by Diana Ballew
He moved into the room, circling slowly. The violence, the stench of death, was shocking. His eyes burned. He stifled the urge to vomit, blinking hard. He moved to the large windows and glanced out. Had someone seen? No. The view looked out over the garden at the rear of the property.
He started to the door, anxious to escape, but something caught his eye. Behind the chest, he caught the corner of a canvas. He rushed over and tugged it from its hidden alcove.
“Not so lucky, you wily bastards.” Holding his breath, he rolled it up.
“Kimpton!” Brock’s voice bellowed from below, the echo scraping his skin like glass. “I’ve found him.”
Thorne dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. God, what would he tell Lorelei—
“It’s not Harlowe. It’s his valet. His name escapes me.”
“Marcus,” Thorne said. “His name was Marcus.”
Chapter 5
Lorelei jumped down from the hired cab and pitched a coin to the driver just as she’d witnessed Bethie do the night before. “If you could wait for a moment, sir?” She watched him bite down on the shilling before it disappeared from sight.
He nodded.
She checked the street in both directions. The overcast sky was a relief, really, without a moon or twinkling stars. Just a dense and foggy night. A second later Ginny cleared the coach. Lorelei grabbed her hand, and they hurried to Miss Hollerfield’s door. She was almost certain her shiver had nothing to do with the chilly, damp night air. It would be pouring within another fifteen minutes, she’d wager.
The walk did nothing to alleviate the knots in Lorelei’s stomach. They were excruciating. Bare stems overhung from a grand basket of flowers from the floor above. Lorelei reached for the knocker and stopped. “The knocker. It’s gone,” she said.
“She can’t have left town, can she?” Ginny pulled her hand from Lorelei’s and spun in a circle.
Lorelei placed her ear against the door. “That’s odd. It sounds as if someone is in there.”
Ginny grabbed her arm. “We should leave.”
Lorelei tugged her arm away, a stubborn resolve surging through her. “No. I came to say my piece, and I intend to say it.” She turned around and banged on the heavy door with her gloved hand, for all the good it did. The sound was muted. She placed her hand on the knob—
Ginny gasped. “Don’t—”
Before Lorelei could change her mind, she twisted and pushed. Well-oiled hinges were amazing. Despite hearing no creaks, her pulse clattered in her ears as if she heard horse hooves hitting the pavement in a dead run. What did she hope to accomplish with the notorious courtesan? Would the woman confront Lorelei and Ginny with a weapon? Lorelei steeled her spine. She had questions, blast it. With luck, she and Ginny could be in and out within a half hour, with no one other than Miss Hollerfield the wiser. She started forward, but her skirts caught. She glanced over her shoulder.
Ginny’s fingers gripped her woolen cloak in a tightly clasped fist. “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded in a whisper.
“I want answers. Now let go.” Lorelei snatched her cloak from Ginny’s hold and stepped across the threshold. “Either come in or stay out, but close the door,” she whispered.
Lorelei ignored her friend’s frustrated huff, aware of Ginny quickly following. She shut the door quietly.
A candelabra illuminated a shallow but luxurious entry hall of marbled floors and walls papered in dark, rich red. Lorelei ran her hand over a straight-backed chair next to a receiving table poised near a grand staircase, most likely leading up to her “bedchamber of sin.” With a disgusted sniff, Lorelei tip-toed over to a door that was slightly ajar, a renewed fire blazing through her.
She peered into what was a large parlor, the very same room she’d witnessed her husband in the night before. She absconded with one candle from the candelabra and strolled into the room, a lavish space that showcased crown moldings and elaborately carved woodwork. Heavy drapes now covered the windows Lorelei had stood beneath. Most shocking were the white dust cloths covering the furnishings.
The door closed as silently as it had opened, startling her. A second later Ginny was breathing down her neck. “Oh, my. I suppose if I should have to sell my body I should come to Miss Hollerfield for advice.”
Lorelei was forced to agree, she thought, compressing her lips. It was clear Miss Hollerfield did not suffer from a lack of funds. Just whose funds kept her in such elegance was what made Lorelei's blood boil.
“Quick, someone’s coming,” Ginny said.
Her whisper blew out the flame. She tugged Lorelei behind what was most likely the settee. They dropped down. Not so easy, in snugly tied corsets.
“Clear out the remaining stores for Stephen. He should have been back hours ago. You know how particular Miss Hollerfield is.” The voice was matronly. Decisive. “She said they don’t need no food where her and Miss Corinne were going.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Pack the bed linens. Do it right, mind ye.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Sturdy steps echoed off the wood in the entry hall, gaining ground toward the parlor. The steps paused. “Who the devil took one of the candles—”
Lorelei cringed.
But lighter, running footsteps interrupted the woman’s diatribe. “What the—”
“There’s been a murder.” A voice, young and breathless, panted.
“It’s ‘bout time ye got back. Ye know we gots much to do?”
“Yes, ma’am, I know, ma’am.”
“Now, slow down. What’s all this malarkey ‘bout murder?”
“They’re sayin’ the pa of Miss Hollerfield’s babe was found dead.”
The mewling sound of a hurt animal pierced the room. Ginny’s hand pressed over Lorelei’s mouth. A crack of thunder rocked the house.
“What was that?”
“Thunder, ma’am.”
Shocked silence filled the hall, except for the rampage of rain that crashed against the windows. Lorelei’s head pounded off-beat from the deluge outside. Thorne, dead? Spots swam before her eyes. The words pricked her brain in staccato succession: Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
“Enough of yer tall tales, Stephen. Get to the kitchens and finish up with ye. And not a word t’anyone ‘bout this, ye hear?”
“But—”
“But nothin’, I tell ye, git! Same to you, Mary. We need to be on our way. Finish up with them linens.” She snapped her fingers and feet clopped on the stairs, fading away.
“Come,” Ginny whispered. “We must get out of here.”
Lorelei looked at her, confused, the words not registering. Ginny grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Hard.
“Lorelei, we must go.”
Ginny tugged her through the front hall and out the door. Ice cold rain seeped down her neck, saturated her garments, freezing her skin. Thick bile choked her. Thorne dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Ginny pounded the ceiling of the hackney. “Go!” she yelled, as Lorelei slipped into a dark fog.
Studying the painting without Lorelei looking over his shoulder or bombarding him with questions was the ideal situation, Thorne thought, as he followed Brock through the archway into Brock’s library. It was the only sensible solution, after realizing this was the only piece of work that had survived at Harlowe’s. The less Lorelei was exposed to this business the better. Whatever “this” was.
“In here. Punkle, brandy. And light more candles.” With a wide sweep of his forearm, Brock cleared a large, flat desk cluttered with papers.
* * *
Thorne unrolled the canvas, taking unusual care when it came to Harlowe’s “art.”
“What is it?” Brock asked.
“A group of men. My guess is some kind of political meeting.” Eight men wore hats from the late sixteenth to early seventeenth century. They appeared to be arguing. Almost all sported full beards groomed to a point and elaborate mustaches that covered their top lips. All in all, the work was sk
illfully detailed. “I must admit, Harlowe’s talented, despite the bizarre subject matter.”
“Look at this. Third man from the right. Looks like Guy Fawkes, do you think?”
Thorne leaned in. “Or a very close resemblance. Here,” he pointed just above the figure. “He’s labeled. Most of them are. You’re right, it is Fawkes. The name is difficult to read though. See? Just above his hat.”
Brock indicated the next man over, towards the center. “He looks markedly familiar, doesn’t he.” It wasn’t a question. “No hat and his coat is not in line with others. Looks more in line with something Shufflebottom would wear, considering the excess of lace.”
Thorne let out a bark of laughter at Brock’s observation. “He’s certainly out of place. And I agree. He does look familiar.” But he couldn’t place him. Nor was the figure identified, not legibly, just a squiggled loop above his hatless head. “This strikes me as a message of some sort. I would swear it,” Thorne said. Surprise filtered through him as another thought took shape. One that had him thinking crow might be on the menu in the very near future. And still the words took voice. “Mayhap Harlowe is not the idle libertine I’ve believed all these years.”
Startled, Brock stood back and narrowed his eyes on Thorne. “You said he’s been bringing his works to Lady Kimpton?”
Thorne’s gaze moved back to the unidentified man in the sketch. “For months now. Perhaps it’s time to take a closer look at exactly what he’s entrusted to my wife.”
Rain pounded the roof of the carriage. The muscles in Lorelei’s face felt like marble. She couldn’t remember running down the walk or getting into the conveyance. She bit her knuckles, unable to unleash the clog in her throat, but the force of pressure was too great, and a gulping sob erupted. “It-it cannot be.” She couldn’t see for the blinding tears, hear for the rushing blood, feel for her numbed fingers.
From the seat across, Ginny leaned forward, snatching her by the shoulders, and shook her. Again, “Lorelei, listen to me.”
Lorelei forced herself to focus on her friend, clung to her words as a lifeline. Yet the roaring in her ears refused to subside.
“Breathe.” Ginny spoke quietly. Her manner was confident and matter-of-fact. Hysterics crawled up Lorelei's spine, gripping her by the throat in an unusual urge to giggle. Ginny speaking quietly. “Breathe, Lorelei. You must breathe. You cannot faint. Do you hear me?”
Yes. Yes, I hear you. The words wouldn’t squeeze past the constriction. Breathe, she needed to breathe. Lorelei fought to pull in air, but the pain was too great. She tried again. And, yet, again. Each attempt helped, and the roaring lessened, until she could distinguish the sound of rain from her erratic pulse. Prickles in the form of ice tripped over her arms and her fingers began to tremble. The tremble moved up her arms, to her neck, and over her scalp, until her teeth began to chatter and wouldn’t quit.
Ginny’s hands were warm on hers. “We cannot know for certain it was your ... your h-husband, Lorelei. You must pull yourself together.”
“B-but you heard—”
“Yes, I heard what they said, and that is merely speculation.” Ginny moved to dig a lace handkerchief from her reticule and shoved the scrap into Lorelei’s hand. “Dry your eyes, dear. We shall see this through, whatever it is.”
Lorelei buried her face into her hands. What was there to say? Ginny was right. Lorelei moved a hand over a pain in her chest. She strived for the calm she was renowned for. She would know. She would know if Thorne were dead. She would feel it, in her heart.
As they pulled up before Kimpton Manor, Ginny grasped her hand and squeezed. A true friend. The door swung back. Once Andrew helped them out, Ginny hurried them ahead and through the open door Oswald stood before. “Tea, Oswald, and brandy.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Ginny guided Lorelei to the parlor and planted her in a chair near the fire just as the knocker pounded from the hall.
“We should get the door.” Lorelei rose on shaking knees. “Os-oswald’s i-indisp-sposed.” Her teeth chattered embarrassingly.
“No—”
“W-we m-must.” Lorelei reached the foyer the same instant as Bethie.
Bethie rushed to her side. “Ye’ll catch yer death, ye will,” she chided.
The strength to override her bossy maid had waned. Her body's wavering from hot to cold and back threatened her ability to stand. “The d-door—”
“Never you mind. I’ll git it,” Bethie said, pulling it back.
A strange man stepped across the threshold, and tugged off his hat. A tarnished shine of metal on his dark blue coat winked in the harsh candlelight of the foyer. Each detail touched Lorelei’s sluggish mind. His coat worn to the point of being threadbare. His gruff features: squinting eyes, a chin badly in need of a razor. The candles in the chandelier flickered wildly. He spoke, exposing rotting teeth. “I’m Constable Davies—” The sight should have terrified her. A constable didn’t belong here. Her conscience couldn’t seem to grasp the absurdness of such a silly thought, instead leaving her feeling ... otherworldly, until ghost-gray eyes appeared just beyond the greasy hair of his head.
Her knees gave out, and she sank into a swell of blackness.
Brock stopped, his gaze fastened on Virginia Ninnis’s full lips forming a perfectly shaped ‘o’ as Kimpton swept his wife from sight at the top of the grandiose stairway.
Slowly, she turned, her eyes surveying the remaining players—the dripping constable, the proper butler—finally, stopped and resting on him. A soft blush crawled up her neck, infusing her cheeks. “Well, I must be going.” She spoke loudly, perhaps an attest to her scattered senses.
Brock reveled in her discomfort for a moment, then, with a gallant bow, he said, “I shall see you home.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “That shan’t be necessary.” These words were spoken a bit lower and possibly hissed.
The exchange came off as somewhat awkward. The constable shifted his weight from one side to the other. His wet clothes dripped a pool of dirty water on the marbled floor.
Brock shot him a look that should have sent the man stumbling back and out the door. Instead, the whelp squared his shoulders and stood taller. Brock snatched Lady Maudsley’s arm and pulled her, none too gently, into Kimpton’s drawing room, and slammed the door behind them.
She flinched.
“I said, I shall see you home.”
“No!” Her voice raised half an octave. Her chest rose with the deep breath she took. The sight drew his attention and refused to let go. His fingers tingled with long-held desire. He forced his gaze to hers. Then narrowed, taking in the soaked, woolen, dowdy brown cape, the unflattering sturdy shoes, and sodden hair. “Surely, you do not expect to return in this downpour, alone?” She could have hit him with a sledgehammer, and he wouldn’t have been more surprised. Suspicion roared through him. She and Lady Kimpton had been up to mischief. Just what mischief, he could only imagine.
“I-I’ll shall just send for my carriage … ” she stuttered.
Again, desire flooded him. She really was the most engaging woman, even with her ginger hair flattened against her head in a most unflattering coiffure and her shapeless apparel.
And, unfortunately, married. To an oaf whose depravities were well-known throughout the ton. By the male sector, in any event. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
She cut him off, threw up her palm. “Lord Brockway, please. I must change my attire—” She glanced at the closed door, brows furrowed. “I-I must get to the Martindales’ masquerade.”
Ah, Lord Maudsley, the swine. “Pray, change your attire then, my lady. I am more than willing to wait. Once I escort you to the Martindales, I shall then send for your carriage. Do not fret. I will appear long after you’ve made your grand entrance.”
“But—”
Lud, she was as stubborn as he could ever recall. “No arguments, madam.” He stood firm. “You will not be leaving here without an escort.”
“Lorel
ei—”
“Ginny—” She stiffened at his soft address, and he redirected himself. “Lady Maudsley, please. Lady Kimpton is in excellent hands. Her own husband’s, mind.” His chest constricted at the worry creasing her forehead. “It’s settled, then?”
Her head dipped in a crisp nod, and the constriction banding his chest loosened.
Brock went to the door. “Oswald.” The man’s efficiency was insurmountable. Brock handed him the rolled painting. “See this to Lord Kimpton's study, if you please. Oh, and send a maid to assist Lady Maudsley.”
Minutes later, a head in a white mob-cap appeared around the door. Brock clasped his hands at his lower back, gazing at the delectable Lady Maudsley. He turned a benign smile on her. “Take your time, my lady. I am in no hurry.”
With an exasperated huff, she flounced out, leaving him in a most frustrated state.
Chapter 6
Thorne clasped his Lorelei’s hand. How small, how delicate it seemed. He rested a finger on her wrist and felt for the small throb of her pulse. Her skin, in the glow of the blazing fire from the hearth, was translucent, her flaxen hair plastered to her head.
Fear gripped him. She’d taken a chill and was trembling in a mass of shivers, her skin hot against the back of his hand. The wet cloak and dress he’d stripped her of lay in a heap before the fire. Her no-nonsense lady’s maid barreled in with a basin of cool water.
Thorne cleared space on the bedside table. “Set it here.”
She obeyed quickly enough, but her countenance was most defiant. Confusing, but unimportant at the moment. Thorne ignored her. “A cloth, if you please,” he said softly.
“Aye, my lord.”
The cloth landed in his hand.
He dipped it in the water, wrung it out, then dabbed it along Lorelei’s forehead. Blast it, she was much too warm. “Tell Oswald to send for Dr. Pogue.”