The danger in the room shifted to something deeper. He grinned, a wolfish flash that raised her flesh in goosebumps, her insult sailing over his head. Though he still had a ways to go, the gaunt, haunted look about him was lessening, his coloring had lost its chalkiness. And nothing, absolutely nothing looked unhealthy about the erection practically pointing at her.
“You’re referring to me as a… child?”
Among other things. “If you are so desperate for air, we leave at one o’clock,” she said, making her escape, unable to shut out the laughter following her trek back down the stairs.
Despite his midnight excursion, for the first time in months, Harlowe felt robust. A promising night’s rest and his head didn’t ache. He hadn’t suffered any nightmares or chills or cravings. Add the unexpected visit from one Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, and a strange sort of exhilaration filled him.
Even the suggestion of an invasion of children didn’t deter such elation. In fact, he might just take her up on her invitation, if only to watch that color bloom in her cheeks that clashed horrendously with her ginger-colored hair. He tugged on his trousers, chuckling softly at the thought.
Rory strolled in, holding a tray of breakfast meats, strong coffee, and fresh bread. “Thought you might be ’ungry, milord.”
“I am a bit. Grab my dark green waistcoat, will you. I wish to speak with Kimpton before he is off for the day.” Rory set the tray aside and took up his coat. Harlowe shrugged into it. “I’ll hurry back.”
Harlowe reached the base of the stairs, stunned and inundated by the cloying scent of sweet apples. And no wonder, as a dire suspicion stole over him. He paused before the largest of three massive vases. He hesitated half a second, then poked about for a card. Deep within the forage, he located an impressive piece of vellum.
Lady Alymer,
Thank you for a lovely afternoon.
Yrs most sincerely, Oxford.
For an instant, Harlowe saw red to the pink and white apple blossoms filling the hall. He blinked several times to clear his vision. In an instant, the craving clawed at him—a stark harsh hunger—to sink within the depths of a draught of laudanum. Just a sip—no. This was the thinking that led to insanity. He squeezed his hand into a fist and breathed deep through his nose. He didn’t know how long he stood there—
“Harlowe, you looking for me?”
Kimpton’s voice startled him to the empty hall, the vases of flowers. “Yes. If you have a moment.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration dotting his forehead and upper lip. He shoved the linen in his pocket before following Kimpton into his study.
Kimpton moved behind his desk and looked up. “I see you survived your late night ordeal.”
Harlowe cleared his throat. “I, uh, have some questions. Spoke to Welton last night. It jarred something in the chaos of my feeble brain,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “Rowena Hollerfield.”
Kimpton groaned. “God, not her. That woman has been the bane of my existence.”
Not the reaction he’d been expecting. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
Kimpton hesitated, seeming to gauge Harlowe with some inner struggle. “Dead. Maudsley murdered her.”
Harlowe dropped into one of the Hepplewhites’ across from the desk. “You’d best start at the beginning. Just pretend I remember nothing.” Which wasn’t far from the truth.
“Rowena was a highly skilled, socially adept courtesan.” Kimpton glanced at the open door.
Harlowe took the hint, rising to close it. “That much I remember.”
“She was, in fact, my mistress before Lorelei and I married.”
Harlowe’s lips tightened, but he remained silent. He’d forgotten that as well. Part of the reason he’d hated Kimpton. The relationship had been common knowledge. Harlowe and his school mates at Eaton had talked of, made wagers on, created stratagems of stealing Rowena Hollerfield from Harlowe’s future brother-in-law.
“Don’t worry yourself, Harlowe.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “My association ended with Rowena Hollerfield the moment I met your sister. However, Rowena stopped me on the street one afternoon a little over a year ago. Said she was carrying my child.” This was said with a shot of disgust. “It wasn’t mine, of course. You can imagine my surprise when said child turned out to belong to you.”
Harlowe let out a long shaking breath as a flash of the girl in the picture he’d painted appeared in his head. Corinne. Young, clinging, pregnant. Anger. He’d been angry. And trapped. Somehow, he’d been trapped, though he failed to remember how or why.
“Rowena had plans on blackmailing me.”
That startled him. “Blackmail?”
“Yes. Of course, once I realized you were the father, I was obligated to assist her in any way possible. I sent her and Corinne to the hunter’s cottage at Kimpton. Your sister would have killed me had I not.”
“Mauds—”
“That’s where things gets complicated. Maudsley came looking for his wife, Ginny, whom he’d almost killed. Accused me of hiding her. Of course, everyone knows it’s illegal to keep a man’s wife from her husband, not to mention I was insanely in love with my own wife.” Kimpton spoke with a small smile. His smile disappeared and he grew serious, shaking his head. “He found Rowena and slammed her up against the wall, near as we could tell. No one saw him. It was a vicious attack. She wasn’t quite dead when Lorelei found her.”
Harlowe felt sick. “Lorelei found her?”
Kimpton’s lips compressed, and he gave a sharp nod.
On a hard swallow, Harlowe said, “I see.” But he didn’t see. “Did you ever learn why?”
“Temper, most likely. Maudsley had a horrendous temper. You might remember? He had three children.”
Harlowe nodded slowly, remembering what Maeve had told him about Corinne being Maudsley’s first child with Lady Hannah. “Yes, Corinne, Irene, and Celia.”
“We suspect he killed Hannah when he learned Corinne was not a boy.”
“Jesus.”
“So the man had had no heir. The closest conclusion Brock and I were able to ascertain was that when Maudsley learned Corinne hadn’t perished with her mother, he somehow discovered Rowena had run away with her as a newborn and raised her. We have no idea how he found out about Corinne. Hell, he was in the hunter’s cottage when Corinne was in labor. For all I know he could have learned the truth that night. As I said, no one saw him attack Rowena.
“In any event, Lorelei found Rowena in the drawing room. When Maudsley learned Corinne had borne a male child, it was clear he was determined to take the child.” The air around Kimpton grew dangerous. “He kidnapped Lorelei, Nathan, and Irene. We think he planned on petitioning Parliament in allowing him to make Nathaniel his heir.”
Harlowe shoved a hand through his hair. “Is that even possible?”
“It’s rare, but I believe it’s happened.”
None of this explained how Harlowe and Corinne had ended up married. Trapped. The word haunted him. He needed a look at Rowena Hollerfield’s lodgings. “I wonder if I can locate Rowena’s staff.” Perhaps he’d find his answers there.
Kimpton’s eyes narrowed on him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m not sure. Why would I have been associating with your ex-mistress? I can’t help but think I must have been there for reasons other than the obvious.”
Kimpton drummed his fingers atop the mahogany. “I’ll do some checking, but Harlowe—” he speared him with a hard glint— “if you disappear again, I’ll kill you myself. Lorelei was beside herself for over a year. I won’t have her upset like that again.”
Harlowe studied the man he’d hated as a child. Seeing Kimpton from an adult standpoint now was enlightening. This was a man who truly loved and cared for his sister. The insight put any remaining childhood fears to rest. He could trust Kimpton. “Understood.”
Maeve was a bluestocking through and through. Shopping w
as not her forte. Lorelei and Ginny took advantage of the morning, refusing to let Maeve bow out of going to Bond Street when there was a good three hours before their promise to the children regarding their jaunt to the park.
All was not lost, however. Under Lorelei’s and Ginny’s urging, Maeve picked out her own gowns. Having control over the cut and depth of the bodices had her shaking her head. Her choices were a far cry from her mother’s, where the slightest turn on the dance floor could lead to scandal and instant nuptials.
Lady Ingleby’s master plan, no doubt, depending on her dance partner at the given moment.
For the first time Maeve could remember, her life was coming together. She had funds, say over her own wardrobe, and soon, her own dwellings. She had the oddest whim to throw her arms in the air and spin about like a child.
She contained the impulse and glided into Kimpton House after Lorelei, draping her pelisse over her arm.
“Are the children ready, Oswald?” Lorelei asked him.
“Yes.” Kimpton stepped out of the parlor, followed by three children—two girls and a boy—followed by Brock and Harlowe.
Maeve’s gaze went straight to Harlowe. He was younger than Brock and Kimpton by a good ten years, but the man could hold his own, Maeve thought. The past year had aged him beyond his age of five and twenty. The breadth of his shoulders couldn’t be denied. His color, as she’d noted earlier, was healthier. His hazel eyes gleamed. If he could parade about London in the night hours with no ill-effects, a day at the park could only help, she decided, magnanimously.
“We are ready, Lady Kimpton,” Irene said. “Most especially Nathan.” She had him by the hand. His thumb was in his mouth.
“Are all of you accompanying us?” Ginny asked. She looked as stunned as Maeve felt.
Brock sauntered over and kissed her. “Of course, my dear. We couldn’t very well expect Harlowe to go it alo—”
“Expect Harlowe,” Lorelei echoed. “You mean”—she shot her brother a glare—“you feel you are being forced to spend time with your child?”
Maeve froze, and from the corner of her eye, she caught the hurt in Harlowe’s expression.
Harlowe stepped over and hugged Lorelei. He was quick, Maeve gave him that. “Of course not,” he told her. He winced. “I just don’t know him. I can’t remember—” His eyes shot to the company: Irene, Cecilia, Ginny, finally stopping on Maeve. “I don’t have much experience with children. Any more than you’ve had, my dear.”
Lorelei’s demeanor softened immediately. “Of course, darling. I should have realized.”
Irene went to his side, patting him on the arm. “Don’t worry, Lord Harlowe. Lady Kimpton didn’t know children either at first.”
A stalled hush fell over the foyer, leaving Maeve with more questions than answers.
Lorelei dabbed at her eyes. “Irene is right. Come, let’s go. I do believe Lady Alymer has a driving appointment with Dorset upon our return.”
All eyes turned and focused on her. The heat in her face seemed to cheer Harlowe immensely.
Her own quickly shifted to a scowl.
The troupe walked the short distance to Grosvenor Square, Celia skipping ahead, while Irene clung firmly to a determined Nathan, forcing her to move faster than she likely considered proper for a young lady of nine.
Maeve took pity on the girl and took his hand, freeing Irene.
Brock swooped Irene off her feet, swinging her around. Her childlike squeal that filled the air was both engaging and reassuring. In most instances, the girl was definitely not a child.
Kimpton sauntered up beside Maeve. “I have a list of suitable places for you to consider. Most are nearby.”
“Truly?”
He didn’t bother responding to that.
Nathan tugged on her hand. She stopped, leaned over and looked at him. “What?”
He held out his chubby arms, and her heart squeezed.
She bent down to pick him up, but Harlowe grabbed him first. “He’s too heavy for you,” he groused.
Maeve straightened, staring at him, then blinked.
“What? I’m not about to collapse, holding a… a child.”
Kimpton cleared his throat. “Lady Alymer, the list?”
Shaking her head, she turned back to Kimpton and the strip of paper he held out.
“Oh. Yes. Thank you.” Maeve perused the list, automatically striking off the one closest to Ingleby House. Her most fervent desire was not to be in view of anyone, least of all Ingleby House. “What of this one? Hanover Square. It sounds ideal.”
He frowned. “Are you certain? I hesitated to add it, thinking it too far away.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “I shall decide if something is too far away or not, my lord. Thank you for your trouble. Might I keep the list?”
Kimpton inclined his head. “Of course, Lady Alymer. When you are ready to view the properties, I’m more than happy to accompany you.”
“Me too,” Harlowe said, stunning her into a small stumble.
Harlowe righted her with a quick hand. “Excellent. That’s settled then.”
Thirteen
U
pon Maeve’s return, Parson was determined to take her time with Maeve’s attire, her hair, pinning her hat in place. It was an adorable confection of sky blue with a light netting that covered the top half of her face, but Parson’s fussing was too much. “Is this necessary?”
“It needs to be perfect. He’s a marquis.”
“What an ambassador you are for Lady Ingleby,” Maeve told her.
Parson didn’t respond, but the aspersion hung low over the room.
A flutter of nerves took flight in her abdomen. So ridiculous. She was a widow, not a debutante, as she was fond of reminding everyone, from her mother to her maid to Oxford.
Maeve paused at the top of the stairs. Maybe she wasn’t too late, and Dorset hadn’t yet arrived. Parson followed her to the parlor where a lively discussion was ensuing. “What’s this?” Maeve said.
“Might I get you a sherry?” Kimpton asked her.
“That sounds lovely.”
Kimpton filled a glass, handed it off to her, then sat in the chair next to her. “I made the mistake of suggesting a country stay amid the height of the season.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I’m not going, Lorelei.” Harlowe put a glass of whatever he was drinking to his lips, paused when his eyes met Maeve’s. “On the other hand, perhaps I could use fresher air than that of a soot-coal London. What say you, Lady Alymer? We can get started on those memoirs we spoke of.”
It wasn’t just Parson’s sharp intake behind Maeve that sent the fire crawling up her neck, it was the piercing, questioning, amusing, challenging four pairs of other eyes fused to her person.
“Surely, you don’t mean to depart before my drive with Dorset?” she said lightly. There was some satisfaction in the scowl replacing the challenge in Brandon’s expression.
“The Marquis of Dorset,” Oswald announced.
Dorset strolled in, and Maeve realized a moment of panic when every adult, Kimpton, Lorelei, Harlowe, and Parson, shifted their judgmental scrutiny from her to him.
“You seemed in an awful hurry to get away, Lady Alymer. Might I hope you vied for my company so greatly?”
Maeve didn’t find Dorset’s comment in the least amusing—well, maybe she did a little. “If you like,” she said primly, wondering when she’d reverted to a blushing schoolgirl. An awkward silence prevailed until their carriage reached the crowded lanes of Rotten Row. “Everyone and their mother appear to have crawled out of the woodwork,” she muttered.
“Not yours.”
“For which you should be grateful,” she retorted. She leveled him with a smug grin of her own. “You can be sure she’ll hear of this little outing. She’s probably dancing about Ingleby House, counting down the days until she can place an announcement in the Gazette.”
“Would
that be so horrible?” he asked softly. His eyes remained on the path before him.
Stunned. She was stunned. She was horrible at small talk. Her heart pounded, and that panic mushroomed in her chest. Her gaze shot around the park, stopping on Welton and Shufflebottom in the distance. From their horses, they spoke to a woman dressed in the first stare of fashion. It was all the distraction Maeve needed. From this stretch, Maeve couldn’t make out much about the woman. She rode her own mount, then tossed her head and trotted away.
Welton and Shufflebottom exchanged words, then looked over and caught her staring.
Maeve quickly shifted her gaze. “The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?”
Dorset groaned. “Don’t tell me you are one of those most proper chits who speak only of approved topics. I’m disappointed.”
Maeve couldn’t help it, she laughed. “All right, my lord. Who was that woman speaking to Welton and Shufflebottom? She reminds me of someone, but I can’t place whom. I must learn who her modiste is.”
“Woman?” he choked out.
She patted him on the arm. “No worries, my lord. Welton and Shufflebottom have spotted us and are on their way over. I’ll just inquire of them.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” he said in low voice. “Her name is Madame Chancé. She holds a salon dedicated to… artists.”
“Hm. Artists.”
“And poets.”
“Poets?”
“Lady Alymer, I warn you, if your mother learns you are asking after Madame Chancé, she’ll have that announcement for the Gazette you were threatening me with.”
Maeve’s lips tightened at his comment, but there wasn’t time to reply.
Shufflebottom tipped his head. “Lady Alymer. Lord Dorset. How pleasant to see you out and about.” The man was all ruffles and frilly lace. It was an astonishing sight.
The Viscount's Vendetta Page 9
