The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  Maeve lay awake long into the night thinking, and nothing coming to mind.

  Twenty-Seven

  T

  he next morning dawned with brilliant sunshine. It was February and cold. If the sunshine held, the park would be unbearably crowded.

  Agnes marched in laden down with a tray comprised of a steaming pot of chocolate, cup, and plate of scones fresh from the oven. “I’ve a treat for you, milady.”

  “Smells delicious,” she said.

  “I ’spect the foyer smells even better.” Agnes set the tray on the bed and scooted it toward her then poured out a cup of chocolate.

  How decadent. “Why would the foyer smell better?”

  “All the flowers, milady. Bunches of them.”

  Something unfamiliar fluttered in Maeve’s breast. She’d never been showered with bunches of flowers before, not even in her first, second, or third season. She drained her cup and hopped out of bed, curious—well, excited—to see what “bunches of flowers” looked like.

  Under Agnes’s ministrations, Maeve was turned out for a day of morning calls, a ride in the park, or a visit to Lady Dankworth’s for tea with her pugs, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles. She tripped down the stairs and, one third of the way down, was inundated with the fragrance of roses, lilies, pansies, rhododendrons, and daffodils. It was a little overpowering and... infinitely satisfying.

  “Goodness.” She went the rest of the way down. At the first “bunch,” daffodils, she located the card. Baron Welton. She flipped it over. Nothing. She flipped it back. Just his name. She reached into her memory for what the meaning of a bouquet of daffodils signified: Regard. Then let out a relieved breath. Welton was not a complication she desired or needed.

  The pansies were from Oxford, and she drew out his card.

  Thank you for your presence last evening, my dear. I look forward to calling on you. There is still the little matter of Alymer’s scripts. I trust you haven’t forgotten.

  Yrs. Oxford

  Smiling she moved to the lilies—avoiding the roses—They were stargazers. The edges were a delicate white, their pink centers so rich, they deepened to red. Their strong sweet fragrance was cloying due to the sheer number. She found the note buried deep within the greenery.

  Peering in your eyes is like a night beneath the stars. Until four. I shan’t be late.

  Dorset, then. No signature. He was due at four. Lilies meant purity. She was not pure. Not any longer.

  Another held a basket of lovely purple, pink, and white rhododendrons interspersed with more lilies of a different variety. These were also surrounded with rich greenery. Maeve was flabbergasted by its simplicity. And touched.

  I shan’t sleep at’all until we dance again. S.

  S? Smythe? Shufflebottom? Seward? Grinning, she replaced the card.

  Finally, she looked at the roses. Ran a fingertip over the velvety soft petals. Their beauty was pure perfection. A mixture of red, pink, and burgundy. Passion, grace, sophistication, elegance, simplicity, beauty. Her insides quivered with… desire and need.

  There was no card. But then, none was needed.

  For the second time in as many days, Harlowe made his way into the nursery to visit with his son. Molly sat in the rocker with Nathan huddled in her lap. “Is he ill?” he asked her.

  Nathan’s thumb plopped from his mouth. His half-drooped eyes flew wide, and his arms reached for him.

  With only the minutest pause, Harlowe took the boy.

  Molly rose from the chair, indicating he should sit. “He was just about to fall asleep.”

  Harlowe frowned. “’Tis barely two in the afternoon.”

  “Active children need their rest, milord. And he has been most active.” She pushed her white mob cap off her forehead where it had slipped. “He usually naps twice per day. But he hid from me for his ten o’clock.” She addressed Nathan with mock sternness. “You naughty boy.”

  Nathan laid his head against Harlowe’s shoulder and looked up at him with his beguiling hazel eyes. He poked his thumb back in his mouth. “Were you naughty, son?”

  Nathan grinned around his thumb, his eyes half-drooping again.

  “Take a breather, Molly. I think I can handle a sleepy boy.”

  She dipped a short curtsey. “Thank you, milord. I shan’t be long.”

  Lowering down, Harlowe cupped the back of Nathan’s head and rocked. Back and forth. He wished Maeve could see him. He was calm, the baby was calm. All seemed right with the world—at the moment.

  In the quiet of the nursery, he was able to garner his thoughts. Had she received his flowers? Had she discerned their meaning? He wanted her with an ache he feared nothing else could fill. He lowered his lips to Nathan’s head. His blond hair was but tufts. He smelled of trust and innocence. An innocence that would shatter once he learned his mother had taken her own life. Yet… what if she hadn’t? His heart pounded a little hard. Had anyone questioned the notion?

  Weights of cast iron pressed down on his shoulders, pushing out the calm. How was he to keep Maeve and his son from harm? His sister? What of all the charges Maeve took upon her own shoulders? Whatever he’d been involved in before his abduction affected those near and dear to him. It was imperative to resolve the situation. How else was he to lead a normal life? As normal as one could without the benefit of a complete memory.

  Nathan took a shuddering breath, then once again grew rhythmic as he seemed to settle more snuggly against Harlowe’s chest, crushing his starched cravat. A contentment fell over Harlowe, the likes of which he couldn’t remember since Lorelei had tucked him into bed not long after their parents’ passing. He must have been eight at the time. Another memory having sneaked up on him.

  The extent of Lorelei’s attachment to Nathan was a twisted sword in his chest.

  “Brandon?”

  He glanced up and smiled. “Hello, sister-dear. I was just thinking about you.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “At the nagging of Ladies Irene and Alymer, I’m attempting to bond with my son and heir.” He glanced down. “He’s soundly sleeping.” He looked back up. “Just yesterday, I was initiated by him—right down the side of my body. Needless to say, I was forced to change before being seen or smelled in public.”

  Her eyes glistened, yet her smile was one of tenderness and… pride. Blinking rapidly, she sauntered in. “I’m glad, Brandon. So very glad.” Her fingers brushed Nathan’s forehead.

  “I know how much you care for him,” he said.

  “Ah, but he is your son. Your heir. And he belongs with you.”

  “Yes. Still, I don’t wish to hurt you, of all people.”

  A small, secret smile curved her lips, her hand splayed her stomach.

  His head fell back, and he knew a moment of divine and righteous thankfulness. “You’re carrying.”

  “I am. I’ve yet to tell Thorne, so please be so kind as to keep the knowledge to yourself,” she said smartly, though the glow about her could light the night sky from London to Edinburgh.

  Molly appeared in the arch. “Lady Kimpton, Lord Harlowe. I’ve returned, as promised.”

  “Just in time too.” He rose from the chair. “Show me where to put him. I’ve a woman to pursue. A stubborn, temperamental beauty of my own. I’ve quite the task ahead of me.”

  Twenty-Eight

  H

  ow ravishing you look,” Dorset told her.

  Maeve smoothed her gloved hands over the silks of her brilliant cerulean skirts. “Thank you, my lord. I seem to have inherited an exceptional lady’s maid.”

  His lips tightened. “From Rowena Hollerfield.”

  Maeve ignored the slight. “Well, Agnes is quite exceptional. I am lucky to have her.” She wondered why she had allowed Parsons to last as long as she had. Her insolence was glaring after being around Agnes’s calm demeanor for the short amount of time Maeve had known her. She was thrilled with Agnes.

  “I su
ppose last night was quite the coup for you.” He spoke pleasantly but there was an edge present. “Your entry hall. The flowers.”

  “Ah. Yes, well, that was an excellent surprise. I admit my astonishment, and,” she chuckled softly, “pure vain delight.”

  His jaw softened. “I can imagine. While I must admit hating at walking in the hall and being hit with puerile envy.”

  Her joy burst forth and she abruptly covered her mouth. The park was indeed crowded and several heads turned in their direction. “Er, thank you for saying so, my lord.”

  “Don’t you think it’s time you called me Sebastian?” He was most definitely testy.

  Maeve frowned. “That doesn’t seem proper.”

  His laugh was a reluctant gasp. “There is something to be said for a beautiful woman who has been out of the school room for a number of years.”

  Maeve choked, swallowing another bout of mirth.

  A deep shade of red crawled up his skin. “That was most irreverent of me to say,” he sputtered.

  Once she gained control of her laughter, she patted his hand. “Do not fret, Sebastian. Women fresh out of the schoolroom are but children. It’s indecent when you think of what they are expected to endure before they even know themselves. I think the marriageable age should be moved from eighteen to five and twenty.”

  “And you are?”

  “Four and twenty.”

  “So in your own eyes you are not of marriageable age.”

  “I do so enjoy my freedom.”

  “And you’ve been married before.”

  “Yes. But thanks to Alymer, I am able to enjoy my independence. Not many women have that luxury.”

  “No. I suppose not.” He was quiet for a time, then, “I wonder how my sisters felt upon the arrangements of their marriages.”

  Maeve smiled at his thoughtfulness because that is what he was… thoughtful. “Somehow, I fail to see you forcing them into an unpleasant situation. If I’d left things up to my mother, I would be relegated to the country with Shufflebottom tearing through my dowry.” She shuddered at that fate. Welton would be the better choice between the two, and he acted like a boy led by his leading strings.

  “I noticed your gardens being tended. Come spring they will look beautiful.”

  Her own jaw tightened. So. She had a gardener now.

  “What do you mean ‘she’s out for a drive’? With whom? And where the devil did all these flowers come from?”

  “The lady’s evening was a smashing success, I’d say,” McCaskle said.

  “Who the hell sends a woman rhododendrons?” He dug out the card. I shan’t sleep at’all until we dance again. S. “And who is S?”

  Mrs. McCaskle appeared in the hall. “Here, now, m’lord. Readin’ the lady’s personal correspondence ain’t seemly.”

  Blast it, she was right. Appalled at his lack of etiquette, he shoved the card back into the bunch. “Where’s Agnes? She’d better not be here. She’d best be with her mistress.”

  Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs. “Did you need me, milord?”

  Harlowe was ready to pull out his hair. Instead, he threw up his arms. “No,” he ground out.

  McCaskle chuckled. “Calm down, m’lord. Baird has everthin’ under control.”

  “Who the devil is—ah, the gardener. Right. Suppose that’s all right then.” But it wasn’t. Maeve was with Dorset and the man was besotted. Who had sent all these flowers? “I’ll, uh, wait for her in the parlor.”

  “You think that’s wise, m’lord?” This came from Mrs. McCaskle, a chastisement. “This be her house. I advise you to return after she does.”

  “Damn it.” She was right. Again. Harlowe slammed out of the house and jumped in his carriage, guiding it across the street just out of sight.

  Minutes later a huge, bulky man lumbered atop beside him.

  “Who the devil are you?”

  “Baird, m’lord. They be driving up soon.”

  Harlowe looked him over, then grunted. McCaskle was doing an excellent job of filling Maeve’s household with servants who appeared more than capable of keeping her and his future charges safe.

  Seconds later, Dorset’s smart, high phaeton rolled in the drive. A conveyance certainly didn’t leave room for a lady’s maid to accompany her lady.

  Dorset jumped to the ground and went around to assist Maeve down, leaving Harlowe gnashing his teeth. They stood in the drive a moment, neither making a move towards the portico. Finally, Maeve strolled over and waved until Dorset drove off. The door opened behind her and McCaskle said something. She donned him with an over bright smile and shook her head. McCaskle inclined his own head then disappeared inside.

  Maeve took a quick glance about.

  Harlowe’s instincts for danger roared through him.

  Maeve threw her shoulders back and marched down the street in the direction of Oxford Street. “Hell, she’s going to hail a hack.” He lifted the reins and said to Baird. “I’ve got this. That garden needs work.”

  “Ye might need me, m’lord. Ye can’t verra well drive and run after the lady at the same time.”

  Dammit. And if she spotted him, his advantage would dissipate like a puff of smoke, just like her body was disappearing into the waiting cab. He tossed the reins to Baird. “I’ll ride inside. Just don’t lose her.”

  “Soho Square, if you please.”

  “Yes, m’lady.”

  “There’s an extra crown in it for you, if you drive slowly, sir.”

  The cabby gave Maeve a toothless grin without responding.

  Good heavens, the traffic on Holles Street was clogged to the gills. That explained his grin. The view out the window was abhorrent at best through the layers of grime. It was getting late in the day and the shops would be closing soon. Still, if Maeve remembered correctly, there was a flower seller on the corner near Trotter’s. If Melinda had been able to escape Mr. Jervis, it stood to reason she would be keeping watch over the area for some sign of Penny.

  If only Maeve had brought her own carriage, but she hadn’t dared waiting. She thought she’d never escape Dorset. Dusk was within a half hour of setting when her cab reached Dean St, and Maeve’s heart stopped. The flower seller had closed up and was carting her goods away.

  Then she saw it. A young girl scouting the area. She was taller than Penny, looking closer to Irene’s petite size. She banged on the ceiling. “Stop. Stop. Please.”

  The hack pulled up and Maeve jumped out.

  “Hey, me crown!”

  “Wait for me.”

  “Damn toffs. That’s wot ye all say.”

  She raced for the corner, but the girl had caught wind of her and darted from sight. Maeve came to a halt, panting. Where could she have gone? Shop doors were shut, and she glanced about. None of the polite world were anywhere in sight. Why should they be? They’d all been on Rotten Row for the fashionable hour. At the least, they’d been in their carriages blocking traffic.

  When had she become so impulsive? Oh, yes, that was when she’d lost her senses and offered to undertake the Viscount of Harlowe’s state of health.

  Uneasiness slithered through her. If anyone of her set had seen her dashing down the street like a hellion or spotted her without her maid, she’d be ruined. Her heart pounded in her breast, but she lifted her chin and, wrapping her cloak of dignity around her, turned back in the direction of her waiting hack… only the man was driving away. She shot a helpless glance around and barely managed to hold back her groan.

  “Lady Alymer, how pleasant to see you.” The gaze Shufflebottom raked over her sent another shiver of dread through her. Thank heavens Welton was with him. “We hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Congratulations?” Dear heavens, they were at the Martindales’ that night. She was at a loss for a plausible response.

  “I say, Lady Alymer. ’Tis late for shopping, don’cha know?” Welton said.

  “Yes,” she said o
n a nervous breath. “I-I thought to reach Boucher’s before she closed for the day, but I missed her… by moments it appears.”

  She wouldn’t dare. But, of course, she did dare. She was Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer. Hard-headed, stubborn, pragmatic, independent woman without the slightest care for her reputation. Harlowe jumped from his own carriage, stormed down the road, tossed her driver a coin, and growled at him to move on. “The lady is with me.”

  Maeve marched down the street with her shoulders back and her head held high, her carriage determined and proud. Any other time and place, he’d stand back and watch the production that was worthy of Drury Lane. She was a vision in her day frock of bright blue. Hell, it was a beacon, and as no other shoppers were about, she was sure to be seen.

  Unfortunately, Shufflebottom and Welton had seen her and had stopped, blocking her path. Harlowe picked up his pace. How was he supposed to salvage this situation? Pieces of her ginger hair had worked free beneath that blue confection she’d call a hat. He would catch the very devil for all his effort to salvage her reputation. He let out a sigh. There was only one thing for it. Plenty of time to face the consequences later. He firmed his resolve.

  “Boucher’s?” Shufflebottom said with a narrowed gaze. “They’ve been closed for hours.”

  “Er, yes, I suppose I lost track of time…”

  “Dammit, Maeve,” Harlowe said, startling her. “That temper of yours will be the death of me.”

  “What—”

  A knowing grin slid over Shufflebottom’s features. “Harlowe. Appears as if your betrothed has lost track of time.”

  The flush in Maeve’s face told Harlowe what he would be facing to clear up this little matter. A matter of her own making, he reminded himself, and ploughed ahead.

  “You do look flushed, Lady Alymer,” Welton chipped in. “Surely it’s something that can be fixed without too much trouble. Harlowe and me, we go way back. He’s an easygoing bloke, leastways, he used to be.”