by Diana Ballew
Tears filled the woman’s eyes. Tears and trepidation. Her bared hands twisted. The woman was terrified. “My s-sister. She is with child. I fear she has gone into an early labor.”
Lorelei’s stomach dipped, and she darted a quick glance to Bethie, who appeared in the doorway. Bethie froze, and Lorelei could almost detect a slight tremor in her bottom lip. “How early are ye talkin’?”
“At least four weeks,” she whispered. “Are you ... are you by chance the midwife?” Her voice begged. Lorelei felt quite sick.
Bethie’s face paled beneath her fierce mien.
“Quince, please send for one of the house maids immediately,” Lorelei said.
“Lady Kimpton, permit me—”
She cut him off. “—what provisions do we need, Bethie?”
“Dry towels. My bag from the carriage, my lady.” Bethie squared her shoulders and turned into the comforting general on whom Lorelei could rely.
“That won’t be necessary. We shall take the carriage.”
A young girl of approximately seventeen appeared in the entry hall. “My lady?”
“Oh, thank heavens. Peg, please gather a stack of clean towels. Quickly now.”
“Lady Kimpton, please. I cannot permit—” Mr. Quince began.
She stilled at the impertinence of his words, piercing him with cold haughtiness. “I beg your pardon, Quince. Did I understand you correctly? Did you say ‘you cannot permit’?”
He shot a pained glance at their midnight guest, then turned back to Lorelei, inclining his head with a show of respect. “Of course not, my lady.” He addressed Bethie. “What may I do to help?”
Lorelei spoke for her. “You’ll accompany us. There is no telling what we shall find.”
Things moved quickly after that. In a matter of moments, Quince sat atop the carriage with Andrews, while Bethie and Lorelei rode inside with the young woman.
Lorelei pulled a towel from the top of the stack in Bethie’s lap and handed it to the woman. Even with her black hair saturated with rain and plastered against her head, Lorelei could see that it was long and thick. The exotic tilt of her eyes showed a wariness Lorelei had witnessed in people who’d trusted and had been let down, giving her the appearance of an older age than Lorelei had at first believed. Her full lips trembled with worry.
“Is she alone?” Lorelei was desperate to somehow console her.
“No.” She spoke softly, eyes never wavering from the window. “We have a maid. But she is not of a strong constitution. I would have sent her in my stead but for the rain. Nor is she an accomplished rider, so it was just as well.”
Silence reigned during the rest of the ten-minute journey. As they slowed, Lorelei glanced out the carriage window and was surprised to see they’d stopped at the hunter’s cottage on Kimpton lands. She shot another glance at her guest but could discern nothing. The cottage was on the most northern edge of Kimpton property. But now was not the time to inquire as to how she and her sister had come to this particular dwelling. Time enough to address that issue. First things first.
The conveyance bounced with the descent of Andrews and Quince. The door was flung open, and Quince stood ready with the open umbrella. Lorelei urged Bethie forward. Lorelei grabbed the woman’s hand, holding her back. “I have no words to reassure you, but perhaps it will help you to know that Bethie is experienced in matters such as these.”
Again, tears shimmered in the woman’s eyes but did not fall. Her mouth compressed into a grim line, and she nodded once before fleeing.
Stomach tied in knots, Lorelei followed. The sense of déjà vu teased—no—haunted her, but Lorelei shook away her unease. This was sure to be a hellacious event. A woman’s chance of survival was slim enough, but in these conditions? A shudder rippled up her spine. One in eight women died in childbirth, and a babe coming a month early surely increased the risks.
Lorelei closed her eyes and murmured a short prayer before descending, forcing herself to remember that she was not some wild ten-year-old tagging along after Bethie any longer. She was a woman grown. She was here to help.
Not much had changed in the cottage since Lorelei’s last visit. It was less dusty, of course, indicating that the two had been living there for a short while at least. Perhaps Quince had let the two stay. Did the babe belong to him—
A harsh cry wrenched through the bare surroundings. A scream that tore through Lorelei’s insides.
“She is in the parlor. We couldn’t get her up the stairs to her bedchamber.” The young woman darted through the hall, hurrying to her sister.
Bethie directed the maid to boil water. “Mr. Quince,” she barked.
He jolted at her commanding tone. Lorelei might have laughed under less dire circumstances. Instead, her own body jerked at the terseness.
“Ye appear able-bodied t’me. P’haps ye and young Andrews here could get the missus up to her bed.”
The missus in question groaned. “Take long slow breaths, missy. We’ll see ye through,” Bethie said gruffly.
“I-I don’t think I-I can m-move,” she panted. “I-it really h-hurts.”
Lorelei peered in from the door. The girl looked vaguely familiar, but Lorelei was certain they’d never met. Sweat lined her brow. Her dark brown eyes were filled with pain. Hair as black as her sister’s was damp and smashed against her head as if she, too, had run in from the rain. The resemblance between the sisters was nominal, perhaps just about the mouth. The girl was much younger than her beautiful older sister. A strong suspicion started to take hold.
“Corinne, darling, I’ve brought help. You’ll be fine.”
“Rowena,” she breathed. And as another pain wracked her body her curdled scream wrenched through Lorelei.
The name registered slowly, as if Lorelei waded through a swamp of molasses. She met Bethie’s widened gaze. It was fleeting, however. Bethie went into full militant dictum. Mr. Quince’s expression remained blank, ever the abiding steward. He followed Bethie’s orders to perfection, lifting the pregnant girl effortlessly, brushing away Andrews' offers of assistance.
Rowena was oblivious to everything but her sister’s discomfort and trailed Mr. Quince and Bethie up the stairs.
Lorelei spoke calmly. “Andrews, return to the house. Have Cook prepare a basket of food, and bring more towels. See if Mrs. Metzger knows of a doctor in the vicinity. If so, go and fetch him. Then you may as well rest. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”
Lorelei slowly followed the rest of the company up the stairs amid the sound of another hoarse screech of torment.
Chapter 12
Dawn was well on its way toward a brilliant sunrise before Thorne finally walked through the doors of the Kimpton townhouse, Brock right on his heels.
Thorne shook his head. “It cannot be true.”
“It would explain much, however,” Brock said. “We need to take another look at those paintings. There is a something in them, besides that odd out-of-place scythe.”
“I hope you are right. Come, let’s check the library.” Thorne grabbed a candelabra off the entry hall table, lighting one of the candles from the wall sconce, and led the way down a low lit hallway just beyond the grandiose staircase. He lit a few more candles along the way. He pushed through the door to the library and lifted the candelabra, surveying the chamber.
Two more paintings reminiscent of Harlowe’s work decorated the walls. One was a lovely depiction of Lorelei painted shortly after his and Lorelei’s wedding. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She looked so happy a band of iron seemed to tighten across his chest.
Harlowe had outdone himself, having created an ethereal effect with the lighting above her head. Sunlight streamed in through an open window, turning her flaxen hair into shimmering ribbons of pale gold. Harlowe knew his sister well. Her teasing manner, which he caught with superb genius, showed a woman in love. Love. Did she love him?
Something to dwell on later. Thorne forced himself to look past her face and study the set
ting. The heavily brocaded bench on which she sat contained a cushion of deep green velvet. Her long slender fingers rested on the keyboard of a pianoforte in dark mahogany wood. His gaze drifted back to his wife. Her dress was of the softest cream. The only thing Thorne could see in the folds of her skirts were the many gathers. Not a scythe in sight. But, of course, there wouldn’t be a scythe, would there? This was one of his earlier works.
With concerted effort, Thorne moved next to Brock who was staring at the other work. A crudely etched neighborhood met his gaze, angled from a corner looking down the middle of a cobblestoned street. The doors of each home were uniformly painted in a bright blue, the buildings white. Dread filled Thorne as he considered the work. Each and every lamppost globe was attached to its post by way of the circular sword, modifying the idyllic scene to something haunting. Menacing.
Oswald’s head appeared around the door. He spoke with his usual aplomb. “Lady Kimpton, sir—”
“I don’t wish to speak of Lady Kimpton presently, Oswald.” Having spent the whole day doing everything possible to avoid thinking of her, he damn sure didn’t want to speak of her. He had no desire to be the brunt of Brock’s amusement.
Oswald inclined his head. “A letter, sir.” He held out an envelope.
“Grab one end of the frame,” Brock said.
Thorne snatched the letter from his stoic butler and stuffed it in his waistcoat, then took the other end of the large frame. It took both him and Brock to haul the damned thing back to Thorne’s study. “Set it next to the other one.” They lowered it against the wall beside the one with the traitorous lover. Thorne stood back and compared the two. Nothing jumped out at him. “I think we need the painting from my wife’s bedchamber,” Thorne said. “But she is certain to be sleeping.”
“I doubt that, Lord Kimpton.” The formal address startled Thorne, and his gaze snapped to Brock. He stood at the far corner of the desk, holding out another missive.
“What is that?”
“It looks to be a reply from Lady Maudsley to your wife.”
Impatience rippled through Thorne. “What of it? They send notes to one another frequently.”
“Yes, well, this particular note implies that Lady Maudsley regrets being too ill to accompany your wife—to ... err ... Kimpton.”
Thorne snatched the weighty paper from Brock’s hand and scanned Lady Maudsley’s uneven scrawl. “Good God.” He tossed it on the desk. “This is disastrous,” he muttered. “I have to stop her.”
Brock picked the note back up, grimacing. “Something is wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. He strode from the room. A second later the front door slammed, shaking the paintings that leaned against the wall.
He would contemplate Brock’s words later, he thought. Dashing from the room, Thorne took the stairs two at a time and stormed the hall towards Lorelei’s chamber. No light showed below, sending a skitter up his spine. It was too bloody early in the morning. He should have sent word to Lorelei last night. Told her she could have control of every last pound to their name. He hesitated before the door, his hand on the knob, the doubts crowding in. Perhaps he should wait until a reasonable hour.
Damn it. He would just tell her the truth about Harlowe. Even if she didn’t believe him, the truth would eventually stand in his favor. That’s the step he should have taken in the beginning. His shoulders fell. No. She would be devastated to know her brother was missing, he couldn’t bear to hurt her. Thorne reined in a flicker of apprehension and pushed open the door.
It was dark. Dark and cold. No coals flared in the grate, no candles flickered. A tingling sensation rippled up his spine, raising the hair on his nape. In four long strides he stood at the windows, whipped the curtains apart. The dense atmosphere beyond did not help much in the way of light, but it was enough.
He looked to the bed. No Lorelei. The letter.
Thorne jerked the envelope from his pocket, tore it open.
My Lord—
I compose this note to alleviate any worry on your part, sir. I do not hold you responsible for our interactions last evening. The fault is truly mine, much to my acute embarrassment. Please be advised, I have departed for Kimpton to wait out the remainder of our two-week agreement.
Regards, Lady Kimpton
Thorne dragged himself to his chamber, groaning. He dropped Lorelei’s note on a chair and rang for hot water, then peeled the clothes from his body and splashed cold water on his face. And there was still the matter of Harlowe’s odd paintings. Blast it. He would draft a note to the Foreign office letting them know what he’d found. Perhaps they could make sense of them. Oswald could admit them if they chose to come look at them.
Dante handed him a towel.
The ride to Kimpton would be a hard one, but it was early—bloody early—and despite his dreary body, he should be able to make excellent time.
“I’m headed to Kimpton, but I’ll rest for just a moment, Dante. God knows what I’ll find when I get there.” How he missed her. Thorne fell back on the bed, eyes closed—only for a moment, he promised himself.
In his deepest fantasies, the key would scrape the metal lock on the door adjoining his wife’s chamber. She would ease the door ajar, stroll slowly to his bed, wearing only the moonlight streaming through the open window. Rising, he beckoned her forward.
But being his Lorelei, she tossed her head in feigned resistance. The small reserved smile that touched her plump lips only heightened his anticipation. She’d shake her head, and her eyes would be all mischievousness and full of play. Then, tease that she was, she cupped her breasts. Lifted them in invitation. He’d prowl forward, but rather than accepting her offering, he’d fall to his knees, bury his face in her abdomen. Part her legs—
Discomfort roared through him. He gripped his throbbing cock, stroked twice, perhaps three times, and the seed spilled in a torrent over his hand.
Torture. He had to quit torturing himself.
A sharp knock startled him upright. He glanced around, disoriented. No Lorelei.
“Your bath, sir,” Dante said. “And a word from Lord Brockway.”
Fifteen minutes later, Thorne bounded down the stairs where Brock paced the foyer like a caged animal. Two small children and their nursemaid stood watching like skittish cats.
“What the de—” Thorne stopped at Brock’s raised brow. “Pardons, my ladies.” Thorne bowed.
The older girl giggled. She looked remarkably like— “Lord Brockway, a word, if you please?” Thorne’s voice was carefully pleasant as he opened the door to his study. Once inside, he shut it softly behind. “What the devil are you doing with Lady Maudsley’s children?”
Brock shoved a hand through already disheveled hair. “He beat her to a bloody fucking pulp.”
“What—who—” Thorne stopped. “Christ, Brock. You took his wife?”
Brock ignored him. “I need you to take the children to Lady Kimpton.”
“What of Lady Maudsley’s family?”
“They disowned her years ago.” Brock looked him in the eye. “Because of me.”
Air expelled from Thorne like a punctured balloon. “Children? You want me to escort children to Kimpton?”
“What choice do I have? They can’t possibly stay with me. Your wife is the perfect solution. No one even realizes she’s gone.”
“You know there’s no telling what I’ll find when I arrive at Kimpton,” Thorne said, exasperated.
“Look at it this way, Kimpton. Your wife is certain not to turn away Lady Maudsley’s children.”
Thorne acknowledged that comment in silence. “Where is Lady Maudsley now?”
“It doesn’t matter where she is.”
“Well, I suppose that answers my question.” Thorne shoved his hands in his pockets. “Lorelei will insist on returning to London when she learns of Lady Maudsley’s predicament.”
“She can’t. Not if she’s looking after Gin—Lady Maudsley’s children.”
�
��What did you tell Irene? She’s not four like Cecilia.”
“I told her she was going on an adventure. That she could ride a pony.” Brock looked sheepish. “You do have a pony at Kimpton, don’t you?”
“And if I don’t?”
Brock glared.
Thorne sighed. “I suppose I’m in the market for a pony.”
Lorelei busied herself with assisting the Misses Hollerfields’ maid, laying out a breakfast no one was likely to touch. Not a single wink of sleep had passed in the household the night before. How could they sleep with the younger Miss Hollerfield’s agonizing cries? Tormented cries that had sounded intermittently for some eight hours now.
Her labor was hard, and no end appeared in sight. Lorelei truly feared for the girl’s life. Any words of comfort she might offer escaped her.
Shock still filled her with the revelation. Miss Hollerfield, Miss Rowena Hollerfield, was not the one with child. It was her sister. The notorious courtesan was not carrying Thorne’s baby. There was cause to doubt that Miss Hollerfield’s, Miss Corinne Hollerfield’s, child belonged to Thorne as well.
Of course, he could not be excused for sending her brother to his unknown fate. Lady Smythe’s words trickled through her: How could he be when he was dropped on a boat for Spain. Brandon hadn’t closed his house. He hadn’t dismissed his valet. Things were not adding up. Perhaps there wasn’t time, if what the rumors portrayed were true. That Thorne had literally dropped her brother on a ship. She rubbed her temples, attempting to clear the fog in her head.
This new revelation regarding the Hollerfields was nothing short of relief. Could she have possibly been mistaken, or worse, wrongly accused her husband based strictly on rumors of a society that thrived on such gossip?
Sadly, yes. But the rush of relief regarding the Hollerfields could not be denied.
Tea arranged, Lorelei started up the stairs, wincing as another heart-wrenching scream bounded through the house. She dashed the rest of the way up and pushed back the door.