The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty

M

aeve started down the stairs as she pulled on her white kid gloves. One thing she could attribute to Rowena Hollerfield, the house was splendid. At the bottom of the stairs, she glanced at the long clock. She was scheduled to meet Lorelei and Ginny within the hour for shopping at Trotter’s Bazaar. Trotter’s was located on a corner of Soho Square which, thankfully, would only take twenty minutes depending on the carriage traffic. Meaning, if she didn’t leave soon, she would be late. She wished to talk to Agnes regarding their evening meal first.

Strolling through the luxurious townhome thrilled her. She’d been in residence less than a sennight, but the sense of freedom exhilarated her with every step. From the entry hall, she turned to the back of the house and went down another set of steps to the kitchens. She had yet to hire an experienced cook, but Agnes did a wonderful job despite her youthfulness.

As Maeve neared the bottom, Parson’s voice came from the kitchens in a scathing hiss. “Her ladyship requires perfection when it comes to her morning fast.” Maeve had experienced Parson’s condescension on more than one occasion.

Heat-filled fury crawled up her neck. In her estimation, Agnes had managed the house stupendously. She reached the kitchens and found Agnes standing as rigid as a pole, even with Parson’s larger form angling over her with intimidating purpose. “And her toast, lightly browned.”

“I ain’t heard her complainin’ yet,” Agnes said in a low, steel voice.

Maeve half expected Agnes’s fist to swing up. “Parson,” Maeve snapped. “A moment please.”

“But—”

“Now.” Maeve swiveled on her heel and went up the stairs to the morning room. Like all rooms in this beautiful townhome, it was a large chamber with a huge window that looked out over a garden that at one time was probably breathtaking but now sadly neglected. The dining table was small for the space—a heavy round oak that would seat no more than six. There was a blazing fire in the grate that softened chill. The walls were papered with gold-threaded silk. The hanging pictures were of art rather than people. Landscapes and stills of different varieties. Maeve even ventured to think she recognized one or two original Harlowes. She would have smiled if not for the unpleasant task ahead.

Parson followed her, as Maeve knew she would. Maeve took a seat on a comfortable settee near the fire but didn’t offer the same to her maid. “Please explain yourself.”

“I’m sorry, milady. The girl is quite insolent.”

“In what way?”

Parson’s thin lips disappeared in her displeasure.

Maeve considered her for a long moment until Parson shifted her feet under Maeve’s scrutiny. It wasn’t in Maeve to be cruel. “Does it bother you?”

“What, milady?”

“Living in this house?”

The red in her face darkened. “Well, it did belong to a famous…”

“Demimonde?”

She gave a short nod.

Maeve’s gaze went to the window as she drummed her fingers on her knee, choosing her words carefully. “I should hate to lose you, Parson. But it’s clear to me that this relationship has been doomed since my return to London after Alymer’s passing.” She let out a sigh and faced Parson. “This is not an easy decision for me. Please pack your things. I’ll write you a reference.” Maeve stood. “I’m sure my mother will be thrilled to have you back at Ingleby House.”

Parson’s shock, despite her silence, seem to reverberate through the room.

Maeve watched her with a steady, unblinking gaze. “That will be all.”

Agnes stood at the door, eyes wide, with her fist poised to knock. Right in Parson’s path.

“Parson, your reference will be contingent upon how congenial you conduct your departure,” Maeve said with an intractable calm. Maeve was known for her intractable calm. “Come in, Agnes.”

Agnes stepped quickly in the room and out of Parson’s way.

“Now. What can I do for you, dear?”

“There’s a man at the door, ma’am. Says he was sent by Lord Harlowe. He be our new butler.”

He would not dare. The utter gall of the man. “I’ll take care of it,” she bit out.

“Ma’am?” Agnes still stood there.

She wasn’t up for much more, but she didn’t wish to take out her irritation with Harlowe on Agnes. “What is it?”

“Thank you, ma’am. Ain’t no one ever took up fer me b’fore. Not since Miss Hollerfield.”

Some of the tension in Maeve’s neck eased. “Not at all, Agnes. Now, run along and do me proud.”

Maeve stormed the ground level, her heels clipping on the marble, to the entry hall. “There’s no one here,” she said to the room at large.

A towering, beefy man with no neck, no hair on his face or head, and watchful green eyes stepped out from a coat wardrobe. “I’m McCaskle,” he said.

Maeve put his age around forty, but she’d never have the courage to ask. She also detected the slight hint of brogue in his vernacular. She barely kept from gasping at the sight.

“Harlowe sent me.”

“So I heard.”

“Are ye going t’ be difficult about this?”

“I expect I will,” she said on an exasperated huff. “But I am meeting friends at Trotter’s, and I’m running late. Perhaps you’ll be so good as to hail a hackney.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Now see here, Mr. McCaskle—”

“Just McCaskle. Harlowe was good as to send me over in his coach.”

“What coach?” she demanded.

“The one awaitin’ you. Just outside. Complete with footman.”

“Footman?”

“His name is Niall.”

“Does this Niall happen to be a relative of yours?”

“Matter o’fact, he’s me son, milady.”

 

Maeve accepted Niall’s assistance from her shiny new conveyance. “You may return to Cavendish Square,” she told him. “Lady Kimpton’s coach will see me home.” She pointed to a rig close to the center of the street, lifted her hand, and waved at Andrews.

“Are ye certain, milady?”

“I’m very certain, Niall. Thank you for the ride. Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway just disappeared in the modiste’s. See? Andrews is parked just out front. Now go. And tell McCaskle not to get too comfortable. I’ve an appointment to make with Lord Harlowe regarding his high-handedness.”

Niall shot her an engaging grin and flicked the reins.

Maeve watched him disappear around the corner. Shaking her head at the absurdity of her morning thus far, she started in the direction of the modiste’s. She’d just reached the Kimptons’ horses when she stumbled forward from a slight push. She clutched her reticule to her chest, her gaze darting around. Nothing amiss struck her, but for the extra-sensory sensation tearing through her. Lorelei and Ginny had already disappeared into the Boucher’s Cuts—a curious name for a modiste’s shop—but Maeve had a feeling the robust woman meant the name literally. She glanced about to see a fierce looking man bearing down on her. She took comfort in the fact that he could do nothing to her here. Not on the street in front of the modiste’s shop. She squared her shoulders. While an urge to save herself and dash inside threatened to overcome her, she dared not move. Fortuitously, she’d worn one of her larger skirts today. Unfortunately, not that large.

“Where is she?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“The gel. Where is she? I demand me rights as her… her papa!”

“Who, sir?”

“The gel who attempted to lift yer purse, madam!”

Maeve screwed her features into a puzzle. “Someone attempted to steal? From me?” She glanced about, then affected her haughtiest Lady Ingleby outrage upon the ruffian. In her mind, Harlowe could take him at his lowest. Not that she’d allow such a thing. “I believe someone took off around the corner, sir. But no one would dare attempt to “lift” my reticle from me.” She could feel the heat from the child crouched behind her. Maeve pointed to the corner. “Perhaps she disappeared into the park. Now. Take yourself off before I call for the constabulary.”

His stare at her seemed to go on forever. He finally grunted and stormed off. Maeve maneuvered around, watching him, carefully and hopefully, concealing the imp behind her. When he reached the corner, he turned back to her. She held her ground, though her heart threatened to pound from her chest onto the cobbled walk. He finally moved from her sight but she waited another minute before swinging about and found herself facing a very dirty, very small, very young child. “What is your name?”

“Penny, milady.”

“How old are you, Penny?”

She held up her splayed palm, showing all five fingers.

“Good heavens,” Maeve breathed. She crouched down to eye level. “Will you come with me, Penny? I won’t let that man near you.”

Tear-filled blue eyes held Maeve’s. “He took-ed me sister, ma’am. I were only tryin’ to find her.”

Maeve couldn’t swallow. “What is your sister’s name, my dear?”

“Blinda.”

Maeve nodded, thinking quickly. “What of your mother?”

“She be dead, ma’am. ’Long side the babe.”

“I see. And who was that man?”

She scowled. “’is name be Jervis.” She wrinkled her nose. “Me an’ Blinda don’t like ’em none.”

And Blinda was missing. “Will you come with me… to my home?”

Her gaze turned to the park then back, and she pierced Maeve with unusually shrewd eyes, her lips compressed with distrust.

“I won’t hurt you, Penny. I have a maid. Her name is Agnes. She will feed you and give you a bath—”

Her tiny arms crossed her chest and her chin jutted out. “I ain’t takin’ no bath. That’s dangrous.”

Maeve smiled. “Did you mean dangerous?”

She nodded.

“Well, I suppose you don’t have to take a bath. It will certainly save me the cost of a new dress.”

“New dress?”

Maeve stood up. “It’s nothing, dear. You would like something to eat though?”

Her nod was slower. “New dress?”

Maeve bit back her smile. “I’m afraid you will have to be clean to receive a new dress. But we shan’t worry about a frock at this time.”

“But…”

“Yes?”

“Can I gets a pink ’un?”

“A pink what, dear?”

“Dress. I wants a pink ‘un.”

“We shall see what we can do. Now. Come along. We don’t wish to see Mr. Jervis return, do we?” Maeve held out her gloved hand. Where one tiny, grimy hand latched on.

Blast. She’d sent the carriage away. She glanced about for a hack, and her eyes settled on Lorelei’s carriage. Her footman, Andrews, was watching her. Good heavens, he’d witnessed the entire exchange. The news was sure to get back to Harlowe.

Andrews hopped down from the box and held the door. “I’ll run you home, Lady Alymer. When I return, I’ll apprise Ladies Kimpton and Brockway of your need to deal with an unexpected matter.”

“That sounds an ideal solution, Andrews. My thanks.”

He held out his gloved hand to Penny. Eyes wide, she took it and let him assist her up the steps, but she was so tiny, he finally lifted her from the waist and set her inside. Maeve followed and drew the curtains, in the event Mr. Jervis was watching.

There were no further incidents on their ride to Cavendish Square. Maeve and Penny descended from Lorelei’s carriage. She turned back to Andrews. “Please inform Lady Brockway I have need for a pink frock close to that of Lady Cecilia’s size”—she frowned—“perhaps a tad smaller, Andrews. And… thank you.”

He inclined his head and climbed up onto the box.

Once she and Penny reached the portico and McCaskle opened the door, Andrews lifted a hand and set off.

“Lady Alymer?” Her new Scottish butler looked surprised to see her. As he should.

Maeve and Penny stepped over the threshold. “Have Agnes draw a bath in my sitting room. We have a guest. Penny, this is McCaskle.” Maeve gave a snooty sniff. “He’s new. Come along, dear.” She and Penny started up the stairs, but Maeve stopped. “McCaskle, send up some hot meat pies and a biscuit or two.” She went up another few steps. “Oh, and a glass of milk.”

“Will do, madam.”

She’d reached the balcony when the unfamiliar, feminine voice reached her. Maeve looked over the rail. A large woman with frayed, graying hair stood wiping her hands on her bright, starched apron. Unease curled through Maeve. “Who are you?”

“Ina, milady.”

“I see. And just what is your position in my household, Ina?”

“The housekeeper, milady.”

Another round of outrage simmered, but with Penny clutching her hand, Maeve tamped it back. “Send tea as well,” she snapped. “With brandy.”

 

Steven and Mary and Niall trudged in carrying buckets of steaming water. Niall poured them in the copper tub. There was something different about Mary and Steven. Maeve stared at them as they moved to the door—

She took up the bottle of rose scent and poured a few droplets in the water. The room bloomed with the scent when the difference hit her. “You’ve new clothes,” she blurted out.

“They came a few days ago,” Mary said, beaming.

Another Harlowe deed. One she had no intention of berating him over. “Come here,” she said. “Turn around. Slowly, now. I wish a thorough inspection,” she said with mock sternness. “Why, they are fine. Just fine.” She waved out her hand. “Run along. Oh, Mary, I am expecting a box from Lady Brockway. Please bring it up immediately when it arrives.”

Grinning, she dipped an imperfect curtsey. “Yes, milady.” And with the exuberance of her age, dashed out.

Agnes, in the meantime, was behind a screen, stripping the rags from one squawking five-year-old. A few minutes later, Agnes stepped around the screen with a firm grip on her charge.

“All right, Penny. In you go. I put some of my best smelling oil in the water. I probably won’t be able to get you out.”

Her lips took on a mulish pout. “Where’s me new dress?”

“As soon as it arrives, Mary will bring it up.”

“There’s a smock to cover yer dress, milady,” Agnes said.

“Thank you. Let Agnes soap your hair, Penny.” Maeve turned to Agnes. “Be careful getting water in her face.” She went behind the screen. “Penny,” she called out. “I wish to talk to you about your sister.”

“’ey. Wotch it.”

Maeve slipped the smock over her dress, kicked off her shoes, and hurried back around.

Clean skin streaked with dirt marked Penny’s elfin face.

Maeve could hardly wait to see what the girl looked like beneath all the grime. “Tell me more about Belinda.” She took up a cloth and dipped it in the water and gently began wiping her face.

“It’s Mlinda. Like wot?”

Maeve shook her head, confused. “Are you saying Belinda or Melinda?”

“Mlinda.” Apparently the ‘m’ came out as a ‘b’ when her nose was clogged with dirt.

“Do you know how old Melinda is?”

Maeve’s question distracted Agnes from taking the soap to Penny’s hair. “I don’ know.”

“Is she as big as Agnes?”

She shook her head.

“What about Mary? Did you see Mary? She helped bring in the water.”

“I din’t see ’er, ma’am.”

“All right.” Maeve couldn’t think what else to ask her. Irene had the personality of a seasoned countess, and Cecilia was, well… Cecilia. “What can you tell me about Mr. Jervis?”

Agnes jerked and soapy water escaped onto Penny’s forehead.

“Hold still, darling.” Maeve caught the stray suds before they reached Penny’s eyes, averting disaster. She cut her gaze to Agnes. “Do you know something, Agnes?”

Her lips firmed.

“Agnes, if you know something of this Mr. Jervis, I’m afraid I must insist you share what you know.”

“He’s been around fer years, ma’am.”

“What are you not saying?”

“Mary and Stephen.”

Maeve fell back on her heels. “How long ago?”

“Three years or so. They was in bad shape when I found ’em.” She concentrated on rinsing the soap from Penny’s hair.

There was more, Maeve was certain of it, and she waited her out. She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Go on.”

“Miss Hollerfield let me keep ’em. The previous housekeeper din’t like it none, but Miss Hollerfield put her foot down none too gently and they got to stay.”

“And you’ve been looking after them ever since?”

“Yes, milady.”

The door crashed back, and Mary rushed in holding a box. “It’s here, milady.”

“Thank you, Mary. Set it on the settee. You may open it.”

“I-I can?”

“Please. Miss Penny is most anxious to see her new frock. As am I.”