The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Ten

H

arlowe stood in the darkness, partway down the stairs of the third floor until he heard Maeve’s chamber door shut behind her. He quietly went back up the stairs, found a candle and located another flight of stairs that led to the attic. The door wasn’t locked.

He moved through the space and located a couple more candles and set their wicks aflame, sending flickering shadows on the contents of the room.

Upon her marriage to Kimpton, Lorelei had insisted her new husband allot a space for Harlowe to paint when he’d visited on holidays from Eton, then Cambridge.

Over the years, it was safe to say, there had been no love lost between Harlowe and his brother-in-law. The man had shown no respect for Harlowe’s interest in art. Harlowe was forced to accredit Kimpton with some sense, however. It had been just Lorelei and Harlowe since Harlowe had been a mulish thirteen-year-old child.

Things had not improved when Kimpton had swooped in and stolen Lorelei’s attention and affection. Nor did they improve when Kimpton failed to understand or accept Harlowe’s talent. Of course, being the stubborn nitwit he’d been, Harlowe had dug in his heels.

On the upside, Harlowe had turned out to be a damned good artist. At Lorelei’s insistence, Kimpton funded Harlowe’s education and his Grand Tour. For Kimpton’s part, it kept Harlowe from being underfoot.

Harlowe lifted the candle and did a slow circle of the room. It was too dark to determine if there was any dust, but he suspected his sister made sure the studio was regularly cleaned. There were no exposed canvases, they were all shrouded with white cloths. A couple of tall wood easels stood empty. He went to the closest sheet and whipped it away, revealing a stack of pictures against the wall.

Nostalgia hit him in the chest with a punch. These works he’d done the first Christmastide Lorelei and Kimpton were married. Seeing them now, as the grown version of himself, had him cringing. Objectively, however, he could see the underlying lines of true talent. He thumbed through picture after picture, some finished, many not. Landscapes dominated the majority. There were a few where he’d attempted portraits, but he’d never entertained a model in his sister’s home. He shuddered at that thought. He moved to another section and pulled away its covering. These works showed more maturity. Some maturity. It was clear he’d had a long way to go.

At the back of the stack, he found a rendition of Colonel Robert Lundy being confronted by another man who stood on the opposite side of a wooden table, clutching a wrinkled missive.

Harlowe extracted the painting and set it up on one of the empty easels. What an odd portrait for him to paint. He took up a candle for a clearer view.

Lundy had been accused of treason. But the man had perished in 1689, for God’s sake. The scythe in the picture was more difficult to locate. Harlowe found it in part of what one could decipher in the note.

None of this made a lick of sense. But every situation of these men he’d painted… these traitors, warned danger was afoot. He just couldn’t say how. Not now, knowing Maudsley was already dead. Griston, too, or might as well be since having been committed to Bedlam. And Vlasik Markov dead… it left… no one. No one but Harlowe, and he couldn’t remember a damn thing.

So why did his insides seem to crawl with some vile disease for which there was no cure? His head pounded as he turned away from the painting. He went to the window and looked out over the cloudy night into the shadows where nothing was in focus.

Maeve.

What was it about her?

How disappointing to learn she was to take a drive with Dorset. She had Kimpton scouting new lodgings for her. Away from him—

Not you,he chastised himself. Her mother. She’d complained enough about Lady Ingleby. Even Kimpton had the odd comment. Maeve Pendleton oozed independence. Self-assurance. Self-appointed liberty. What would she want with a man who couldn’t remember his own dead wife? Or a man who harbored doubts about the child residing in the nursery being of his own blood?

He went back to the easel and stared at Robert Lundy. “Why did I feel it necessary to include you?” he demanded. His voice bounded against the walls. Thick, though they were, he was certain no one in the house could overhear him.

He blew out all but one candle and, carrying it, made his way down two flights of stairs to the inside of his chamber.

Rory stood at the windows, but they were closed.

The room was stifling. His shirt clawed at his neck. “I need out of this house.” He went to the wardrobe and found a hat.

“I might accompany you, if’n you don’t mind, milord.”

“Be quick about it then. I have no intention of waiting all night.” He was glad it was Rory rather than Casper. Still, it wouldn’t have mattered—he needed out. Now.

Somewhere a clock chimed the eleventh hour.

“And be quiet about it. If Lady Alymer hears us, she’s liable to demand to come along. The woman has the ears of an elephant.”

 

Maeve’s gown fell in a pool at her feet. She accepted Parson’s assistance, slipping her night rail over her head. “Did you hear voices?”

“Now it’s a crime for a man and his valet to talk?”

“I’m being silly, I suppose.”

“I wouldn’t presume to say so, milady.”

Maeve met Parson’s eyes in the vanity’s mirror. “Of course, you wouldn’t.” Every exchange since the day before, at Maeve’s show of temper, grew more awkward. “By the way, I’ll be accompanying Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway to the park with the children tomorrow. I shan’t need your services.”

“But—”

Maeve cut her off. “Not for the park, leastways. I will, however, need for you to retrieve some things from Ingleby House for me. I’ll make a list and you can have one of the footmen assist you.”

Parson’s pained smile didn’t quite work.

Ignoring her, Maeve pulled the pins from her hair. “I’m going to begin working on Alymer’s ancient secret society texts. Finish what he began. Add to his legacy, if you will.”

“But—”

“You can inform my mother, Oxford has offered his services in assisting me getting them published.” That should appease both her mother and her maid.

The audible swallow forestalled any further comments from her maid.

Maeve dropped the last of the pins from her head and pushed her fingers through her hair and vehemently scratched. Lord, that felt good. She picked up her brush and looked over her shoulder at Parson. With another curve of her lips she couldn’t quite muster sincerity for, she said, “That will be all for tonight, Parson. I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“Learn anything about Dorset I should know?” Harlowe maintained a casual walk, down the upscale walks of Mayfair, surprised at how groggy he still felt. The cravings weren’t horrible most days, and he longed for the day when they ended. What if they never ended? His body quivered at that horror. He quickly shook it off and surveyed his surroundings.

This portion of London didn’t harbor the riff-raff of Seven Dials, Bethnal Green, or Whitechapel. Sadly, one would never find a young woman walking about at this hour.

Not one who didn’t require accompaniment. Or one without.

“Dorset is three and thirty,” Rory said, snagging Harlowe’s attention. “He has four younger sisters, and the last one was just married off, though, himself’s never wed.” Rory chuckled. “The debs are after him like vultures on a carcass.”

Harlowe grunted. Like he’d needed to hear that.

“Fact is, if he wadn’t a nob, he’d be a regular bloke.” Rory’s admiration of Dorset was growing by bounds.

Harlowe grinned in the night. He appreciated Rory in forgetting Harlowe was a ‘nob’ too. “What of Oxford?”

“Bah. He’s an arrogant arse but nothing unexpected.”

They continued their walk on Stratton towards Green Park in the brisk cool air. Harlowe led the way to Watiers by way of Bolton then halted before a darkened building. “What happened here?”

“To Watiers, my lord? It was disbanded last year.”

With his hand on his hip, Harlowe surveyed the area in disgust. “What of White’s, Boodles? Are they gone as well?” he demanded.

“No, milord.”

That was a relief. Harlowe felt as if he’d recently risen from the dead to a future where one could fly to the moon—a silly notion to be sure. They ambled along Piccadilly to St. James. He let out a profound breath at seeing the windows lit up and hearing the chatter that spilled out. A group of young men stumbled out onto one of the balconies situated over the portico, smoking.

Harlowe started for the door, but Rory held back. “What is it, man?”

“I’ll just wait out here, yer lordship.”

Ah. He wasn’t a member. Nor was he dressed to accompany Harlowe inside. “Of course. I’m sorry, Rory. How remiss of me. Perhaps you could listen for something from the men leaving. I shan’t be long.”

Rory moved off to a strand of trees, fading into their shadows. It was an excellent strategy, actually.

Harlowe pardoned his way inside through the young bucks coming out. They were a boisterous bunch, making him feel older than dirt. The smell of expensive leather and tobacco hit him, and he grew a little lightheaded. He grasped the knob of the balustrade to steady himself then worked his way up to the second level. It had been so long since he’d moved in this realm it felt otherworldly.

Snatches of conversation wielded over him like a blacksmithy’s hammer. The crowded gaming tables stole all the oxygen from the rooms. There didn’t seem to be an open window anywhere. Anxiety pumped through his blood, rushed his ears, dotted his vision. Doing his best to quell his panic to appear normal, even with his skin pulled so tight he thought it would peel away, Harlowe set his sight on a window at the end of a long stretch of hall. It appeared cracked, beckoning him like the laudanum he fought so desperately against.

Harlowe reached the window, shoved it wide, breathing in the deep cold rush. On the third round, his vision cleared, and his hearing sharpened to those around.

“A drink, Lord Harlowe?”

Slowly, Harlowe swiveled, recognizing the head waiter, but unable to recall his name. “Whiskey,” he said, knowing and inwardly cringing at the choked intonation.

Nodding, the man disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared only to be replaced by his childhood friend, Baron Welton. “How good to see you, George.” How strange that he could remember some things and not others. It made no sense at all.

Welton clapped him on the back. “Where you been keeping yourself for nigh on a year, Brandon?”

“Here and there,” he answered carefully.

“Heard you got yourself married—er, sorry, old chap. Also heard she passed.”

“Thank you. Is, er, any of the old set here?” Harlowe asked.

“Yes, yes. Most of ’em. Not much changes for the ranks, does it?”

“No, I suppose not.” Only for men like him who’d been hit on the head, left for dead, then tossed in an asylum, drugged and dumped on a ship bound for who knew where. Such a path had the tendency to make a man stop and think about life as it were.

“At least you got your heir, eh?”

“There’s that,” he murmured, cursing the waiter for taking so long to bring his whiskey. “Ah, thanks.” It was if he’d snapped his fingers and his drink appeared. Harlowe took a long swallow, nearly downing the entire contents. “What’s with the large crowd?” Had it always been such and he just didn’t remember?

“The race at Newmarket was yesterday and everyone hurried back to town to celebrate their wins.”

“So, you’re still gracing all the regular haunts, are you?”

“Yes, yes. Looking for my heiress nightly, then gaming my way till morn, most days.” Welton pulled back, narrowing his drunken gaze over him. “You don’t look so well, my friend. Thought you might be a little relieved that—”

A chill stole up Harlowe’s spine, raising the hair on his neck. “Relieved at what?”

“Er, ah, nothing, nothing,” Welton quickly backtracked.

A deadly calm swept him. “To lose my wife?”

Welton’s mouth clamped in a tight line, and he wisely said nothing.

Perhaps he’d noticed Harlowe’s tightened fist. It wouldn’t be the first time he and his friend had scuffled. But Welton had always fallen on the cowardly side of the line. “Why would you think I’d be glad my wife was dead, Welton?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Harlowe waited but apparently his old friend had said all he was going to say on the matter. An unusual tact for Welton. “So where are the dandies hanging about now that Watiers has gone debunk?”

“Oh, here and there. Widow Chancé still hosts her art salons. The Althe—er—” He stopped, glanced around, then said, “White’s, of course, Navy. A few others have come and gone.” Welton downed his drink, clapped Harlowe on the back again. “Good to see you, Harlowe. I’m meeting Shufflebottom and a few others for late night trolling.” He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“I appreciate it, but I’ll pass for now. Wouldn’t look good, would it, for gaming the night away after just having lost my wife.”

Welton nodded then took his leave.

Harlowe looked out at the night sky, another memory assaulting him. The Athenaeum Order. That’s what Welton had been about to say. Harlowe’s lips tightened in disgust. A group of debauched men Harlowe had ever known. It was an underground establishment. Men who preferred young girls. Really young. Suddenly, the street scene painting he’d shown Maeve floated before him. That had been Maudsley’s house, right? Or was it Rowena Hollerfield’s—

God, his aching head. The pain had returned with a vengeance.