The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  It was time to speak with Kimpton.

  The missing pockets of memory would drive him mad, but one could only work with what one had at hand. Vlasik Markov had been in the human trafficking trade. That was the only thing he could recall. Nothing of Harlowe’s own mission had broken through. Had he been on a mission? That was the question that disturbed him most.

  Rory heaved him from the bed, and the nausea hit him. Regular as clockwork. Harlowe suffered through the bout. There was no dignity in casting up one’s accounts. However, the bouts did seem to be lessening, and each night his stamina increased. The process was slow, he had to regularly remind himself.

  “Was the late Alymer an opium eater?” Harlowe asked Rory.

  “Not so’s I could figure, milord.”

  “How does Lady Alymer know so much then? A brother, perhaps.” Harlowe came up from touching his toes after the tenth count, panting. He moved across the room and sucked down more water. She’d been right about that as well.

  “Only child.”

  Harlowe grunted. Then grabbed his wrap. “I’m going to walk the hall.”

  “Don’t attempt the stairs, sir. Leastways, allow me to go first to break your fall.”

  “Are you funning me, Rory?”

  “No, milord.”

  “Go. Get some rest. Send Casper around. He can assist me the rest of the night.”

  Harlowe slipped out of his chamber for the first time since he’d arrived at his sister’s home in time to find his sister’s husband coming up the stairs. “Just the man I wanted to see.” Harlowe kept his voice low.

  Kimpton slowed. “What the devil are you doing up and about?”

  “I’m haunting the halls. Going mad, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

  His brother-in-law grinned. “If you manage the stairs to the library, we can talk there. My wife will ring a peal over your head, and mine, if she finds you out of bed.”

  “Rory will help me. Perhaps a small amount of brandy would be a nice change from the water my caregiver is bent on drowning me with.”

  Harlowe signaled his newly appointed valet. By the time he and Rory made it down to the library, Harlowe was winded and lightheaded. But seeing different walls had a bracing effect on his mood. He dropped into a winged-back chair. “Do you mind if I crack a window?”

  “Not at all. Allow me.” Kimpton did the honors then settled in a neighboring chair. “Now, what is on your mind?”

  Harlowe closed his eyes and reveled in the cool air caressing his face. “The beginning, I suppose. I need to know how you learned I was missing.”

  “I walked in the front door and your sister accused me of putting you on a ship bound for France in the midst of a war. Fortunately, Brockway had overheard the same. At a picnic I believe. And as I knew, I hadn’t performed such a task, I went looking for you. Only, you were nowhere to be found.”

  Harlowe opened his eyes and studied him. He and Kimpton had little in common. For one thing, the man was nearing forty and Harlowe had been against his sister’s marriage from the onset. Over time, it had become clear Lorelei was wildly in love with the earl. He’d never trusted Kimpton’s motives in marrying his sister because she’d had no dowry. Seeing them now, through an adult’s eyes, Harlowe was telling, and a relief. The man’s affection was genuine.

  Kimpton grimaced. “All in all, looking for you was a frustrating endeavor. With Brock’s assistance, we went on the hunt for you.” He took a sip of his brandy, then set down his glass. “It was when we decided to search your quarters and located your valet—”

  Relief hit him. “Marcus.” He remembered his faithful valet. The man had a nose for trouble and had saved Harlowe from many a scrape young men of his ilk were bound for.

  “They’re coming for you, my lord. You need to take yourself off for a few days. I can take care of things here. I’ll send the rest of your paintings to your sister.”

  Harlowe hesitated. “It can’t be that bad. I’ve covered my tracks well—”

  “No. I insist. These degenerates are the scourge of the earth in pretty wrappings.”

  A clunk startled Harlowe back to Kimpton. He’d poured himself more brandy. “Yes.” He exhaled a long stream of air. “We found him dead.”

  “Dead?” Knots of tension kinked in Harlowe’s neck.

  “Honest to God, Harlowe, when we walked through that door, and I thought I was going to have to tell Lorelei—” He shuddered. “Well, it was then Brock and I began our search in earnest.”

  He waited, white-knuckling one of the armrests. The other clutched his tumbler so tightly, it was a wonder it didn’t shatter. Marcus. Dead.

  “You had been sending many of your works to Lorelei, though I had no notion why. So, Brock and I decided to assemble the mass of them to study and found something interesting. In many, you had painted a scythe. Not in all of them, mind, but enough to warrant our curiosity. It was at that point we began checking your various haunts: Boodles, Eccentric, Au Courant, Watiers. Some of the art salons.”

  The tension in Harlowe’s hands loosened, and he groaned.

  Kimpton speared him with a narrowed gaze. “Admittedly, I learned something.”

  “What was that?”

  “I was stunned to learn how talented you truly were, er, are.”

  Harlowe cracked a wry grin.

  Kimpton ignored it and his mien grew serious. “In the end, it was a picture we saw in a small shop in Goldhanger that gave us our first solid lead in over a year.”

  Harlowe shook his aching head, more confused than ever. “What the devil was I doing in Goldhanger? That’s Essex County isn’t it?”

  “Yes. We learned of a doctor by the name of Holks. Someone must have found you in the area and dumped you at his doorstep. Holks’ sister and daughter lived with him. The, uh, daughter was apparently quite taken with you.”

  “I need to speak with this doctor. Goldhanger, you say?”

  “The man is dead. Brock and I found the house and spoke to Holks’ sister. She was quite angry with her niece—”

  “Evie,” he said softly. A vision of a young woman with a wide and generous smile. Her dark hair kept out of her face with one of those silly caps. He used to tease her about it. “She used to bring me paper and lead, and eventually, paints.” His head started to throb. “The house was modest. Shabby, yet comfortable. They lived close to the water.”

  “Yes, the River Blackwater.”

  “What of Evie? She would be able to tell me—”

  Kimpton’s pained expression sent a shot of adrenaline through him.

  “She’s still with her aunt, isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid not. We followed her trail to the Tranquil Waters Asylum but… we were too late. Evelyn had been—”

  “Murdered. Left on the road outside Colchester. Lady Alymer refused to tell me who. Are you telling me it was Evie that was killed?” He felt sick.

  Kimpton nodded.

  “Was it Griston who killed her?”

  “We never found proof.”

  Harlowe let out a pursed breath. “What of Vlasik Markov?”

  “Dead. We were on our way to a boat called White Dove. This man, Vlasik, met us at Blackfriar’s Bridge. Griston said he’d seen Vlasik carrying Irene, then Griston shot him. Point blank.”

  Harlowe ran a palm over his face and up through his hair, trying to make sense of it all.

  “What the devil are you mixed up in, Harlowe? I won’t have you putting my family in danger.”

  “I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps I should leave.”

  Kimpton’s mouth flatlined. “Much as I agree, Lorelei won’t have it.”

  “She really has no say though, does she?”

  He let out a sigh. “Let’s look at this from a practical standpoint. First of all, my wife will accuse me of running you out. And while having you gone holds a certain amount of appeal, I’d rather avoid that route if possible. Second, she is
not quite ready to relinquish her hold on your son. She adores that child. For those reasons, I insist you stay. But perhaps between you, Brock, and I, we should work more diligently in putting a timeline together in an effort to recover your memory.”

  There was no argument Harlowe could come up with. Besides, Lady Alymer had a calming effect on him he rather liked, and he wasn’t quite ready to walk away from the mystery she presented.

  The door to the library burst open, and the fey lady stood in the arch, clutching her wrap at the neck. “Lord Harlowe is missing—”

  “Am I?” he drawled.

  “You odious man. How dare you frighten me like that?” She stepped back out into the hall. “Rory, drag that man to his bed, right this minute.” She spun around and was gone as quickly as she appeared.

  “The plot thickens,” Kimpton said with a definite smirk.

  Harlowe chose not to respond. “Come, Rory. We must do as the lady says. Otherwise, she is liable to punish me with a week’s worth of saltless gruel.”

  Eight

  T

  here you are. You’re late.” Lady Ingleby’s mango colored gown was blinding under the myriad candles lighting the Oxfords’ ballroom.

  “How can I be late, Mother? I arrived the same time as the Kimptons. I rode with them.” Maeve scanned the ballroom for Ginny but didn’t see her anywhere.

  “Who did your hair? Certainly not Parson.”

  “No. Parson was busy lowering the hem on this gown you insisted she bring instead of the one I requested.” Maeve resisted tugging at the squared neckline. “Mercy, if I breathe wrong, I’ll spill out of the thing.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. That burgundy is lovely on you. Madam Chaput assured me your unsightly hair would not clash. Though I’m surprised, I feel I must agree. That gown will go far in attracting the Duke of Oxford’s attention.” Her mother snapped her fan. “I’ve secured both waltzes for you. The duke of course, and for the supper dance, the Marquis of Dorset.”

  “I will not dance with that dandy—”

  “You can and you will. Shush. Here comes Oxford.”

  “Lady Alymer. How nice to see you’ve arrived. I fear your mother worried you would not make it in time for our dance.” The Duke of Oxford was a portly man whose head came to her chin. His eyes fastened to her cleavage.

  She resisted the impulse to tell him her eyes were located slightly higher. She dipped into a low curtsey. “Your grace.”

  His long pointed nose looked out of place in the flaccid jowls, as if someone had molded one out of clay and stuck it in the middle of his face. Even the shade did not blend with the rest of the magenta undertone of his face.

  “I trust your daughter had a pleasant birthday today,” Maeve said.

  His face lit up. “Yes. Yes. Took her to Gunther’s for ices and a ride in the park.” He inclined his head to the parquet floor where a country dance was in play. “She is dancing with Welton. The whelp hasn’t a chance in hel—” He pulled himself up at her mother’s gasp. “Hades of obtaining her hand.”

  And the duke hadn’t a chance in hell for hers, Maeve vowed. He was nothing but a pretentious blowhard.

  “I hear you’re staying with Lord and Lady Kimpton these days,” he said.

  “Yes. Lorelei has her hands full with her brother now home and his heir.”

  Oxford grunted. “That’s what servants are for.”

  “Perhaps,” she returned. “But a change of scenery is nice for me as well, your grace.” Maeve caught sight of Ginny standing next to Lorelei and grasped the opportunity. “Oh, please excuse me, your grace, Mother. I see Lady Brockway. I look forward to our dance, sir.”

  He clicked his heels together, bowing his head over her gloved hand. Her mother stood behind him, a foot taller, and lips clamped.

  Maeve couldn’t bring herself to care. She would never marry that man. She’d take her own bottle of laudanum first.

  “Don’t tell me,” Lorelei said. “Lady Ingleby is vying for Oxford on your behalf.”

  “I’m sure the ballroom is all abuzz with the notion.”

  “Dear heavens,” Ginny said. “You aren’t desperate for funds, are you?”

  “Certainly not. In fact, I’ve made the decision to find my own lodgings. Perhaps Kimpton or Brockway could assist me in finding something suitable,” she said. “I have decided I will not return to Ingleby House.”

  “That should go over well,” Ginny said.

  “I’m also going to hire a new maid. Parson is too much under my mother’s thumb.”

  “You know you are perfectly welcome to stay with me as long as you like,” Lorelei said.

  “Thank you. Oh, dear.”

  “What?” Ginny said.

  “They’re playing a waltz—”

  The duke appeared in front of her. “Lady Alymer, I believe this is our set.”

  So the night went. After Oxford, came Stockton, followed by Beaumont, Greenwood, Lexum, Lampert, and Hamilton. She lost track of the order, but by the time the supper set came around, and Dorset made his appearance, Maeve thought she would faint from the pain in her feet.

  “Lady Alymer. You look as if you require a rest.”

  “Would you mind horribly, my lord? I have not sat for two hours.”

  “You have had some enthusiastic partners tonight,” he said smiling.

  “That’s one word for it,” she muttered.

  Dorset held out his arm. “Perhaps we can sit on the terrace for a bit of air, if you don’t mind it being cool.”

  “I would be most grateful,” she told him, placing her hand atop. “But we’d best make our escape before my mother is onto us.”

  The Marquis of Dorset was Oxford’s exact opposite. He was taller than Maeve and younger than Oxford by at least a decade. He had a pleasant voice and pleasant mien. His hair was light and his eyes green. He found them an empty bench next to a fountain, in full view of the ballroom.

  “I heard you’ve finally married off the last of your four sisters. The house must seem quite quiet now,” she said.

  “You heard correctly. I never thought I would admit to my home being too quiet. And, yet it is.”

  “I was an only child with an overbearing mother. I thrive in the quiet. Give me a good book or a project to research and I am quite the ghost.”

  “Ah, yes. I believe that is one of the things Alymer seemed to admire most about you. You are unique in your diverse topics of interest. He was working on a text for ancient societies, as I recall.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Did anything come of it?”

  The cool air, stirring her hair, felt heavenly. “No, but it was recently suggested I carry through his wishes of publication. It hadn’t occurred to me, but I am taking the recommendation to heart.”

  “I have contacts in the field. You’ll let me know if you desire my assistance?”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “I shall. Thank you very much.”

  They sat in comfortable silence for a time, the hum of conversation spilling out of the ballroom along with the lights. As did low-lying conversation from the paths below. “What of the Athenaeum?”

  Maeve wouldn’t have noticed it had their urgency not been so fierce.

  “Shut up, you fool.”

  The voices were not loud enough for her to recognize.

  “Are you ready to return inside, Lady Alymer? You should eat a bite before heading home.”

  That was the last thing she wanted. “I suppose I should locate my hosts and see when they are prepared to leave.” She glanced over her shoulder as she stood but didn’t see anyone, the voices had moved on. “Is the Athenaeum a new literary club? I’ve never run across it in my working with Alymer.” She laughed. “It sounds like one of those secret societies Alymer would have enjoyed investigating.”

  “Nor have I,” he told her. But Maeve thought he stiffened slightly and seemed intent on hurrying her back inside. “Would
you care to take a drive with me in the next day or two? I realize you are staying at Kimpton’s.”

  “That would be lovely. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. I feel as if I require a full day to recover from tonight’s adventure.”

  Bowing his departure, Dorset deposited Maeve with Ginny, and within minutes Lady Ingleby had made a beeline for her. “Where have you been, young woman? You didn’t dance the second waltz.”

  “Calm down, Mother. I spent the time conversing with Dorset. He was very pleasant. And, as it turns out, he was fine with talking over dancing.”

  Her eyes took on a calculating glint. “Oxford wishes to take you driving tomorrow afternoon. I told him he could pick you up tomorrow at Ingleby House at four.”

  “Ah. Good, then perhaps you can go with him. I have a previous engagement.”

  “You will go.”

  “I will not. Excuse me, Mother. It’s time for me to depart.”

  “So nice to see you, Lady Ingleby,” Ginny said. Ginny took Maeve’s arm and they strolled away. Once they were out of earshot, Ginny leaned in. “We’ll find Brock and take you home. I vow, your mother is worse than mine when it comes to charting your course. And, I assure you, that is not an easy feat to pull off.”

  Maeve squeezed her hand. “I feel as if I should somehow be defending her, but at the moment, no argument comes to mind.”

  Harlowe sat in the formal dining room of Kimpton Manor with four lit candles surrounding a painting of a young lady wearing a large ruby on her left hand. It was a simple country scene of the girl sipping her tea, her pretty smile coy, her velvet-brown eyes full of dreams and hope. The building behind sat on an expansive lawn and was blurred, to focus on the girl in the forefront. It was... sweet. He vaguely recalled the oversized hat she wore that covered part of her face.

  He’d obviously painted the girl with a loving hand, but why couldn’t he remember her?

  The lavish background should have pricked his memory, and it did seem familiar, but defeat roared through him with brutal reality. He must have fallen in love with her. While it was a frequent enough occurrence where artists and models were concerned, this went further. He’d married her for God’s sake. Yet why couldn’t he remember her?