Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  “No,” Lorelei agreed, reluctantly. She hesitated a long moment. “And Lord Maudsley? Was he present as well?”

  In what would have otherwise been comic unison, all six women frowned at once. Lady Martindale said, “Yes. He was losing heavily in the card room, Martindale told me later. I’m certain he was not even aware when or if Lady Maudsley appeared.”

  Lorelei let out a slow, relieved stream of air, a little mollified. It was perfectly sensible that Ginny would have caught a small chill. After all, she did appear at the party, and as Thorne said, most likely no one saw that Ginny and Lord Brockway arrived together. The Kimpton carriage would have offered some protection.

  Lady Alymer sipped daintily from her cup and clinked it on her saucer, the sound reverberating in the hush, drawing sudden attention. Her auburn hair was a shade too red to be fashionable, as were her freckles too prominent to hide with dusting powder. She seemed so unbothered by her unsightly looks, Lorelei couldn’t help admiring her. Her blue eyes flashed with curiosity. “Is it true Lord Harlowe’s valet was found murdered?”

  “How did it go last night?” Thorne dropped into the chair across from Brock, soaking up White’s soothing atmosphere. “Bring another glass,” he told a nearby attendant. A slight hum stirred the air as other gentlemen throughout the club’s plush décor visited quietly.

  “Fine. Did you think it wouldn’t?” Brock emptied the contents of his glass. “Maudsley was too far in his cups by the time we’d arrived, none the wiser. How is Lady Kimpton today?”

  “Snug in her bed when last I left her.” Thorne could still feel her hot breath, her warm hand on his chest, the depth of his arousal. He couldn’t deny it. He was drowning in a deep, dark hole. Each passing hour felt like the swing of a lowering pendulum’s sharp blade. Her blonde locks tickling his nose; her fragrant skin scented with the softest of roses. He missed her. His own wife.

  He shook his head and made a concerted effort to focus. “I’ve been thinking. There is something odd in Harlowe’s one etching. I get the feeling he is into something deep. That perhaps he is hiding information in some of his works. I mean, who paints a political meeting with Fawkes?”

  “Unless he is planning on blowing up Carleton House.”

  That jerked his head up. “Christ, you don’t think that, do you?”

  A small bitter smile curved his friend’s mouth. “It was a jest.”

  “Yes, well. Perhaps we should take another look at Harlowe’s quarters.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  Thorne rose, but a looming figure blocked him. He lowered back into the leather chair. “Maudsley.”

  “Gentlemen.” Maudsley stood there, malice in his eyes, pitching a coin that he never seemed without into the air.

  The man’s attire was slightly out of kilter, not quite as pristine as was his norm. His face was gruff and unshaved. He looked as if he’d been carousing all night—that part, not so unusual.

  “Lady Kimpton survived the rain, I take it?”

  Thorne flexed his hands and cupped his knees, when what he truly preferred was his hands around the man’s neck. The effort to remain calm was difficult. He abhorred his wife’s name coming from Maudsley’s foul mouth. “Pogue looked in on her last night. She’d taken a chill.”

  “Ah, so Lady Maudsley implied. She herself is not up to par. A shame, that. Such a lovely day and all.” Maudsley pocketed his guinea and flicked a piece of lint from his coat. “She had a late night. Martindales' party, you know.”

  The tension surrounding Brock was so thick, Thorne could have sliced the air with a knife. “Yes, I believe I did catch sight of her at Martindales,” Brock rumbled. “I hope it’s nothing serious, she seemed fine last evening.”

  Thorne winced at the thinly veiled threat.

  Out came the coin as Maudsley narrowed his eyes on Brock. “I’m certain her customary good health will return within a few days.” Maudsley inclined his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  Maudsley sauntered away and Thorne glanced at Brock, his expression indecipherable. Maudsley was a bastard, and Thorne felt for his friend. But one did not interfere in another man’s affairs with his own wife. He made a mental note, however, to ask Lorelei to check on her friend. “Perhaps we should stick to the problem at hand.”

  With a curt nod, Brockway stood. “Harlowe’s, then?”

  Twenty minutes later Thorne jumped the fence to Harlowe’s garden with Brock at his back. He pulled out his handkerchief, prepared for the odor of death, and opened the door.

  Nothing had changed since the last time they’d entered. The air was stale, though the stench had almost dissipated since the body’s removal from the night before. He shoved the cloth in his pocket.

  In an unspoken agreement, they went up the stairs to the hall and stood between the three rooms.

  “You say that Maudsley told Shufflebottom I’d put Harlowe on a boat?” Thorne said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then perhaps its Maudsley’s abode we should be searching?”

  A feral gleam lit Brock’s expression. “Perhaps.”

  Thorne wandered through the parlor, then moved to Harlowe’s bedchamber. The violence of destruction was disturbing. He saw nothing that indicated Harlowe had been forced from his home. The bedclothes were strewn haphazardly across the mattress. No indentations indicated anyone had been lying there when the knife had been taken to it. There was no blood. But also, nothing had been left unturned.

  The wreckage fit that of rage. Was it rage? Or an orchestration made to look like rage? Thorne studied the scene.

  Shirts, breeches, cravats all thrown about. The only thing ripped to shreds was the bed. The drawers from the dressing table were pulled out, contents spilled around the room in chaos, appearing almost ... organized.

  Thorne withdrew and found Brock in the studio. “I’ve almost convinced myself that this scene is posed for a specific purpose,” he said.

  Brock righted an easel and positioned one of the nearby paintings atop, though the canvas bore rips. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not sure, but I get the feeling that this destruction is designed to look like anger, when, in fact, it was nothing more than routine.”

  “I don’t get your meaning.”

  “Look around. To my eyes the whole scene looks more cold-blooded than genuinely angry.”

  Brock stepped back and circled slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean. The slices with the knife in these works look deliberately placed, not shredded out of some passionate hatred.” He pointed to the slash that started near one corner, then picked up another painting. “The cut is identical, as if someone went through each one methodically.”

  “They must have been in here when Marcus arrived home, then killed him before they departed. My guess is that the culprit or culprits had almost finished their task when he returned. Which has me wondering—did they already know Harlowe wouldn’t be coming back?”

  “Interesting, indeed,” Brock said.

  “Let’s see if there is anything else before we head to Kimpton Manor. Those works that Harlowe has been gifting to my wife have me suddenly quite curious.”

  Chapter 9

  Lorelei blinked. Had she woken at her own funeral? She prayed not. She was not that fond of the color pink. Everywhere, she was inundated with pink. Pink blooms, pink swirls, pink beads, everything pink.

  “Lady Kimpton?”

  Something waved beneath her nose, and she jerked her head back, groaning.

  “Please, Lady Kimpton. My sincerest apologies. That was most unthoughtful of me.”

  Lorelei struggled to sitting, mortified by her undignified position. “What happened?” A lock of hair draped against her temple. She pushed if off her face, but it sprang back.

  Concern emanated from Lady Alymer.

  “You fainted,” Lady Dankworth said. “’Twas a shocking revelation Lady Alymer dropped on us.” She pointed to Lady Faulk, who lay back against a rose-colored chair, eyes closed. “Alas,
you were not the only one.” She glared at Lady Alymer. “Maeve, how could you?”

  A cold shiver raced up Lorelei’s spine as Lady Alymer’s words stormed her memory. “Did you s-say Lord Harlowe’s valet was m-murdered?” Marcus?

  “I’m terribly sorry to have blurted the news out like that. It momentarily slipped my mind that Lord Harlowe was ... er ... is your brother.” Lady Alymer’s eyes shone with tears that seemed genuine enough.

  “Might I have another drop of tea, Lady Peachornsby?” Lorelei’s words were shaky at best.

  Lady Dankworth turned on Lady Aylmer. “Where on earth did you hear such a thing?” It occurred to Lorelei that Lady Alymer had indeed whipped the proverbial rug from beneath Lady Dankworth.

  “Yes,” Lorelei said. “I should like to know that as well.” She accepted the refilled cup from Lady Peachornby and warmed her chilled fingers.

  “Why, my maid mentioned it this morning. She said it was—” Lady Alymer stilled, her cheeks matching the darkest pink in the wallpaper.

  “Said what?” This from Lady Smythe. She was a very tall, painfully thin woman. Her pointed nose was long and tended to draw one’s gaze from her less than full lips. In point of fact, they were as thin as she was tall.

  Lorelei’s cup clattered against the saucer in which she placed it, fingers shaking badly. “Yes, Lady Alymer. Said what?” Her voice came out hardly above a whisper. “W-was my b-brother there as well?”

  “No! No, Lady Kimpton. Rest assured Lord Harlowe was not present.”

  “How could he be?” Lady Smythe said, nose wrinkling in confusion. “He was dropped on a ship bound for Spain by none other than Lord Kimp—” She stopped, as did the entire company. She dotted her lace handkerchief over her forehead. “Oh. Dear me. I-I’m terribly sorry, Lady Kimpton.”

  Lorelei mustered every ounce of steel within and faced the woman. “Quite so, Lady Smythe. That is the rumor, is it not?” Lady Peachornsby touched her hands, wrapped her fingers about another cup of the bracing tea. She smiled her thanks and turned to Lady Almer. “Please, my lady, continue,” she said softly.

  Lady Almer gave a hesitant nod. “Gruesome. She said it was gruesome.”

  “How did she learn of this?” Lady Dankworth demanded again.

  “She said the valet was her cousin’s beau,” she whispered. “Only last night, her cousin was questioned by the constable. She also said—” Lady Alymer swallowed, a sound that seemed to echo throughout the parlor. “—Lord Kimpton was summoned to identify his body.”

  “Pray explain what you mean by—gruesome, if you please.” Lorelei could hardly choke the words past her throat. “I’m certain I don’t understand … ” The sick sensation knotted through her stomach. If Brandon was, indeed, on a ship bound for Spain, why was his home not closed; his valet not relieved of his duties?

  “She said his quarters were d-destroyed.” Lady Alymer’s freckles were stark against her pale countenance.

  Lorelei’s vision swam as if she were going to faint again. She willed it back, taking quick shallow breaths. “Destroyed? By what means?”

  Lady Alymer glanced about her small audience, clearly mortified to find herself in such a position.

  “It was said his bedchamber and studio were—”

  “Were what?”

  “Slashed with a k-knife. No picture left untouched, paint smearing the walls … ” her voice trailed.

  “Have more tea, dear,” Lady Peachornsby said.

  Lorelei lifted the cup gratefully, but Lady Peachornsby wrapped her fingers about Lorelei’s in an effort to help her steadiness. With another healthy sip, Lorelei could feel her muscles giving way. In fact, they were beginning to feel quite heavy, her stomach queasy. “Perhaps I-I should return home. I fear I am not as recovered as I’d first believed.” A dull throb beat against her temple.

  Lady Dankworth stood and moved across the room. “Please send for Lady Kimpton’s carriage.”

  Yes, yes. She would be fine once she reached home. Every painting destroyed?

  Brandon was in trouble. He would never have besieged her with so much of his work otherwise. Doubts that he’d made it to the Continent seeped into her muddled brain.

  Thorne strode through the door Oswald held, Brock on his heels. “How is Lady Kimpton?” he demanded.

  “I believe she is better, my lord.”

  He tossed Oswald his hat. “Tell her I will visit momentarily.”

  “Of course, sir. I will inform her as soon as she returns.”

  Thorne stopped. “Returns from where?”

  “Lady Dankworth’s tea, my lord.”

  "Lady Dankworth is having a tea?” He swallowed a groan. If Lorelei was unaware of his talk to Rowena Hollerfield before, she would be well informed by the time she returned home. This did not bode well. With a scowl, he barked, “Come, Brock. We must make the most of our time.”

  Thorne took the stairs two at a time. At least a couple of Harlowe’s paintings were in Lorelei’s bedchamber. He knocked sharply, then peered around the door. The room was in order, and thankfully empty. The bed was made up, and no sign of his presence lingered from the night before. Not that he’d shed a single item of clothing. The silent admittance was disappointing.

  “Over here,” he said to Brock. The colors were brilliant, rich blues and greens. Seeing the work up close was somewhat shocking. The scene appeared biblical. Something he’d never quite associated with Harlowe, the poet; Harlowe the artist; Harlowe, the scoundrel. It was a bit of a stretch.

  “I never considered your wife’s brother as … er … devout, did you?” Brock asked.

  “No. It’s odd, indeed.”

  The picture contained a common theme, that of Judas kissing Christ. It didn’t match anything they’d discovered in Harlowe’s studio. “Doesn’t seem to fit with any of the others, does it?” Thorne said.

  “Are you certain this work is of his hand?” Brock leaned. “His signature is present, in any event.”

  “I’ve seen enough of his work to recognize the technique. And look?” Thorne ran his finger over an image of a shortened handle topped with a large curved blade. “What does this appear to you?” The object was drawn within the folds of Judas’s long robe, only a shade darker. Thorne stood back from the work, but it was still difficult to make out.

  “Looks like a scythe to me. Was he involved in dark arts, do you suppose?”

  “I couldn’t venture to guess. I’m sure I have some volume in the library that can help us with details on any symbolism. From my days at Eton, I fear.” Thorne grimaced, spinning around. A few smaller works covered one wall. “Most of these others are his as well, but they look to have been painted much earlier than the ones he started sending to Lorelei recently.”

  Brock walked over and studied the smaller paintings. “Yes, I see what you mean. The brushstrokes do look similar but do not appear as mature as those in the Judas work. The detail is fascinating.”

  A bark of laughter burst from Thorne. “I had no idea you were such a connoisseur.” He glanced at the time. “Hm. Some of the more recent paintings he sent over are too vile to hang just anywhere. Lorelei must have placed them elsewhere in the house.” Not to mention her reaction were she to return and find him and Brock loitering in her chambers. He probably couldn’t pay her enough to stay were that to happen. “I’ll admit I did not pay much attention. And, as none have shown up in my study ... ” He shrugged. “I would have noticed that. We’d best leave.” Thorne led the way back to the stairs. “I seemed to recall several more works hanging in the dining room.”

  He darted quickly past servants going about their daily duties. Once he reached the formal dining hall, he shooed them out. The room was crowded with large ornate furnishings. The table itself seated thirty at full capacity. Then there was the sideboard. Each piece of furniture was elaborately carved out of the finest mahogany. Wainscoting in a dark paneling covered the lower half of the walls; the wallpaper matched the deep red of fine wine. The dark hue o
f the gloomy room set off Harlowe’s works to perfection. Thorne counted six paintings. Again, rich colors with varied subject matters. And not a single biblical figure was featured.

  In fact, Thorne could not discern a common theme between the one in Lorelei’s chamber and any of these that lined the dining room walls. One boasted a grand sunset off cliffs, reminiscent of Cornwall. Another showcased naval ships at Dover set to launch for Calais. Soldiers waved to a crowd below, while others said their farewells to loved ones. Another depicted a surprising country scene. A grassy meadow with a pond and animals grazing.

  The one at the far end of the chamber was especially intriguing. A simple scene, really, of a young woman sipping her tea, her pretty smile coy, her velvet-brown eyes full of dreams and hope. It was ... sweet. An oversized hat covered a portion of her face. It was clear Harlowe had painted his subject with a loving hand. Thorne was amazed. How had he neglected to spot the man’s talent?

  He studied the lavish background that pricked his memory. It seemed intimately familiar, but Thorne couldn’t imagine where he’d encountered such. A ruby ring of obscene proportion adorned the third finger of the young woman’s left hand, the one holding her cup. Was it possible Harlowe had fallen in love with the model? It was a frequent enough occurrence. She certainly appeared smitten.

  “Here,” Brock said. Thorne’s head snapped around. Brock was pointing to the Dover picture. “Look at this couple.”

  He strolled over and grunted. “A lovely young woman held by her fellow going off to war?” He shrugged. “What about it?” He leaned in for a closer look. Hmm, her eyes and smile rested on the soldier beyond the gentleman she embraced.

  Brock snapped his fingers, jerking Thorne’s gaze to the folds of the woman’s green skirts.

  “Another scythe? Definitely a coincidence,” he murmured. “Too much so, in my opinion. Let’s remove this one and any others we find with that symbol to my study. I’ll send Andrews up for the one in Lorelei’s chamber.” They each took an end and lifted the painting from the wall.