Agnes returned, and in her hands, she held a small tray with warmed milk and some of the scones. He took the tray from her and set it on the low table in the small sitting area, inclining his head for her to sit. He glanced over at Mary and did the same.
“Penny?” he asked softly.
“I think she’s fallen asleep,” Maeve told him. “I’ll stay until the girls calm. Drink your milk,” she told them.
Harlowe could have used a brandy.
Fifteen minutes later, Maeve handed Brandon a tumbler of brandy.
“The miscreant?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“The wayward.”
Maeve glared at him.
He ginned an infectious twist of his lips that was impossible to resist, though she did her damnedest.
They were back in her suite. The private sitting room. The bed was much too tempting, she’d decided. “Penny and her sister, Melinda, were with their mother when the mother died giving birth to a boy. Neither survived and Melinda has disappeared. Mr. Jervis was coming after Penny when I found her—or rather, she found me. She was hiding behind my skirts and he never saw her.”
His features turned dangerous. “This Jervis, you saw him?”
“I did.”
His whole demeanor changed. The look in his eye, feral. “Goddammit, Maeve, the man is famous in the stews for his misdeeds.”
Letting him intimidate her was not an option. She sipped at her own drink. “I suppose I should have just handed her over?”
“Of course not.” His voice was mottled with disgust. “Even if I insisted, I’m not daft enough to believe you would ever countenance such a thing.”
“I’m thrilled at your insight, my lord. Would that my mother—”
In an instant her glass was knocked away and his mouth was on hers.
It all happened so quickly, she hadn’t time to even consider resisting. She kissed him back with every ounce of her soul.
After a bit, he pulled away. “Do not toy with me, madam. I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you.” He nuzzled her neck. “You smell delicious. Like hot house roses.”
Her arms wrapped his neck and she touched her lips back to his. Just a light brush. “Oh, Brandon. Can’t you see I’m terrified for her? For these charges I’m taking on? Did you know that it was Rowena who took in Mary and Stephen? How am I to turn them away? I could never.”
“I know, love. I know.” He tugged her arms from him, leaving her curiously empty. “We need to talk.”
“The Althenaeum Order.”
“And the paintings. I think Jervis is a pirate of sorts. Of… of children.” He stood and paced the carpet, running a hand through his hair. “He snatches them off the streets and takes them to Addle Hill. I’m almost certain that is the case.”
Maeve bent down and picked up her fallen glass with shaking fingers, forcing herself to concentrate on keeping her voice steady. She didn’t want to ask but if she was to take up this fight, it was imperative to know what she was up against. “What happens to them?”
With his eyes closed, he let his head fall back. “Different children for different things. Prostitution, soldiers, illegal labors—fencing, enslavement—sexual and otherwise.”
“Soldiers,” she whispered. “Only the fastest pinchers escape.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “Yes.”
She cleared her throat. “How does this pertain to you, to the paintings you saw tonight?”
“I’m involved somehow. I fear I was involved in something horribly gruesome.” He lowered in a chair across from her, but his gaze lit on the window. “I can’t help thinking I was part of—belonged to—the Order. I think—” His face was chalky, almost gray. “The debauchery, the perversion.”
It took a moment for his words to penetrate, and when they did, she was outraged. “You cannot possibly mean what I hear you saying? That you prefer…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. Most especially after that incident the day he took her on a tour of the house. The urge to feel him between her legs still struck her at odd intervals, catching her unaware. “Absurd. Absolutely absurd.”
“What other explanation could there possibly be?” His frustration and despondency ripped her apart. “I know Jervis. That building in the painting. That’s where they are stashing the stolen children. I painted it! I’ve been in that dilapidated structure. The odor of the nearby Thames is bad enough, but inside… needless to say, it’s uninhabitable.”
Maeve moved quickly, dropped on her knees at his feet, and grabbed his hand within hers. “You mustn’t think such a thing.” She squeezed his hand as tight as she could. “Think about it, Brandon. Think of all those other pictures. You created them. Almost every single one depicted a traitor.”
He ran his palm over his face. “God, what I would give for a heavy dose of opium right now.”
Maeve’s stomach recoiled with fury and nausea. “Stop that talk right this minute. I won’t have it. You are stronger than the pull of poison that renders one senseless.”
Her words stilled him. “And you know this… how?”
She dropped her gaze. “After Alymer. I was forced to return under my mother’s care. Parson…” She hauled in a deep breath. “It was so easy to just sleep all the time.”
“Your maid drugged you.”
“Yes. But as it turned out, I was also stronger.” She stood and smacked his hands. “You listen to me, Brandon Radcliff. Whatever you had to do with that awful group, it was not because you desired children for nefarious purposes.”
She turned to stalk away, but he snagged her by the wrist and jerked. She stumbled, landing on his lap.
“Marry me, you impossible, bossy woman. I miss you. I wish to talk to you. Day and night. You can fix me.”
She cupped his chin. “Oh, darling, only you are able to fix you. You would be disappointed in me. I’m stubborn. Hard-headed. I have a temper. One has only to look at the color of my hair to see that.”
A small smile touched him, but clearly he was still unconcerned. “Perhaps.”
Quiet filled the room and eventually settled.
Maeve laid her head against his shoulder and wondered if the young Viscount Harlowe had truly been in love with Rowena Hollerfield. And if he had been in love with the notorious harlot, how had he ended up married to Corinne?
Harlowe rested his arm around Maeve, listening as her breathing grew rhythmic and deep, until she slept. He went over the events of the evening. From the salon where Dorset had shown up, to his paintings in the miniature museum, to storming Maeve’s bedchamber, to the little girl screaming about that rapscallion Jervis.
Hearing the man’s name sent glacial shards of terror straight through him. Maeve was right. He had no perverted desires for children. The dark and dankness of that painting spoke of another plot altogether. He’d been hell-bent in stopping the madness. Until Parliament did something to change laws in protecting children, it was up to people like him to affect the transformation. And he didn’t foresee much happening in that regard in the near future. The divide between the upper echelon and the lower classes was too divided.
He was most disturbed by Maeve’s promise in finding the girl’s sister. How was he supposed to keep the woman safe when he had no idea who the true enemy was? Because he had no doubt of Maeve ploughing headlong into danger with no thought to her own wellbeing.
He laid his lips against her forehead. The intensity with which he wanted her boggled, yet warmed him through. He hadn’t felt this way about Corinne, of that, he was certain. His feelings for Maeve went much deeper. Maeve Pendleton would never stand down where he was concerned. She would fight him to the death for her beliefs. His hold tightened, but she didn’t awaken.
He rose from the chair and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and carefully removed her wrapper. She never stirred. The chamber was cold, and he looked about. The window was open. He went over and
lowered it to a mere crack then went back to the bed and glanced down at her. He pulled the counterpane to her chin, then removed his shoes and lay next to her. He didn’t touch her, that way spelt trouble.
Her beauty was not that of the fragile, delicate sort. Hers was more indirect, less bold, that simmered just beneath the surface, but was there all the same. Her beauty was in the boldness of her actions. Thinking of her facing down Jervis stopped his heart. And at Soho Square, no less. Good God. There was no telling who’d seen her. Obviously, Andrews had.
Harlowe lay on his side, watching her, taking in her rose-scented skin. He wouldn’t stay long, he promised himself as his eyes drifted shut.
Harlowe bolted up. It took him a moment to acclimate himself to his surroundings.
Maeve’s chamber, and she was gasping for air. She thrashed about beneath the covers, his body having trapped hers. He shot off the bed and ripped the covers back and took her by the arms. “Darling, wake up. Maeve.” His fear made his words harsh. “Wake up.”
The wildness in her opened eyes terrified him.
“Maeve, it’s me. Harlowe. Brandon. Darling, you’re safe.” He pulled her to his chest. “You’re safe.”
“The window,” she croaked. “I-I need air.”
“I’ll get it. Will you be all right?”
She nodded, pushing her unruly hair from her face.
Harlowe went to the window and pushed it open then shoved the canopy back to allow the cool air to filter to the bed. He went back over, brushed the hair from her face. “Better?”
“Yes.” Her hands gripped his scarred wrists. They were ice cold.
He kissed her forehead. “What was that about?”
Her hesitation was pregnant, and after a moment she let out a sigh. “I sometimes dream I’m… I’m drowning.”
He rubbed her hands within his own. “Is there a reason? Or is this just your everyday understandable fear of water?”
“Is there an everyday understandable fear of water?” Her sarcasm fell short, but he applauded her effort.
“You tell me.”
She looked toward the window, but he had a feeling she was seeing into the past.
A twinge of envy touched him.
She inhaled. “My mother wasn’t always so awful, you know. I had a sister. She was four, perhaps five years older than me. I barely remember her. She was vivacious, gregarious, adventurous, and horribly spoiled.”
Her fingers touched the insides of his wrist. It was an odd sensation, but he didn’t pull away.
“We—the family—had been invited to a water party. It was very exciting. Children weren’t usually included for such outings.” She heaved in a bracing breath. “Caroline was frightfully indulged. She didn’t know the word ‘no.’ I lay that at my mother’s feet.”
Nodding, he remained silent.
“Caroline’s behavior was abominable. She threw a tantrum and, in the process, knocked us both overboard.”
“Jesus,” he said under his breath.
“I don’t know who pulled me up, but it seemed to take forever.” Her body racked with a violent shudder. “Truthfully, I can’t even remember if Caroline’s body was ever even located. I came down with a fever and was ill for weeks. Mother never spoke of the incident, at least that I can remember. You can imagine how she handled the tragedy with only me left.”
“Over-managing. Controlling,” he murmured.
“Yes.” She blinked, and her focus turned on his hands. “How did you acquire these scars, my lord?”
“The asylum. They tied me to the bed.” He answered without hesitation, surprising them both.
She lifted one hand and set her lips to the inside of the rope burn, then the other, her eyes closed. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She raised her head, meeting his eyes.
He was lost within their blue depths.
She blinked. “Good heavens, what is the time?” She scrambled from the bed. “You must leave. You can’t be seen leaving this house at this hour.”
Harlowe pulled his fob from his badly wrinkled waistcoat pocket and winced. She was right. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his boots. “I shall leave, but know this, my darling, this isn’t over. Now that Jervis has seen your face, don’t think for a minute he’ll hesitate to come after you.”
She stiffened.
“Or Penny.”
She deflated.
“I’ll come back later today. We need a decent stratagem.”
She groaned.
Twenty-Four
M
aeve was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head, but she needed to check on Penny. She stopped in the office off the stairs and consulted her diary. Miss Wilson’s Governess Agency was sending over two prospective candidates for Maeve to interview. Currently, she was housebound until she hired additional help, especially in teaching the children—and Agnes—to read and write and mathematics, oh, and geography. Children deserved a well-rounded education.
She came out of the office and almost knocked over the maid who held a stack of fresh linens, Maeve pulled up, frowning. “Who are you?”
The girl dipped a short curtsey. “I be Abby, m’lady.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I be the upstairs maid, ma’am.”
“I see.” Maeve shook her head, resignation setting in. “And you’re related how, dear?”
“The McCaskle’s eldest daughter.”
“Of course you are,” Maeve said with a sharp smile. “Welcome to Cavendish Square, Abby.”
“Thank ye, m’lady. There be some letters for ye in the foyer, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Maeve watched Abby round the corner and pound up the back staircase. She wondered if Rowena’s servants were so… so familiar. Highly doubting it, she strolled into the foyer, and took up several missives.
Maeve meandered to the parlor and broke the seal on the first one. It was from the Duke of Oxford’s daughter, Felicity, Lady Lexum.
Lady Alymer, I hope you’ll forgive the late notice, but Papa is hosting a rout and I fervently wish for you to attend…
The rout was scheduled for the next night. Maeve dashed off a note, accepting Felicity’s invite. She had some questions of the girl. She and Lexum had been married on Christmas Eve at the Foundling and Orphans Charity home. It had been quite the party. They’d taken two of the children into their home and encouraged others to step forward to do the same. Maeve felt helpless thinking of Penny’s sister. How to find her. But she had to try. She’d promised.
McCaskle tapped at the open door. “A Miss Bristol to see you, milady.”
“Thank you. I’ll see her in the small parlor, McCaskle. Send in tea.” Maeve flipped through the rest of the notes, discarding one from Lady Dankworth but setting another couple aside for consideration then threw her shoulders back and on clipped heels entered the small parlor. “Hello, Miss Bristol. I’m Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer.”
Whatever had happened the night before, Harlowe was thrilled to realize more of his memory was returning. In particular, his valet’s murder. Vlasik must have gone looking for Harlowe at his bachelor’s quarters and found Marcus instead. While there was no guarantee he would regain the whole of his memories, he decided to remain hopeful.
He stopped off at the pre-designated coffeehouse. The ones near Cavendish Square didn’t garner the grandest of reputations, but these sorts of places were chock-full of information—good and bad. He spotted Rory right away, at a table near the kitchens. Harlowe lowered his hat down over his brow, raised his collar, and made his way over. Harlowe smoothed a hand over his wrinkled clothes. In most cases, one wouldn’t be caught dead in less than his best, in this case, however, it was preferable.
“Surprised to see you this early,” Rory groused, his eyes going over Harlowe. “’Pears ’if I’m failing in me duties as valet.”
“F
ell asleep. Which is more than I can say for you. No sleep, my friend?”
“Not a wink.”
Harlowe grinned. “Don’t tell me. You stood guard over the house all night?” He clucked his tongue. “And after I specifically remember instructing you to return home.”
The man grunted and lifted his hand, signaling for a cuppa.
“Saw somethin’ interestin’ skulkin’ about Cavendish last night.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Believe so, milord. Goes by the name of Dorset. He stood on the street for a long while staring up at the house.”
“He didn’t go up to the door?”
“Nah. Couple of other blokes drove by. Picked him up and drove him away.”
As irritating as that tidbit of information was, Harlowe couldn’t very well fault Dorset’s actions, since Harlowe had let himself in, with his own key, uninvited. He let out a pursed breath and focused on another pressing matter. “There’s an old building on Addle Hill. Scout around and see if you can determine any odd comings and goings. My guess is that the structure will look uninhabited.”
“Will do, Guv. By the bye, I took the liberty of sending a gardener to Cavendish. Big fella. Goes by the name of Baird.”
Harlowe grinned. “Can’t wait for the reaction to him.”
Harlowe took the seat across. “There was an incident with the child last night. She woke screaming from a nightmare. Mentioned Jervis.”
“Not a good sign ’cept for the fact knowin’ he’s still about. Man’s a menace.”
They kept their voices low. A mug of strongly brewed coffee was clunked down in front of Harlowe without a spilled drop.
The bell over the door jangled and the atmosphere shifted and an air of toxic exigency permeated. The chatter fell to a hum then a rippling silence. Wrinkled or no, Harlowe didn’t move, his clothes were a cut above most of the patrons’ present. “Who is it?” he whispered.
“The man hisself.”
The Viscount's Vendetta Page 18
