by Diana Ballew
Her fingers trembled against him as he guided her beyond a small copse of trees.
Chapter 19
Thorne strolled into White’s. The calm, steadfast atmosphere mastered an ability to appease one’s thoughts, even when the inclination was to commit oneself to Bedlam. Between emotional females, energetic children, wailing babies, and mysterious paintings, he needed to think, and home was not conducive to thinking. Home meant lusting after his irresistible wife. He’d hardly managed to remember to send Andrews back to Kimpton for two more of Harlowe’s works.
The low rumble of conversation filtered throughout the dark club, muted by paneled walls. He glanced through the various groups of members, searching.
Ah. There he was, hidden behind the Gazette, legs stretched out, booted feet crossed at the ankles. “Ahem.”
Brock lowered the paper. “Kimpton, didn’t realized you’d returned. How was the country air?”
Thorne dropped into the deep leather chair across. “Eventful.”
“How so?”
“Rowena Hollerfield is dead.”
That garnered his friend’s full attention. He dropped the paper and bolted upright. “What the devil!”
Thorne leaned forward. “Where is Lady Maudsley?”
Brock’s mouth tightened. “Safely tucked away.” He glanced around. “She is in a bad way, Kimpton.”
“How so?"
“She’s spent the better part of a week unconscious. She finally came round the last two days. But I dared not drop from society. It would rouse suspicions. She’s been asking after her girls.”
“You can assure her of their well-being.”
“Thank you, I will.” Brock paused. “I suppose Lady Kimpton learned of Rowena’s child?”
“Oh, yes. About that—” Kimpton filled him in. The discovery of Corinne, her life-threatening bout. How Rowena had managed to keep Corinne hidden all those years. Rowena’s murder.
Brock’s face molded to hewn stone with those words. “Have you any idea who murdered her?”
“I do,” Thorne said, grimly. “I’m pretty certain Maudsley is our culprit, yet his reasons escape me.”
“Jesus.” Brock paled and pushed a hand through his hair. “Have you seen him since?”
“No. The bastard beat Irene and Cecilia’s maid, Miss Elvin, within an inch of her life.”
Brockway’s harsh breath drew the attention of nearby members. “Good God.”
Thorne quelled the unwanted attention with a black look until the nosy bastards fumbled and shifted their gazes elsewhere. “We’re safer in town. But there’s something else.”
“I hesitate to ask.”
“I think he has involved himself in an affair with Miss Elvin.”
“Lecherous beast.” Brock shuddered. “I realize it’s not so unusual, but the chit can’t be more than sixteen. And with a wife like Gin—”
“A disgusting practice, indeed.” He contemplated Brock. “Any word regarding Harlowe? His whereabouts? His activities?”
“None. His old friend Welton was about a day or so ago. Sounded as if some poor gel is about to meet her doom. He’s marrying. Nothing regarding Harlowe, however.”
“The longer he’s missing, the less I’m apt to believe he’s alive.” Not that he could say that to Lorelei. He dreaded the day. And now there were Miss Hollerfield’s emotions to contend with.
Tension marked Brock’s features. “Have you discovered anything in the paintings?” Brock asked.
“Nothing. However, there was another at the hunter’s cottage. It of the Tower gates. The gate is latched with another scythe.”
Brock grunted.
“And eyes are staring out from within.”
“Is that so?” Brock said slowly. “Do you suppose Harlowe is—” He leaned in. “—is working for the Crown? It’s odd, is it not, that he was seen at the Beefsteak?”
“That same thought crossed my mind. The drawing from his quarters, the one with Fawkes—” He broke off. His mind worked and reworked the pieces. Nothing fit. “There was something about that particular drawing.” The others ... who were the others? The conspirators were hanged, drawn, and quartered. England did not take kindly to treason. “One man did not belong. He didn’t sport the pointed beard nor bushy hair. Perhaps that picture warrants closer scrutiny. It’s still in your possession?”
“Of course. Under lock and key.” Brock folded the newspaper, set it aside, and stood.
“Andrews won’t return until late this evening with the paintings from Kimpton. We’ll compare that work with the others once he returns. Most especially the Tower gate. Bring the Fawkes painting by my home. I don’t wish to be away for long periods of time.”
After a quick good-bye, Thorne made his way to Culross Street by way of Park. The wind had just enough snap to leave Hyde Park free from the normal hoard of traffic.
His gelding was impatient for a brisk ride, and Thorne was obliged to give way. He should make home in time for tea with the ladies. Perhaps Lorelei would provide him with his need of a restorative. His cock grew hard with the thought. He pushed his feet into the stirrups to adjust the sudden discomfort.
Curzon Street fed right into the park, and he let Honor have his head until they crossed Mount. “That feel good, ole boy?” Thorne pounded the gelding’s neck with affection, slowing further. He reached the drive and caught sight of red disheveled curls, flying in the wind. Her walk was not sedate, nor in any way could it be described as ladylike. She ran for the servants' entrance.
Too far away to call out, Thorne threw a glance over his shoulder, concerned someone had given chase to the girl. He didn’t see anyone suspicious. Just the regular Mayfair foot traffic, strolling sedately along. Still, a whisper of disquiet touched his nape.
Thorne nudged Honor ahead with a tap at his flanks.
Despite her best judgment, Lorelei turned her face up to a rare sun-filled day, eyes closed. The snippy air required a shawl, but the sun warmed her shoulders through it. She smiled, reveling in the small pleasures surrounding her. Cecilia giggled, having enticed Liza to a footrace about the garden, while Irene issued serious instructions to Corinne on the best method in relieving Nathan of bubbles in his small tummy after a sound feeding.
Ever the gracious lady, Irene positioned herself primly between Lorelei and Corinne. “Lady Kimpton?” She adjusted the blanket that swaddled Nathan, folding it just right about his face. Satisfied it allowed him suitable air and sunshine, she turned those serious eyes to Lorelei. “Is there any word on my mother?”
Lorelei’s heart dipped as she clasped Irene’s small hand and shook her head. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ve had no word. My promise holds, however. Never fear.”
Irene leaned close to Lorelei, raising eyes identical to Ginny’s. “I expect she’s dead.”
“Nonsense,” Lorelei said firmly, silently appalled. “We would have most certainly have heard something to that effect.” She made a mental note to get some answers from Thorne. Today.
Irene cast her glance around the gardens. “It’s lovely here, isn’t it, Lady Kimpton?”
Lorelei followed her gaze. “It is indeed.”
“I suppose it’s sinful to say so, but if Mama is dead, I would not mind living here with you and Lord Kimpton.”
Lorelei swallowed the large lump in her throat, unable to squeeze words past it. She nodded. Flowers bloomed along the garden’s edge. Thick ivy snaked in and around the garden gate, up and over the bricked fence.
Where was Ginny? What had she endured the night Lorelei had taken ill? Her happiness in the moment faltered. Why hadn’t Ginny tried contacting her, asked after her girls? And now that she thought on it, there’d been no word from Lord Maudsley, either. If something had happened to her friend that would leave these two wonderful children in the earl’s sole care—Lorelei suppressed a shudder. Ginny treasured her daughters more than her own life. She feared Irene might be right about her mother.
She watched as Cecilia chased
Liza. Cecilia’s joy enchanted her.
“Lady Kimpton, would you care to hold Nathan?” Irene asked.
Lorelei froze. She couldn’t possibly. She’d grown accustomed to Irene’s confidence in holding the baby. But her own ... the thought sent panic spiking through her. “Um, thank you, Irene, but ... but ... ” She glanced about the garden, looking for something, anything to grasp. “Liza,” she called out. “Where did Miss Elvin disappear?”
Liza pulled up, panting as Cecilia tumbled into her. Cecilia let out another childish shriek of joy. “I catch-ted you!”
Liza swung Cecilia up in her arms. “So you did, Lady Cecilia.” She glanced at Lorelei. “Miss Elvin?” Her expression shifted into a blank mask. “She begged off pleadin’ a megrim, my lady.”
“I see.”
“She didn’t have no megrim,” Cecilia said. “Come, Liza. I wish to race again. I shall win again.”
Unease teased Lorelei, raising the hair at her nape. “Cecilia, one moment.”
The blonde imp straightened at Lorelei’s seriousness. “Are you angry, Lady Kimpton?”
“Of course not, darling.” She pulled Cecilia to her. “Why do you say Miss Elvin did not have a megrim?”
“She wore her cloak, a-course. One doesn’t rest in her cloak, does she?”
Lorelei studied Cecilia’s poignant, upturned face. “Yes, darling. I suppose you’re right. One doesn’t rest in a cloak.” She looked up at Liza. “Carry on with your race. I believe I shall see how Miss Elvin is faring.”
“Oswald!” Thorne tossed his hat on the foyer table and doffed his coat. The old man was losing his touch; Thorne had beat him to the door. Barely.
“My lord?”
“Seems too quiet. Where are the ladies? Any unusual occurrences?”
“Somewhat, my lord; in the garden; ’tis a house full of women and children, so all occurrences are considered unusual. I request specificity, if you please.”
Thorne raised a brow. “Of course, Oswald. Show Lord Brockway to my study when he arrives. I wish to speak with Lady Kimpton—” He turned for the stairs.
Lorelei appeared at the top like an ethereal angel sent straight from the heavens.
“Oh, there you are, Thorne.”
Oswald slipped from the entryway through a side door.
“Have you seen Miss Elvin?” Thorne said.
“I just came from her chambers. She’s very pale. I thought perhaps I should send for Dr. Pogue. She insists it’s nothing, of course.” She huffed out her irritation. “In any event, I need to speak with you regarding a private matter.”
He met her at the foot of the stairs and swept her into his arms. “I am at your service, my love. Shall we go somewhere and lock the door?” He breathed against her neck, then smiled as her skin heated his lips.
“Please, my lord.” Her breathy whisper pricked his skin with desire.
Grinning, he dropped his arms from her and stepped away. “Of course, my lady. The drawing room?”
Her eyes lowered to her palms as she brushed them over her yellow day dress. Cheeks pink, she led the way. She took a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “Has there been any word on Lady Maudsley? Irene is most concerned. And I—”
Thorne set his hips against the back of the settee, folded his arms across his chest and crossed his ankles. “You?”
“I promised her I would let her know any information I learned. That I would not lie to her.” Lorelei gave him an exasperated look, then paced to the windows.
“She is safe. That’s all I know.”
“What do you mean ‘that’s all you know’? You certainly learned something.”
“I spoke with Brock this morning and that is what he told me. You may ask him yourself. He is due any moment.”
The knocker sounded in the foyer.
Thorne smiled and held out his arm. “His timing is incredible, isn’t it?”
She set her hand on his arm and lifted her chin. Thorne led her to the door. At the arch, he pulled her back and put his lips to hers, ran his tongue over her lush bottom lip. She tasted sweeter than the most luscious plum on earth. Her fingers dug into his arm and he yanked her against his chest. He had a burning desire to toss her over his shoulder and dart up the stairs. He brought his fingers to her face and lifted his lips from her.
Short, panted breaths touched his chin. He set his forehead against hers. “Brock awaits, dammit.”
She smoothed a trembling hand over her perfect hair, nodded and stepped into the entry hall.
“Lady Kimpton,” Brock bowed. “Kimpton.”
Thorne spotted the rolled canvas in his hand and guided them to his study.
“Lord Brockway. This is a fine afternoon,” Lorelei said. “How is my friend, Lady Maudsley?”
The edge in her voice could cut glass. “Yes, Lord Brockway. How is Lady Maudsley?” Thorne echoed. His friend’s features rivaled that of a marbled antiquity housed at the British Museum. “My wife is concerned.”
A slow stream of air expelled from Brock. “She’s—” He stalked to one of the leather, wing-backs facing Thorne’s desk, his eyes fastened ahead. After a moment he looked at Lorelei. The pain in his eyes was bleak. “She’s safe from—”
“Others?” Lorelei prompted softly.
“Yes, others,” he agreed.
Lorelei moved around Thorne and sat into the chair next to Brock. “I wouldn’t press, but Irene fears she is dead.”
Brock flinched, and something suspicious glinted in his gaze. Murder or tears, Thorne couldn’t discern which.
Brock’s jaw tightened. He answered through clenched teeth. “It was a near thing. I believe she is out of danger, but—it was a near thing.”
“Dear God,” she breathed. After a long moment, she stood.
“I dare not tell you where she is, Lady Kimpton. Not until I’ve dealt with the monster who almost killed her. I will not send her back.”
“Of-of course, Lord Brockway. Thank you for looking after her.”
Thorne took her arm and escorted her to the door. “I’m sorry, darling. I would have spared you all.”
She paused, lifted a palm to his cheek. “I appreciate it, Thorne, but I am not a child. And any news is better than none for Irene. She’s feared the worst. Not knowing anything is what provokes nightmares.” With a tight smile, she left.
The burning imprint of her hand still on his cheek, Thorne inhaled deeply and latched the door. “Come, Brock, let’s get a look at that painting.”
Chapter 20
Lorelei stood outside the study, hand on her chest, her heart heavy, her bones chilled. How was she supposed to tell Irene her mother was ‘in a bad way’? What did that mean? Fear and anger twisted her stomach in a coil of knots. How had Ginny managed to urge those girls to pretend sleep, as hurt as she was?
The suffocating sensation clogged her throat, knowing she must fulfill her promise to Irene. She made her way to the morning room. The papered walls, with birds that flitted through various shades of green painted leaves, normally cheered her. Now the small, cozy room seemed to mock her. Lorelei tugged on the bell pull and the housekeeper poked her head around the door.
“You rang, my lady?”
“Tea for two, please. And send for Lady Irene. I wish to speak to her. Alone.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Lorelei waited, stomach dipping with every minute creak, pass, and rustle that passed beyond the chamber, bracing herself.
All too soon, Irene crossed the threshold, hands clasped tightly before her, in her starched poplin dress of soft pink, her small pert features solemn. It was unnatural for a child her age to be so perfect and well-behaved. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Lorelei patted the empty space on the settee beside her. “Come sit.”
Irene followed Lorelei’s instructions to the letter. She sat, her gaze on the hands clasped in her lap. “My mother is dead, isn’t she?”
“No. She is not dead. But—” Lorelei swallowed. “I
fear she is in a bad way. I don’t know how bad. But those are the words straight from Lord Brockway’s own lips.”
Not a hiccup, sniffle, or peep escaped. Irene’s shoulders did not shudder with sobs. The only sign she cried was the growing damp spot on her dress, where her tears splashed on her hands then landed on her pretty frock.
Lorelei laid her hands over Irene’s. “I’m sorry I don’t have more news for you, but I told you I would tell you what I learned, when I learned it.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Lorelei’s heart shattered, and she pulled the girl into her arms. She seemed so fragile, so breakable. “Lord Brockway will keep us informed, Irene. He believes she is out of danger. That is most encouraging, isn’t it?”
A brisk nod against Lorelei’s chest was Irene’s only response. It would have to suffice.
Brock made his way from the Kimpton’s, his rage barely suppressed. He had one or two quick appearances required before it would be safe to check on Ginny. He always chose the most crowded balls, flirted with some simpering debutante or merry widow. Theatrics carefully scripted to throw off the patronesses before sneaking away through a side door or over a garden wall.
He’d prefer Kimpton and Lorelei to attend Ginny, but leaving the house vulnerable without their presence was not an option. Brock had every intention of killing Maudsley, but timing was key. He flexed, then clenched his fist. If he had his way, the man would end up in the gutter, gutted.
He guided his horse towards Gristons for the small dinner the man’s mother orchestrated. The man set him on edge. Two hours, he told himself.
Brock slid from his horse, tossing the reins to a groom. Plastered a smile on his face and knocked on the door. He was ushered to a large parlor filled with many of his peers. Notably missing were Kimpton and his wife.
Griston waved him over. “Brockway, welcome. What will you have?”
“Whiskey.”
Griston handed over a tumbler. “Haven’t seen much of you of late, have we?”
Brock’s gut tightened. He sipped his drink, overriding the urge to swallow the contents in one large gulp. “I’ve been about.” Brock glanced around before returning his attention back to his host. He needed a subject change. “Heard Welton’s tying the knot.”