by Diana Ballew
Had Thorne been able to lay his hands on one of the scythes Harlowe had so eloquently depicted in his paintings, he would have stabbed himself in the heart with it. Two solid hours of Shufflebottom’s constant barrage of nonsensical words—words that included rhyming schemes of haunting and daunting, duels and jewels, that would likely send half of the most sure-minded men screaming for a corner of Bedlam—Thorne would lead the pack. Shufflebottom’s lace cuffs, bright orange waistcoat, and green pantaloons would drive the other half leaping off the cliffs of Cornwall. Holding bricks.
It was deuced convenient that the spirits flowed freely. Spirits, consisting mainly of brandy and rum, along with port. Claret and sherry for the … er, uh … ladies. Thorne downed his third brandy of the afternoon and gauged the rapt audience.
The Widow Chancé was known for her love of literature, art, and poetry. Her late husband, twice her age, was now long dead. She was a handsome woman of indiscriminate taste. She did not appear to care whose arm she leaned on. The assemblage resembled what one might typically expect for poetry lovers, fanciful men whose gazes ranged from idealistic to pensive to vague.
Thorne recognized one or two of the more well-known courtesans. Not that he’d associated with them personally, but certainly he’d seen them with their current keepers over the years, residing in theatre boxes and the like. Their dresses barely covered rouged nipples. He didn’t believe this salon was indicative of others. But since he rarely, if ever, attended events of this nature, he had no comparison.
Baron Tanner’s heir, George Welton, was resting on a settee near the windows, his head back and eyes closed. Clarissa, one of Madame Bovine’s more exclusive girls, sat close enough to be considered on him rather than beside him. Something tugged at Thorne's memory. Weren’t Welton and Harlowe childhood friends? He skirted the crowd and made his way in that direction.
“Welton,” Thorne said.
Welton’s eyes snapped to Thorne. The younger man straightened and motioned his head at Clarissa. She scowled at Welton but set some space between them. “Kimpton. Fancy a bit of poetry, do you? Sit, please.”
It only took a second for her to ignore Welton, turning her coy smile on Thorne. He answered with a cool dismissive gaze, after which she promptly stomped away. Thorne dropped into her vacated seat, though he maintained rather more distance from Welton than she had.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” Welton's tone teetered on sarcasm. And why shouldn’t it? Thorne hadn’t the usual reasons for seeking out Welton. They certainly didn’t move in the same circles. Not as a rule.
Across the chamber, Shuttlebottom’s voice rose in a spectacular crescendo, culminating with “anguish that had him languish” and hands crossed upon his heart. All in all, the presentation ended on flourished dramatization. Thorne choked back a snort of disgust. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the written word, but the man positively exuded “anguish” in the most thespian proportions.
Groups huddled, and chatter rose in varying degrees of excitement. He swung his gaze back to Welton. “I’m looking for Harlowe. My wife’s brother, you know.”
“Of course, I know him. Tell me, how is the grand Lady Kimpton?” True admiration filtered through. “I’ll never forget the lashing she belted out when Harlowe and I filled her best linens with a few lively young frogs. My ears sting to this day from the pinching they took.” He shook his head.
“She’s well. But she is most determined to speak to her brother. I’m hoping to find him.” Another, yet younger man took to the floor, momentarily distracting Thorne from his task. “What the devil is this thing?”
“Ah, The Poetry Association?” Welton chuckled. “I believe the lonely widow is trolling for love—once again.”
“And you?”
He covered what sounded to Thorne like an embarrassed laugh in a cough. “Me? Well, I ... uh ... am easily entertained.”
“Obviously,” Thorne muttered under his breath. “And Harlowe?”
“Never fear, Lord Kimpton. This is not his usual set. Whatever made you believe he’d end up here?” Welton brushed at his purple waistcoat, then gauged Thorne with a wary glance.
Thorne leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, careful to maintain a disinterested air, and waited.
“The fact of the matter is I haven’t seen much of him since he took up with a certain young woman.”
“Ah, Miss Hollerfield.”
“Aye. Miss Hollerfield.” Welton’s tone turned curt.
“Well, she’s enough to turn any young man’s head. How long ago was that?”
Welton furrowed his brows. “Months, actually.”
“I see. I, ah, don’t suppose you know of any of his other hang-abouts?”
“You might try the Beefsteak. That is more to his taste, I wager.”
“Beefsteak!” Thorne said, startled. The Beefsteak leaned towards the political realm and sounded nothing like the man with whom Thorne was familiar. A sudden vision of the un-shredded Guy Fawkes canvas hit him.
“Occasionally, I’ve encountered him at the Eccentric Club, though with all those philanthropists about, I avoid the place like the black plague.”
A derisive bark erupted from Thorne. “The human interest aspect doesn’t appeal to you, then?”
Welton snorted. “That, and the politicians and scientists. That particular establishment is overrun. I don't spend much time in clubs; I prefer having women about, if you must know. Sometimes I wonder if Harlowe has switched—” he stopped abruptly.
“Switched?” Thorne prodded.
“Nothing,” Welton snapped. “I’d much rather listen to bad poetry with a willing woman in my lap.” He leapt to his feet and gave a quick bow. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord. I wish you a fruitful search.”
Thorne watched as Welton made his way across the room to the once-more amiable Clarissa. She sat next to, or rather on, the Earl of Maudsley’s lap.
Well, if that didn’t beat all. Thorne decided he’d digested enough poetry to last him a lifetime. He made his farewell to the Widow Chancé and escaped.
He took a hackney to Fleet Street. He might as well try some of the lesser known galleries. Descending from the cab, he meandered his way toward the Strand, wondering how Lorelei’s day was progressing. Was she wishing him to the devil? Or wishing he’d never left her bed? He felt certain that was too much to hope for. One thing he could count on regarding his adorable little wife, she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames.
Shaking his head, he set about finding Harlowe. Such a feat would clear a multitude of misunderstandings. Thorne would gain his wife back in good graces, she would have her brother—though what to do about a child? Not just a child, but a famous courtesan’s child. What a quandary. But if Thorne had to foot the bill to keep the gossips quiet, then by God, he’d make every attempt.
An irritated chuckle burst through. He truly just wanted his Lorelei back in his arms, back in his bed. No matter the consequences, they’d survive the scandal. And if he knew Lorelei, one thing he was sure of, she would never let a child of her brother’s go uncared for. Thorne would be lucky if she didn’t insist on the child taking their name, let alone bringing it into their home.
Shaking away that train of thought, he looked up and found himself standing directly in front of Somerset House, home of the Royal Academy Schools. Restoration was still apparent. The front façade had arches erected in stone similar to those of a Roman Palladium. The building would likely not be completed in his lifetime.
With a sigh, Thorne turned and made his way back to White's. It looked as if Brock's and his plans for the evening definitely included a visit to the Eccentric Club.
Chapter 11
“Corinne, you must quit this sulking about.” Rowena Hollerfield adjusted the hardened cushion strapped about her belly, disgusted with the entire ordeal.
“I can’t stay within these walls another minute.”
Rowena shook out her skirts, and
with a critical eye in the looking glass, rearranged their fullness to hide her ankles. “You have no choice. For this scheme to work—”
“Scheme!” Corinne snapped. “I don’t like it. Brandon is coming for me, whether you believe it or not.” Corinne heaved her large pregnant frame from the settee—it took two tries before she accomplished the effort—and paced Rowena’s small bedchamber. Tears shimmered in her large doe-like eyes.
Rowena bristled. But after a moment she drew in a slow steady breath and forced herself to speak with modulated control. “They owe you, Corinne. Harlowe is a viscount, and he used, then deserted you. If he is nowhere to be found, then I have no guilt in extracting Lord Kimpton’s assistance.” She dropped her skirts and moved in front of Corinne. Brutal honesty hurt, but it didn’t keep Rowena’s heart from breaking. She took Corinne’s hands within her own. “Darling, you know Harlowe left England,” she said gently.
Corinne jerked her hands away. “That is a lie. Brandon would never desert me. Something has happened to him. I know it.” Tears shimmered in her eyes and she spun away, resumed her pacing. “I’d like to confront the blackguard who started that rumor.”
Rowena’s temper simmered. “Damn it, Corinne. The man is an artist, for god’s sake. Regardless of who said what, the man left with no word. No one has seen him.”
Corinne spun about quickly, despite her heavy stomach. Her lips formed a bitter twist. “Yes, and here we are, hiding in the wilds of Kimpton—” Her voice broke. “—where I’ll never find him.”
“Corinne.” Exasperation won out. “Darling. We. Have. No. Choice.”
Trembling hands covered Corinne’s face, sobs racking her. “Brandon didn’t desert me.” She drew in a deep breath, dropped her hands to her sides. She stomped her foot in a bout of childish temper. “He loves me. What if he’s hurt and needs me? How will he find me if I’m not in London?” Her questions ended in a wail.
Rowena took her by the upper arms, her heart aching for this child she’d reared, protected with her very soul. “Oh, darling. That’s hysteria speaking. The man is titled. He’s nobility. And you—you are the ... sister of a known and well-established courtesan.” Fairly choking out the words, Rowena plowed on. This was the life she’d created for her dear Corinne, and there was no way to turn back time. Rowena tugged a lace handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed Corinne’s tears. “I realize how difficult this is for you to believe, sweeting,” she said gently. “But men like your Brandon do not marry women of our ilk.”
Corinne took a step back from her, further cracking her heart. “That’s not t-true.” A long moment ensued before her gaze fell away.
The hair at Rowena’s nape rose. Corinne was hiding something. Rowena lifted the girl’s chin, forcing Corinne to meet her eyes. “There’s something else. Tell me, dear. What is it?”
Corinne jerked her chin from Rowena’s clutch and turned away. “Nothing.”
Anger and frustration flared through Rowena. “There is no other way, Corinne. I have worked hard to ensure that you do not end up as I have.”
Corinne slowly faced her, sorrow touching her eyes. “I came close though, didn’t I?” Her voice softened to a placating tone, one she often employed when Rowena was forced into servicing a particularly vile client. A tone that threatened Rowena’s very sanity.
She swallowed back her irritation. “Of course not.” Her tone came out waspish. “Brandon Harlowe seemed at least to have a conscientious bone in his body. But, darling, he’s a man. Look what happened to me.” Rowena faced the mirror and shuddered. If Maudsley learned of Corinne’s existence ... Well, it didn’t bear thinking about. The man was diabolically evil. She would die rather than let the man know his daughter had survived his former wife’s gruesome death. Rowena had risked her life saving that infant, and eighteen years had not softened her stance on the matter. Maudsley was a murderer, and he would not hesitate in sending Rowena to the ends of hell.
Rowena gripped a shred of lace tightly, mortified to see her hands still trembled with such fury. “Some bastard forced himself on me for years.” She inhaled a slow, deep breath. “But then ... I had you. You gave me courage to do what needed to be done. And I did it.” The last statement came out bitter, yet proud. “I never stood a chance, Corinne. Don’t you see? It’s much too late for me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Corinne snatched the scrap of lace from Rowena’s fingers and rubbed away her remaining tears. “You know how I despise your speaking of yourself in that derogatory manner. I would never have survived without you.”
Relief flooded Rowena, and she pulled Corinne into a quick hug. “You’re stronger than you believe, darling.” She let go and glanced around their unexpectedly opulent dwelling. The Kimpton’s hunter’s cottage was crude in some aspects, but twelve rooms would serve her and Corinne’s humble purposes.
An odd painting hung over the mantle, eerily resembling Traitor’s Gate at the Tower. Even with a fire in the grate, a chill stole over Rowena’s skin looking at the depiction of such a dire theme. “We must do something with that picture,” she said.
“No! That’s Brandon’s work. It stays.”
“How can you possibly tell?”
Corinne smiled softly. “I told him he uses too much paint.” She walked over to the picture and pointed to an iron arch encased by stone. Over the gate, the sun sparkled brightly through the holes. “Here,” she said. “You can see places where he used large clumps of oil. It helped in creating the blinding effect of the sunlight. When he pulled the brush away, it left a tiny bit of a string in its wake.”
Rowena leaned in. Indeed, a hairline strand of the paint stood out at different points. Clumps, just as Corinne said. Rowena shuddered. “But why such an ominous subject? What is that curved sword clasping the gates together? It looks like a symbol of death.”
Corinne grinned, more like her old self. The sight lifted Rowena’s heart. “Brandon said he wanted his works to convey a message.” Confidence strengthened her tone.
Rowena took a breath and faced her. “Listen to me, darling.” She grabbed Corinne’s hands and squeezed. “It’s more important than ever that you stay hidden. There’s word in the village that Lady Kimpton is to take up residence. News has run rampant of her impending arrival.”
Rowena feared if Lady Kimpton discovered them on Kimpton property, she would turn them out without a pence to their name. There was no trusting the tales of Lady Kimpton's generosity. Rowena trusted no one.
Up until now, Rowena had managed to keep Corinne out of sight, and Rowena was almost certain no one knew where they were, excepting the Kimpton steward, Quince. He’d been helpful in keeping their whereabouts silent thus far.
Corinne’s face paled. “But—but I shall go mad.”
“I’m serious, Corinne.” Rowena spun and hurried for her cloak that hung on a hook next to the door. “It’s imperative I’m seen in this condition. And I’ve yet to locate the midwife.” Rowena paused in her haste. She drew Corinne into a tight hug. “Don’t worry, darling, it shan’t be long now.”
Corinne gasped a hard breath. “No, no, of course not. I-I won’t disappoint you—I could—never.” Corinne bent over, clutching her large girth. “—Ro ... I don’t feel so well … ”
A large gush of water pooled at their feet, and Rowena caught her by the arm before she hit the floor.
“This weather is atrocious, isn’t it?” Lorelei smiled at Quince, Thorne’s longtime steward. “My apologies for the late arrival.”
“It is indeed, my lady. We had word you were arriving on the morrow.” Quince raised an umbrella, and she hooked her arm though his. His voice was calm and welcoming, but something in his gaze appeared tense.
Lorelei was too weary to ponder the whys. Their late start the prior day had not gone well. The dreary weather inundated the Rose & Crown with travelers. Even Bethie’s gladiatorial demeanor had failed in securing them a room, leaving Andrews to push the poor horses to the end of their tether. Ah, well, they
’d arrived, safe and sound, at Kimpton, and that’s all that mattered. Mrs. Metzger stood on the portico wringing her hands.
“Please calm yourself, Mrs. Metzger. Rest assured I do not hold you responsible for our early arrival.” Lorelei’s jaws hurt, but she smiled, attempting to ease the older woman’s distress at having been caught unready.
“Prepare a fire in Lady Kimpton's chamber, Mrs. Metzger.”
Mrs. Metzger nodded and hurried away, no doubt eager to assuage her unnecessary guilt. Lorelei sighed and followed Bethie. Just as Lorelei reached the porch, pounding hooves drew her to a pause. Not only was the hour late, but the rain was chilling and fierce. No one in their right mind would travel by horseback in this downpour.
Further shocking her was the rider. The poor woman was drenched through. She pulled up her horse and slid down before the beast had fully stopped. Mr. Quince thrust the umbrella in Lorelei’s hand and caught their visitor by her arm.
“Thank heavens,” the woman panted.
“Bethie, inform Mrs. Metzger we have need of tea.” Lorelei turned to their visitor. “Please, come in.” Light from the open doorway spilled out, showcasing a beautiful woman despite her pale countenance.
Exotic eyes flashed from Lorelei to Quince, then back. “Thank you, my lady, but there is no time for tea.” Her voice quavered, her fingers trembled.
Quince said, “I shall take care of this, Lady Kimpton.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Quince.” His words grated over her, the silly man. “Please, madam, I insist. At the very least, we shall continue this conversation inside.” Lorelei spun on her heel and led the way inside.
With no other option, Quince and the woman followed her into the house, giving her a small surge of triumph. Lorelei tugged her damp bonnet from her head, faced her visitor, and caught her breath. Truly, she was exquisite. Even though the woman was bedraggled, Lorelei had never seen anyone so beautiful. Lorelei directed the company into Thorne’s study. Sensing the woman’s anxiousness, she chose to forego insisting they sit. “Now, what is so dire to drive you out in such horrendous weather?” she asked gently.