The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Maeve’s sky-blue walking dress was practically dowdy by comparison though she did have the hat. Nothing compared to the hat.

  “How is Harlowe faring, Lady Alymer? Welton here mentioned you were looking after him,” Shufflebottom said.

  Maeve’s insides dipped. Surely they couldn’t tell just from looking at her how Harlowe—they couldn’t possibly. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lord Shufflebottom. I’m staying with the Kimptons. That is a far cry from taking care of Lord Harlowe. You make it sound as if something nefarious is going on.” She inhaled slowly and took up a mundane air. “In any event, he is doing well. I’ll be assisting him with his memoirs. And he’s to help me with my late husband’s text—” She stopped, her eyes cutting to Dorset, realizing what she’d just revealed, embarrassed beyond words. “I’ve had several offers of help,” she finished lamely.

  Dorset’s jaw grew tight, his knuckles white from gripping the reins. She was at a loss, scrambling for something to offset the sudden strained silence. “Harlowe may start painting again.”

  “Is it true he’s lost his memory?” Shufflebottom asked.

  “No,” she said quickly, refusing to give fuel to the rumormongers. He was recovering bits of his memory, and that was good enough for her. She wrapped her inner Lady Ingleby around her, lifting her chin. “It was good to see you,” she said to Welton and Shufflebottom. She turned an all-teeth smile on her companion. “Shall we, Lord Dorset?”

  Shufflebottom and Welton moved on.

  Dorset flicked the reins and they slogged through the heavy traffic. “Is Harlowe having trouble with his memory?”

  “Lord Dorset, are we going to spend our time speaking of Lord Harlowe? Hasn’t he suffered enough, considering the ordeal he’s been through in the past year?”

  “Of course. I shouldn’t have pried. But I can’t help noticing how awfully sympathetic to his cause you sound.”

  “I suppose I understand a little of what he is experiencing,” she said softly. “Alymer suffered considerably before his death. I see a few similarities.” It was the best explanation she could come up with without revealing anything of a more personal nature. So many things hit her at once: a stubborn resolve at being pigeon-holed as a prim and proper miss, despite having been married for three years; a need to leash a temper at Shufflebottom’s sly implications; and a fear of unfamiliar emotions swirling within her at the very mention or thought of Harlowe.

  “Will you be attending the Martindales’ event tonight?”

  “No. I don’t believe I will.”

  “You know, if you stay on this vigil of boycotting events, your mother will be hunting you down.”

  “Yes, well, she has all the enlightenment she can handle from my maid.”

  “I shall be there if you should change your mind,” he said.

  Fourteen

  Harlowe lay stretched out on the bed, listening intently for any sound from the chamber next door. He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, should have been back by now. Suddenly, the door slammed in her chamber. “What! How dare she.” It appeared Lady Alymer was furious, giving testament to that ginger hair of hers.

  The other voice was muted, and he couldn’t make out the words.

  “This is the last straw,” Maeve bit out. “The absolute last straw.” The volume of the words faded in and out, as if she were pacing to the wall and back. “That’s it, Parson. I will not be party to her machinations.”

  Again with the muted sound from her lady’s maid.

  “Then I suggest you go stay with her. I mean it, Parson. I’ve been patient, but—”

  Muted.

  An urge to grin trickled through him. He linked his fingers together behind his head and did his utmost to make out the words. In his mind, he pictured her irritation with her hands splayed on her hips. She didn’t strike him as a normally angry person. In fact, she seemed to keep her emotions well in check, overly so, if one considered her hair. Good God, he was obsessed with her hair. He closed his eyes, and his fingers tingled with the thought of pushing his hands through her hair, pins flying, locks free.

  “No, I don’t want tea. No. I’ll not wear the lime-green gown. It barely covers my nipples.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. Harlowe groaned.

  The door opened and shut again, softly this time.

  Harlowe’s heart sped up when a knock tapped at his door, and the beat inside him tripled.

  The door cracked open. “My lord?” He didn’t think he would ever tire of hearing the music that was her voice. It defied reasonable logic. It spoke of luxury. Of sensuality. Of… lust.

  There was no hiding his body’s reaction to Lady Alymer’s voice. He swallowed a groan. “Is there something you required… Maeve?” His own voice sounded as if it had been ground through rocks.

  She slipped through the door but left it ajar. “I only wished to check on you, my lord.” She smiled a grim smile. “My mother is demanding that I show at the Martindales’ tonight.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or she will make things difficult for Lady Kimpton,” she said on a huff of frustration.

  Harlowe rose to sitting and poured himself some water. “How on earth can she make things difficult for Lorelei?”

  “Does it matter? She’s been a wonderful friend to me.” Maeve moved farther into the room. Something slammed in the room next door. She flinched, then her eyes narrowed on him. “Are you able to hear everything that goes on in my chamber?”

  “Not everything,” he said, unrepentant, completely fascinated by the changing color in her face that clashed with her hair. Was it his fault the walls were paper thin? “Is it wise for you to be here, my lady?”

  “No.” The huskiness of her tone set his skin afire.

  He dare not move, lest he snag her by the wrist and pull her to the bed. The certainty of what would follow left him breathless.

  “I came in to check on you—” She stepped closer. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem flush. Where is Mr. Rory?”

  “I’m not a child,” he ground out through the lust surging his veins.

  “No. No, of course you are not.” She seemed at a loss as to what to do as she spun about in a slow circle.

  “You don’t wish to attend the Martindales’ rout?”

  Her cheeks stained red. Likely realizing exactly what he’d heard through the wall. “No.”

  Harlowe stood and moved over to her. He ran his hand down her arm and linked his fingers with hers. “What is it your mother is threatening Lore with?”

  “I’d rather not say,” she whispered.

  He cupped her head and pulled her stiff body into his chest. “All right.” Even with her height, she felt slight against him. Feminine. Sweet and prickly.

  After an interminably long few minutes, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. She cleared her throat. “You’ll be all right tonight?”

  “I think you know the answer to that,” he said.

  Yes. Yes, she did. The evidence poked her in the abdomen. Coming into his chamber had not been one of her wiser decisions. He smelled much too… delicious. The fire in her face blazed.

  Maeve couldn’t possibly tell him what her mother had conveyed through Parson. That if Maeve didn’t attend the Martindales’ rout, she would spread tales regarding Harlowe. How he’d been confined to an asylum near Colchester. The only way her mother could have learned of that fact was through Parson. Maeve felt a sense of helpless fury. It was emotional blackmail through and through. She’d wager her entire inheritance from Alymer that her mother had gotten wind of Maeve’s Rotten Row drive and was prepared to exploit it to the fullest.

  She wouldn’t hurt Lorelei to save her life. Nor Ginny, Lady Brockway. Maeve hadn’t grown up with many friends, giving her insight to how valuable having friends was. And Lady Ingleby was not her friend. Was one’s mother ever truly one’s friend?

  “Lad
y Alymer? Maeve?”

  Maeve started. She blinked, and Harlowe came into focus. He really didn’t need her care. Not any longer. Seeing him as he was now compared to a week ago told the story she could no longer deny.

  “Don’t fret, my lady. Lorelei can certainly take care of herself. Nothing your mother could say can hurt my sister.”

  Maeve wasn’t so sure. Words hurt people. Many times words were a woman’s only weapon.

  There was something about Harlowe that sent her pragmatic nature scattering with a swift wind. Made her want to throw herself into his large and capable arms. That thought was so incongruous and foreign to Maeve’s nature, she was momentarily stunned to stone.

  She lifted her eyes to him. What she saw there confused her, and she backed away. What would it be like to lay her head on his shoulder, let him carry some of her fears, her worries, her frustrations? That more than anything frightened her. She hadn’t depended on anyone in years. Even with Alymer, Maeve had been younger, sharper, stronger.

  “I should go,” she said. “If I’m to make the Martindales’.” She didn’t wait for a response, instead darting out the door for the safety of her chamber.

  She fell back against the door, her eyes closed. God, how she’d wanted to… to kiss him.

  Parson appeared from the adjoining sitting room. Concern marred her brow. “What is it? Are you ill?”

  “No.” Maeve drew in a deep breath. “No,” she said again. “Call for a bath, please.” Anything to calm herself down, when all she wished to do was rush back in Harlowe’s chamber and throw herself into his arms. She’d probably knock him flat.

  Fifteen

  T

  he hour grew late, and Harlowe grew restless. Maeve had left hours ago for the Martindales’, and he couldn’t seem to do anything but pace. He was quite aware of Rory’s eyes following his every move. If he didn’t get out of this chamber, out of this house, he would go mad. “I need to take a look at Rowena Hollerfield’s home,” he said.

  “Huh.” Rory didn’t appear so surprised, which also drove him mad.

  Harlowe slammed out of the room and down the stairs to Kimpton’s study. Brock was there, and the two were sharing a brandy. “Is there enough for one more?”

  “You sure your nurse would approve?” Kimpton said.

  “She’s not here to stop me, is she?” Harlowe accepted the ribbing and a tumbler. “I heard Lady Ingleby storm the house this afternoon, and I barricaded myself in my chamber.”

  “Adept of you. I was forced to assist the woman up the stairs with all sorts of fripperies and such.”

  Harlowe smiled. “Had I known that, I would have stepped out and offered you my assistance.”

  “Yes. You’re helpful like that on occasion,” Kimpton shot back. “Lady Alymer was forced to ride with her mother to the Martindales’. Lorelei and Ginny took the Kimpton carriage.”

  “Perhaps you should attend,” Brock told him.

  He briefly entertained the idea. He wouldn’t mind taking a turn about the dance floor with Maeve. She was the perfect height for him; her body melded perfectly with his, as he’d so conveniently tested that afternoon. He shifted in his chair, shoving out thoughts that were poised to reveal his innermost desires in a most embarrassing manner, and skipped to another item on his building agenda. “Er, I was wondering if you learned whether or not the Hollerfield house was occupied?”

  “Ownership is still in her name. I haven’t heard that anyone else has taken over the property,” Kimpton told him. “Perhaps we could all take a look together.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Shall we say nine o’clock?” His pronouncement left no room for argument.

  Two hours later, dressed in his subpar finery due to loss of muscle, Harlowe mounted his horse and followed Rory, Kimpton, and Brock down Curzon Street in the direction of Cavendish Square off Bond Street. The path was as familiar as the back of his own hand. A thought that went far in reassuring Harlowe.

  They stabled their horses a half block away.

  Harlowe’s pulse beat erratically while his head suffered a surreal sense of déja vu. The walk to the front door hit him with a sharp pain in his chest.

  The knocker was missing from a, surprisingly, recently painted door.

  Brock stole around back, Kimpton pounded on the door, while Harlowe moved off to the side of the house and peered in the windows. The memories assaulted him, confiscating his breath.

  Rain pelted the panes, but the blazing fire in the hearth warded off any chill. Shy, quiet Corinne edged in quietly and lowered onto the settee. “I’ve ordered tea, Lord Harlowe. Rowena is, er, entertaining. She should join us presently.”

  Irritation rippled through him. Rowena knew this meeting was critical. She was jeopardizing everything. “Anyone I know?”

  Two spots of high color dotted her pale skin. She was young, innocent, and represented everything he’d lost—or was about to lose—

  “Harlowe, we’re in,” Kimpton’s harsh bark jarred Harlowe.

  He hurried to the front and stepped inside. Shockingly, no dust covered the floors, the banister, the tops of the wainscoting. The furniture in the front parlor was uncovered. It looked as if the lady of the house had left for an outing and, but for the missing knocker on the door, would return home any minute by the smell of fresh bread, wafting through the house. Fresh bread.

  Footsteps pounded the exquisite floors and a young woman appeared from the back of the house. “See here—” Her eyes stopped on Harlowe, her face went white. “Milord… Master Harlowe.” She gripped one of the spindles of the staircase to steady herself.

  She was Rowena’s maid. “Agnes? What’s going on here?”

  Tears filled her eyes as she gave a helpless shrug and looked everywhere but at him, at them. “There weren’t nowhere’s to go, milord. The housekeeper—”

  “Mrs. Willoby…”

  “Yessir, Mrs. Willoby, she left. ’Tis just Mary, Stephen, and me, taking care o’ things.”

  The silence mounted in the foyer while Harlowe took this in.

  “We ain’t done nothin’ but keep the house up, sir. We sleep below stairs.”

  Harlowe moved toward her and she flinched. He touched her shoulder. “Don’t fret, Agnes. We’re here to check things out. You go on back to the kitchens. I’ll speak to you before we leave.” He was shocked to find he remembered Rowena’s and Corinne’s quiet maid. She’d been fiercely loyal. Knowing Mary and Stephen remained to be seen.

  With a sharp nod, Agnes hurried out, her steps echoing away.

  “Is that wise, Harlowe?” Kimpton asked him.

  “If anything, it’s kept out vagrants, at least as far as I can tell.” He moved from the parlor and went up the stairs to a third level where he and Corinne had resided. It consisted of a large bedchamber with an attached dressing room and private sitting room. Images of the quiet, clinging Corinne floated through his memory. Soft words, preceded by unexceptional lovemaking. She’d been an innocent, intimidated by Rowena’s bold confidence. A pang went through him at remembering his inability to be what she’d needed. He rubbed a palm over his chest. He made an effort to shake off what he couldn’t change and concentrated on his surroundings.

  The dust here was thick. The bed looked as if it had been hastily made. He stepped over to a vanity and blew at the dust and sneezed. He pulled out a drawer and found only a half used jar of powder. The other drawers were empty but for a few pins with strands of dark hair still attached. He remembered Corinne’s frustration when her thick locks had refused to curl, him teasing her unmercifully, at times driving her to tears. She’d been such a sensitive thing.

  His own sister had been tough as nails, taking him and Welton by the ears as children when she’d found frogs in her freshly laundered sheets. Corinne had been nothing like Lorelei.

  Smiling sadly at the memory, Harlowe moved to the wardrobe located in the dressing room. Nothing but empty pegs. Not a single scrap of fabric remained
. In fact, he thought, surveying the space, the whole apartment had been stripped of anything personal. The staff had probably looted the property the minute they’d learned of Rowena’s death. Or perhaps, Agnes had had to sell what she’d found to feed herself, Mary, and Stephen.

  Harlowe left the suite, feeling empty. On the second level, he went through Rowena’s rooms, aware of a whisper of memory teasing the edges of his mind, like tendrils of shredded gossamer. There one moment, gone the next.

  Rowena Hollerfield had been a most unusual courtesan. She’d made her own way. She accepted jewels but allowed no man to rule her. She’d been fiercely protective of Corinne, in his vague recollections. She owned her own home—

  She’d owned her own home.

  Harlowe did a quick search through her rooms, looking for a safe, certain there wasn’t one, but checking anyway. His heart was pounding as he hurried down to the ground level to her study. It was located toward the back of the house. He dashed past the drawing room, the library, the formal dining chamber, to a small, almost closet sized nook behind the grand staircase. He stepped inside where shadowed candlelight danced on walls.

  Kimpton reclined behind a large desk that took up most of the space, leafing through a sheaf of papers. “Found some interesting paperwork,” he said. “It appears you are the owner of Cavendish House via your marriage to Corinne, via Rowena’s death.” He selected a single sheet that was set off to the side and set it on top. “Your marriage certification.” Kimpton came around the desk and handed the entire stack to Harlowe. “Perhaps they hold some of the answers you are looking for.”

  Swallowing hard, Harlowe accepted them with a sharp nod.

  Kimpton rubbed his hands together. “Now, about the Martindales…”

  Groaning, Harlowe handed off his package to Rory and sent him back to Kimpton House, then made his way to the kitchens to speak with Agnes before departing to fulfill an unspoken promise to Lorelei in making an appearance.