The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Thirteen

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pon Maeve’s return, Parson was determined to take her time with Maeve’s attire, her hair, pinning her hat in place. It was an adorable confection of sky blue with a light netting that covered the top half of her face, but Parson’s fussing was too much. “Is this necessary?”

“It needs to be perfect. He’s a marquis.”

“What an ambassador you are for Lady Ingleby,” Maeve told her.

Parson didn’t respond, but the aspersion hung low over the room.

A flutter of nerves took flight in her abdomen. So ridiculous. She was a widow, not a debutante, as she was fond of reminding everyone, from her mother to her maid to Oxford.

Maeve paused at the top of the stairs. Maybe she wasn’t too late, and Dorset hadn’t yet arrived. Parson followed her to the parlor where a lively discussion was ensuing. “What’s this?” Maeve said.

“Might I get you a sherry?” Kimpton asked her.

“That sounds lovely.”

Kimpton filled a glass, handed it off to her, then sat in the chair next to her. “I made the mistake of suggesting a country stay amid the height of the season.”

“Oh, dear.”

“I’m not going, Lorelei.” Harlowe put a glass of whatever he was drinking to his lips, paused when his eyes met Maeve’s. “On the other hand, perhaps I could use fresher air than that of a soot-coal London. What say you, Lady Alymer? We can get started on those memoirs we spoke of.”

It wasn’t just Parson’s sharp intake behind Maeve that sent the fire crawling up her neck, it was the piercing, questioning, amusing, challenging four pairs of other eyes fused to her person.

“Surely, you don’t mean to depart before my drive with Dorset?” she said lightly. There was some satisfaction in the scowl replacing the challenge in Brandon’s expression.

“The Marquis of Dorset,” Oswald announced.

Dorset strolled in, and Maeve realized a moment of panic when every adult, Kimpton, Lorelei, Harlowe, and Parson, shifted their judgmental scrutiny from her to him.

 

“You seemed in an awful hurry to get away, Lady Alymer. Might I hope you vied for my company so greatly?”

Maeve didn’t find Dorset’s comment in the least amusing—well, maybe she did a little. “If you like,” she said primly, wondering when she’d reverted to a blushing schoolgirl. An awkward silence prevailed until their carriage reached the crowded lanes of Rotten Row. “Everyone and their mother appear to have crawled out of the woodwork,” she muttered.

“Not yours.”

“For which you should be grateful,” she retorted. She leveled him with a smug grin of her own. “You can be sure she’ll hear of this little outing. She’s probably dancing about Ingleby House, counting down the days until she can place an announcement in the Gazette.”

“Would that be so horrible?” he asked softly. His eyes remained on the path before him.

Stunned. She was stunned. She was horrible at small talk. Her heart pounded, and that panic mushroomed in her chest. Her gaze shot around the park, stopping on Welton and Shufflebottom in the distance. From their horses, they spoke to a woman dressed in the first stare of fashion. It was all the distraction Maeve needed. From this stretch, Maeve couldn’t make out much about the woman. She rode her own mount, then tossed her head and trotted away.

Welton and Shufflebottom exchanged words, then looked over and caught her staring.

Maeve quickly shifted her gaze. “The weather’s lovely, isn’t it?”

Dorset groaned. “Don’t tell me you are one of those most proper chits who speak only of approved topics. I’m disappointed.”

Maeve couldn’t help it, she laughed. “All right, my lord. Who was that woman speaking to Welton and Shufflebottom? She reminds me of someone, but I can’t place whom. I must learn who her modiste is.”

“Woman?” he choked out.

She patted him on the arm. “No worries, my lord. Welton and Shufflebottom have spotted us and are on their way over. I’ll just inquire of them.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he said in low voice. “Her name is Madame Chancé. She holds a salon dedicated to… artists.”

“Hm. Artists.”

“And poets.”

“Poets?”

“Lady Alymer, I warn you, if your mother learns you are asking after Madame Chancé, she’ll have that announcement for the Gazette you were threatening me with.”

Maeve’s lips tightened at his comment, but there wasn’t time to reply.

Shufflebottom tipped his head. “Lady Alymer. Lord Dorset. How pleasant to see you out and about.” The man was all ruffles and frilly lace. It was an astonishing sight.

Maeve’s sky-blue walking dress was practically dowdy by comparison though she did have the hat. Nothing compared to the hat.

“How is Harlowe faring, Lady Alymer? Welton here mentioned you were looking after him,” Shufflebottom said.

Maeve’s insides dipped. Surely they couldn’t tell just from looking at her how Harlowe—they couldn’t possibly. “I’m sure I don’t understand what you’re saying, Lord Shufflebottom. I’m staying with the Kimptons. That is a far cry from taking care of Lord Harlowe. You make it sound as if something nefarious is going on.” She inhaled slowly and took up a mundane air. “In any event, he is doing well. I’ll be assisting him with his memoirs. And he’s to help me with my late husband’s text—” She stopped, her eyes cutting to Dorset, realizing what she’d just revealed, embarrassed beyond words. “I’ve had several offers of help,” she finished lamely.

Dorset’s jaw grew tight, his knuckles white from gripping the reins. She was at a loss, scrambling for something to offset the sudden strained silence. “Harlowe may start painting again.”

“Is it true he’s lost his memory?” Shufflebottom asked.

“No,” she said quickly, refusing to give fuel to the rumormongers. He was recovering bits of his memory, and that was good enough for her. She wrapped her inner Lady Ingleby around her, lifting her chin. “It was good to see you,” she said to Welton and Shufflebottom. She turned an all-teeth smile on her companion. “Shall we, Lord Dorset?”

Shufflebottom and Welton moved on.

Dorset flicked the reins and they slogged through the heavy traffic. “Is Harlowe having trouble with his memory?”

“Lord Dorset, are we going to spend our time speaking of Lord Harlowe? Hasn’t he suffered enough, considering the ordeal he’s been through in the past year?”

“Of course. I shouldn’t have pried. But I can’t help noticing how awfully sympathetic to his cause you sound.”

“I suppose I understand a little of what he is experiencing,” she said softly. “Alymer suffered considerably before his death. I see a few similarities.” It was the best explanation she could come up with without revealing anything of a more personal nature. So many things hit her at once: a stubborn resolve at being pigeon-holed as a prim and proper miss, despite having been married for three years; a need to leash a temper at Shufflebottom’s sly implications; and a fear of unfamiliar emotions swirling within her at the very mention or thought of Harlowe.

“Will you be attending the Martindales’ event tonight?”

“No. I don’t believe I will.”

“You know, if you stay on this vigil of boycotting events, your mother will be hunting you down.”

“Yes, well, she has all the enlightenment she can handle from my maid.”

“I shall be there if you should change your mind,” he said.