15 November 1817: How fortuitous fate is, my dear. Your husband can never escape now. I feel as if I can sleep now. With your marriage to Viscount Harlowe secured. I have kept my silent promise to your mother. All that is needed of you is to provide him an heir.
Which she had done. Maeve leaned back and, closing her eyes, found tears to her surprise. Brandon would be devastated at Rowena’s manipulations. Only, Maeve couldn’t hate the woman for all her machinations. Everything she’d done since spiriting away the first Lady Maudsley’s newborn child from her dangerous spiteful husband, was done to protect Corinne.
She wondered if Brandon would see things so generously. She glanced down at the last few entries.
30 June 1818: If I ever get my hands on that husband of yours, I shall kill him. He’s been gone for over three weeks with nary a word. We are running out of time with the babe due in another month. I am desperate for a plan. I cannot stave off the fear of danger. There is word that Harlowe has taken off for France. What shall we do now?
Nathaniel.
Maeve’s heart ached for Corinne and her caretaker and Nathan. She closed the diary, knowing, but dreading the fact that Brandon had every right to it. Perhaps it would help him in regaining his memory. She slipped it back into the velvet bag and placed it back in the safe and locked it away. She propped her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on closed fists.
What had been Rowena’s last plan? It would be much too intrusive to ask Lorelei. Would Lorelei even have an idea? It didn’t seem likely. Still, a slight niggling tugged at Maeve’s memory but slipped from her grasp. She hadn’t truly become good friends with Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway until just before Harlowe had been discovered on that ship.
Maeve pushed away from the huge desk in the small, enclosed room, and strolled out to the entry hall. A silver salver on the entryway table was devoid of invitations. Word had spread, and she’d become a societal pariah, apparently.
Letting out a sigh, she started up the stairs and Ina came to the base, holding a tray of enticing treats. The aroma filled the hall, and Maeve’s stomach gave an unladylike growl.
“From the kitchens, milady.”
Maeve stared at the tray with suspicion. Ina’s skillset in the kitchens did not match Agnes’s which didn’t say a whole lot. In Agnes’s case it couldn’t be helped. She was a lady’s maid, not a French chef.
Ina smiled encouragingly. “There be fresh scones.”
That sounded as wonderful as they smelled, but a week ago the scones Ina had provided had been, well, frankly, inedible. Maeve wrinkled her nose, trying to find a way to decline without offending her.
Ina pressed on. “Cook will be most disappointed if ye send ’em back.”
Her words brought Maeve around. “Cook? We have a cook?”
“Well, poor Agnes was runnin’ herself ragged, if ye don’ mind me sayin’ so.”
“I see. And I suppose Cook just happens to be your daughter?”
Ina’s belly laugh filled the hall. “Course not, milady. She be me sister.”
Maeve narrowed her eyes on Ina. “Does Agnes know about this?”
“I was t’ tell her on the morrow.”
Maeve went back down the stairs and selected one of the scones. It was still warm from the oven. She took a bite and thought she might faint from its buttery softness. “Does your sister know how to prepare pheasant?”
Ina beamed. “That she do, milady.”
“All right. She can stay—”
“Thank ye—”
“Not so fast. Upon the condition Agnes does not mind. Her opinion is important to me. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ina?”
“Aye, milady. Will ye be wantin’ tea with your scones?”
“Yes.” Maeve went back up the stairs to her bedchamber. Agnes was sitting on the bench beneath the window. “Hello, dear. How is Penny doing in her new bed?”
Agnes cracked the window a couple of inches and rose from her seat. “She was excitable, but I think she’ll acclimate well.”
Maeve turned around, allowing her to unfasten her gown. “Can you tell me more about this Jervis character?”
“I don’ know much, milady. He’s a hoodlum, to be sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Only the craftiest of the pinchers escape him.”
Maeve shuddered. “You think he took Penny’s sister, Melinda?”
“If’n he was around, and Penny recognized him, I’d say ’tis a good chance.”
Maeve’s stomach dropped. She still held her half eaten scone. She looked at it, then at Agnes. “How attached are you to the kitchens?”
She caught Agnes’s furrowed brows in the mirror. “Tell me, honestly.”
“Someone has to cook, milady.”
“What if I told you we have a new cook?”
“Daughter of Mrs. McCaskle?”
“Sister.”
At that moment, Ina knocked on the door and entered with the tray.
“Goodness me, that smells so good, I might faint,” Agnes said.
“I know the feeling,” Maeve told her.
Twenty-Three
H
arlowe watched the house from a strand of trees in Cavendish Park. The streetlamps had been lighted, forming a line of haloes in the damp fog that had settled over the night. He’d sent Rory on his way with a promise to meet at a less than respectable coffee shop the next morning. It was too late for a proper visit. But damn it, Maeve’s avoiding him this past week didn’t change the inevitable. He would see them married and, as her future husband, it was his responsibility to assure her safety. Seeing those paintings at the widow’s salon only solidified his determination. There was danger afoot, even if he couldn’t quite pinpoint its origins.
The longer Harlowe stood in the shadows, the more impatient he grew. The only room visible from his current vantage point was the formal parlor, and it was as dark as the sky above. He wasn’t certain which bedchamber she’d taken for her own, but he suspected it wasn’t Rowena’s. There was enough light to see his fob, and the lack of light inside was worrisome, sending his imagination into wild conspiracy theories.
Was she home?
Had she fallen ill?
Had the McCaskles been knocked cold?
Was she being properly looked after?
Who was the mystery wayward she’d taken in? Street children were a savvy lot. They had to be to survive the worst possible conditions. He should have installed Rory in the household. Because he couldn’t shake the boding peril crawling over his skin.
Harlowe longed for his late night talks with Maeve. He missed her. He wanted her hand in his. His lips against hers. His cock sheathed deep with her body. She belonged to him. He’d blinked and found himself opening the door with his own key. A wall sconce’s flame flickered in the foyer, giving off a low light. Latching the door behind him, he stole up the stairs—he just wanted to assure himself she was well. At the top of the stairs, he cracked the door of the chamber that had belonged to him. The room’s stuffiness confirmed this one as a reject. He slipped inside to the adjourning door and found the same in Corinne’s old suite.
There were many other bedrooms on this level but down the crossing corridor, towards Rowena’s bedchamber, a cool breeze drifted. She had the window open, then. Stunned and a little awed at her audacity, he stole down the hall.
Just a peek. Then he would leave. He made it to the door without tripping on anything and, with his hand on the knob, he laid an ear against the thick oak, as if he could hear anything through it. After a long moment, he twisted the handle and slowly pushed.
He slipped in.
An instinct he hadn’t remembered possessing struck, and he contorted his body, just missing the swish of iron hitting the carpet. In another move, he whirled around and caught her body against his, clamping his hand over soft, full lips. “Shush. It’s me.” She bit down, and he yanked his hand away. “Ouch!”
/>
“Harlowe! You bastard. How dare you frighten me out of my wits like that. What the devil are you doing here?” She shoved out of his arms, stalked over to the bed to snatch up her wrap.
“I was worried about you.”
“You mean in spite of the butler, housekeeper, footman, and cook you’ve installed?”
“There’s a cook?”
“As if you didn’t know,” she spat. She pointed to the tray on the table. “There are scones. I don’t know that I should let you try one. I might never be rid of you.”
He scooped up the poker from the rug. Looked at it, then at her. “That’s quite a swing you harbor.” Without comment, he went to the fire and stirred the embers to life. He set the poker in the stand and took up a scone. “They’re cold.”
“Shall I send for more?” she said with a too-sweet smile.
“No need.” He bit into a tender, flaky, buttery taste of heaven, despite its having cooled. “Good God. Who’s the cook?”
“Mrs. McCaskle’s sister.” Her unreadable gaze settled on him for a long moment. “You being here at this hour is highly inappropriate. Not to mention being in my bedchamber.”
He whipped up a serviette and dabbed the crumbs from his face, then stalked over to her. He took her by the upper arms and shook her gently. “How am I to convince you to marry me when you haven’t made the slightest attempt to reach out? Seven days!” He planted a hard kiss on her soft lips. They molded beneath his. Groaning, he ran his tongue over the seam of her lips and, to his greatest relief, they parted. He dove in, and any semblance of reserve vanished in a heated rush. His heart pounded with the depth of her reciprocation. He reveled in her response for several minutes.
Finally, he forced himself to pull his mouth away and rested his forehead against hers.
Her rapid breaths were fire, searing his skin. “How did you get in?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
“I used my key.”
“Your key. Of course. I should have known.” She broke his hold and went to the settee and dropped down.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She let out a sigh. “About what?” Her demeanor was not an encouraging sign. Her gaze sharpened on him. “You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?”
Harlowe strolled back to the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece. “A couple of things. I wish to talk to you about them.”
The firelight heightened the glow in her softened gaze. “All right. I’m listening.”
“I attended the Chancé Salon.”
Her features firmed, but she held her pragmatic tongue.
“The widow has a collection of art. Two of my paintings hang there. I needed to see them.”
“They triggered—”
“Maybe. Perhaps. But it was something else.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I was coming out of “the museum” and I heard the widow talking to a man. They mentioned the Althenaeum Order.”
He glanced over and caught her staring in the fire with a grimace. “What is this Althenaeum Order? I heard it mentioned myself.”
Ice sloshed through his veins. “Where did you hear—”
“The Martindales’ soiree a few weeks ago.”
“I know I can’t remember everything, but I don’t think the Althenaeum Order is the sort of organization discussed in polite society.”
“I don’t know any specifics. Dorset and I sat out our set on the terrace. You might remember that particular night? My slippers were shredded.”
He definitely remembered. Only he hadn’t recalled her telling him she and Dorset had been sitting on the terrace. “Go on,” he growled.
“There were two men in the gardens. I didn’t see them. Their voices were too low for me to recognize.”
Harlowe considered that a blessing. His trepidation was palpable, tangible. His hands shook. On unsteady legs he moved next to her and dropped down. “Did they see you?”
“Of course not. I told you they were too far away for me to even hear much of what they were saying. I asked Dorset about it at the time.” She shrugged. “He didn’t know anything. After that, we went inside, and I came home… I mean… I went back to Kimpton House.”
“Dorset.” Dorset was at Chancé’s. Dorset was at the Martindales’. Perhaps he warranted a closer study.
She turned an amused smile on him. “Do not tell me you are jealous, my lord.”
“Dorset was soused tonight.” He sounded almost petulant to his own ears. He’d had no idea he was so immature.
She ignored his comment. “What of your paintings? You said you wanted to see them? What do they have to do with The Althenaeum Order?”
Now was not the time for a childish act-out. “I’m not sure. There are two. One is set in the dregs of London on the Thames. Near Black Friars—”
She fell back against the brocade. “Dear heavens. Wasn’t that where—”
“Vlasik Markov.”
“Who?”
“Kimpton told me that is where Vlasik Markov was shot by the Earl of Griston.” Harlowe gripped his head. “Vlasik was the trafficker for the Slavs,” he said through gritted teeth. “He was the one who took charge of the noble children and smuggled them out.” Harlowe had followed him. He’d escaped Vlasik that time. “Addle Hill. The building I painted is a crumbling monstrosity on Addle Hill.”
The memory rushed over him in nauseating detail. Whisperings of another location. This one in the country. Tranquil Waters Asylum. “I took Corinne and Rowena to Essex County. What a bastard I am. I might as well have killed them myself.”
Maeve grabbed his hand. “Stop it. I refuse to listen to this nonsense.”
He couldn’t breathe. The need for a brown vial hit him with brutal and devasting force. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I used them as cover. Vlasik spotted me and took a pipe to my head. He must have thought me dead. How else could Holks have ended up with me and doctoring me to health?”
“Tell me of the other painting.”
“A summer in the country. It was of Rowena. It was similar in nature to the one I did of Corinne.”
A frown marred her brows. “It doesn’t sound as if they have anything in common.”
“Buildings.”
“Buildings. Yes. That make sense. But how did Chancé end up with two of the paintings? And Lorelei with the one of Corinne?”
Harlowe rose from the settee and paced. “Rowena. She insisted I send the one of Corinne to Lorelei.”
Maeve nodded. “Ah. Miss Hollerfield was a resourceful woman. It was likely her guarantee to ensure Corinne’s place as your wife.”
Harlowe stopped and stared at her, stunned. “Of course,” he said softly. “Yet, that still leaves the matter of the other two works.” His lips felt like curved marble. “I believe I donated them to her little salon.”
“So what is the significance of the buildings in Essex?”
“I’m not sure—”
A knock sounded at the door. It was soft, almost tentative. Maeve jumped, and her eyes darted to his. “You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed in a whispered panic.
He smiled. Sooner or later, she would see that he did belong there. “Enter,” he said.
Irritation flared in her eyes, usurping the panic.
The door swung back, and a shocked Agnes filled the arch.
Harlowe waited. This was Maeve’s home. He’d already taken a step farther than he should have.
Maeve straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “What is it, Agnes?”
“’Tis Penny, ma’am. She’s had a nightmare, and Mary can’t calm her.”
Maeve was off the settee and dashing from the room in her bare feet. The floor must be freezing.
“Who is Penny?” But Harlowe was speaking to an empty room. He saw Maeve’s slippers near the foot of the bed and swooped them up, then followed the flickering flame of Agnes’s candle up the backstairs to the nursery level. Maeve ran
down the hall to an open door and rushed in. Heart wrenching cries from within filled the hall. Something in his chest tightened at the anguish in those cries.
Maeve sat on the side of the bed and swept a small child into her arms, hugging her, smoothing her hands over the child’s tangled locks, reassuring her. “It’s all right, darling. You’re safe.”
“Blinda. He hurt-ed Blinda. We has to find her ’fore he does somethin’ awful.”
Maeve rocked her. “We will, darling. I shall do everything in my power to find her.” Maeve’s eyes met his over the girl’s head.
Harlowe took in the room. The small sitting area that had been erected near the windows. There was a trunk nearby that likely held toys. He recognized Mary. She was sitting up in the smaller bed, rubbing her eyes. That surprised him. He would have thought she would have claimed the larger bed. He heard Agnes’s light steps ticking away. He turned and saw her making her way to the stairs then disappearing. He had questions, but he feared further frightening the child.
Maeve shifted position. She spoke to Mary. “What are you doing in Penny’s bed?”
“She kicks in her sleep, milady. I had t’ move.”
Maeve’s lips tipped and she nodded.
Mary caught sight of him. “M’lord? Sh-should I make a fire in yer bedchamber, sir?”
“I’m fine, Mary. Should I require a fire, I’m perfectly capable of starting one myself. Thank you for inquiring,” he said softly.
The little girl, Penny’s, head shot up, nicking Maeve’s chin. “Yer not Jervis,” she said.
Jervis. The building. The one on Addle Hill. The Althenaeum Order. They were all tied together. He knew it. But how? And what had been his role in the business?
“No, Penny. I’m Lord Harlowe,” he got out on a choked breath.
Penny’s sobs slowed to hiccups, her small body shuddering and clinging to Maeve’s neck as her only lifeline.
Maeve continued rocking her, murmuring soothing words Harlowe couldn’t make out. The urge to talk to her now had moved from desire to lifesaving. The pieces in his head were jumbled, and he felt as if she were the only one who could help him sort them out.
The Viscount's Vendetta Page 17