The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Harlowe stood, took her hand, tugged her into his chest, and rested his cheek to hers. It was downy soft and smooth as silk. “So,” he said softly against her temple. “What am I supposed to do while you take over my home?”

  She stepped out of his arms. “That is a dilemma, isn’t it?” She shot him one of her brilliant, smug smiles. “You can stay here with your sister and get to know your son.” She looked at the note in her hand. After a long moment, she handed it to him.

  He broke the seal and glanced through it and winced. “It appears Lady Ingleby indeed has had word of our betrothal.” Then he groaned. “And she wishes to see you—I’m sorry—she wishes to see us. In”—he pulled out his watch fob—“thirty minutes.”

  “What? Oh, I am not up for this.” Maeve dropped her face in her hands.

  “Come. Let’s be off.”

  “Ah, good. You’re both here.”

  Harlowe cleared his expression and looked over Maeve’s shoulder. “Hello, Lady Ingleby. We just received your note.”

  Eighteen

  M

  aeve’s head dropped to Brandon’s shoulder.

  His hands cupped her shoulders, and he squeezed. He then pulled away and, with a straight face, said, “It’s time to talk to your mother, my dear.” He couldn’t hide the mirth in his eyes, and Maeve was almost positive one corner of his lip twitched. He spun her about.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Lady Ingleby beamed them with a bright smile. “You been holding out on your mother, you naughty girl. And here I thought you were after the Marquis of Dorset.”

  Brandon’s fingers dug into her upper arms. She hid a wince. “Er, Lady Ingleby. Perhaps we can make our way to the drawing room.” His hands fell away, but he nudged Maeve none too gently in that direction.

  “When did this come about?” her mother asked pleasantly.

  “Last night, Lady Ingleby. Only, we’ve something to tell you.”

  Her beringed hand splayed her generous bosom. Maeve always wondered where her own slender form had come from. Her father had been a tall, large man. “Oh my. Maeve, you should have said something. Now, about the wed—”

  Maeve smoothly cut her off. “There’s to be no wedding, Mother.”

  “I shall check on St. George’s. Six months—” her mother said. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I heard you correctly.”

  “She said there is to be no wedding.” There was a bite in his remark, but Maeve refused to let it bother her. She’d lost her head the night before. She had no desire to marry anyone. Right? In any event, she wasn’t about to sell herself in another marriage of friendship only. She had funds and independence of her own. A priceless situation.

  Her mother’s face turned a horrendous shade of red. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Oh, but I am,” Maeve returned.

  “That is unacceptable, Maeve. We shall have the banns called for the required three weeks. You shall be married the week of the fourteenth of January.”

  Maeve covered her laugh with a small cough. “You may call the banns, Mother. But neither I nor Harlowe will be there.”

  Lady Ingleby clutched her chest, falling onto the nearest chair, gasping for oxygen. “You cannot possibly stay here.”

  “As a matter of fact, Harlowe and I were on our way out. He knows of a townhouse that is perfect, and ready for me to move into.”

  Her gazed narrowed on him.

  “And just where is this perfect house?” her mother demanded.

  “Cavendish Square,” he said.

  She sniffed her disdain. “That’s a lovely enough area, I suppose,” her tone grudgingly acknowledged.

  Maeve knew it wouldn’t take her mother long to puzzle out exactly why Brandon had a house in Cavendish Square. It was imperative Maeve put an end to this meeting immediately. “Mother, I hate to disappoint you, but we truly were on our way out. I appreciate your stopping by. Now, if you will excuse us.” Maeve went to the door and motioned to Oswald. “My cloak, please,” she said softly. She turned back around and, to her dismay, her mother stood up.

  “Excellent. I shall accompany you.”

  Panic surged through Maeve, and she shot Brandon a glance but managed to remain calm. “I am a widow, Mother. Not a debutante,” she said in her haughtiest tone.

  But Lady Ingleby was not one to give in so easily. Her gaze moved over her then shifted to Brandon. Her eyes widened with mental horror. “You are not moving in with my daughter!”

  Her words stunned Maeve momentarily speechless.

  Brandon moved next to Maeve. “Certainly not. Your daughter would never allow me such liberties, Lady Ingleby. That being said, however, this is something your daughter wishes to approach independently. After all, she is the one who shall be living there.”

  With a feral curve of her lips, Maeve turned to Brandon. “Are you quite ready, my lord?”

  He escorted her out, took her cloak from Oswald as they passed, and draped it over her shoulders. “Is Kimpton’s coach available?”

  “I took the liberty of having it prepared,” Oswald said.

  “Please see my mother out,” Maeve told him. “After we are well and away.”

  Nineteen

  H

  arlowe descended the carriage, opened the umbrella, and held out his hand for Maeve. “Here we are.”

  He felt her shudder. “I thought we’d never escape. Once she realizes,” she pointed to the door of Rowena Hollerfield’s house, “I shall know no rest.”

  He seared her with a stern gaze. “When word gets round of your lodgings, it could hurt your standings in society.”

  She snorted. “As if I give a fig about standings. I’ll have you know, Lord Harlowe. I’d just as soon as disappear from society altogether.”

  “Interesting,” he murmured. He kept her hand and tugged her into his side, guiding her to the bright blue, knockerless door. “If you say so.” He pounded on the door, making a mental note to locate the knocker. It opened almost immediately. “Good afternoon, Stephen. I should like to present your new mistress. She will take up residence in the next day or so and we’ve come to tour the premises.” Harlowe’s best guess was that the boy was ten and four. “Is Agnes about?”

  “Yesser, yer lordship.”

  “Please round up her and Mary then. We’ll wait here.”

  He nodded and took off running for the back of the house.

  Harlowe studied the elegant foyer, seeing it through Maeve’s eyes. With its high ceilings and cream colored walls, it presented an understated sophistication compared to the ostentatious nature of some of the most upper echelon households of the beau monde. The flooring, an earth-toned marble, led to an embellished carpeted grandiose stairway, adorned with a balustrade carved of rich mahogany. Above the entryway table was an exquisite Venetian Murano mirror, its edges scalloped in silver and gold leaves. Harlowe had no doubt the gold was genuine.

  Footsteps clattered from the back of the house then came to a sudden stop. Agnes had Mary’s arm, and the two stepped forward with Stephen coming up behind.

  “Yer lordship.” Agnes dipped a less than perfect curtsy, tugging Mary into doing the same.

  Harlowe inclined his head. “Agnes. Mary. May I present Lady Alymer? She is looking to let the place.”

  “Milady,” Agnes murmured.

  “Milady,” Mary echoed. She was very young. Harlowe could not begin to ascertain the younger girl’s age, though he did recognize her as larger than an infant. And a toddler. Other than that, he had no notion.

  Both were dressed in rags that Harlowe would be pressed to replace. As was Stephen, who sidled up behind them.

  Maeve smiled at them without censure. “Hello, ladies and sir.”

  While Mary’s expression held avid curiosity, Agnes’s and Stephen’s were much more guarded.

  “Agnes, you may send Mary and Stephen about their tasks. We thought you could give us the guided tour,” Harlowe said.<
br />
  Alarm flashed in Agnes’s eyes but was quickly masked. “Of course, yer lordship.” She shooed the other two away and started with the parlor.

  They moved quickly through the main floor, the morning room, the dining hall, office behind the stairs, before taking the stairs to the first level.

  They started with his and Corinne’s suite of rooms. The only change Harlowe could see was the lack of dust. The wood since his visit had been shined to a polish. The bed linens freshly laundered and made up. The window panes were no longer dulled with grime. The connecting chamber, the one he’d slept in the night before, had also been spruced up and prepared for his return. He was touched, actually. Only, he wouldn’t be returning. Yet, he silently amended.

  They moved down the hall to Rowena’s set: the bedchamber, her sitting room. The adjoining bedchamber had been converted into a storage closet of sorts filled with Rowena’s excess of dresses, riding habits, every conceivable hat one could imagine, and their matching fripperies. Everything appeared organized to a minute degree that boggled the mind.

  “What’s on the third level?” Maeve asked her.

  Agnes stopped and her expression was nothing short of stunned. “The nursery, my lady.”

  “Nursery?”

  “Er, Lord Harlowe’s wife… she—”

  “Oh, yes. Of course, Agnes.” Maeve cut her gaze to him.

  Harlowe managed to mask the shock roaring through him. He had forgotten Corinne was pregnant when he’d been called away. Called away?

  It all seemed so long ago. Though pieces of his memory were returning, he almost wished he could leave the recollection of Corinne’s pregnancy behind. A thought that left him with more questions.

  “This way.” Agnes led them back toward his former chamber and around a more discreet corner to another staircase and up. “The nursery is this direction, milady.”

  Harlow resisted a cowardly urge to run. He followed Agnes and Maeve into the chamber. The sight hit him in the chest with the force of a sledgehammer. Dark wood furniture was covered in a passel of soft blue fabrics, clearly never used. His throat closed up as another memory inundated him.

  “You aren’t even showing yet, darling.”

  Her small, dainty hand splayed her stomach. “I’m being silly, aren’t I? I’m so excited. Just think, a child of our own.” He was thrilled to see the joy in her face compared to the usual melancholy that marred her delicate features.

  He grinned and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek, though apprehension hovered over him like a cloud. Her demeanor change was as predictable as the weather on an open sea. “You’ve months to go, my sweet. I’m afraid patience is required. Something of which you appear short of.”

  “I shall persevere.” She gave him a captain’s salute, then frowned. “How long will you be gone this time?”

  “A day or so. I must check on Marcus. I’ll be back before you know it.”

  “Then why are you packing a bag?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her lip poked out in a petulant pout. “When are you going to let those quarters go? When am I to meet your sister? It’s like I’m…” She stomped her foot. “Nothing but your dirty little secret.”

  Irritation flooded him, but he bit it back. “Corinne, please, not this again. I’ve explained numerous times, it’s too dangerous.”

  “It’s lovely,” Maeve breathed, jarring Harlowe into the stifling chamber.

  “It needs air,” he said with a sharp edge.

  Ignoring Maeve’s too observant eyes, Harlowe blinked and grasped for the steadying breath that remained just out of reach. He strode to the window, unlatched it, and shoved it open, then passed a palm over his face.

  Had he truly treated her as his dirty little secret? The memories surged through him with force. Poor Corinne. She’d seemed to live beneath an umbrella of low expectation, hating it all the while with no idea how to dispel what she didn’t understand. She had been so young.

  Sadness had enveloped her like a fog that neither he nor Rowena had been able to successfully penetrate. Had Corinne lived, her natural melancholia would have suffocated their marriage. Though she’d been sweetly thrilled with her pregnancy, he knew now that her happiness would have been short-lived. Guilt crawled over his skin, which he had no notion how to dispel.

  Not to mention the unseen dangers he had no memory of. Those fears had opened another door: had Corinne been used in the crossfires of something? And if so, of what?

  Maeve pretended not to notice Brandon’s discomfort as he dove for the window. The unused nursery was unsettling to say the least. “It’s beautiful,” she said, taking in the elaborately covered crib. It was blatantly clear to Maeve, Corinne desperately wanted a boy as she considered the fringed, sky-blue, chenille throw. The sheets in the cradle were of the softest silk and matched cushions in the nearby chair. How much time had Corinne spent in this chamber where no expense had been spared? Maeve’s heart broke for the sad, quiet girl she remembered.

  Maeve strolled across the room, opposite of the window, hoping to spare Brandon unwanted attention, to a dresser. She pulled out the top drawer and found several stacks of cloth nappies. She looked in the next drawer and gasped. “Oh my.” Maeve lifted out an enchanting christening gown trimmed in Belgian lace. Carefully refolding the gown, she placed it back in the drawer, and smiled at Agnes. “It’s a lovely room.” She strolled over to a rocking horse and tapped it, sending it into motion, watching Brandon from the corner of her eye. His back was still to them. “Perhaps we can take a look at the nursemaid’s chamber.”

  “Of course, milady.”

  Brandon could follow at his own leisure.

  Here, too, no expense had been spared. The bed was not the usual narrowed framed sort, but a size to accommodate the possibility of a child crawling in with his caretaker, should he become frightened in the night. It was perfect.

  “If’n I might ask, ma’am, how… how old is the child now?”

  “He’s a little over a year, I believe, and looks just like his father. He’s very rambunctious. Of course, Harlowe and Nathaniel—that’s his name—Nathaniel won’t be moving here. Lord Harlowe and I are not betrothed, Agnes,” she said softly. Her heart tugged at the words. She could marry him, she could be a mother to Nathan—she stopped the thought right there. How fair would that be to Brandon? To Nathan? Brandon’s own words were that he couldn’t remember his wife. What if he remembered later and it came between them? He needed his life back and without complications from her.

  Agnes’s features twisted in confusion. “Oh.”

  “Lord Harlowe and the baby live at Lord Harlowe’s sister’s home. Although Lady Kimpton is apt to bring him to visit from time to time.”

  “What is this?” Brandon said from the door.

  “This is the nursemaid’s chamber,” Maeve told him.

  He grunted, unimpressed.

  Maeve shot him a look. “Carry on, Agnes,” she said pleasantly.

  “There are some other bedchambers fit for children through this door,” she said.

  Brandon addressed Agnes. “Is there an attic?”

  “An attic?” Her surprise was almost comical.

  “Quit snapping at her, Harlowe.” Maeve turned to Agnes. She didn’t appear to take offense at his tone, but Maeve had to wonder what the devil his interest was in the attic.

  “Oh, yesser. Follow me. ’Tis a bit dark.”

  They followed her up another flight, this one narrow and hollow. Maeve felt as if she’d been plunged into a deep vat of water with no way out. She concentrated on her steps, breathing in shallow takes. It was her turn to express her need for an open window.

  The door creaked with disuse. It was indeed dark, with only one window in the cavernous space. She maintained her position at the door, one hand gripping the frame, the other fisted at her side as she fought the suffocating sensations swamping her.

  There were odds-and-ends pieces of furniture scattered about,
a couple of trunks and the like. Brandon glanced at her, his frown speculative.

  Black edged her vision. She fought it back, attempting to sound her normal self, addressing Agnes. “What of other rooms on the same floor as the nursery?” Her words sounded as an echo in her ears.

  “There ain’t nothin’, milady. Just Miss Rowena’s salon. I think it was used as a schoolroom at one time. She tore out the walls, creatin’ a large open area.”

  Anything to escape the attic and the feeling that she was underwater again. Would those memories when she was five stay with her forever? “I-I should like to see it.” She rushed down the stairs, gasping for a bracing breath. Slowly, her heart resumed a more normal rhythm, and the sense of dizziness dissipated. She gazed about the salon. It took up a large portion of the second floor. Beautifully furnished. The decor could not be faulted. Floor-to-ceiling windows faced the garden to the back of the house. There was an ornate fireplace in the only corner.

  “It’s lovely,” Maeve breathed, attempting to calm herself. The courtesan had outdone herself in this space. Maeve guessed it had been more than one room before its remodel. What need would an exclusive courtesan have of a schoolroom after all?

  Now that she was out of that stifling attic, she found her pulse slowly returning to normal. A second later, large hands landed on her shoulders. He turned her to face him. The light from the windows behind him kept her from being able to read his expression.

  “You’re pale. What is it?” he asked her softly.

  Maeve shook her head.

  Harlowe turned to Agnes. “You may be excused, Agnes.”

  Agnes’s footsteps faded away, and Maeve took advantage of the moment to pull herself together, even if she couldn’t quell her fluttering stomach. She stepped away, moving to the window and glancing out at the garden below. She would need a gardener. “What a nice room, my lord.”

  “What is all this ‘my lord’ nonsense?” he groused. His gaze narrowed on her. “I think you are doing your best to provoke me.”