The Viscount's Vendetta Read online

  Harlowe extracted the painting and set it up on one of the empty easels. What an odd portrait for him to paint. He took up a candle for a clearer view.

  Lundy had been accused of treason. But the man had perished in 1689, for God’s sake. The scythe in the picture was more difficult to locate. Harlowe found it in part of what one could decipher in the note.

  None of this made a lick of sense. But every situation of these men he’d painted… these traitors, warned danger was afoot. He just couldn’t say how. Not now, knowing Maudsley was already dead. Griston, too, or might as well be since having been committed to Bedlam. And Vlasik Markov dead… it left… no one. No one but Harlowe, and he couldn’t remember a damn thing.

  So why did his insides seem to crawl with some vile disease for which there was no cure? His head pounded as he turned away from the painting. He went to the window and looked out over the cloudy night into the shadows where nothing was in focus.

  Maeve.

  What was it about her?

  How disappointing to learn she was to take a drive with Dorset. She had Kimpton scouting new lodgings for her. Away from him—

  Not you, he chastised himself. Her mother. She’d complained enough about Lady Ingleby. Even Kimpton had the odd comment. Maeve Pendleton oozed independence. Self-assurance. Self-appointed liberty. What would she want with a man who couldn’t remember his own dead wife? Or a man who harbored doubts about the child residing in the nursery being of his own blood?

  He went back to the easel and stared at Robert Lundy. “Why did I feel it necessary to include you?” he demanded. His voice bounded against the walls. Thick, though they were, he was certain no one in the house could overhear him.

  He blew out all but one candle and, carrying it, made his way down two flights of stairs to the inside of his chamber.

  Rory stood at the windows, but they were closed.

  The room was stifling. His shirt clawed at his neck. “I need out of this house.” He went to the wardrobe and found a hat.

  “I might accompany you, if’n you don’t mind, milord.”

  “Be quick about it then. I have no intention of waiting all night.” He was glad it was Rory rather than Casper. Still, it wouldn’t have mattered—he needed out. Now.

  Somewhere a clock chimed the eleventh hour.

  “And be quiet about it. If Lady Alymer hears us, she’s liable to demand to come along. The woman has the ears of an elephant.”

  Maeve’s gown fell in a pool at her feet. She accepted Parson’s assistance, slipping her night rail over her head. “Did you hear voices?”

  “Now it’s a crime for a man and his valet to talk?”

  “I’m being silly, I suppose.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to say so, milady.”

  Maeve met Parson’s eyes in the vanity’s mirror. “Of course, you wouldn’t.” Every exchange since the day before, at Maeve’s show of temper, grew more awkward. “By the way, I’ll be accompanying Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway to the park with the children tomorrow. I shan’t need your services.”

  “But—”

  Maeve cut her off. “Not for the park, leastways. I will, however, need for you to retrieve some things from Ingleby House for me. I’ll make a list and you can have one of the footmen assist you.”

  Parson’s pained smile didn’t quite work.

  Ignoring her, Maeve pulled the pins from her hair. “I’m going to begin working on Alymer’s ancient secret society texts. Finish what he began. Add to his legacy, if you will.”

  “But—”

  “You can inform my mother, Oxford has offered his services in assisting me getting them published.” That should appease both her mother and her maid.

  The audible swallow forestalled any further comments from her maid.

  Maeve dropped the last of the pins from her head and pushed her fingers through her hair and vehemently scratched. Lord, that felt good. She picked up her brush and looked over her shoulder at Parson. With another curve of her lips she couldn’t quite muster sincerity for, she said, “That will be all for tonight, Parson. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Learn anything about Dorset I should know?” Harlowe maintained a casual walk, down the upscale walks of Mayfair, surprised at how groggy he still felt. The cravings weren’t horrible most days, and he longed for the day when they ended. What if they never ended? His body quivered at that horror. He quickly shook it off and surveyed his surroundings.

  This portion of London didn’t harbor the riff-raff of Seven Dials, Bethnal Green, or Whitechapel. Sadly, one would never find a young woman walking about at this hour.

  Not one who didn’t require accompaniment. Or one without.

  “Dorset is three and thirty,” Rory said, snagging Harlowe’s attention. “He has four younger sisters, and the last one was just married off, though, himself’s never wed.” Rory chuckled. “The debs are after him like vultures on a carcass.”

  Harlowe grunted. Like he’d needed to hear that.

  “Fact is, if he wadn’t a nob, he’d be a regular bloke.” Rory’s admiration of Dorset was growing by bounds.

  Harlowe grinned in the night. He appreciated Rory in forgetting Harlowe was a ‘nob’ too. “What of Oxford?”

  “Bah. He’s an arrogant arse but nothing unexpected.”

  They continued their walk on Stratton towards Green Park in the brisk cool air. Harlowe led the way to Watiers by way of Bolton then halted before a darkened building. “What happened here?”

  “To Watiers, my lord? It was disbanded last year.”

  With his hand on his hip, Harlowe surveyed the area in disgust. “What of White’s, Boodles? Are they gone as well?” he demanded.

  “No, milord.”

  That was a relief. Harlowe felt as if he’d recently risen from the dead to a future where one could fly to the moon—a silly notion to be sure. They ambled along Piccadilly to St. James. He let out a profound breath at seeing the windows lit up and hearing the chatter that spilled out. A group of young men stumbled out onto one of the balconies situated over the portico, smoking.

  Harlowe started for the door, but Rory held back. “What is it, man?”

  “I’ll just wait out here, yer lordship.”

  Ah. He wasn’t a member. Nor was he dressed to accompany Harlowe inside. “Of course. I’m sorry, Rory. How remiss of me. Perhaps you could listen for something from the men leaving. I shan’t be long.”

  Rory moved off to a strand of trees, fading into their shadows. It was an excellent strategy, actually.

  Harlowe pardoned his way inside through the young bucks coming out. They were a boisterous bunch, making him feel older than dirt. The smell of expensive leather and tobacco hit him, and he grew a little lightheaded. He grasped the knob of the balustrade to steady himself then worked his way up to the second level. It had been so long since he’d moved in this realm it felt otherworldly.

  Snatches of conversation wielded over him like a blacksmithy’s hammer. The crowded gaming tables stole all the oxygen from the rooms. There didn’t seem to be an open window anywhere. Anxiety pumped through his blood, rushed his ears, dotted his vision. Doing his best to quell his panic to appear normal, even with his skin pulled so tight he thought it would peel away, Harlowe set his sight on a window at the end of a long stretch of hall. It appeared cracked, beckoning him like the laudanum he fought so desperately against.

  Harlowe reached the window, shoved it wide, breathing in the deep cold rush. On the third round, his vision cleared, and his hearing sharpened to those around.

  “A drink, Lord Harlowe?”

  Slowly, Harlowe swiveled, recognizing the head waiter, but unable to recall his name. “Whiskey,” he said, knowing and inwardly cringing at the choked intonation.

  Nodding, the man disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared only to be replaced by his childhood friend, Baron Welton. “How good to see you, George.” How strange that he could remember s
ome things and not others. It made no sense at all.

  Welton clapped him on the back. “Where you been keeping yourself for nigh on a year, Brandon?”

  “Here and there,” he answered carefully.

  “Heard you got yourself married—er, sorry, old chap. Also heard she passed.”

  “Thank you. Is, er, any of the old set here?” Harlowe asked.

  “Yes, yes. Most of ’em. Not much changes for the ranks, does it?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Only for men like him who’d been hit on the head, left for dead, then tossed in an asylum, drugged and dumped on a ship bound for who knew where. Such a path had the tendency to make a man stop and think about life as it were.

  “At least you got your heir, eh?”

  “There’s that,” he murmured, cursing the waiter for taking so long to bring his whiskey. “Ah, thanks.” It was if he’d snapped his fingers and his drink appeared. Harlowe took a long swallow, nearly downing the entire contents. “What’s with the large crowd?” Had it always been such and he just didn’t remember?

  “The race at Newmarket was yesterday and everyone hurried back to town to celebrate their wins.”

  “So, you’re still gracing all the regular haunts, are you?”

  “Yes, yes. Looking for my heiress nightly, then gaming my way till morn, most days.” Welton pulled back, narrowing his drunken gaze over him. “You don’t look so well, my friend. Thought you might be a little relieved that—”

  A chill stole up Harlowe’s spine, raising the hair on his neck. “Relieved at what?”

  “Er, ah, nothing, nothing,” Welton quickly backtracked.

  A deadly calm swept him. “To lose my wife?”

  Welton’s mouth clamped in a tight line, and he wisely said nothing.

  Perhaps he’d noticed Harlowe’s tightened fist. It wouldn’t be the first time he and his friend had scuffled. But Welton had always fallen on the cowardly side of the line. “Why would you think I’d be glad my wife was dead, Welton?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Harlowe waited but apparently his old friend had said all he was going to say on the matter. An unusual tact for Welton. “So where are the dandies hanging about now that Watiers has gone debunk?”

  “Oh, here and there. Widow Chancé still hosts her art salons. The Althe—er—” He stopped, glanced around, then said, “White’s, of course, Navy. A few others have come and gone.” Welton downed his drink, clapped Harlowe on the back again. “Good to see you, Harlowe. I’m meeting Shufflebottom and a few others for late night trolling.” He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “You’re welcome to join us.”

  “I appreciate it, but I’ll pass for now. Wouldn’t look good, would it, for gaming the night away after just having lost my wife.”

  Welton nodded then took his leave.

  Harlowe looked out at the night sky, another memory assaulting him. The Athenaeum Order. That’s what Welton had been about to say. Harlowe’s lips tightened in disgust. A group of debauched men Harlowe had ever known. It was an underground establishment. Men who preferred young girls. Really young. Suddenly, the street scene painting he’d shown Maeve floated before him. That had been Maudsley’s house, right? Or was it Rowena Hollerfield’s—

  God, his aching head. The pain had returned with a vengeance.

  Eleven

  T

  he next morning Maeve smoothed her hands over her pale-peach day gown and checked her hair in the mirror. She was dressed for her outing with Lorelei, Ginny, and the children. She hurried to the morning room for a quick fast of tea and scones.

  Lorelei sauntered in, followed by Ginny, Irene, and Celia.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Maeve smiled at the sight of gowns in colors ranging from pink to sky blue to yellow. “Don’t you look festive this morning.”

  “Mama decided we needed comportment after our lessons with Papa. We were most rambunctious,” six-year-old Cecilia informed her.

  Maeve lifted her cup to hide her grin. “I see.”

  “What else did Mama tell us?” Irene asked of her younger sister.

  “Oh, yes. Not to mention our safe-guarding lessons outside of home.” Celia plopped down in the nearest chair and eyed Maeve’s scone. “But this feels like home so I thought I could mention it here.”

  Lorelei wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You are quite right, Celia. This is your home as well. Irene, you and Celia, help yourselves to the sidebar.”

  “Whose red flowers are those in the hall? They’re beautiful. When I’m big I’m going to have lots of flowers too,” Celia said with all the confidence of a six-year-old.

  “Flowers?” Maeve took a scone, slathered it with raspberry jam, then poured out some clotted cream.

  Celia spread her arms wide. “This big.”

  Lorelei held up the pot to refill Maeve’s cup. “They’re for you. From Oxford. It appears he enjoyed his visit yesterday.”

  Maeve’s jaw fell. “But we only talked. And… and Harlowe was there the entire time. Why would Oxford send me flowers?” she sputtered.

  “If you have to ask…” Ginny said. “Tea, please.”

  Lorelei poured out more cups and passed them around. She leaned in. “Harlowe went for a walk last night,” she said.

  “He did what?” Maeve was furious at the notion.

  Lorelei doctored her own scone. “He must have gone just after we parted ways last night.”

  Suddenly, Maeve knew exactly when he’d left.

  “Kimpton heard him and Rory return. I was incensed, of course. He could have been set upon by cutthroats. I vow my brother has no care for his health.”

  “This is Mayfair, Lorelei, not the docks,” Ginny pointed out.

  Frustration cascaded from Lorelei. “Still, he is much too ill to be traipsing about in the night air.”

  Maeve silently agreed and had every intention of letting him know exactly that. She remained silent, fuming inside and out. She’d been installed to see to Harlowe’s care for his health. Nothing else. Not that there was an else. It wasn’t as if he’d kissed her. Or wanted to kiss her. The one time he had, he’d been delirious and out of his head. It did not hurt her feelings that for an instant he’d made her believe she was the most desirable woman in Mayfair. Why should it? Of course she wasn’t the most beautiful woman in Mayfair, or London for that matter. At four and twenty she was practically in her dotage.

  Ugh. Harlowe had been too much on her mind of late.

  Still, the scoundrel was under her care, and she had some say in the matter. She finished her tea then rose from the table, leaving her half-eaten scone. “I shall return in a moment. I’ve forgotten my reticule.”

  Lorelei and Ginny nodded.

  “Celia dear, only one biscuit at a time,” Irene said.

  “Irene dear, you are forgetting, once again that I am Celia’s mother…” Ginny said upon Maeve’s departure.

  “That’s strange,” Celia said.

  Ginny lifted her cup to her lips. “What is that, dear?”

  “Lady Alymer must have forgotten. Her reticule is right here.”

  Twelve

  T

  hat man had a lot of nerve putting Maeve’s care for him at risk. She hurried up the one flight and stalked to Lord High-and-Mighty’s bedchamber, crashed through the door without bothering to knock. “Lord Harlowe, what the devil do you think you are about—”

  From his reclined position in the copper tub, Harlowe lifted one brow. “Good morning—Maeve.” He drew her name out into one long husky syllable. “Care to scrub my back?”

  Gasping, she stomped across the room prepared to shut out the cold breeze, only to stop short and hang her fire-branded face outside. She gulped at the cool air. She eased back inside but didn’t turn around, leaving the window ajar. “Are you trying to catch your death? I think it might even snow today.” Still she didn’t turn back to him. Lord knows what she would ha
ve seen. “What do you mean by walking all over London in the wee hours. That is the coldest part of the day.”

  “I thought you had a drive with Dorset scheduled.”

  “I do. At four. I’m going shopping with Lorelei and Ginny this morning. Then the park with the children.”

  “Yes, and then a meeting with Kimpton on securing new lodgings.”

  She frowned, still keeping her eyes pinned to the gardens beyond. “Yes, but how did you know that? Oh, never mind.” She spun around. “You must hurry—Oh!” Gasping, she covered her eyes with one hand. “Put some clothes on. At the least, lock the blasted door. Celia and Irene are here and are liable to walk in as I did.” Oh, God. She’d walked in. Unannounced. On Lord Harlowe. She edged past the tub, keeping her eyes averted.

  “Would you mind handing me my towel, my dear? Only so I don’t catch my death.”

  The laughter in his voice tipped her temper. Why the devil should she be embarrassed? She was a widow. She squared her shoulders, dropped her hand, and scanned the area. She located the scrap of linen on a chair next to the tub, grabbed it, and threw it at him.

  His stellar reflexes snatched it out of midair. He rose from the tub like Poseidon from the sea. “You know what I think?”

  She was too stunned to move, shocked at his lack of modesty. “No,” she choked out. Could she not just sink through the floor? Could she not pull her eyes away from all his shameless beauty? The sculpted contours of his chest, the solid erected shaft jutting from the tufted hair between muscular thighs, stealing her ability to breathe. The cold air pouring in from the window did nothing to cool the fire raging over her too tight skin.

  “I think you can’t resist me. I think you want to see me.”

  “You-you went out last night. As Lorelei so succinctly put it, ‘you could have been set upon by cutthroats.’”

  His demeanor instantly changed to something dangerous. “I needed air,” he bit out. “You are not my keeper.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong. I am in charge of your health and you put yourself at risk.” With the pragmatism she was known for, she considered him without blinking. “All children need fresh air. I suppose that includes you.” She flung out a hand, masking her temper. “Never mind. What’s done is done. In any event, I wish to invite you to accompany us to the park.”