The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Jervis. Harlowe took up his coffee and sipped, watching from lowered lids. The place smelled before, but now, it positively reeked. Slowly, the silence reversed, going back to its almost normal chatter.

  Harlowe leaned in. “When he leaves, you think you can follow him without being seen?”

  Rory’s expression could only be interpreted as insulted.

  “All right. Apologies. But do your best to keep from getting killed,” Harlowe said. “How the devil am I supposed to keep her safe?” He spoke more to himself than to Rory.

  Rory stood, plunked his hat on his head. “Don’t you toffs just put the one ye want in a compromisin’ situation, and then just marry the gel?”

  A red haze clouded Harlowe’s vision and cleared almost instantly. Ruin her? The idea held merit. She would hate him.

  But better to hate than be dead.

  Twenty-Five

  I

  ’m thrilled you’re here,” Lorelei said. She set a lemon tart and a couple of biscuits on a plate and handed it to Maeve. “I miss having you here.”

  “I miss you as well,” Maeve told her. “I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all. Brandon didn’t come home last evening. Thorne has deserted me for his club this morning, and Ginny and Brock are in the country.”

  Maeve busied herself with doctoring her tea, praying Lorelei didn’t notice the ravage heat in her face.

  If Lorelei did notice, she was polite enough to ignore it. She sat back with her own cup. “Tell me. How do you find Cavendish Square?”

  “The house is perfect. It’s beautiful and not so close to Ingleby House. Mother, so far, has avoided me. Of course, I don’t expect that to last forever.” She wrinkled her nose. “I haven’t received many invitations of late.”

  “I’m afraid that’s my fault. There were several notes for you here, and I only got them sent over late yesterday.”

  “Oh, dear. I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?”

  “Or I have.”

  “Not at all.” Maeve drank her tea and set her cup aside. “Lorelei, I have something else to ask to you about. Promise you’ll tell me if I overstep?”

  “Certainly, dear. What is it?”

  “Did Harlowe ever express an interest in Rowena Hollerfield?”

  “Not to me. Why do you ask?”

  “Miss Hollerfield kept a journal. She went into great detail on how she intended Corinne to marry into her rightful place in society. She sent the girl off to school at a young age, to protect her, I imagine. Apparently, when Harlowe showed up, Rowena set her sights on him for Corinne.”

  Lorelei frowned.

  “She later expounded that Harlowe had fallen in love with her, Rowena, thus throwing all her plans into turmoil. She somehow managed to make the wedding happen, but what occurred after that? Harlowe had disappeared by then—” Maeve broke off, embarrassed beyond words. How could she be so insensitive, forgetting Harlowe’s harrowing ordeal when he’d been institutionalized?

  Lorelei patted her hand. “Don’t fret, dear. Harlowe is home and grows stronger every day. In large part, thanks to you.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. As I was saying, Harlowe must have disappeared and Corinne was close to giving birth. I was wondering what happened after? I thought perhaps your insights might help Harlowe in recovering more of his memory. Rowena had to know you were Harlowe’s sister. And your husband, an earl…”

  Lorelei poured more tea. “Would you like a drop of brandy?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She rose and went to the cabinet and brought back a half full bottle. She poured a generous amount in both cups, topping them off with barely a spot of tea. “Rowena Hollerfield was Kimpton’s mistress before Kimpton and I married.”

  Maeve was in mid-gulp and coughed, her eyes watering. “Oh. I hadn’t realized.”

  “Before we realized Brandon had gone missing, Miss Hollerfield stopped Thorne on the street and told him she was the one who was enceinte. She informed my husband that if he didn’t assist her she would announce to all and sundry that the child was his.”

  “But…”

  “Rowena told him it mattered not because all the ton cared about was gossip.” Lorelei grimaced.

  “Because, of course, she was right. A brilliant strategy.”

  “Yes.” Lorelei let out a sigh. “Thorne knew if I learned the baby belonged to my brother, I would be livid if he didn’t do something to help. So he sent her to our home in the country. Without telling me, mind. The hunter’s cottage, actually. For reasons I won’t go into, I ended up traveling to the country as well. The night I arrived—in a deluge no less—Miss Hollerfield met me in the drive.” Her voice lowered to a husky rasp. “Corinne had gone into an early labor and almost perished.”

  Maeve was stunned. It was a fantastic story. “Dear heavens.”

  “Ah, well. It’s all water under the bridge now.”

  But was it?

  Harlowe stepped over the threshold of Kimpton House and tossed his hat and greatcoat to Oswald. “You never seem to age, old man.”

  “An oxymoron, my lord.”

  “Is Lady Alymer here?”

  “She is visiting with Lady Kimpton. They asked not to be disturbed.” Oswald melded away like the cadaverous ghost he was.

  Harlowe made his way to his bedchamber and rang for a hot bath. In the meantime, he scrubbed his face and, despite his less than elegant appearance, decided to look in on his son. By any stretch, he was no hero, but he also was aware that if he wanted any chance with Maeve Pendleton, future Lady Harlowe, he had to find a way to get to know his son. It would be the only way to redeem himself in her eyes.

  Harlowe stopped outside the nursery with his knuckles poised to knock. His stomach quivered with nerves. It was ridiculous to fear a child. Why did he fear a child? Why did he fear his child? God, what was wrong with him? He tapped on the door and walked in.

  Molly sat in the middle of the floor.

  “Where’s Nathan?”

  “Hidin’. Under the table, sir.”

  He frowned. “Why is he hiding?”

  “’Tis his new game.”

  “Oh.”

  She turned a cheeky grin on him. “He likes to be found. Try it.”

  Oh, the indignities. Harlowe looked at the round table in the corner, meandered over, and went down on one knee. He looked over his shoulder at Molly.

  She gave him an encouraging nod.

  He felt silly, but he leaned down and peered underneath and was met with a squeal of giggles. They filled the room with sweet innocence.

  Nathan crawled out, rose on pudgy legs, waddled over to Molly, and threw himself in her arms.

  She looked up Harlowe, her gaze uncertain. “Would you care to, er, hold him, milord?”

  “Hold him?”

  “Perhaps ye could take him so I can get to me feet?”

  “Oh. Uh, certainly.” With an awkward bend of his body, he took Nathan. Unsure at what to do with the boy, he held him mid-air with arms outstretched.

  “Milord, ye can set him at yer hip. He won’t break.”

  Harlowe did as she instructed and Nathan’s tiny arms encircled his neck. The baby leaned forward with an open mouth and pressed it against Harlowe’s cheek, leaving what felt like a wet drool. His head jerked back. “What’s he doing?”

  Molly came to her feet, grinning. “That is Nathan kissin’ ye. He’s an affectionate babe.”

  Something unfurled in his chest. For a child, Nathan was sturdy and loving. The thought pleased him. Just then something warm and damp seeped through his wrinkled waistcoat and down his hip.

  The maid slapped a hand over her mouth but couldn’t hide her mirth. “Oh dear.”

  Nathan clapped both palms on Harlowe’s cheeks with a joyful squeal.

  “Oh dear, indeed,” he said, grimacing, then unable to hold back, felt the laughter burst forth.

  Twenty-Six

  T


  he Oxford rout was a crush. It was cold outside and was exactly where Maeve wished she were.

  “Lady Alymer, I believe this is our set.” Viscount Beaumont stood in front of her. He barely came to her nose.

  Stifling her sigh, Maeve set her hand atop his arm and let him lead her to the dance floor. “How do you find Cavendish House?”

  “It’s a lovely home.”

  “Yes. Yes. Rowena Hollerfield was quite popular in her day.”

  There was nothing Maeve could say to that.

  The rest of the night went much the same. A quadrille with Shufflebottom, country dance with Welton, a cotillion with Oxford, a waltz with Dorset, and no sign of Harlowe.

  Dorset swung her in an expert turn. “How are your new lodgings, Lady Alymer?”

  “Excellent, sir.”

  “I wonder that you would take a drive with me in the park on the morrow, my lady?”

  Panic welled up. “A drive?”

  His lips tipped. “Er, yes. An event where I appear at your door at an agreed upon appointed time, assist you into my fashionable phaeton and proceed to Rotten Row. We converse—I speak of the weather, you ask about the Chancé Salon, I stop you from ruining yourself, you’re aghast and threaten to speak to the woman yourself… You know. A drive.”

  Maeve couldn’t help herself, she laughed. “I should be honored to take a drive with you, Lord Dorset. I’m beyond flattered by your asking.”

  “It is my honor, my lady. Will four o’clock meet with your schedule?”

  “I believe it will, my lord. Thank you.”

  The music ended, and Dorset escorted Maeve to the refreshment table.

  “There you are, Maeve.”

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “Lady Ingleby,” Dorset said. “Lady Alymer. Until tomorrow,” he said softly, then melted into the crowd.

  “When will you be moving from that harlot’s house?” Her low voice and darting gaze spoke volumes.

  Maeve leaned in, matching her tone. “I shan’t be leaving. I love the house.”

  “This is outrageous, Maeve Pendleton. That house is… is cursed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Mother.” Exasperation crawled over her skin.

  “I want you home. I can hardly show my face for the tittering behind fans when I meet with my friends.”

  Heat crawled up the back of Maeve’s neck, although crawl might not describe the trail of fire racing to her head. Not an encouraging sign. And at the Oxford rout. “Then perhaps they are not your friends.” Maeve tried drawing in a deep breath but there was blockage in her throat, preventing the effort. For one thing, there was the decided lack of air. The space around her was crushing, and white amoebas crowded her vision.

  Her mother’s voice echoed from a valley. “Maeve, you listen to me…”

  She couldn’t listen. She didn’t want to listen. Black was chasing the white. She swayed.

  A strong arm banded her shoulders. “Lady Ingleby, permit me to escort your daughter for a bit of air.” The deep resonance, etched in steel, was familiar, and comforting. She wasn’t going to disgrace herself—not if they made it outside in time.

  She leaned into his side, and in moments, she was gulping the cold night air.

  “You looked as if you were about to faint,” Harlowe said. He led her—actually, had moved his arm around her waist—and carried her down stone steps to a bench in damp grass. Her second pair of slippers were not destined to survive another useless event. “When I first spotted you, I thought that temper I hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing was about to erupt full force.”

  “Very observant of you, sir.” Her voice cracked as if she hadn’t spoken in days, yet he was correct. Her body was flashing cold and hot—it could not seem to decide which.

  Harlowe wanted Maeve Pendleton with a painful intensity. He could hardly stand being apart from her. The wild ginger-colored hair, the Aegean blue eyes, her tall slender body that fit his in perfect proportion. It took every ounce of his common sense to fight back Rory’s idea of ruining her. But the man had planted a seed that refused to be washed away. She was strong, independent, capable. She would hate him, and with good reason. Besides, it wasn’t sporting.

  Such thoughts triggered questions. Why wasn’t it sporting? Men ruled all. He was in Oxford’s garden alone with her. All he had to do was lower the shoulder of her gown; tug it below one breast; take a plump nipple between his teeth. All it would take was one person to see them. Preferably, Lady Ingleby…

  She shivered.

  Harlowe quickly removed his coat and dropped it around her shoulders.

  There was something in the back of his mind, manipulation, more shadows. He shoved them aside. This was not the time.

  “Thank you.”

  “I cannot believe it,” he choked out. “I wish to dance with you but, once again, I’m thwarted by Dorset. The man stole my waltz.”

  “Your waltz? I hadn’t realized you were claiming a dance.” Her teeth chattered.

  He pulled the lapels of his coat she wore together in an attempt to ward off her chill. “How was Penny after her nightmare?” he said, changing the topic.

  His question had the intended effect. Her gaze softened, and she smiled. “She wanted reassurance of finding her sister, Melinda, and dived into her studies with much enthusiasm.”

  “Dived into her studies?”

  “I’ve acquired a governess to assist with teaching Penny, Mary, Steven, and Agnes to read. A Miss Bristol. She seems quite capable.”

  “I… see.” The silence in the gardens was nice. Not uncomfortable, not ominous, not disapproving. The contentment sank into his bones, along with the icy air.

  “Were you in love with Rowena Hollerfield?” she asked softly.

  His contentment shattered in an instant. Harlowe’s heart thudded against his ribs. His skin felt as if a case of itching welts were breaking out. “What sort of question is that?” he demanded.

  “I should have mentioned it sooner, of course, and I apologize. Truly, I do.”

  “Get to the point,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Rowena left behind a diary of sorts.”

  “A diary. It either is a diary or it isn’t.”

  She bristled beneath his abruptness, but he couldn’t help it.

  “It is.”

  “And you read it?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.” Her jaw turned ridged under the ballroom candlelight that spilled out over the gardens. “But you kissed me, and I failed in remembering to mention it. So in retrospect, it’s your fault I didn’t tell you.”

  “Because I kissed you?” He suddenly felt a little more forgiving.

  “Don’t fun. You know the effect you have on my usually pragmatic senses.” Her lips formed an unusual, for her, moue.

  He took her gloved hand in his. “I do?” A lightheadedness invaded him.

  Her shoulders straightened, and she looked down her adorable nose at him.

  Harlowe cleared his throat. “What was, uh, in this diary?”

  “Rowena had singled you out for Corinne. She wanted her to marry into her class. She mentioned something about you having fallen in love with her, Rowena, and almost usurping all her plans for Corinne. Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Fall in love with Rowena?”

  He grinned his most wolfish. “Not that I can remember,” he whispered, then kissed her.

  Later that night, or rather, in the wee morning hours, Maeve’s feet and lower back ached from the absurd amount of dancing she’d been forced to endure. Perhaps “forced” was not the correct word. Truly, it was the most fun she’d had in an age. Still, all she wished at the moment was a night of uninterrupted sleep. Just one night.

  “But, ma’am, ye promised.” Penny’s sobs had grown more hysterical by day. At night, her dreams were terrorizing Mary and Agnes, even reaching into Stephen’s chamber, until Maeve
finally brought Penny into her own bed to sooth her fears and listened as Penny spoke at length of Melinda. “She don’ look like me. She be purtier with light hair. She was always wantin’ a nice dress like the one ye gots me. I wish she could have mine.” She shot to sitting, her eyes glistening in the moonlight streaming through the open window.

  “You are a very loyal sister, my dear. But don’t you think Melinda would want a dress of her own. One that would fit her?”

  “Aye, m’lady. That she would.” She lay back down and snuggled against Maeve. She smelled sweet, and somehow of believing, despite the dregs her life had been up to now.

  Maeve made a silent vow to change that. “Tell me, darling, when did you last see Melinda?”

  “Why, the day I went home with ye.”

  Maeve stilled. “Are you telling me you and Melinda were together that day? Mr. Jervis hadn’t taken Melinda yet?”

  “He was after her. She tol’ me t’ run. She saw ye git out from yer pretty rig.”

  “Did Melinda say where she would hide?”

  “She said we needed t’ run in op’sit drections. That way’d Jervis could’t grab us both. Mellie’s smart like that, ma’am.”

  “Yes. She is very smart, Penny.”

  A spark of hope went through Maeve. But she was only one woman. How was she to make good on a promise of finding Melinda in a city as large as London with the likes of Mr. Jervis after her? She didn’t know what the girl looked like or know how old she was. All she knew was Melinda’s hair was lighter than Penny’s darker locks.

  Penny’s breathing grew steady as she eased into a deep slumber. If Maeve told Harlowe she needed to find Melinda, he would do his best to discourage her. Dorset would be even more impossible. Oxford? He had the most clout. No one would dare question a duke. Even those in the slums would not dare kill one of the king’s men. To do so would mean instant death. Plus Oxford would take reinforcements to ensure his safety. Only, a duke would draw too much unwanted attention.

  Round and round her thoughts went, circling back to the fact that she had no idea what Melinda looked like. She couldn’t possibly take Penny with her. It was much too dangerous.