The Viscount's Vendetta Page 12

  Heavy drops of rain plopped on his shoulders by the time she wrenched it open. “Is aught amiss, m’lord?”

  “No. I’m going to stay here tonight.”

  “Are ye turnin’ me out, yer lordship?”

  “No, Agnes. I appreciate your adeptness at keeping the house in working order. Is there a runner about for me to send off a message?”

  “Just Stephen, m’lord.”

  Blast. “All right. Never mind. Don’t worry breakfast for me. But you best prepare the house for occupants.” The idea just hit him, not yet fully formed. Nothing to worry over, he was quick thinker on his feet. Er, leastways he used to be. He was almost positive.

  She dipped a short curtsey and disappeared down the stairs.

  Harlowe flipped the lock on the door and made his way to Rowena’s office beneath the stairs on the ground level. It was much too small, reminding him of the windowless hold on the ship he’d been tossed in and left for dead. But he had questions, and this room seemed the most likely place to find them. He lit a candle and raised it above his head. It was devoid of dust. Agnes seemed to have kept the ground level of the floor in tiptop condition, ignoring the upper levels.

  It made no difference to him.

  The top of the desk was now devoid of papers. He went around and sat down, then pulled out drawers. Just the usual strips of papers, receipts, and the like, dated the year before. Mostly for clothes for her and Corinne. He found a couple of books on the household accounts, but they hadn’t been updated in over a year either. Agnes likely couldn’t read. He wondered briefly how she’d managed to keep food on the table for herself and her two charges, and he surely couldn’t forget about the newly painted door.

  He spun around in an American swivel chair, checking out the space behind him. A cabinet door to his right was ajar. Harlowe pulled it back and found a safe that wasn’t closed all the way. He poked around inside and found a few more papers that didn’t appear to have much significance. He pushed the door to, not latching it, since he had no notion the combination should he happen to have need of its contents.

  He took a moment, letting the notion sink in that this was now his house. That he had servants of his own, young though they were. And resilient. He best not forget that.

  He wondered how Maeve would take to living in a famous courtesan’s highly fashionable abode. Shaking his head with a small chuckle, he surmised she wouldn’t care a fig what anyone thought as long as she didn’t have to live with her mother.

  The enclosed space began to suffocate him. He took the candle and went toward the stairs to find a place to sleep but was stopped by someone tapping at the door. No one knew he was there, and his instincts for danger kicked in. He went to the door. “Who goes there?”

  “Rory, milord.”

  Harlowe let out a relieved breath and opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “The Kimptons and Lady Alymer returned home. I figured you must o’ come ’ere, and decided to check.”

  Harlowe stood back and let him in. “Excellent. There wasn’t anyone one but a boy to send a message so I opted not to. Come in. I was just about to locate a place to sleep.” He secured the lock on the door and as they walked up the stairs, he relayed the information of the shot in the park.

  Rory let out a savage oath. “Ye’ve no idea who it could be?”

  “None.” Just thinking about it had Harlowe’s pulse spiking.

  “P’rhaps I should take a ride through the park.”

  “Not tonight. It’s raining. You won’t find anything at this hour. Hell, it might have just been some miscreant up to mischief.” But Harlowe was blatantly aware he was kidding himself with that thought.

  Rory nodded.

  Somehow Harlowe couldn’t make himself sleep in the bed he and Corinne had shared and briefly wondered why. He went past her door to another and found what had to have been his own chamber at the time. “Take the other room,” he told Rory. He stripped off his clothes and crawled beneath the blankets.

  There was a draft in the room so he didn’t open the window, but he lay awake, listening to the rain pattering against the glass panes. Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, was going to be furious with him. It was a challenge he looked forward to.

  He fell asleep with an unexpected sense of joy curling through him.

  Seventeen

  T

  he water was freezing. Her wet skirts preferred the bottom of the bog and were determined to drag her down. She had another critical problem—she didn’t know how to swim. Blasted Harlowe, couldn’t even be trusted to watch his own child. A sense of inevitability swept her. Was this it? Was this how her life was to end?

  A series of events flooded her in a mind-numbing sequence.

  Years of her mother pushing her at Dorset, Oxford, Welton, Shufflebottom, and Beaumont with all the subtlety of a fireworks display at Vauxhall. Alymer’s kind treatment and respect of her intelligence. She truly cared for him.

  Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen.

  She spotted the monster—there, in the corner. Anxiety gripped her insides. Show no fear. It was Maudsley.

  Wait, Maudsley was dead.

  Mama pushed her at Brock. “You won’t be young forever, darling. He’s perfect for you.”

  “Why, Mama? He’s clearly in love with Ginny Ennis, Lady Maudsley.

  If she let go, she would never have to hear her mother nag her again regarding the largesse of obtaining another husband. Just let go.

  Harlowe… Brandon. Hold on.

  The baby. He’d fallen in the water. Where was the baby? She searched through the murky water but couldn’t see a thing. Nathan. He needed air. He needed a mother. She had to save Nathan.

  “Nathan,” she gasped. “Nathan! Nathan, answer me, right this minute.” Hysteria choked her even as the vortex of darkness tugged at her with its devastating power, pressing her chest hard enough to make it explode. The fight for air grew too great. Nathan grinned at her with his toothless smile.

  Her skirts were too heavy, her limbs too weak. Just let go… Her arms floated above her head. She felt herself sinking, the Atlantic swallowing her whole. Buried at sea. Just let go…

  Sky versed ocean.

  Sunrise versus sunset

  Day versus night.

  White versus black.

  Life versus death—

  “Milady.”

  Maeve bolted upright, panting. “Parson?” She was groggy, and her head was pounding. Her night rail stuck to her back and chest, twisted about her legs. Gray light came through the window but no air. “Why is the window closed? I-I can’t breathe.”

  “The rain is coming down in sheets, milady. “I have a draught of laudanum for you.” Parson went about the chamber, placing a tray of tea on the bedside table, then went to the window and pulled back the lining, showing the winds were also gusting in rare form. She came back to the bed and held out the small brown bottle.

  Maeve shoved her hand back, knocking the measure away as she struggled to grasp her breath. “Don’t ever offer me that again. You know how I feel about laudanum.” A nightmare of this magnitude hadn’t hit her this hard in years. “What time is it?”

  “Nigh on noon.”

  “Good heavens.” Maeve scrambled from the bed. She stumbled to the basin and splashed cold water on her face. She immediately felt better. Even last night’s debacle didn’t seem so bad in the light of day. All she had to do was hold her head high. No one need know of her folly. Who was Harlowe likely to tell anyway? “I’ll wear the blue striped walking dress today,” she told Parson.

  Parson pointed once again to the windows. “It’s pouring out, milady.”

  Brilliant. “No matter. I have things to accomplish. A little rain never hurt anyone.” Luckily, one didn’t usually drown in a heavy downpour as there was the little matter of locating another place to reside.

  For once Maeve sat without complaint, letting Parson dress
her hair to perfection. She had every need to hold her head up for the day to come. As a result, it was over an hour before she made her way to the morning room for something to eat.

  Of course, she walked in on a roomful of visitors. The Brockways had stopped in with an invitation to a musicale the Duke of Addis was hosting the day before Christmas Eve. Kimpton sat at the head of the table with Irene on one side of him and Cecilia on the other. It was an unusual sight. But clearly, the girls had a special bond with the earl. Only Lorelei and Harlowe were missing from the fray. Still, a twinge of unease skittered through her.

  “Goodness,” Maeve said. “Did I miss the summons?”

  “Of course not, Lady Alymer. We are here to let everyone know that I shall be making my musical debut,” Irene said. “I’m to sing two songs.”

  “Ah, I see. I’m sure you shall do brilliantly,” Maeve assured her. “I look forward to hearing you.”

  “Um, Maeve,” Ginny said. “After you departed the Martindales’ last night, a rumor began circula—”

  Lorelei stalked in. “Maeve Pendleton, I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.” She sniffed. “Of course, I’m thrilled, but—”

  Maeve’s stomach dropped. Surely, no one had overheard her exchange with Brandon. There’d been no one on the terrace but the two of them. Her head swiveled from Ginny to Lorelei, fully aware of the heat in her face.

  “Hello, everyone.” Harlowe swept into the room, interrupting his sister. He strode over and pulled out a chair for Maeve.

  “Of course, you must take Nathan, no matter how much it saddens me. He belongs with his new family.” Maeve caught the quaver underlying Lorelei’s voice, despite herself being flabbergasted.

  There was no question in Maeve’s mind. She’d been abducted in one of those dangerous whirling storms she’d heard occurred on the plains in the Americas’ flattest territories. The air had left her body. She’d been plunged back into her nightmare, only rather than being underwater, she was now being sucked into an entirely different whirlpool. “Take Nathan where?” Her voice rose hardly above a whisper.

  “Molly must go with you, of course,” Lorelei went on, her voice stronger with each word she uttered. “I insist, Brandon. She loves that child as if he were her own.”

  “Of course, Lorelei,” Harlowe said gently. “We would appreciate it.”

  We? What was this? Maeve’s gaze shot to him, a wariness settling over her. Harlowe placed his hand on her shoulder and firmly pressed her into the chair he’d pulled out. Before he moved away, he leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on her lips. In front of everyone.

  “Good morning, darling.”

  Maeve’s burning face jerked her from her stupor. “What the devil do you think you are about?” she hissed.

  The silence in the room shrieked at Maeve until she thought she’d gone deaf.

  Ignoring her, Harlowe moseyed over to the sideboard, loaded up two plates, brought them back, and set them on the table, one in front of her. “Maeve asked me to marry her last night,” he announced to the room at large.

  Blood roared in Maeve’s ears that stifled the screams of joy from Cecilia. Irene, of course, would never lower herself to such an egregious show of exultation, grinning broadly instead. The sight of Irene grinning was a shocking enough sight.

  Maeve’s tongue stuck to the top of her mouth. She had no words.

  Harlowe turned a tender smile on her, and said, “I’ve accepted her proposal.”

  Eating was out of the question. She pushed her plate away and came to her feet, grabbing his arm before he could sit. “I think I require a word with my betrothed,” she bit out through clenched teeth and dragged him from the room.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked with all the innocence of a rat.

  She wasn’t fooled in the least. “Just what sort of game are you playing, Lord Harlowe?”

  “I’m sorry. Did I misunderstand your proposal last evening?”

  “Did I misunderstand your reaction?” She pointed to the closed door while her foot tapped violently against the heavy rug. “Do you realize what you just did in there?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve had time to think, that’s all.”

  “Is that so? Well, as it happens, I withdraw my proposal.”

  He grinned, an unrepentant one. “That is not a good idea.”

  Her unease mounted along with the burn of her temper. “And why not?”

  “After you left last night, the news spread through the Martindales’ ballroom like wildfire.”

  “Oh? And who started that bit of fluff?” she demanded softly.

  “I’m afraid I did.” Again, not the least bit remorseful.

  “Lady Alymer,” Oswald said. “A missive for you from Lady Ingleby.”

  Oh God, what next? She accepted the note from his gnarled fingers. It felt as if she were reaching toward a poisonous snake. “Thank you.”

  Oswald slipped away as quietly as he’d appeared.

  She wanted to throw her arms to the heavens and scream her frustration. Instead, she clenched her fingers around the missive to keep from wringing Brandon’s neck with her bare hands. “Why do you want to marry me all of a sudden?”

  “Why do you wish to marry me?” he shot back.

  This conversation was going nowhere. She narrowed her eyes on him and studied him for a long moment. Two could play his game. She snapped the note she held, almost catching his nose. “I wish to be out from my mother’s thumb.”

  “Just as I thought.”

  “And you?”

  “Your help with my memoirs.”

  “That’s no reason to marry me. I’ve already said I would help.” God, she was hysterical. She was never hysterical, even dealing with her mother at her pushiest. Thank heavens the driving hour at Hyde Park was hours away—she could likely be heard to the Serpentine.

  He looked away. “Perhaps I need a mother for my son.”

  Just like that, the fight went out of her. “Yes. Yes, you do,” she said softly.

  Maeve went to a hall bench and sank down. “This is horrible,” she said.

  Harlowe bent down on one knee in front of her. He grasped her free hand within his. “I’m sorry I reacted like I did last night. It was most ungracious of me. I was just so… taken aback.” He moved up beside her on the bench, not willing to release her hand. He ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist. Back and forth. “I’m a mess, Maeve. I have the barest memories of my previous wife. A son I can’t seem to connect to…”

  Her head fell against his shoulder, but she sat quietly listening. He liked that about her. She wasn’t clingy. He suspected when she lost her temper, it was probably warranted.

  “I don’t know what I was doing before I was left for dead—”

  Her head shot up, concern etched in her sweet, expressive, upturned face. “What do you mean ‘left for dead’?”

  What did he mean by “left for dead”? Shadowy images crowded his head, of him fighting for his life, but the images quickly faded, slipping from his grasp. He refused to keep anything from her. It wouldn’t be fair, not in good conscience. If she did agree to this marriage for real, then he wanted no secrets. There were far too many in his past. Too many unanswered questions.

  He told her everything Kimpton had relayed to him. How Lorelei had believed Kimpton had put him on a ship bound for Calais; how Brock and Kimpton had gathered up his paintings and found the scythes; what they’d found in Brandon’s bachelor’s quarters, stumbling upon his valet’s dead body. He told her of the painting they’d located at the shop in Goldhanger. “That was around the time Evelyn Holks was found murdered on the side of the road. I had been whisked away from the asylum and dumped on a ship called the White Dove, and but for Irene being kidnapped and traced, I would have likely been dumped overboard with no one ever the wiser.”

  Her shudder reached through to him even as she listened in a thoughtful silence. After a fashion, she nodded. “I under
stand, Brandon. But I’m afraid I’m not ready for marriage after all.”

  “Might I remind you, the marriage was your idea?”

  “I was out of my mind,” she muttered. She appeared to gather her bearings. “Still, I can’t marry you.”

  The pressure banding Brandon’s chest mounted, though he refused to consider why. He tightened his hand around hers.

  She pulled her hand from his. “I must speak with Kimpton. He’s promised to show me a couple of the townhomes on his list—”

  “I know another place,” he quickly interrupted. “It’s almost perfect.”

  She pierced him with another wary look, her brows furrowed. “Almost? That sounds ominous.”

  “It’s in Cavendish Square.”

  “What’s wrong with Cavendish Square? It’s a lovely area. It sounds as if it would work splendidly for my purposes.”

  “Yes, well…”

  “Well, what?” He had to bite back a grin. Her ginger-haired temper was fraying. She was not so flawless after all, which made her an excellent bride for him. It was too difficult living up to someone who was perfect, as his late wife seemed to be.

  The best thing to do was to just blurt it out. Rip off the bandage. “The house belonged to Rowena Hollerfield.”

  There was an audible swallow from her. “The, ah, infamous courtesan?”

  “The infamous late courtesan. It appears I inherited the place after Corinne’s death.”

  Several different emotions flitted across Maeve’s face. None that he could readily identify. She heaved in a deep breath. “Miss Hollerfield was said to have had excellent taste,” she said slowly.

  Harlowe thought of the formal parlor he’d looked in that first night he, Kimpton, and Brock had searched the house. “Yes. She had exquisite taste. But you are free to change anything you deem fitting.”

  A slow smile covered her lips. “Living there would drive my mother mad. I believe I should like to see it.”

  He grinned. “We can leave this very minute, if you like.”

  A scowl marred her expression, and he had the wildest desire to kiss it away. “Oh. Yes. That might be to our advantage.”