The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  He drank. “Enough,” he said without heat.

  She took the glass away and set it on the bedside table. She glanced at Casper. “Why don’t you go to the kitchens, sir. I can sit with his lordship for a short time since I’m awake.”

  “But—”

  “Go,” Harlowe barked.

  The door latched shut on Casper’s exit, leaving the chamber in a hush.

  “How did you know?” Harlowe said.

  “Know what?” Maeve’s hand flew to her hair. She was appalled to realize the plait she’d fallen asleep with had long since unraveled. A frequent outcome after a nightmare of near drowning.

  His hand fluttered to his still exposed leg. He pulled it beneath the coverlets.

  “Oh, yes. My late husband, of course.” She smoothed her hair back as casually as she could under the circumstances. “He had frequent leg cramps, though not from the overuse of laud—I mean—”

  “Do not concern yourself with niceties, my lady. We both know I spent months in an asylum in which they doused me repeatedly. It’s a wonder I’m not dead, though half the time I feel so.”

  Four

  D

  o you remember much of your time there?” Maeve asked softly.

  More than any of the horrors Harlowe experienced over the past year: the pockets of black mass in his head; screams of madness; echoing against stone walls; the smell of unwashed bodies; and dank human depravity, hearing her pity was the worst. “Not much. Some,” he said gruffly. “Certainly, nothing I can speak of in mixed company.”

  Lady Alymer rubbed her palms over her upper arms as if taken by a sudden chill.

  He waited for her to say something, anything, but she remained quiet. He narrowed his gaze on her, but the embers in the grate did not give off enough light for him to read her expression. Not that he could have regardless. There was much beneath Lady Alymer’s practiced facade that would take a lifetime to discern. “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind enlightening me as to what it is I’m missing? At least this time.”

  She rose from the chair, leaving a soft scent of roses in her wake as she moved to the hearth and took up the poker. She stabbed at the embers then tossed in a piece of wood. “I’m not certain I comprehend you, my lord.”

  “And I’m sure you do.”

  “Would you like me to close the window?”

  “God, no.” He drew in an embattled breath. “I would like for you to tell me what it is you believe I am too feeble-minded to know,” he bit out in a frustrated huff. How could he explain how not knowing was more terrifying than the blank canvas in his head?

  She stalked back to the chair next to the bed and plopped down in a most undignified manner.

  He found the motion promising. What he did not find reassuring was the amount of time it was taking her to speak. Or if she would. She was just stubborn enough, he thought, but he managed to restrain himself from saying anything that might discourage her.

  After an interminable time, she inhaled deeply. “There was a woman, my lord.”

  “Surely, you are speaking of my… wife.” The word was an unexpected punch to his gut. Assorted memories then assaulted him. Those of strong hands, holding his head as he retched uncontrollably, forcing broth down his raw throat. Cool, soothing water on his fevered brow, weeks of ill-health and ax-splitting headaches. Afternoon walks to the sea, a young woman fetching him sketch paper and pencils, then paints. Only… he couldn’t remember what she looked like. If she was tall, or blonde, or voluptuous. Strong. She was strong, with an iron will. That, he remembered. “Not my wife,” he rasped in a voice he didn’t recognize.

  “Really, my lord. Now is not the time—”

  He reached up and grasped her wrist. It was silky smooth. Slender. Delicate. He could snap it in a single twist if the notion took him. The thought appalled him, because he was sure the action was familiar.

  “I can think of no better time, Lady Alymer. You will tell me. Now.” He never raised his voice, he couldn’t have if he’d tried. It was a graveled purr inside his throat. He would settle for that rather than the begging resting on his tongue.

  The blaze in the hearth took hold, highlighting the stubborn tilt of her jaw and the glint of steel in the gaze she lifted to his. Slowly, he released her wrist, desperately wanting to put his lips to her soft skin to ease any pain he’d caused.

  “She was found alongside a road near Colchester.”

  “Found? I don’t understand. Who was found?”

  She ignored the question of ‘who’? “Murdered, my lord. The earl—Griston—he was hosting a house party when the news came about. It was quite a shock.”

  “Griston,” he bit out. “That whoreson. Did he kill her?” He remembered Griston. A man whose attractive facade that hid the evil that lurked beneath his Byron-like appearance. Still, relief hit Harlowe with volcanic force.

  Her eyes dropped to the wrist he’d manhandled. Her fingers moved over her bared skin. “No one knows. Even if Griston was the culprit, it wouldn’t matter now.”

  “Why not?”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “Lord Griston was confined to Bedlam on the date of his thirty-third year. A short article appeared in the Gazette.”

  Harlowe grunted. It wasn’t as satisfying as putting a musket ball in the man himself, but it was something. One rarely escaped Bedlam, chained to the wall as they commonly were. A shudder rolled through him. How easily that it could have been him committed to Bedlam rather than the private asylum of Tranquil Waters.

  A tap sounded at the door and a man entered. Not Casper.

  “My lord?” He looked at Maeve. “I’m Rory, milady. I’ll be takin’ over for Casper the rest of the night.”

  “Oh. All right then, come in, Rory,” the tart-mouthed Lady Alymer answered for him. Her change of demeanor was as swift as her rising and making for the door. “I believe Lord Harlowe will sleep better now,” she said to Rory. She turned to Harlowe. “Oh. Will that be all, my lord?”

  As if she’d heed any answer he might give, slipping—no, hurrying—out before he could think of the slightest task to retain her. If Harlowe’d had the energy he would have laughed.

  To Rory, it likely appeared she glided across the Persian rug, but Harlowe saw differently. She ran as if the hounds were on her heels.

  Undignified as it was, Harlowe was forced to accept Rory’s assistance for the chamber pot’s use.

  “No cramps, milord?”

  “No,” Harlowe said. “It appears the woman knows what she is about.”

  Rory went to the window.

  “Leave the window, Rory, it’s stuffy in here. I need the air.” He actually preferred Rory over Casper, for whatever reason.

  Rory settled in the darkest corner of the room away from the crisp waft pouring in from the window. Harlowe felt a little sorry for him, but his own recent bounded internments, in both the asylum and the ship’s hold in which he’d been dumped, had Harlowe relishing the cold breeze.

  Harlowe folded one arm behind his head and stared into the black of the canopy overhead. “Rory, what do you know of Lady Alymer and her late husband?” Rory was an ex-bow street runner. Harlowe appreciated that very fact about him.

  “Not much, milord. The man was a bookworm to my recollections. They, Lord and Lady Alymer, spent most of their time in the country ’cordin’ to Kimpton and Brockway. T’was only since the old man’s, er, demise, did she come to town to stay with her mother.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Don’t know, milord. Reckon as I could find out for you.”

  “That would be excellent, Rory. Discreetly, of course.”

  “Of course, milord.”

  “How are your valet skills, Rory?”

  The chair Rory sat in creaked with his movement. “Nonexistent, milord.”

  “Mm. Teachable?”

  “S’pose so.”

  “Of course, you’ll be compensated for your rise in stat
ure,” Harlowe told him.

  “Are ye in danger, milord?”

  Harlowe let out a sigh. “I won’t know until my memory comes back, will I?”

  “S’pose not.”

  Quiet resonated through the chamber but for the pops and hisses of the fire. Harlowe was determined to stay awake, take in his freedom, the breath of cool air from the window, the luxury of heat, and the comfort of an actual bed. He was indeed lucky to be alive.

  It was then that he realized Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, had never told him who the murdered woman was.

  Maeve woke scandalously late the next—rather, that—morning, since she’d scarcely slept at all until a gray dawn broke. “Parson? How could you have let me sleep so long?”

  “Lady Kimpton stopped me on my way to breakfast and insisted I not disturb you.”

  “I see.” How like Lorelei. “Well, what’s done is done. But going forward, I should like to be dressed by nine so as to check on Lord Harlowe.” Maeve hurried out of bed. “Do you know if his lordship ordered breakfast yet?”

  “I believe he slept late as well.” Parson couldn’t quite mask her disapproval.

  “Very well,” Maeve said, ignoring her censure. “I’ll dress and check in on him before going to the morning room.” Again, Maeve ignored Parson’s compressed lips and set about her morning—late morning—routine.

  A proper lady’s attire took a notoriously amount of time. What, with the tightening of the corset until one couldn’t draw a breath to save one’s life and attacking all the buttons up the back of one’s fashionable frock, and not to mention dressing one’s rebellious hair into absolute submission.

  Forty-five minutes passed before Maeve turned the knob next door and, quietly, peered in. A sharp breeze stirred the window’s coverings, which accounted for Rory huddled beneath a heavy blanket in a corner on the far side of the chamber. The large man blinked a couple of times then lumbered to his feet and met her at the door.

  “Did Harlowe sleep well the rest of the night?” she asked him.

  “Aye, milady. No more cramps. No thrashing about or the like.”

  “Excellent, Rory. I’ll have something sent up.” Maeve turned toward the stairs.

  “Er, not broth,” he said.

  She stopped and faced him. “Pardon me?”

  Red crawled up his neck until two bright spots flamed high. “His lordship said no more broth.”

  “I… see.” With a sharp nod, Maeve strode to the stairs. She ran into the housekeeper at the base of the staircase. “Mrs. Woods, would you see to a tray for Lord Harlowe. Coddled eggs, dry toast, no jam, and tea, please. I fear he has tired of broth.”

  “Of course, my lady. You’ll find Ladies Kimpton and Brockway in the Morning Room.”

  On the ground floor, Maeve made her way to the back of the house towards the terrace, suddenly ravenous. The morning room was located just across. Lorelei and Lady Brockway—the previous Lady Maudsley, Ginny— were sitting there. “Good morning, Lorelei. Ginny, it’s wonderful to see you. Forgive my tardiness,” she said in a breathless rush.

  “Not at all, my dear,” Lorelei said. She poured out tea and handed it to Maeve. “I understand you had a late night.”

  Heat infused Maeve’s face. She concentrated on adjusting her skirts, a helpful endeavor in keeping her eyes averted. “More of an interruption, I assure you. I was soundly sleeping when I heard the commotion. Lord Harlowe suffers from debilitating leg cramps, it appears.” Her tone sounded rational enough and she chanced a furtive glance at her companions. Neither looked too shocked by her announcement, plying her with relief. She was a widow, after all. “Did Irene and Celia accompany you this morning, Ginny?”

  “Only Irene. Celia was promised a ride on horseback and declined, most vehemently, to come,” Ginny said. She nibbled on a biscuit then let out a long-winded sigh. “Irene was determined to check on Harlowe. She feels responsible for him.”

  At only ten or eleven years of age, Irene had the bearing of an aging dowager duchess, fully stocked with wisdom, knowledge, and serious mien. Irene was the one who had taught Lorelei how to hold an infant without fear. She had also protected her younger sister, Cecilia, from their abusive father, the late Lord Maudsley. To speak with Irene and not know or understand her could unnerve the unnerveable.

  “I think Harlowe would like that very much,” Lorelei said.

  “It can’t hurt. I think. Physically, he is well on his way to mending.” It was his mental recollection he feared, Maeve believed. He genuinely worried he was mad because he couldn’t recall all the events over the past year.

  Lorelei’s eyes shot to Maeve, her expression grave. “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes. I have my doubts you’ll be able to keep him abed much longer. I learned this morning he wanted breakfast and, I quote, not a drop of broth,” Maeve told her, grinning.

  Lorelei responded with a frown. “Is that wise?”

  Maeve lifted a shoulder. “He knows better than we what he can handle, my dear. I think it’s a good sign.”

  The conversation turned to Brockway’s father, the Duke of Addis and his antics with Celia and Irene. Maeve was thrilled to learn the man was able to draw out Irene’s laughter on more than one occasion. Apparently, she and the duke were currently embroiled on a project that included penning Brock’s memoirs, to his great dismay.

  Maeve ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, rashers of bacon, kippers, and toast. She had the notion she would require all her strength and wits about her when it came to dealing with the disturbing Viscount Harlowe.

  Five

  H

  arlowe’s fingers itched. Yet he had no desire to paint. He needed something to do rather than lying abed hour after hour, day after day. The problem was that he was still in the throes of battling the opium shoved down his throat the last ten months or so. And as much as he was glad he had those of Rory’s and Casper’s bulk about, he much preferred his new dragon. Those eyes of hers had a slight entrancing tilt, but he hadn’t seen her in the full light of day to determine their exact color. It seemed a simple enough mystery, one that shouldn’t overtax his beleaguered brain.

  He glanced over at Rory. The man looked about to slide to the floor from exhaustion.

  “Go get something to eat, man, then grab some sleep in a decent bed,” Harlowe told him. “I’ll live for a few hours without you. If it bothers you bad enough, send Casper up.”

  Rory’s weary and wary gaze met his.

  “Go. It’s an order.”

  There was a tap at the door and, to Harlowe’s surprise, it was not the dragon, but his avenging angel, complete with cherub on her hip. “Good morning, Lady Irene.” A wariness of his own took hold. “What have you there?”

  “Good morning, my lord. This is Nathaniel. I thought you might like a visit while he was somewhat calm.” Lady Irene Ennis was of slight build and hardly looked capable of holding a sturdy boy who must be half her weight. She hefted him to her other hip.

  Rory, who had stood and prepared to depart, slowly eased backed down into his vacated chair.

  Harlowe couldn’t bring himself to make the man leave now. Nathaniel was a bundle he hadn’t quite been able to come to grips with as yet.

  “Perhaps you should sit,” Harlowe said to Irene. “So as not to, er, drop him.”

  “Oh, I won’t drop him, my lord.” Irene studied Harlowe with an unsettling intensity, then looked at the baby and back. “He resembles you.” She set Nathan on the bed where he immediately bounced on his derriere and clapped his chubby hands, full of resplendent squeal, he happily let loose.

  Harlowe did his best not to flinch.

  Nathan attempted to stand and immediately fell on his backside, laughing with sheer joy.

  “He won’t bite, my lord.” A frown marred Irene’s brow. “Not intentionally. He does have most of his teeth and I have witnessed a few marks on Celia’s arm. Since she didn’t complain overly much, I maintain
ed that the bites weren’t lethal.”

  Harlowe narrowed his eyes on her, looking for any sign of amusement. There was none. She was completely serious. He thought back to those harrowing nights in the ship’s hold. Most were a blur, but two in particular stood out. The first of which was when a small, filthy child had been tossed in alongside him. A boy who had spoken a peculiar baby-speak vernacular Harlowe had been hard pressed in deciphering. He vaguely recalled the imp attempting to feed him. When those efforts failed, as Harlowe had not the strength to lift his own head, the boy released a string of epitaphs that would make a lady’s toes curl if not outright faint dead away.

  The second memory had been of Lady Irene hovering over him while the boy pronounced Harlowe already dead. It had been very nearly true. He remembered her matter-of-fact facade and put it down to the situation, but watching her now, he was struck by the solemnity of her manner. Hers was an old, old soul.

  “I see,” he returned with grave sincerity. “I shall take great care in keeping my fingers from his mouth.”

  The crack went over her head. She just nodded her approval, tracking Nathan’s movements in case he teetered backwards off the bed and landed on his head. The Persian rug on the hardwood mightn’t be enough to keep him from breaking his skull.

  Although Harlowe was confident enough to know that it would take a lot more than a fall on the head by an heir of his to put his heir out of commission. If anyone had reservations, all they had to do was look at what Harlowe had survived in the past year.

  A head of contained coiled braids appeared in the arch. What had appeared as carrot-orange the evening before, today, resembled the color of intense copper. “What goes on here?” Her eyes lit upon Nathan, wreaking havoc among Harlowe’s huge bed, and widened.

  Their color hit him with the force of a wave from the Mediterranean Sea. Aegean blue. How did he even know that color? Ah, the artist in him. His fingers itched again with the sudden urge to pick up a brush.