The Viscount's Vendetta Page 7

  “I see.” And she did, all too clearly. Maeve swiveled back and forth in a gentle motion. “Tomorrow, have Nathan dressed for an outing to the park. One of the clock should do nicely.”

  Molly’s countenance softened. “Yes, milady. He’ll like that. Boys are lively rambunctious creatures and require lots of strenuous activity—oh, look! He’s fallen asleep. Shall I take him now?”

  “Of course.” Tenderness swelled within Maeve’s breast that brought her near to tears. She hadn’t believed herself capable of such sweet emotion. What a daunting thought. She handed Nathan over to his caretaker, and once she stood outside the nursery door, she inhaled deeply several times to steady her… her, well, whatever it was that had taken hold of her wits.

  A few minutes later, she glided into the dining chamber in which she’d found Harlowe the evening before, when she’d held her shredded slippers, standing in her bared-stocking feet—not that he’d had the slightest inclination for indiscreet behavior. She scanned the massive hall and located him at the far end, dressed to the nines, and holding a glass of amber liquid.

  He tipped it in her direction.

  A flock of seagulls took flight in her lower abdomen, seeing him in full dress for the first time… ever, that she could recall.

  “Madeira?”

  “Thank you,” she said accepting the offering.

  “Oxford seemed taken with you.”

  She eyed his simply tied cravat over the rim of her glass. “He’s looking for a mother for his daughter of ten and nine. I have no desire to step into that role any more than Felicity has for a mother at this stage in her life. Especially one six years her senior.” Maeve’s thoughts went to Nathan, and she clenched her fingers around her glass, stunned by the rush of longing surging through her. “You look quite dashing,” she said, surprised by the urge to push a wayward lock of chestnut hair from his forehead. How could that be? It was a silly inclination. Seeing Nathan was definitely playing havoc with her usually pragmatic sensibilities.

  Harlowe let out a long breath she found reassuring, praying her sentiment did not show.

  He downed the contents of his glass and set it aside, waiting.

  The silence grew taut for reasons that escaped her. To ease the awkwardness, she downed the contents of her cordial and held it out to him.

  One brow lifted in mocking amusement as if he read her inner turbulence. He took the glass and handed it off to a nearby footman.

  “Where are Lord and Lady Kimpton this evening? It occurs to me I have not seen them since our ride to Oxford’s last evening.”

  “Something about the Peachornsbys hosting a musicale or some such nonsense.”

  Maeve set her hand upon his outstretched arm, allowing him to lead her to the table. The formality of his dress, his perfect etiquette, his very mien set her ill-at-ease. Harlowe did not strike her as one who followed protocol with such precision. Mayhap Parson had reason for her concern.

  Harlowe seated her most properly and inclined his head to the footman. Within minutes they were served their first course of turtle soup. By the time dessert of sugar biscuits and gimblettes de fleurs d'orange atop a large, knotted biscuit was served, Maeve’s nerves were as twisted as her biscuit.

  Unable to contain her curiosity another minute, she considered her host from beneath her lashes. What exactly was he after with this dinner of his? She was desperate to let him know how much he was neglecting that very sweet child on the third floor. She opened her mouth—then thought better of it, noting the dark circles under his eyes. Inside, she softened. He’d been through enough. He didn’t her needling him about something that would eventually work itself out. He just required time.

  “I wish to speak to you regarding my memoirs. I was not talking in vain when Oxford visited.”

  Again Maeve opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but she wasn’t quick enough.

  Harlowe sipped at the port that had appeared in front of him. Apparently, in her shock, she’d missed their plates being cleared away. “I feel it might help in recovering some of my memory.”

  She swallowed. “Oh.”

  “I, uh, am more than willing to assist you with reading through Alymer’s scripts on secret societies and such”—he put up a palm to stay her objection—“just as I also said to Oxford.”

  Her chin dropped to her chest as she found herself unsure what to say to this sudden announcement, surprised to find that the idea of spending time with Harlowe appealed. But she’d learned long ago not to depend on any one man, or one’s mother. There was usually an underlying reason. “Thank you, my lord, I’m more than happy to have your help with Alymer’s scripts,” she murmured, frowning. She thought of the scars she’d seen on Harlowe’s wrists, more curious than ever. She wasn’t so sure that writing his memoirs would do much in recovering his memory.

  Any scenario involving Oxford and Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, did not sit well. He caught sight of the disfavor marring her brow. Blast, she was going to turn him down. In a panic, he pushed back his chair. It scraped loudly against wood floor, echoing in the vast almost empty dining hall.

  Giving Rory a silent thanks for pushing him physically hard the last week, Harlowe hastened her out of her seat, latching onto her hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked in a breathless huff but kept her hand in his and followed him willingly enough, he was pleased to note.

  He didn’t slow, tugging her through the doors and to the curving staircase and up. “Third floor.”

  “You wish to see Nathan?” She sounded much too… hopeful.

  Harlowe had no explanations where his son was concerned. He couldn’t remember his wife. Only snatches of the two of them before the vicar. What if Nathan wasn’t even his? That couldn’t be. He couldn’t bring himself to think of these things now. Plenty of time for that later. “Er, he must be sleeping.” He dragged her up two flights of stairs, shocked at how winded he was, or perhaps not so shocked.

  His legs burned, but he didn’t slow, guiding them to the opposite end to that of the nursery. The open forum of the portrait gallery didn’t hold the normal nobleman’s centuries of family portraits. The one wall he paused before showed a variety of paintings, so thick with paint that the artist had managed to leave thin strings from various points within each.

  Lady Alymer separated from him and moved before a huge work of Brutus, standing over his traitorous sons, depicted with a large scythe stretched across the neck of one son, and another man holding up a severed head. “Oh my. It’s quite gruesome, isn’t it?” She sounded awed and not ready to succumb to a fit of vapors.

  His insides tightened at how remarkable, how refreshing, he found her. Compared to his late wife, whom he couldn’t seem to recall much at all. Had he been trying to forget Corinne? The question bothered him. He shook away the thought.

  “Had you seen this depiction before?” he asked her. It was certainly not the sort of art one paraded before a lady, but he had a feeling Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer was different. She was not a simpering green girl. Her stature may be tall and willowy, but she gave the impression of someone strong, impenetrable, a fighter. She’d seen him at his worst, or almost, hadn’t she? She hadn’t swooned or called for her vinaigrette at the slightest breach of etiquette.

  “The subject matter seems familiar but not this particular painting. It’s Brutus, isn’t it? Having his sons put to death.”

  “Yes. Lucius Junius Brutus had staged a revolt to overthrow the last king of Rome. Brutus had vowed one man would never again rule over the Roman people, but his brother-in-law and his own sons plotted to restore the monarchy. Their machinations, however, were discovered and they were sentenced to death as traitors. Brutus, in fact, was ordered to witness his sons’ executions.”

  She shuddered but did not shy away from the horror of his tale. “What is the significance of the scythe?”

  Rather than answering,
Harlowe gently took her arm. It was smooth as silk beneath his touch. He led her to the next work: a harsh rendition of a London neighborhood. Each of the doors were painted a vivid cobalt, deepened with the slightest mixture of black, though it was obvious the scene was nighttime. A line of streetlamps were lit, their subtle glow reflected in the metal pieces that held each globe fixture in place. Scythes. Each and every light up the entire lane as far as the eye could see. “Notice anything interesting?”

  He didn’t wait for her reply, drawing her to the next one. A coastal scene of soldiers.

  “Dover?” she asked gently.

  He concurred with a short incline of his head.

  “I-I don’t understand.” She peered closer at the scene, then moved away. “The woman, she’s saying farewell to her beau—ah, there it is, within her skirts.”

  “Yes, another scythe.” Bitterness roiled like bile over his tongue. “This is why I require your assistance. I can’t remember why, Lady Alymer—”

  “Maeve.”

  His head came up. “What?”

  “My name is Maeve. If we are to work together, I give you leave to call me by my name. In private, of course. We would not want to give anyone the wrong impression, my lord.”

  He smiled, one of relief that he felt from the flats of his feet. He took her hand and bowed low over it, brushing her bare knuckles with the lightest touch of his lips. “Brandon, my lady—Maeve. You shall return the favor.”

  “Of course… Brandon.” Heat infused every limb Maeve possessed. His name on her tongue felt decadent to the point of indecent.

  Harlowe dragged his eyes from her, turning to the Dover work he’d showed her moments before. He reached up to touch one of the strings, stopping just short. He tipped his head to one side, his gaze on the picture. “She said I used too much paint, but she’d said it with affection.”

  “Corinne? Oh—forgive me, I mean Lady Harlowe.”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He turned, and his eyes glittered with some dark, seething emotion.

  Maeve’s heart fluttered in her breast like the wispiest gossamer, strands so fragile, she dare not inhale too deep. She managed to shift her focus to each of the paintings Har—Brandon had pointed out to save him any embarrassment. “I seem to detect a common theme,” she said in a husky voice she didn’t recognize.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, the scythes.”

  “Not just the scythes. You said it yourself when you explained the Brutus painting. Wait. Did you paint these?” She moved to the next one past the Dover. “This is Judas, kissing Christ. The colors are remarkably stark.” She located the scythe immediately within the folds of Judas’s robe. “They’re all traitors.” She moved back to the Dover work. The woman kissing her beau had her eyes open, peering at someone over his shoulder. Another man, perhaps. She found the scythe in the folds of her skirts.

  “Yes, traitors.”

  She spun slowly, studied him in the dim lighting. His eyes caught hers and refused to release their hold. “Did you paint these?”

  “I… did.”

  “They are quite spectacular.” The rich hues, the thickness of paint that allowed another layer of texture. The passion in the strokes reached deep and touched her soul despite the harsh nature of their subject matter. It felt… erotic, for lack of a better word. Her skin itched.

  “But what do they mean?” He seemed to be speaking more to himself.

  She shook her head, at a loss for an answer. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” The anguish in his eyes decided her, and something more became clear. “I can’t help but think that your painting again would do more for your memory than penning your memoirs, but, of course, I would be honored in helping you.” She smiled. “Anything to keep me free of Ingleby House.”

  In the minutest shift, he loomed closer. Close enough she feared he would kiss her. Her lips tingled in anticipation. Her skin seemed too tight for her body, and for certain her corset.

  He straightened and stepped back as if he’d caught the smell of something odious.

  Humiliation flooded her, she spun and dashed for stairs before he could further witness her shame.

  “Lady Alymer—Maeve, please.”

  She knew he couldn’t reach her, not when she was running for her life. But it wouldn’t stop him from trying. She reached the second floor and pulled up.

  “There you are, Maeve.” Lorelei was poised in the crosshairs of the main hallways. She glanced past Maeve. “I would think Nathan already nestled, and sleeping soundly, in his bed.”

  “Yes. I was holding him when he fell asleep without a peep.” It wasn’t a lie. Her heart pounded. She was terrified Harlowe would make his appearance, skewing her version of recent events.

  “I heard something interesting tonight at Peachornsbys’,” Lorelei said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  There was no way for Maeve to escape, and thankfully, she’d caught her breath, even if the blood still roared in her ears. “What was that?” she said lightly.

  “You are scheduled for a drive in the park tomorrow afternoon with Dorset.”

  Good heavens, she’d forgotten. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I also heard that Oxford stopped by earlier today and visited with you and Brandon.” Lorelei reached out and dragged her into a quick hug. “Thank you for that, my friend.”

  “For what?” she whispered.

  “Bringing my brother to life again.”

  “I’m certain it was nothing I did.” Maeve’s voice didn’t even sound like her own. Not that husky strangled croak.

  Lorelei stood back and swiped at her own dampened cheek. “By the by, what do you think of a quick trip to Bond Street in the morning?”

  “I was thinking of an excursion to the park with Nathan.”

  “That is an excellent plan. I’ll send a note to Ginny and invite Irene and Celia,” Lorelei said.

  Maeve resisted an urge to look over her shoulder. Chances were very high that Harlowe was still in the gallery, contemplating his lost memory through his brilliant artwork, and not standing just feet above, listening to every praising word Lorelei said.

  Maeve pulled herself up. How utterly silly of her to let someone of Harlowe’s ilk get to her, reduce her to a blithering idiot.

  Kimpton came up the stairs, holding a tumbler of amber liquid. “Good evening, Lady Alymer. I have some information for you regarding new lodgings if you are still interested. Of course, you are more than welcome to reside here as long as you like.”

  Maeve considered his ending statement, then pinned him with a savvy gleam. “My mother cornered you, didn’t she?”

  He scowled.

  Lorelei covered her laugh with a hand.

  Maeve’s hands went to her hips.

  “All right, I concede.” He shoved a hand through his hair. “That woman is relentless. I thought Ginny’s mother had the market. I was wrong.”

  “Yes, well, my abject apologies for your encounter. What did she say exactly?”

  “She wanted to know when you were coming home. I certainly didn’t have a response to that.”

  “I see. Well, suffice it to say I’m still interested in hearing what you’ve found. Would tomorrow afternoon be agreeable to meet? Before my drive with Dorset?”

  “Certainly, I shall make myself available.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Maeve reached over and squeezed Lorelei’s hand. “I’ll see you in the morning, my dear.”

  Ten

  H

  arlowe stood in the darkness, partway down the stairs of the third floor until he heard Maeve’s chamber door shut behind her. He quietly went back up the stairs, found a candle and located another flight of stairs that led to the attic. The door wasn’t locked.

  He moved through the space and located a couple more candles and set their wicks aflame, sending flickering shadows on the contents of the room.

  Upon her marriage to Kimpton, Lorelei had insisted h
er new husband allot a space for Harlowe to paint when he’d visited on holidays from Eton, then Cambridge.

  Over the years, it was safe to say, there had been no love lost between Harlowe and his brother-in-law. The man had shown no respect for Harlowe’s interest in art. Harlowe was forced to accredit Kimpton with some sense, however. It had been just Lorelei and Harlowe since Harlowe had been a mulish thirteen-year-old child.

  Things had not improved when Kimpton had swooped in and stolen Lorelei’s attention and affection. Nor did they improve when Kimpton failed to understand or accept Harlowe’s talent. Of course, being the stubborn nitwit he’d been, Harlowe had dug in his heels.

  On the upside, Harlowe had turned out to be a damned good artist. At Lorelei’s insistence, Kimpton funded Harlowe’s education and his Grand Tour. For Kimpton’s part, it kept Harlowe from being underfoot.

  Harlowe lifted the candle and did a slow circle of the room. It was too dark to determine if there was any dust, but he suspected his sister made sure the studio was regularly cleaned. There were no exposed canvases, they were all shrouded with white cloths. A couple of tall wood easels stood empty. He went to the closest sheet and whipped it away, revealing a stack of pictures against the wall.

  Nostalgia hit him in the chest with a punch. These works he’d done the first Christmastide Lorelei and Kimpton were married. Seeing them now, as the grown version of himself, had him cringing. Objectively, however, he could see the underlying lines of true talent. He thumbed through picture after picture, some finished, many not. Landscapes dominated the majority. There were a few where he’d attempted portraits, but he’d never entertained a model in his sister’s home. He shuddered at that thought. He moved to another section and pulled away its covering. These works showed more maturity. Some maturity. It was clear he’d had a long way to go.

  At the back of the stack, he found a rendition of Colonel Robert Lundy being confronted by another man who stood on the opposite side of a wooden table, clutching a wrinkled missive.