by Diana Ballew
Her fingers shook violently. Had Maudsley killed her brother?
She would never believe it. Not until they dragged his broken body before her. But the doubts tore through her, rendering her ability to stand. Would he ever know his child? A hungry child, whose very life rested in her arms. Don’t go down this road. Not without proof. Lorelei raised up and pulled herself together. She folded the offending paper and stuffed it in her pocket, Thorne would need to know. With a deep breath and stoic resolve, she braced herself. Nathan and Corinne needed her, and she intended to be there.
Glancing around again, she spotted another door. Lorelei crept back to check on Nathan. He lay quietly, exhausted slumber having taken over. She went back to the newly discovered room and lifted the candle over her head.
It was a small sleeping chamber. Still, no windows or other means of escape. She moved further in the room, pulled out a drawer. A noise above startled her—the creak of a chair as someone stood? Sat?
Muffled voices. Definite footsteps.
Lorelei strained to hear; the voices were garbled but a bit more coherent from this chamber. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Something about Sarah? She shook her head. Sarah was at the picnic. Lorelei distinctly remembered her sitting across from her, so tense her neck would have snapped if anyone had bellowed unexpectedly.
She resumed her search. Searched the contents of the drawer. Something glinted from the light of the candle. Lorelei reached in and pulled out a bracelet. A child’s bracelet, and beneath that, another note.
Maudsley, as per our verbal agreement.
Lady Irene will suffice. The price is not negotiable.
Unsigned.
An image of Irene’s unconscious form in Maudsley’s lap, his large hand smoothing her hair, slammed through Lorelei. “God, don’t let it be true,” she whispered. But her unwieldy nerves spoke otherwise as perspiration dampened her nape and forehead.
She moved her trembling hand to her pocket, and a blast matching the explosion of fireworks from a Covent Garden spectacle roared, shaking the walls. The candle tilted, spilling hot wax over her hand. She screamed and the candle fell to the floor. She gasped for breath at the pain, eyes stinging, quickly tamping out the flame with her toe.
Nathan’s screams reached her from the outer chamber. Lorelei felt her way back to him by way of the wall in the pitch black.
“I’m coming, Nathan. I’m coming.” Her whispers trembled. She hit her shin on a hard surface. “Blast it.”
His hiccupped cries led her to him. She lowered herself down before attempting to lift him. The terror of dropping him was outweighed by her need to give him comfort. There was no one to set him in her arms. It was just the two of them now.
Between Nathan’s gulps of air, Lorelei could make out footsteps pounding a wooden staircase. Helpless tears gave way. “Please, Irene, hide. Hide. Hide.” Somehow she kept from pounding her fists against the door and bellowing the words aloud. Instead, they became a chanted prayer. God, let her get away.
An image of Lorelei’s lifeless body suffocated Thorne. The closer they drew to Maudsley’s, the more excruciating his torment grew. He urged Honor into a run, leaving Brock behind.
Christ, what would he do if she were hurt? He couldn’t think like that. Bethie was on her way. She wouldn’t allow anything to hurt Lorelei.
“Kimpton,” Brock snapped. “Hold up. We need a stratagem.”
Right. Thorne slowed to a canter. The house was just ahead. Lights blazed from the windows and his apprehension soared. He pulled back on the reins and stopped. Brock pulled alongside.
“One of us should check out the chamber that’s lighted like a Christmas tree. The other should enter from the back.” Brock’s matter-of-fact approach calmed him.
“You go in through the back, I’ll take the bastard’s office.”
Brock’s jaw tightened; no doubt he wanted first crack at doing Maudsley in, but he nodded sharply and kicked his horse in the flanks. Thorne waited until Brock reached the back, then nudged Honor into motion.
Seconds later he dropped to the ground, keeping close to the house. As he neared the blazing windows, Thorne pulled the pistol from his pocket. He edged closer but heard nothing from inside. Outside, however, hooves beat the ground in a steady retreat. He glanced out at the darkness, a futile endeavor. The canter faded away, and Thorne peered in.
He didn’t see anyone. He tried the window. Locked. Devil take it. He lowered his head and the frame swung out.
“Kimpton?”
“Here, Brock.” Thorne heaved himself over into a cluttered library, landing softly on his feet. “Anything—” The stench hit him with the force of fist in the nose. “Not again.”
“I’m afraid so. Look. There on the settee.”
Thorne strode over. Bruises mutilated Miss Elvin’s once finely etched features. He touched her neck. “She’s dead.”
“Maudsley?”
“Who else?” Thorne scanned the chamber. Just beyond the desk on the floor, something resembling spilled black ink splattered the wall. Chills skittered down his spine. Blood. His mind attempted to comprehend the sight as his gaze followed the pattern to the upturned chair and Maudsley, leaning against the wall watching him from dead eyes.
“Jesus,” Brock whispered harshly in the silence. “Now what?”
Thorne stood there stunned. Never had the words ‘deathlike hush’ been applied more appropriately. The words reverberated against his temples until a creak from the hall riveted him into action. He cocked his pistol and darted for the door.
“Irene?” Thorne lowered his gun and set it on the desk.
She ran straight for him and buried her head at his waist. He met Brock’s eyes. “Send for the Watch.” Thorne rested his hand on Irene’s head. “Who brought you here, Irene?”
“I-I don’t know. I woke and was in my bed,” she whispered. “What is that smell? Is my mother back?”
Brock pulled the door shut, and Thorne silently thanked him.
He pulled her into the empty hall and went down on one knee. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“But—”
Thorne cut her off. “—can you tell us what happened at your tea party this afternoon?”
“I poured the tea for everyone. And then we drank it.” Her brows furrowed. “It was sweet. But I’d never been allowed to pour before, so I drank it anyway so I could pour again. I guess I-I fell asleep.” Tears filled her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not, my dear. But I believe someone may have put something in it to make you sleepy.” Thorne studied her pale features. “Can you not recall anything? Lady Kimpton is not at home. I thought she might have gone with you and Nathan.” A door opened, and Thorne caught sight of Bethie from the corner of his eye.
Irene blinked quickly. “Nathan is gone too?”
“I believe they might be together.”
Irene’s head moved, denying that scenario. “That can’t possibly be. Lady Kimpton is afraid of Nathan.”
Afraid? Lorelei? Of an infant? “You must be mistaken, my lady.”
Bethie moved forward. “’Tis true, yer lordship.”
Thorne came to his feet. “I see. And I suppose there is a reason.”
“Yessir.” She heaved a deep breath. He’d never seen her less militant. She seemed bleak. “I practiced midwifery back in Silverdale, ye see.”
He nodded, but didn’t see at all.
“When Lorelei’s mama died, her papa brought me in to care for her and baby Brandon. Well, she followed me everywhere.” Her hands twisted, her eyes clouded with sadness. “I was called for an emergency birthin’ one night. Late.”
Unease tingled, raised the hair on his arms.
“She was supposed to be sleepin’. Lady Irene reminds me a bit of ... Well, the baby struggled, mightily he did. I handed him off to the nearest body. That was Lorelei. I was tryin’ to save the mama. She had eight other children to raise.”
Thorne wanted to stop her.
Irene’s small hand slipped into his.
“Bless her everlovin’ heart. The room went quiet like. The mama just give out. I looked across the room, and the babe was on Lorelei’s shoulder. He was quiet, too. Too quiet. The door crashed back and the mister came flying in. In his grief he accused little Lorelei of killin’ his child. And me of killin’ his wife.”
Thorne swallowed. “How old was she?”
She blinked and her focus found him. “She was nine. She had horrific nightmares. I didn’t birth no more babes ... not till Miss Hollerfield had need. I-I couldn’t turn away. Lady Kimpton wouldn’t have let me, no how.”
No. Lorelei would never let that happen. Giving himself a mental shake, he looked at Irene. “You don’t remember anything? Nathan crying? Your papa? Anything?”
Her head moved side to side.
He dropped his head back. “Where the devil could someone hide a grown woman and a crying infant?” he directed to the ceiling.
“She might be in the cellar,” Irene suggested shyly.
He froze. “Cellar?”
“Papa has a hidden chamber.” Her cheeks flamed. “He doesn’t know I learned about it.”
“Then how—”
“I heard him telling Rolf. I listened at the door.”
Hope filled Thorne. He forced himself to remain calm. “Do you know where this—hidden chamber is located?”
She glanced around then brought her gaze to his. “Will I be in trouble for telling you? I heard Miss Elvin mention it to him once. He hit her and told her to never tell anyone. Her lip swelled really fat,” she whispered.
“No. You won’t be in trouble. Can you help me?”
The door opened and Brock walked in. “The Watch will be here soon.”
Thorne nodded. “Irene.”
She spun around and took off down the hall. “Quick, before my papa comes home.”
Thorne went after her.
“It’s below. Far past the kitchens. I once followed Papa. I had to hide quickly when he turned around. He would have surely beat me senseless if he’d caught me. We’ll need candles. It’s frightfully dark.” She stopped at a table with storage doors and opened the doors, then pulled out a couple of candles. He took them from her and lit them from the hall sconce and handed one to Brock.
She led the troops down the stairs, far past the kitchens as she’d said, then past the storerooms to what appeared to be Maudsley’s extensive wine cellar.
His hopes dashed as quickly as they’d risen. There wasn’t a door in sight, nor even a place large enough to accommodate a door. A nauseating sink of despair wrenched through him. “Irene?”
She released his hand and stepped tentatively to one specific wine rack. It was set slightly apart from the others. No one spoke in the thick tension. A cry penetrated, oh, so faintly. From where?
Irene asked, frowning. “I sincerely hope Mrs. Wells accompanied Lady Kimpton, Nathan will be famished.”
“Where is the door, Irene? Quickly, now.” He moved alongside her, handing his candle off to Bethie.
“It’s along here somewhere. I’m not sure how it opens—”
Thorne lifted her and set her aside. He ran his hands over the sides of the designated rack. Pushed then pulled. It easily slid forward. The damned thing was on wheels. “Bring the candle closer.” Bless Maudsley’s black soul, he’d left the key in the door. Thorne twisted it—well-oiled. His knees almost buckled with the relief. He pushed the door in. Solid darkness.
Terror gripped his chest in suffocating pain. He couldn’t see a thing. An odor that permeated the air revealed that story. The child was in desperate need of a change. “Lorelei?”
Nathan wailed.
“Thorne?” She blinked from the sudden light. Her hair was mussed, her face splotched. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed in his sorry life.
He rushed in. “Yes, darling, it’s me. Are you hurt?”
“No. No. Thorne, we must find Irene. She’s in danger.”
“I’m here, Lady Kimpton. I’m f-fine. Is Mrs. Wells with you? You should have brought her along.” She stepped forward and took Nathan from her lap. “Nathan is most hungry, I’m afraid.”
“His nappy needs a change. I’ve failed miserably as a mother, I fear.” Her tear-choked laugh was barely audible.
Thorne tipped his wife’s chin up, forced her gaze to his. “He shall live, Lady Kimpton. You are not near as miserable a mother as you believe.”
Lorelei burst into tears.
Chapter 25
It was obvious Maudsley had given his servants the night off in light of his nefarious plans. Now that the bastard was dead, Thorne feared they’d never learn how dire those plans had been. He fingered the key he’d absconded with from Maudsley’s hidden chamber.
He bundled Lorelei, Irene, and Nathan in the carriage with Bethie and sent them home. “I have my horse, darling. I’ll be home soon.” He stopped her protest with a quick kiss.
After a tormenting interview with the constable, he and Brock strolled into the Kimpton townhouse. Irene, Cecilia and Lorelei waited. Lorelei was in the lone wingback chair, while Cecilia and Irene were sitting on the bottom step.
His eyes swept the trio, settling on his wife. “Did I miss something?”
A silence filled the hall and his gaze found Cecilia. “We wish to see our mama. Now,” she said.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” came Lady Irene’s polite inquiry.
Lady Cecilia’s lip trembled. “She’s not dead! Don’t you dare say that.”
“She’s not dead. But, I fear she is not up to company at the moment.” Brock didn’t lean down and speak gently to the girls. He stated the fact with quiet confidence.
“It’s a bit late,” Lorelei said.
Thorne wanted nothing more than to end the most distressing day of his life with his wife in his arms, but Lorelei was right.
Brock turned to Irene and Cecilia, then bent down on one knee. “I hasten to assure you that your mother will recover, but it will take time before she is up for company.”
Thorne read between the lines, but remained silent.
“What does that mean?” Cecilia demanded.
Her voice echoed against the walls, and Thorne winced. The child had trouble conversing in a normal manner.
“There are ... bruises on her face. She has a broken wrist ...”
Again Thorne winced. No soft words from Brock. He glanced up at Lorelei from his crouched position.
An unspoken battled between them. The tears shimmering in her eyes trickled over, Thorne squeezed her hand.
Brock sighed, conceding to Lorelei. Thorne knew she would come out fighting, claws sharp and ready to save those young girls from seeing their mother battered and so near to death.
“I promise you shall see her. Very soon.” Brock stood.
Lorelei nodded. “Thank you, Lord Brockway. Girls, please head up to the nursery. I shall be along shortly.”
Irene didn’t turn immediately. She leveled a hard stare hard at Brock. Thorne gave his friend his credit, the man didn’t flinch. “You are certain she is not dead?”
Brock took her hand and bowed low over it. “I vow it on my mother’s grave, Lady Irene.”
A long moment ensued before she nodded once then followed her sister up the stairs.
Brock went to the door, a small sad smile curving his lips.
“One second, Lord Brockway.” Lorelei stepped forward, reached up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for looking after my friend. Please tell her not to worry. Her children are in good hands.”
“The words will set her mind at ease, Lady Kimpton.”
Thorne snagged Lorelei’s hand and tugged her up the stairs as Oswald closed the door. He marched her down the hall to their suite. Once inside his bedchamber, he pushed the hair off her neck. “About Harlowe—”
More tears filled her eyes. She pulled her hand from his and tucked it in her pocket, cutting him off. “—I already told you. I know you didn
’t have anything to do with his disappearance.” She pulled out a folded sheet. “I found this.”
He took the note and moved closer to the candle on the bedside table. “I’m pleased to inform you Lord Harlowe is no longer an issue.” The note’s sinister connotation twisted through him like a knife to his gut. Thorne glanced at Lorelei. Her face was gaunt and pale. She’d endured too much already, and now this. He wished he could shake Maudsley alive, only to kill the bastard again. This time with his own bare hands.
“I found it atop a desk in that ... that torture chamber.”
Thorne gritted his teeth, despising himself for the words he would be forced to deliver. But there would be no more secrets from his wife—not from him. He paused, searched for the words and strength he needed. “Did you ever look closely at Harlowe’s works?”
Her back stiffened. “He was quite talented.”
Thorne smiled. Such loyalty was to be commended. “That, he was.”
Her body seemed to cave within itself. “Was?” she whispered.
“Many of Harlowe’s ... er ... more disturbing depictions contain a scythe he’d painted somewhere within certain pictures. I couldn’t make sense of them so I sent a note to the Foreign office just before I left for Kimpton with Lady Maudsley’s children. Someone arrived to look at them just before we returned home.” His hesitation was only slight, but he pulled an envelope from inside his waistcoat and handed it to her. “Apparently, your brother assisted the Crown on a number of matters they were not at liberty to reveal. The scythes he’d painted were messages intended for his, er, higher ups.” And, he’d used his sister to do so. Unfortunately, the opportunity to thrash Harlowe’s recklessness had apparently passed.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered.
Neither had Thorne until he looked at the paintings again. “Harlowe knew Maudsley was somehow involved though they refused to elaborate. One of the paintings was of Maudsley’s townhouse. In another, he’d drawn in his profile of a Guy Fawkes sketch. And, yet another, Judas—they appear to believe Harlowe was telling them of Maudsley’s being a traitor.”