The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Fifteen

T

he hour grew late, and Harlowe grew restless. Maeve had left hours ago for the Martindales’, and he couldn’t seem to do anything but pace. He was quite aware of Rory’s eyes following his every move. If he didn’t get out of this chamber, out of this house, he would go mad. “I need to take a look at Rowena Hollerfield’s home,” he said.

“Huh.” Rory didn’t appear so surprised, which also drove him mad.

Harlowe slammed out of the room and down the stairs to Kimpton’s study. Brock was there, and the two were sharing a brandy. “Is there enough for one more?”

“You sure your nurse would approve?” Kimpton said.

“She’s not here to stop me, is she?” Harlowe accepted the ribbing and a tumbler. “I heard Lady Ingleby storm the house this afternoon, and I barricaded myself in my chamber.”

“Adept of you. I was forced to assist the woman up the stairs with all sorts of fripperies and such.”

Harlowe smiled. “Had I known that, I would have stepped out and offered you my assistance.”

“Yes. You’re helpful like that on occasion,” Kimpton shot back. “Lady Alymer was forced to ride with her mother to the Martindales’. Lorelei and Ginny took the Kimpton carriage.”

“Perhaps you should attend,” Brock told him.

He briefly entertained the idea. He wouldn’t mind taking a turn about the dance floor with Maeve. She was the perfect height for him; her body melded perfectly with his, as he’d so conveniently tested that afternoon. He shifted in his chair, shoving out thoughts that were poised to reveal his innermost desires in a most embarrassing manner, and skipped to another item on his building agenda. “Er, I was wondering if you learned whether or not the Hollerfield house was occupied?”

“Ownership is still in her name. I haven’t heard that anyone else has taken over the property,” Kimpton told him. “Perhaps we could all take a look together.” He pulled out his pocket watch. “Shall we say nine o’clock?” His pronouncement left no room for argument.

Two hours later, dressed in his subpar finery due to loss of muscle, Harlowe mounted his horse and followed Rory, Kimpton, and Brock down Curzon Street in the direction of Cavendish Square off Bond Street. The path was as familiar as the back of his own hand. A thought that went far in reassuring Harlowe.

They stabled their horses a half block away.

Harlowe’s pulse beat erratically while his head suffered a surreal sense of déja vu. The walk to the front door hit him with a sharp pain in his chest.

The knocker was missing from a, surprisingly, recently painted door.

Brock stole around back, Kimpton pounded on the door, while Harlowe moved off to the side of the house and peered in the windows. The memories assaulted him, confiscating his breath.

Rain pelted the panes, but the blazing fire in the hearth warded off any chill. Shy, quiet Corinne edged in quietly and lowered onto the settee. “I’ve ordered tea, Lord Harlowe. Rowena is, er, entertaining. She should join us presently.”

Irritation rippled through him. Rowena knew this meeting was critical. She was jeopardizing everything. “Anyone I know?”

Two spots of high color dotted her pale skin. She was young, innocent, and represented everything he’d lost—or was about to lose—

“Harlowe, we’re in,” Kimpton’s harsh bark jarred Harlowe.

He hurried to the front and stepped inside. Shockingly, no dust covered the floors, the banister, the tops of the wainscoting. The furniture in the front parlor was uncovered. It looked as if the lady of the house had left for an outing and, but for the missing knocker on the door, would return home any minute by the smell of fresh bread, wafting through the house. Fresh bread.

Footsteps pounded the exquisite floors and a young woman appeared from the back of the house. “See here—” Her eyes stopped on Harlowe, her face went white. “Milord… Master Harlowe.” She gripped one of the spindles of the staircase to steady herself.

She was Rowena’s maid. “Agnes? What’s going on here?”

Tears filled her eyes as she gave a helpless shrug and looked everywhere but at him, at them. “There weren’t nowhere’s to go, milord. The housekeeper—”

“Mrs. Willoby…”

“Yessir, Mrs. Willoby, she left. ’Tis just Mary, Stephen, and me, taking care o’ things.”

The silence mounted in the foyer while Harlowe took this in.

“We ain’t done nothin’ but keep the house up, sir. We sleep below stairs.”

Harlowe moved toward her and she flinched. He touched her shoulder. “Don’t fret, Agnes. We’re here to check things out. You go on back to the kitchens. I’ll speak to you before we leave.” He was shocked to find he remembered Rowena’s and Corinne’s quiet maid. She’d been fiercely loyal. Knowing Mary and Stephen remained to be seen.

With a sharp nod, Agnes hurried out, her steps echoing away.

“Is that wise, Harlowe?” Kimpton asked him.

“If anything, it’s kept out vagrants, at least as far as I can tell.” He moved from the parlor and went up the stairs to a third level where he and Corinne had resided. It consisted of a large bedchamber with an attached dressing room and private sitting room. Images of the quiet, clinging Corinne floated through his memory. Soft words, preceded by unexceptional lovemaking. She’d been an innocent, intimidated by Rowena’s bold confidence. A pang went through him at remembering his inability to be what she’d needed. He rubbed a palm over his chest. He made an effort to shake off what he couldn’t change and concentrated on his surroundings.

The dust here was thick. The bed looked as if it had been hastily made. He stepped over to a vanity and blew at the dust and sneezed. He pulled out a drawer and found only a half used jar of powder. The other drawers were empty but for a few pins with strands of dark hair still attached. He remembered Corinne’s frustration when her thick locks had refused to curl, him teasing her unmercifully, at times driving her to tears. She’d been such a sensitive thing.

His own sister had been tough as nails, taking him and Welton by the ears as children when she’d found frogs in her freshly laundered sheets. Corinne had been nothing like Lorelei.

Smiling sadly at the memory, Harlowe moved to the wardrobe located in the dressing room. Nothing but empty pegs. Not a single scrap of fabric remained. In fact, he thought, surveying the space, the whole apartment had been stripped of anything personal. The staff had probably looted the property the minute they’d learned of Rowena’s death. Or perhaps, Agnes had had to sell what she’d found to feed herself, Mary, and Stephen.

Harlowe left the suite, feeling empty. On the second level, he went through Rowena’s rooms, aware of a whisper of memory teasing the edges of his mind, like tendrils of shredded gossamer. There one moment, gone the next.

Rowena Hollerfield had been a most unusual courtesan. She’d made her own way. She accepted jewels but allowed no man to rule her. She’d been fiercely protective of Corinne, in his vague recollections. She owned her own home—

She’d owned her own home.

Harlowe did a quick search through her rooms, looking for a safe, certain there wasn’t one, but checking anyway. His heart was pounding as he hurried down to the ground level to her study. It was located toward the back of the house. He dashed past the drawing room, the library, the formal dining chamber, to a small, almost closet sized nook behind the grand staircase. He stepped inside where shadowed candlelight danced on walls.

Kimpton reclined behind a large desk that took up most of the space, leafing through a sheaf of papers. “Found some interesting paperwork,” he said. “It appears you are the owner of Cavendish House via your marriage to Corinne, via Rowena’s death.” He selected a single sheet that was set off to the side and set it on top. “Your marriage certification.” Kimpton came around the desk and handed the entire stack to Harlowe. “Perhaps they hold some of the answers you are looking for.”

Swallowing hard, Harlowe accepted them with a sharp nod.

Kimpton rubbed his hands together. “Now, about the Martindales…”

Groaning, Harlowe handed off his package to Rory and sent him back to Kimpton House, then made his way to the kitchens to speak with Agnes before departing to fulfill an unspoken promise to Lorelei in making an appearance.

The closer Brock, Kimpton, and Harlowe drew to the Martindales’, the greater the sense of anticipation that thickened Harlowe’s blood. What was the staid Maeve Pendleton wearing? He hadn’t caught sight of her before she left due to Lady Ingleby’s overbearing presence. He wondered if Lady Ingleby was hovering about Maeve now, directing her every move, her every dance, her every word. The thought had a smile tugging at his lips until he remembered Lady Ingleby was the one who had sent Oxford to the Kimptons’ in search of Maeve against Maeve’s explicit instructions.

Once Kimpton, Brock, and Harlowe reached the Martindales’, they left their horses at the mews. Harlowe forewent the front door and being announced. He had no desire in having the entire ton judging his appearance, leaving that chore to his companions. He stole around the side of the large house to the gardens behind, striding past several couples meandering the path, but the cool air kept the less hardy of those indoors. The gate was open, and globe-encased candles lighted his path to a large stone terrace. In the darkness, his ill-fitted garments were less conspicuous.

Once there, he decided he couldn’t resist peering in an open window, being careful to stay out of the full light, and decided wild horses could not drag him inside. He required a visit with his tailor first.

He located Maeve immediately, her hair a striking beacon. Irritatingly, the orchestra queued up a waltz and Dorset stepped up and held out his arm.

The smile Maeve offered up grated over Harlowe like his rusted, unused voice. Dorset swept her out onto the parquet floor, his gait smooth, his smile proper and practiced. They made an annoyingly striking pair. Harlowe hated it. Yet he could not pull his eyes from the rich forest green of her gown, billowing out around her. The soft glow of light gleaned off her slender arms. She wore elbow-length gloves, and it was those gloved fingers on Dorset’s shoulder that sent his blood into a simmering boil. The worst part was that he couldn’t tear his eyes from her sheer gracefulness and amiable allure.

Good God. He needed release. It had been much too long. Talk about unnatural for one’s constitution.

 

Dorset swung Maeve in another turn. “You dance divinely, Lady Alymer. I’m ashamed that I let you talk me out of the supper dance at Oxford’s ball.”

“As do you, my lord. I’m sure my mother is quite pleased.”

He groaned. “Not exactly the praise I was looking for.” The music stopped. He took her hand, placing it on his arm, and escorted her off the floor.

She laughed, even as an odd awareness lifted the hair at her nape. She stole a look around, then leaned in. “If you wouldn’t mind, my lord, I’m not quite up to my mother’s interrogations. I believe I’d love a visit with my friends, Ladies Kimpton and Brockway. I see their husbands have arrived.”

“Of course, my dear.” In a smooth shift, he diverted their course, depositing her with her friends and bowing over her hand. “Thank you for the dance, Lady Alymer. Until later.”

She shot Dorset a mischievous grin, fully aware of a certain someone spying from his not-so-covertly spot near the terrace windows. She kept her smile firmly in place as Dorset made his way from the ballroom. She turned slowly back to her companions.

“Nice gentleman,” Ginny said.

“Yes. Yes, he is,” Maeve said. Unfortunately, he was no Lord Harlowe, as frustrating as that man continued to be. Hiding on the terrace, no less.

Lorelei leaned in and spoke softly, “Not to put a pin in your balloon, dear, but Lady Ingleby is making a—”

The snap of an ivory fan sounded like a slap. “Lady Kimpton, Lady Brockway. How lovely to see you. Might I steal away my daughter a moment?”

“No, Mother. You may not. They’ve just arrived, and it would be extremely rude of me to desert them now.”

Lady Ingleby cleared her throat. “I see. How is your brother, Lady Kimpton?”

“Better, Lady Ingleby. Thank you for asking.” Lorelei was the most gracious person Maeve had ever met. How did she do it?

Lady Ingleby’s sharp gaze scanned the room. “Where is he?”

Lorelei’s smile never wavered, though something about her straightened. “He’s been quite ill, my lady. He thought he might try to make an appearance but perhaps he thought better of it.”

Lady Ingleby swiveled to Maeve. “Well, daughter-dear, I understand you drove out with Dorset yesterday afternoon.”

“Yes, and a pleasant drive it was too, Mother.”

A cat-with-the-canary smile lit up her face. “I’m very proud of you, my dear. By the by, how did your visit with Oxford fare?”

Every muscle in Maeve’s face tightened, though she was able to keep her lips turned up, hoping they didn’t come across as a sneer. “Very well, Mother. I offered up some excellent motherly candidates for his daughter.”

Lady Ingleby’s gasp could be heard across the ballroom. “You didn’t!”

No. Maeve hadn’t, and while she didn’t bother to correct the assumption, she had a feeling Lady Parther had designs on the duke.

Maeve moved her gaze to the terrace window. Harlowe had shifted deeper within the shadows, but she could still see him. She turned her smile up a notch. She made small talk with her friends, resisting the urge to rush out to the terrace to check on Lord Harlowe. The night air was cool, he might take a chill. She was being ridiculous. The man had spent the last couple of nights wandering the streets of London. He was fine. Still, it was the night air…

This self-perpetuating argument would not quit if she didn’t just see for herself. Anticipation curled through her. “Ladies, Mother, please excuse me a minute. I see someone I need to speak with—”

“Maeve,” her mother started.

Maeve caught sight of Oxford standing by the terrace doors. He was the perfect decoy.