The Viscount's Vendetta

by Kathy L Wheeler

  “Lovers’ spat?” Shufflebottom asked. She did not appreciate the sly look in his eye.

  Neither did Harlowe. He pulled himself to his full height and leaned forward. His bicep flexed beneath her fingers on his arm.

  She squeezed. “Certainly not,” Maeve huffed.

  The calculating glint in Shufflebottom’s eye spiked Harlowe’s temper. “I hear Lady Ingleby is thrilled,” he said, sounding to his ears around the rushing blood, pleasant.

  “We were hoping to wait a bit on making the announcement,” Maeve said through gritted teeth.

  “Fascinating, since it was Harlowe himself who delivered the news to half the ton at the Oxford’s ball,” Shufflebottom said.

  “That cat is out of the proverbial bag now, isn’t it, darling?” He bowed to the gentlemen. “If you’ll excuse us, we still have a few things to iron out.” He casually turned her about and led her to the carriage.

  “Like the iron I shall bash in your skull with.” She spoke with a sweetness that promised her retribution would not be kind. “Is that my rig?” she asked.

  “It is indeed.”

  “Who is that driving?”

  “Your gardener. Baird.”

  “My gardener’s name is Baird?” She took in a deep breath. “How nice to have a gardener. Does he know how to garden?”

  One could only hope. He hid a grin.

  “This is outrageous,” she muttered darkly.

  Then he remembered why he was angry. “As outrageous as you jumping out of a hack, running down the street like a… a street urchin. What the devil were you thinking?”

  “Penny said her sister was with her when Mr. Jervis came after Penny. I thought if her sister escaped, that perhaps she was keeping an eye out for Penny. I saw a girl, and when I called out, she dashed off.”

  “Wouldn’t you, if a lunatic was chasing you down the street?”

  She ignored him. Likely because she knew he was right. She halted in her tracks, spun to him, and poked her finger in his chest.

  He rubbed the spot. “Ow, what is that for?”

  “You told Welton and Shufflebottom we were to be married.”

  “That dandy and his tale-bearing cohort likely had the news all over London by midnight once it was circulating. I have news for you, Maeve Pendleton, soon-to-be Lady Harlowe. You might as well get used to the notion of our wedding. It’s inevitable.”

  “But…” Her voice trailed off in a helpless whisper.

  “I’m sorry, darling.” Harlowe glanced over his shoulder and saw Shufflebottom still watching them with undisguised curiosity. “I’m afraid you’re out of options.”

  He looked down at her and saw her eyes on Welton and Shufflebottom as well. Her shoulders fell. He put an arm about her shoulder and squeezed. “I shall do my best to prove my worthiness, my lady.”

  Her head snapped around.

  The resignation in her eyes was disheartening.

  “Darling, I don’t understand. You asked me to marry you. Why are you balking now?”

  Her eyes glistened. She shook her head, seeming at a loss for words.

  “If it was my ungentlemanly reaction, I assure you it wasn’t you. I was caught by surprise. I couldn’t understand why you could want a man who’d lost his mind, been confined to an asylum.” He took out a handkerchief and pushed it in her hands.

  She dabbed the moisture from her eyes, and after a moment, she nodded. “All right,” she said without lifting her head.

  He assisted her inside. “Back to Cavendish Square, Baird. Take the long route.” He climbed inside.

  “Good heavens, I just remembered.”

  “What?”

  “My mother. She will jump on this little snafu like a suffocating blizzard. You’ve really done it now, my lord.”

  Harlowe grinned at her back. Exactly what he was counting on. “I believe I can handle your mother, my lady. You are no longer alone.”

  Twenty-Nine

  The ride home, while longer than it should have been, was not… horrible. Harlowe sat next to her rather than across. He pulled off her glove and linked his fingers with hers, his thumb massaging the soft part of her hand between her thumb and forefinger.

  “We shall take this every day to look for Penny’s sister.”

  Maeve’s throat constricted with emotion. She couldn’t speak, just nodded. Nor could she bring herself to look out the window for the tears rolling down her cheeks. His hand, holding hers, rested in her lap, and one large drop landed on his hand. His large, capable hand. She would make him a good wife. She would raise Nathaniel as her own. Into a young man of whom Brandon would be proud.

  He took the handkerchief and wiped her tears away. “We’ll do our utmost to find her.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve acted like an ingrate. I ask you to marry me. I snub you in front of your family. You save me from my mother… It’s like you’re some kind of guardian angel.”

  “That is a very apt description. One I have every intention of living up to.”

  Maeve turned her gaze out the window and studied the shadowed crannies, but was unable to make anything or anyone out. Certainly not a ten-year-old girl.

  They pulled into the drive at Cavendish, and Harlowe stepped down and took her hand. McCaskle met them at the door.

  “Would you care to stay for tea, my lord?” Maeve asked him.

  He took her cloak and handed it off to McCaskle. “I would be delighted.”

  She led him into the parlor just off the foyer. She was too restless to sit. “I shall go mad with nothing to do.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to dredge out Alymer’s scripts. How long do you think it will take you to complete them?”

  “I’m not certain. I would have to go through them to refresh my memory. But you raise a good point. That is an excellent way to pass the time.” She rubbed her hands over her upper arms. “And what of your memoirs, Brandon?”

  “I think we can put them on hold until you complete Alymer’s works. Bits and pieces of my memory are returning. I think it comes from being with you. There is something about you that… calms me, for reasons I cannot explain.”

  His words unfurled a warmth in her chest.

  Mrs. McCaskle entered with the tray.

  “I’ll pour, Mrs. McCaskle. Thank you.” Maeve started to pick up one of the pastries and paused. “Er, who made the scones?”

  “Me sister, ma’am.” She couldn’t quite contain her smirk.

  “Thank you, Mrs. McCaskle. You’re excused,” Maeve said.

  Brandon lowered his voice, even though she’d closed the door behind her. “She can’t be that bad a cook, can she?”

  “The sister? No, she’s quite fabulous. Have I thanked you for the servants, my lord?”

  “Has anyone ever mentioned how cheeky you are?”

  Maeve poured a cup of tea, added sugar, and handed it to him. “I believe you are the first.”

  He set the cup aside, then took her hand and pulled her to him. He leaned in until their mouths were inches apart. “I shall definitely be the last.” His lips slanted over hers, infusing her with a ferocious heat that took the chill right out of the room.

  Truly, he was much skilled in this arena, she thought, as she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back with all her worth. His tongue mingled, meshed, dodged, and teased hers, sending her spiraling into a whirlwind of mounting desire as one message kept dancing about her head: kissing Harlowe was something she could definitely live with.

  Thirty

  One week later, the first day of February, brought an unusual bout of snow. Maeve was beside herself with worry. Despite her and Harlowe’s daily drives around Soho Square, she hadn’t spotted the girl she believed was Melinda a second time. Penny’s nightmares were growing worse by night. It was safe to say that no one in the house was getting much sleep.

  The streets were a mess of slushy muck. And it was cold. She refused t
o sit inside the warmth of the carriage when Melinda likely wore rags for clothes. Every day, Maeve clutched a new wool cloak in the event they located her. “We’re never going to find her,” she told Harlowe.

  “I’m sorry, darling. I wish I could reassure you absolutely, but that would be unfair.”

  He was right, of course. She rested her cheek against his shoulder in a small gesture of thanks.

  “Wouldn’t you prefer to sit inside?”

  A soft smile touched her. “You say that every day. You should know the answer by now, my lord.”

  “It hadn’t been snowing every day up to now. I fear you’ll catch your death.”

  “Sitting inside would wrack me with guilt.”

  He let out a long-winded sigh, drawing another smile from her.

  “I think we should put off the wedding.”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m willing to do anything you ask… but that.”

  She’d known that even when she’d suggested it. Her mother would track her down like a hound to a fox and drag her by the hair. It had become her own private jest. But by the looks of Harlowe’s expression, he didn’t quite see it the same way. She supposed it didn’t help when one didn’t laugh. “I’m sorry. My witticism isn’t going over well, is it?”

  “No.” But he squeezed her hand. “I know you are frightened for Melinda. I am as well, and I promise we’ll do our best to find her.”

  “I know. I don’t wish to sound ungrateful. I’m not, you know.”

  “I’m thrilled to know it,” he said.

  “It just seems wrong for us to be happy when Penny has such horrendous nightmares. I’m glad we are keeping the ceremony small.”

  Again, he squeezed her hand. He understood how she felt, and it warmed her through. She glanced about at the tree limbs bared of leaves and lined with snow that glistened. Their path past Soho Square was devoid of the normal bustling crowds one could find on a sunny or rainy day, and the reality of the situation hit Maeve with despair.

  “We might as well head back. She’s not going to show herself. Not with the two of us…” Her voice trailed away.

  Harlowe’s sense of helplessness went bone-deep. At least when he’d been confined to the asylum, he’d been plied with opium to dull the impression. He found Maeve’s powerlessness profoundly distressing. He feared she was right. A street-savvy child was very adept at not being seen if they so chose. There was no way to reassure her. If the outcome was unfavorable, his words would come across as placating and not respecting of her intelligence. And if there was one thing about Maeve Pendleton, soon-to-be Lady Harlowe, her keen perspicacity could not be faulted.

  He turned the horses toward Cavendish, taking great comfort with Maeve at his side. It felt… right. He pulled in the drive, and Niall promptly appeared. Harlowe tossed him the reins and turned to assist Maeve. He ignored her hands, taking her by the waist and setting her on her feet. He held her as close as the cloak she held between them allowed.

  She lifted her eyes. He stared into their depths, wondering how he’d come to this place, this moment with her. Time suspended as need surged through him. Need to please her. Need to protect her. Need to have her.

  If only he could assure himself she harbored the same.

  Snowflakes landed on the hood of her cape, on the tip of her nose, on her lashes. Her lips parted, and her breath frosted on the cold air. “I think we should turn the upstairs salon into an art studio,” she said softly.

  His breath hitched at the meaning behind her words.

  Her brows furrowed. “We shall have to have a lock put on the door. Too many chemicals about.”

  The weighted iron he’d carried in his chest since he’d woken in Lorelei’s house burst free. He couldn’t speak. Instead, he lowered to his mouth to hers. Hers parted beneath his. He swept his tongue into depths of molten fire, held her fiercely to his chest despite the cloak she hugged, and reveled in her response. It was too cold to linger long, and he forced himself away. “Come. We’ve a wedding to attend to,” he said gruffly.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Thirty-One

  The next morning, Maeve sat at her vanity in her old bedchamber at her mother’s house awaiting her nuptials to Viscount Harlowe. Her status as countess, downgraded to viscountess, had her grinning at her reflection in the mirror.

  In retrospect, she wondered if she should be angry with Harlowe’s machinations in getting her to the altar. But no one had forced her to take off down the street after a child like a lunatic. That was on her. And neither had he set Shufflebottom and Welton on the street to find her. She was a pragmatic person. She’d been worried—was still worried—for Melinda’s safety, for Penny’s fear.

  The question that continued to plague her: would she react the same in the same situation? The answer was yes. The thought that perhaps she needed a keeper was both irritating and humorous.

  “I’m thrilled to see you happy, my lady,” Agnes said, putting the finishing touches to her hair, to the outrage of her mother.

  Was she happy? Except for her worry over Melinda and Penny, Maeve could honestly say she was. “Thank you. I think my mother is not thrilled that most of ton has left the city for the country.” A fact that didn’t bother Maeve. The most important people were to stand with her and Harlowe. Only the Kimptons and the Brockways had remained, and that was fine by her.

  A smile curved Agnes’s lips. She didn’t speak, just poked more pins into Maeve’s hair.

  A tap rapped at the door, and Lady Ingleby’s flushed face peered in. “The guests are arriving, Maeve. You should let Parson do a final inspection of your toilette.”

  “Agnes is perfectly capable, Mother.”

  Rather than argue, as was her norm, Lady Ingleby huffed out on an aggravated breath. “Don’t be late. You’re always late.”

  Actually, Maeve was never late. She considered her reflection in the mirror. Agnes had outdone herself with Maeve’s unruly curls. Not a single braided coil wrapped her head. Instead, fantastical ringlets framed her face with most of the locks pulled back and up with other, softer tendrils draping down. Agnes poked another few pins in, dotted with pearls and sapphires. They glittered throughout, matching the bishop blue of the simple gown she was to wear.

  Maeve had never felt so beautiful. “You do outstanding work, Agnes,” she said. “I believe you are due for a raise.”

  “Ye are much too generous, milady.”

  Her mother poked her head around the door again. “Don’t forget to use enough powder for those unsightly freckles.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Agnes’s utter calm irritated her.

  “Good heavens, Maeve. Let the girl earn her keep.” Lady Ingleby’s agitation shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Harlowe was only a viscount, not a marquis or a duke.

  Maeve turned from the mirror to her mother. “Mother, you are wound more tightly than a spool of thread. This ceremony is very intimate—” A thought hit her. Her mother had likely invited the whole of the haute ton back to town. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep breath. “You didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what, dear?”

  “You know Harlowe and I wished to keep our ceremony small. Only the Kimptons and the Brockways.”

  “Maeve, you are truly the most selfish of daughters. Why, I only included a few others. How often does my only child marry?”

  “One time too many,” she muttered under her breath.

  “We really do need to talk about your ridiculous notion in residing at Cavendish Square. It’s unseemly for you to live in a famous courtesan’s home. I don’t care if the woman is dead. That house is forever tainted.”

  “That’s enough, Mother. We’ve had this conversation before and the matter is settled. The house belongs to Harlowe and it’s a lovely home. I refuse to listen to another word about it.”

  Maeve was surprised her mother didn’t stomp her foot. “It’s too far away.”

  “H
ardly that, Mother.”

  “But, darling, what if you have children?”

  Children. Maeve stopped herself from touching her stomach. She could be carrying right that moment. “We shall survive the scandal.”

  Her mother dabbed at faux tears. “You are an ungrateful child.” She sniffed.

  “How many are here—”

  “I cannot abide talking to you a moment longer.” Her mother flittered out on a timely exit. She should have trod the boards.

  Agnes leaned in. “Fergive me fer sayin’ so, milady,” Agnes whispered, “But his lordship doesn’t seem put off in the least by yer freckles.”

  No. Just my street urchin running tendencies. Maeve refrained from commenting. “Hmm.”

  “Have you any idea who she invited?” Maeve asked Agnes.

  “I think I saw Lord Dorset.”

  Maeve groaned.

  “There were one or two others I recognized but can’t remember by name.” Agnes patted Maeve’s hair. “There, milady, I’ve done all I can.”

  Maeve turned to the mirror and checked her appearance, stunned by her reflection. Though her stomach was a flutter of nerves, she’d never felt more confident than she did in that moment. She was about to acquire a husband and a child, and she couldn’t have been more miserable…or happy. This wasn’t how a new bride in her second marriage should feel.

  Harlowe could break her heart, and there was nothing she could do about it.

  Harlowe had half a mind to file a complaint with Parliament on the use of cravats. They should be declared instruments of torture. Ingleby’s formal parlor was packed. Besides the Duke of Addis, the Kimptons, and the Brockways, the only invitees he and Maeve had approved mind, Lady Ingleby had seen fit to invite the Duke of Oxford, Lady Parther, Lexum, and his new bride, Felicity. And of course she hadn’t dared left out the Faulks, Martindales, Peachornsbys, Lady Dankworth, and Dorset. Harlowe stifled his sigh. The only people missing were Welton and Shufflebottom for God’s sake.

  Irene was the only child in attendance, though anyone who spoke with her had to realize she was really a grown person in a child’s body. Her sister, Cecilia, was supposedly socked away in the nursery with Nathaniel. He would have loved shaking things up by bringing Penny and Mary, but having Lady Ingleby faint would have taken away the spirit of his own wedding. One he had every intention of remembering. Regardless, he had his own surprise for his new bride when they arrived home.