wrong."

The vicar collapsed against the door frame with a groan. "Dear Miss Baker, I am so very sorry, but please, you can no longer spend time with my daughter."

Verity stood still, outwardly calm and quiet, inwardly wondering desperately how she would pay for the bills waiting, without at least this small money to help her. Her father's gambling, certainly, could not be relied upon. He had not admitted so much to her, since he had practically sold her to Lord Armiger, but she suspected he was once more in debt to other gamblers.

"Very well, Mr Abernathy. I must thank you for all the time you have given me over the years, and the support you have shown me. I greatly enjoyed being Clare's companion." Verity turned and left the vicarage, without another word. At the gate she looked back. A figure was looking out an upper window, and it waved sadly. Verity waved back, and then turned to hide her tears.

As she walked home, she was filled, again, with anger at her father, and Mr Armiger, and her distant grandmother, and the villagers, and the vicar, and as always herself. She was so stupid, and small, and powerless. A better woman would not allow herself to be treated so. A stronger woman would make her father pay his own debts.

But if she was good, she was not good enough, and she certainly was not strong.

By the time she reached her own house again, tears were streaming down her face, and she did not even see the man coming out of her gate, until she ran straight into him.

"Hup there," he said crudely, picking her up off the ground. "Miss Verity, I trust?"

She wiped the tears out of her eyes and backed away. She did not recognize this man, with his curly flop of blonde curls and cunning, wide smile, but she knew that this too would be another of her father's creditors.

"I apologize, Sir, I was not looking," she said meekly, bowing her head.

"But it is Miss Verity, yes?" The man did not seem to even notice her apology.

"I am Miss Verity Baker. If you will please let me pass. I must go home."

She pushed past him, but he grabbed her elbow. "Miss Verity, I've been feeling a little lonely, and I wonder if you might consider taking a walk with me."

"No!" She jerked away from him. "I will not walk with you!"

The stranger backed away from her, and put up his hands in self defense. "Well that's not the story I heard, see. I heard quite a different story, about you being friendly with lonely old gentlemen."

Verity ran into her little cottage, and threw herself on her bed, and cried out all her tears into the pillow. If her father in the dining room heard it, he either did not care, or did not dare ask.