Scandalous Lovers

by Diana Ballew

  The earl turned a cool gaze on him. “Maudsley, what brings you to the rustics?”

  “My wife, sir. She’s not well, and I understand she traveled here with Lady Kimpton.”

  The crease between Kimpton’s brows deepened with his frown. He cleared his throat. A clear sign his next words would not be true. “Er, no. Lorelei arrived late last night with her maid, as I understand it. I, myself, arrived just this afternoon.” Kimpton turned to a taller man who stood at one end of the desk. “Quince, may I present Lord Maudsley. My steward, Mr. Quince.”

  “My lord,” Quince acknowledged. “Lord Kimpton is quite right. Lady Kimpton arrived with her maid and her footman just after midnight.”

  Edward lifted his brow. “No outriders?”

  Kimpton’s jaw tightened. So, his wife was disobedient as well. Edward contemplated that for a moment, wondering how Kimpton disciplined the lack of respect. It was a man’s duty.

  “No. Though she may have instructed them to remain at the inn. There was an outpouring of rain, and confusion upon her arrival.”

  “Confusion?” Edward pulled out his coin and tossed it in the air.

  Quince looked toward Thorne, who gave a curt nod. “One of the, er ... local tenants had a slight emergency.”

  Edward bit back a smirk, shoving the coin in his pocket. “I hope all fared well.”

  “We, as well,” Kimpton said under his breath. “Maudsley, perhaps you’d care to join me for a brandy.”

  Edward inclined his head. “That I would.”

  “Quince, perhaps you should check on that tenant.” The man bowed slightly and slipped from the room.

  Edward admired Kimpton’s sharp manner, but there was something about the exchange that left him uneasy. Kimpton rose from his chair behind the massive oak desk and moved to the brandy decanter on a shelf in the corner. He could almost taste the burn of the gold liquid as it splashed in the balloon glass.

  Kimpton sauntered over, brandy glass held out, and it hit like a punch in the face. Kimpton was shielding Virginia. With shaking fingers, Edward reached for the glass and swallowed the contents in a solid swig. How dare the man interfere in Edward’s marriage? Keep his own wife from him.

  Edward dipped his fingers into his pocket and gripped the coin. Blinked in an attempt to clear the sudden rage blinding him. He tossed up his lucky coin and caught it.

  Toss, catch.

  Toss, catch.

  “Another brandy, Maudsley?” Kimpton’s voice jarred him back.

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” he murmured, handing over the empty glass. He struggled to push back his seething fury. A million things cluttered his head. He’d find that damned cottage and repossess his rebellious wife with a vengeance.

  “Cheers, old man.”

  Edward squeezed his fist around the coin and took the glass, biting back another surge of anger. He meandered to windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and gazed out over the expansive lawns. A lone rider cantered past, disappearing through a copse of trees towards the north. Mr. Quince. A slow grin tugged deep within. He finished off his brandy, set the glass on a nearby table, and flexed his fingers.

  Lorelei stretched, groaned, then forced her eyes open. Someone had graciously stirred the fire and ungraciously let in the afternoon sun. She squinted against the parted curtains. A second later, events from the night before crashed over her with the force of a shaking earth. Miss Hollerfield’s bloodcurdling screams. Stark, undisguised fear.

  The women would need help. Even having left Bethie behind, Lorelei knew they needed more. Much more. She threw back the coverlets and bounded from the bed. She rang for Liza and sorted through her dresses, quickly selecting a brown day dress.

  “My lady?”

  “Oh, good, Liza. I must return to the cottage. Have some hot water sent in and inform Andrews to ready the carriage. Then help me with these fasteners, if you will.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Any word from Bethie?”

  “I fear not, ma’am.”

  “Very good. Hurry, now.”

  Thirty minutes later, Lorelei hurried down the stairs, her hair not so stable, but she couldn’t worry about that. Before her booted foot touched the bottom step, she spotted Mr. Metzger. “My cloak, if you please—”

  She stopped, catching sight of Mrs. Metzger standing just to off the side, wringing her hands, her expression anxious. “Is something amiss, Mrs. Metzger?”

  The door to Thorne’s study swung wide. “Might I have a word, Lady Kimpton?”

  Lorelei started at her husband’s deep voice. A voice that should be miles from her less than stout reserve where he was concerned. In London. She swallowed back an irritated reply. “It shall have to wait, I’m afraid. I’m just on my way out.” From the side pane window at the front door, she noted Andrews next to the waiting carriage. She turned to her husband, lips compressed.

  “And just where are you off to?”

  “As if you didn’t know.” Curse her aggravation.

  “Mrs. Metzger,” he said. “Peg is upstairs. If you would see to assisting her? All shall work out. I’ll see to it personally.” He gave the housekeeper a pointed look.

  Mrs. Metzger nodded curtly and retreated. He picked up Lorelei’s cloak and held it out. “I believe I shall accompany you.”

  A more strategic tactic was required to retain control of this situation. “Perhaps, that’s just as well, my lord. It appears we’ve reached a misunderstanding regarding said guests.” His pained expression gave her a small measure of satisfaction.

  Chapter 14

  The hunter’s cottage should not be too difficult to locate, if memory served. Edward had joined a fox hunt some fifteen years before with the previous earl. Dense woods cooled the air sharply, along with restricting the visibility, forcing him to slow his mount to a more sedate pace.

  Kimpton had much to account for. Hoarding another man’s wife was ... was criminal. Perhaps rather than killing Virginia, he was tempted to sell her to a pauper, a practice still popular in the lower classes. It wouldn’t help him, however. He’d just have to kill her. Cruel satisfaction settled over him.

  “My lord!”

  The feminine cry startled him. Edward pulled up his horse. He squinted into the growing darkness. The slight figure had one hand on a tree. Her body leaned over at the waist, panting. “Miss Elvin? Whatever are you doing in the middle of the woods, on Kimpton property, of all places?” He dismounted and the fool girl threw herself into his arms. He set her aside and brushed off his coat. “Miss Elvin, you must remember yourself.”

  “Oh, pardon, my lord, but they are bent on rushing me back to London.”

  If Edward needed further convincing that Kimpton was hiding his wife, Miss Elvin’s presence cemented any lingering doubt. “I suppose my children are at the cottage?”

  “No. No, of course not. Why ever would they be at a cottage?” she said. “They are at the manor house. I barely made my escape through the servants’ entrance.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. She was young, just as he preferred. No more than eighteen, he’d wager. Her hair was a bit on the unfashionably red side and coming free from its hold. She was a fair bit of muslin. Energetic and a willing partner after her forced initiation, but she was not his equal. Her youthful appeal was already beginning to fade. “Miss Elvin—”

  She grabbed his hand. “I knew you’d come for me, my lord.”

  He snatched it away, watching with banal curiosity as the hurt filled her eyes. Inside, he felt nothing. Her convenience had already waned. Fortunately, there were plenty more where she came from. Each one younger and fairer than the next.

  Her spine straightened, and she stepped away from him. Something hard shifted in her demeanor, forcing his grudging respect. “You will never find her,” she hissed.

  Like a cobra, he struck fast, with no thought but his own need for an answer. He grabbed her hair and jerked her to his chest. “You forget with whom you speak, my dear.”

/>   She had the audacity to laugh, though her breathless whimper gave away her fear. Still, she taunted him. “Never.”

  He thrust her aside, slamming her head into the harsh trunk. She sank to the ground like a pile of soiled linen.

  With a snort of disgust, he clambered onto his horse and set off at a swift trot. Dusk had fallen by the time he spotted the old Tudor house. The stone structure before him was larger than he remembered. A rounded tower stood at one end of the L-shaped building, its roof timbers reaching for the heavens. There were easily ten to twelve rooms. Edward grinned. Apparently, the Kimpton’s ancestors had loved their hunting parties.

  In the distance, a horse stomped its foot and snorted. Edward slid from his own mount and secured the reins on a branch, using the trees to cover his presence.

  The servants’ entrance was an excellent place to start, he decided. Edging his way to the back of the cottage, he found an unlocked door. He tapped lightly, then slipped inside. A brawling cry scorched his ears. Odd, Sarah said the children were at the main house. And that cry sounded nothing like either of his daughters.

  Edward bypassed the stairs leading to the kitchens below and made his way down a darkened hall, alert for any footfall. A second later, he stepped back into the shadows as, indeed, footsteps tripped down the stairs. He peered around a corner.

  Mr. Quince stopped to speak to an older woman he didn’t recognize, but then why would he? He had no use for aging servants. “He’s healthy?”

  The white cap atop her head skewed at her brisk nod. “Got a set of lungs on ’im, he does.” She stood ramrod straight, and that’s when he caught sight of the squawking child at her breast. “’Tis all right, little man, we’ll set things to right.” Her brusque tone softened addressing the babe.

  The steward darted back up the stairs, the woman close on his heels.

  Letting out a sharp breath, Edward set a quick pace through the lower floor. A library here, a drawing room there. The morning room, dining room—all eerily quiet but for the sobbing infant.

  He happened on the back staircase and paused. The house had little in the way of help, he decided. The risks were in his favor. He darted up on stealthy feet. Most of the rooms were devoid of light altogether. Just a few uncovered windows that allowed in the waning twilight. No fires or candles burned. A pall of death seemed to hang over the atmosphere. Strange, as the child had clearly survived. Perhaps the mother had perished. With a shrug, he continued through the gloomy hall.

  A nearby door creaked. Edward quickly slipped into the closest darkened room and waited. He surveyed the space and realized he’d happened into the sitting room of the occupied chamber. He moved across the small area, and to his greatest luck, that door stood ajar.

  How convenient. Carefully adhering to the dark, he peered in. Surprise jolted through him, followed quickly with cynical satisfaction. So, Kimpton was not as immune to pleasures of the flesh as he let on to the eyes and ears of the beau monde. The old boy still kept his mistress. It was all Edward could do to contain a burst of laughter. Rowena Hollerfield had survived, and nicely so, since their own affair all those years ago. Of course, he knew that she was Kimpton’s mistress at one time. But to find her here? He wanted to rub his hands in glee.

  Rowena took the hand of the young lady lying abed, rubbing delicate fingers over the hand she held. The girl appeared listless. She had the look of a child. He felt a stirring in his trousers. He tamped it back.

  The house echoed with the infant’s cries. The older woman hadn’t yet returned. It was obvious the child belonged to the girl abed. So, Rowena had a daughter. But who was the father? She’d had a string of lovers, he was sure. Rowena had been a feisty young lover. Such a fighter. The memory stirred his desire. Perhaps Kimpton—

  Edward frowned. Him? Had Rowena kept knowledge of his own child from him? A roiling sensation pricked beneath his skin, stirring a compulsive need for violence. The timing fit.

  “Miss Hollerfield?” The steward poked his head in through a door across the room, startling Edward into further cover.

  Frustration filled him. Where was his wife?

  “Get out, Mr. Quince.” Rowena spoke flatly, her gaze never wavering from the girl on the bed. “Unless you are a wet nurse, prepared to breastfeed an infant, I have no use for you.”

  “A wet nurse.” His voice actually gurgled in shock. Edward almost pitied him.

  “I said get out.”

  “Yes. Of course, Miss Hollerfield.”

  The door latched softly on his exit, and tears filled Rowena’s eyes. Still, quite lovely eyes. “Corinne, darling, wake up. Your son needs you, I need you.”

  Again, the door creased ajar.

  “I said get out,” Rowena hissed, without turning.

  The elderly woman with the white cap he’d seen downstairs crept in. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Hollerfield,” she said, gently. “But I need to check on Miss Hollerfield.”

  Rowena leaned her forehead onto the back of the girl’s hand. After a small hesitation, she nodded. “Of course, Bethie. Please, accept my apologies,” she whispered. “I’m very frightened. I’m at a loss as to what to do.”

  Bethie moved to Rowena and squeezed her shoulder. “Mr. Quince took to the village to locate a wet nurse. I had Agnes make ye tea. She’ll have it fer ye in the parlor, ma’am. Don’t worry none, I’ll stay with yer sister.”

  Sister. Ha! He didn’t believe it for a moment.

  Rowena looked up in the woman’s harsh features. If Edward had been a more sentimental man, he might have been moved by her sympathetic kindness. But he wasn’t a sentimental man, and Rowena, though still somewhat beautiful, was nothing now but an over-aged courtesan.

  “Go,” Bethie ordered, gruffly.

  Again, Rowena hesitated, then nodded and stood. She placed the girl’s hand beneath the coverlet, kissed her forehead, and slipped out.

  Edward followed suit. He did a quick check of the remaining chambers, knowing the search was futile. His wife was not in residence. Not here, at any rate.

  Perhaps Rowena could enlighten him as to his wife’s whereabouts. If Kimpton had stashed Virginia nearby, Rowena might know something. He strode down the low-lit hall to the stairs, glancing back at the chamber he’d just passed. If anything, she should prove an interesting diversion. She was a courtesan, after all.

  Steam rose from the spout of the tea service on the table. But Rowena ignored it, moving to the windows instead. She couldn’t possibly swallow a single drop. The darkness was almost complete. The tops of the trees were barely discernible. What was she to do if Corinne didn’t survive? The thought didn’t bear contemplating. She spanned the warm chamber, her gaze resting on that horrendous painting Corinne insisted Lord Harlowe had painted.

  She edged closer and studied the contours of the broad strokes, of how he’d captured the light through the tower gates. Blinding, actually. It really was quite impressive. She leaned in, drawn to the gate’s latch and the strange symbol. But then, incredibly, she realized something else within the pattern of the gate. He’d painted the eyes of a prisoner peering through the slats. Familiar eyes. Eyes that appeared remarkably similar to Corinne’s. Impossible—

  She gasped, a shudder scaling her nape. She turned slowly, wary of another’s sudden presence. He loomed in the arch of the open door, his face hidden in the shadows. A ubiquity of malevolence saturated the room.

  “Rowena,” he growled.

  At one time she’d believed in the delicious promises that rich, velvet resonance conveyed. How young and naïve she’d been, even excusing her own rape. He’d managed to convince her she was irresistible, that he loved her and would take care of her, always. But in truth, it was her young body he’d found irresistible. Learning the unholy sickness was in him, and not her, had been a long and difficult lesson.

  She hadn’t heard that voice in over eighteen years. Prayed she’d never hear it again. The man was mad. But the images from that day when he’d hit his poor desolate wi
fe flitted through her mind like it was yesterday. All because the child Miss Hannah had borne was of the female gender and not the heir he required. Rowena had cracked the sitting room door and watched, horrified. She’d never seen him in such a fit.

  He’d raged at Hannah as she lay still, near unconsciousness. Raving at her. “Two!” he’d screamed. “You dare to give me two stillborn males.” His desperation for an heir squeezed her heart. Until—his raised fist smashed her mistress’s cheek.

  Rowena’s stomach dipped. Dear God. The eyes in the painting were Maudsley’s. Why would Harlowe depict them in a work of art? And why such a vile subject matter?

  She gripped the familiar cloak of rancor tightly about her and strolled to the tea. Biting back bile, she poured a cup with trembling finges. “My, my. Lord Maudsley, what an unpleasant surprise.”

  He slithered into the room, into the light.

  She took in the cruel twist of mouth, the deep creases in his face from the indulgent lifestyle he’d never seen fit to modify. He pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it in the air, then caught it. She took a fortifying sip but had to force the swallow. “I see time has not been kind to you, my lord.”

  He laughed. A deep vibration that reverberated to and from the high ceilings. “As forthright as I recall.” He raked an appraising gaze over her that started at her toes, paused at her bosom, and lingered on her mouth before meeting her eyes. “You hid your sister well, I see.”

  Stunned, she blurted, “My sister?” Oh, God. He’d seen her with Corinne. A shudder racked her.

  His eyes narrowed on her. She shivered again from the depths of such malice. So much at stake.

  Up, that coin flew. He snatched it from the air like a venomous snake. Then again. “Tell me,” he said. “How is the prostitution business these days? No unexpected ... children through the years? Perhaps you’ve ... ” He leered at her. “ ... missed me.”