The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Two

A

light tap at the door, and Rory’s head poked around the jamb. “Another note, milord.”

Harlowe grinned, taking the missive. It had been a week since he’d seen or heard from Maeve. All he’d had to do was install a butler, and send a coach complete with footman, and he had two notes in one day. He knew he’d miss her, but he was surprised at how much.

Apparently, he still didn’t rate the higher quality paper. He broke this seal and read. “At least this time she only threatened to lop off my head.” He chuckled. “Huh. She also thanked me for the housekeeper.” He tossed the note on his vanity and finished tying a simple knot in his cravat then followed Rory to the stables where Rory already had their horses saddled.

Once they neared Hyde Park, Harlowe pulled up. “All right, let’s have it. Something’s on your mind.”

“I’ve had some disturbin’ news from an acquaintance of mine. Someone is selling candles.”

Harlowe’s mouth kicked up. He flicked the reins and set his horse in motion.

“They’re laced with arsenic.”

“That’s outrageous.” Harlowe frowned. “What sorts of symptoms does arsenic elicit?”

“Vomitin’, bein’ thirsty, stomach pain, gettin’ dizzy.”

“Sounds similar to laudanum addiction.”

Rory ignored him. “In point of fact, milord, I ’ave reason to believe they migh’ ’ave been used in yer bedchamber. I’ve since replaced ’em.”

That brought him up. He tugged on the reins, stopping his horse again. “What exactly are you saying?”

“Ye need to consult with yer brother-in-law. Let him know what’s about. I’ve no idea the extent of the devilment.” He snorted. “Arsenic laced candles. Such shenanigans are positively medieval.”

Harlowe blew out a pursed breath, unease slithering through him. “You think Lady Alymer may be at risk?”

“McCaskle’s there,” Rory said. “And Ina’s as good as any guard. Though, heard tell, she took home a wayward.”

“A wayward?”

“A miscreant. Female, as I recall.”

“What the devil are you talking about?”

“I din’t get many details. Only person the Lady seems to confide in, is a gel by the name of Agnes.”

“Where did this miscreant come from?”

“Don’ know. Heard the footman telling Lady Kimpton he dropped Lady Alymer home on account o’ some pressin’ issue. They was talkin’ ’bout some pink frock.”

“And where the hell was Niall? I sent a coach over for her use.” Harlowe breathed in through his nose in an attempt to stave off his temper.

“’Parently, she sent Niall home b’fore she was accosted by the scamp.”

Harlowe groaned. He looked out over the night. He was at a crossroads—if they rode straight, he could give in to his desire to see Maeve. A week. Harlowe hadn’t seen Maeve in a week.

A left would take him to Chancé Salon at Haymarket. Something nagged at him regarding the widow’s fashionable gatherings. He glanced over at Rory. “All right. You shall head over to Cavendish Square. For God’s sake, don’t alarm anybody. Just make certain nothing is amiss. I’ll be there as soon as I check something at the widow’s abode. I can’t help thinking it’s important.” Something important he couldn’t remember. Frustration tore at Harlowe as he watched Rory makin the direction of Cavendish Square. Once he was out of sight, Harlowe rode for Haymarket.

Fifteen minutes later, he handed off his hat and great coat to the Chancé Salon’s butler, whose name Harlowe could not recall, and strolled into the ballroom.

The house was the height of elegance with silk, papered walls of red with gold and white stripes. Multiple seating areas were set up. From intimate settings for two, to two and three settees grouped for more celebratory congregations. Beautiful, yet scantily clad women, were scattered throughout. Most on the arm of a notable gentleman. Harlowe spotted several of his acquaintance, Beaumont, Welton, Shufflebottom, and stopped short. Dorset. Getting soused.

Harlowe stepped back into the shadows. He had no wish to give Dorset any reason for doubting his affections for Maeve. Harlowe’s respect for his future wife knew no bounds. But to claim her for his wife, he wanted his memory back. His life back. And something told him, this place held a few of those elusive answers.

“You might as well come out, Harlowe,” Dorset said with slightly slurred words. “I saw you walk in.”

Wincing, Harlowe stepped into the light. “How much have you had to drink, Dorset?”

“She’s a jewel, that one. A priceless gem.” He tossed back a tumbler of spirits. “When’s the wedding?”

Harlowe allowed himself a stinging smile. “Soon,” he said, and promising himself Dorset would never get close enough to take her from him.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll pass, thanks. Perhaps you should as well.”

“Why, Harlowe, how pleasant to finally catch you,” the widow Chancé said, sauntering up and gracing them with the depths of her husky, sultry tones. Nothing of her physique struck recognition, sending a shot of relief through him. She put her arm through his and led him away from Dorset. “I’ve missed your stimulating conversations. I’m devastated that each time you’ve visited in the last few weeks, I’ve only to see your backside hastening out the door.”

Harlowe laughed. “Devastated, Madam? Surely, you exaggerate.”

Madam Chancé was as beautiful as ever. Her delicate features reminded him of Maeve’s, but the similarity ended there. Several long curls draped a bared shoulder from her elegant coiffure of hair as dark as midnight. Her black silk gown and gloves were striking against the pure white of her skin. Not a single freckle could be seen.

She tapped him on the arm with her painted fan. “You know there is no one of my acquaintance who knows art better than you.”

He inclined his head. “You flatter me.”

“I’ve new pieces I would adore your take on.”

“I shall be happy to offer my opinion, Madam. Lead the way.” Harlowe was extremely conscious of the eyes following him from the salon. Talk in the Polite World’s circle ran rampant. He felt as if he should have let Maeve know what he was about, but she’d slammed that door in his face. She hadn’t even allowed a crack.

The widow led him through the large hall and down a wide corridor where he spotted Welton on a chaise fumbling with the front fall of his trousers with one hand, his other pinching the large, rouged nipple of his companion.

“Miss Julietta, you shall take you and your companion to a secluded alcove or to your chambers.”

“Oh. Yes, Madam.” She giggled and grabbed Welton by the cravat and led him like a dog to the stairs.

An image of Welton and Harlowe hiding a swarm of grasshoppers in their tunics flitted through his mind. They’d been in leading strings at the time and had taken it upon themselves to frighten Lorelei. She’d been sitting under a tree engrossed in one of those horrid novels she adored. The image brought him up.

“Something wrong, Lord Harlowe?”

He shook his head, stunned by the unexpected recollection. “No,” he croaked out. He cleared his throat. “Lead on.”

They moved past the curtained alcoves. Harlowe caught various peals of laughter, grunting, squeals, and snippets of conversation. Most of which needed no explanation.

The widow had a chamber full of wonderful art. She had set up the room similar to that of a small museum one might find in Venice or Rome. Dividers had been erected to allow more wall space. There were paintings in oil, water, and pastels. Erotic themes and idealized landscapes from the Rococo period filled one entire wall. Neoclassical works of subdued emotion and orderly, symmetrical compositions. Some realistic depictions that hadn’t quite caught the mainstream’s interest, but lovely just the same, were mounted on the dividers. Miniature frescoes and sculptures of dancers, nude and otherwise, lined the large fireplace and mantelpiece. Along another wall, Madam Chancé had acquired a new exhibit, consisting of antique weapons: daggers, swords, ancient muskets.

“Your collection has grown,” he said.

She lifted an elegant shoulder. “Time marches on, my dear.”

It had been less than two years since he’d been in this chamber. His own paintings—two—were showcased on one of their own divider walls.

“What is it?”

“The knives. They’re new…”

“Not at all,” she said. “I only recently had them mounted.”

“Would you mind if I wandered about. I’ve always enjoyed this room.”

“Certainly, darling. I’ll see you in the main salon when you finish. Will you be requiring company tonight?”

Harlowe graced her with a superior smile. “That won’t be necessary.” All he wanted was his memory back, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer in his bed, and a look at his own paintings in her fabulous little museum.

The widow let out a resigned sigh. “Please do me the courtesy of saying goodbye before you leave.” She bowed her head and left him to his own devices.

After the door latched behind her, Harlowe took a candle over to the wall and lifted it. The partition on which his paintings hung only allowed room for one to hang above the other. He studied the top one. The colors were reminiscent of his mood of late. Various shades of blue with a dark edge. The scene was straight out of the stews of London. A muck-covered road after a harsh rain. Unbroken windows in brick buildings lined both sides of a narrow, grimy street in low light. On the top floor of the structure on the right, he’d painted the outline of a ghostly figure that seemed to blow about in a depicted wind. A chill went through him. He could almost feel the gossamer strands of fingers reaching for him, grasping for a memory that hovered just out of reach.

He took a step back and considered the other work. This one was different. A different medium, a different tone, a different color scheme altogether. It was of Rowena Hollerfield, sitting in a sun-filled garden, surrounded by a variety of blooming botany. Peonies, chrysanthemums, bluebells, hibiscus. Purples, pinks, yellows, blues, and whites. A large hat covered half her face, similar to the work he’d painted of Corinne. There was something that linked not just the two works of Rowena and Corrine, but also the painting that hung just above. But his brain had a disconnect. In the background behind Rowena, he’d worked in a blurry version of another building.

He moved his gaze between the two paintings, and he studied those buildings. They didn’t appear alike in the least. Still there was something. Only he couldn’t put his finger on it. Frustration reeled over him until he was clenching his hand into a fist to keep from pulling his hair out.

He had to step away. Let the art swirl through him. It was the only way. You cannot force the answers. They will come when the time is right, son. Someone had said that to him. Evie Holks? No. Her father. Dr. Holks.

Two buildings. One in the stews. One in the country. Nothing made the least sense. His thoughts went to Maeve.

A miscreant. What the devil was she thinking?

Harlowe couldn’t stand it another minute. He had to see her. He left the chamber, cursing himself for promising his farewells to the widow. The chatter in the hall had quieted, though he could hear that a good portion had migrated up the stairs.

He strolled toward the main salon, back the way he’d come. Voices drifted softly from one of the alcoves. Three words brought him to a halt.

“No, my dear. The Athenaeum Order.”

Every nerve ending Harlowe possessed went on alert. The hair on his body stood on end, his skin prickled. His head pounded with a desire so thick for opium, he fell against the closest wall for balance. If he let go, he would crumble to the floor in a heap. He grasped his skull and slid down.

“You sloshed, Harlowe?”

The slurred voice came through a long, mountainous tunnel.

He was grasped by his cravat and hauled to his feet and found himself face to face with Dorset who somehow was managing to stand on his own feet. “The coat of harms ain’t worthy of you.”

“Harms?”

The man made no sense. “What? Oh, arms. Brother. Bah. I’ll get you a drink.” Dorset deposited him into the closest alcove and disappeared to some unseen bar.

Thank God it was deserted. He fell back against the cushioned bench and inhaled deeply to steady his shaking hands. The Athenaeum Order. A group of debauched nobles who had no regard but for their own perverted desires. But what did he know about it? Harlowe closed his eyes. Dark, cold halls. The dank raw sewage of the Thames. The cries of hundreds… hundreds of what? Of whom? Who was looking out of the windows? Children. Dirty children. Boy and girls, of all ages…

He felt nauseous. Had he been a part of the depravity?

Harlowe stumbled to his feet and, on quiet steps, made his way back to the museum. Back to his own paintings.

The top one. The one of the stews. He could almost smell the horrors. Children. Children who would not be missed. Miscreant.

Maeve.

 

Maeve sat at Rowena Hollerfield’s desk and tugged at the drawstrings of the velvet bag Agnes had given her. She took Rowena’s diary out and began reading.

3 March 1798: Dearest Corinne, there are things I must tell you… You aren’t my sister. I stole you after Maudsley killed your mother. You were less than an hour for this world. I feared he would do the same to you. So I took you and I ran…

12 October 1798: Corinne deserves more than spreading her legs for the highest bidder, and I vow, she shall have so. Lord Maudsley shall pay for killing Lady Hannah if it’s the last thing I ever do. I vow this to you, my sweet Corinne. I cannot say when, but know this, Maudsley is a dead man. All those years with barely enough blunt to warm our cold toes. Never will you have to sell yourself. Never.

Maeve skimmed through pages of notes. Long stretches between dates. The journal was clearly intended for Corinne. A map to explain the girl’s life. There was a long period when Rowena had sent Corinne off to school. Maeve marveled at how Rowena had managed to keep from staining Corinne’s reputation with her own. One could not help but admire such fortitude.

5 April 1815: I had an interesting call today, my dear. A young viscount. Poor as he may be, your marrying him will suit me fine. He is of your class, my dear, just as I’d promised.

14 June 1816: The young viscount is not taking my hints, blast it. And they are blatant, I assure you. He is not turning out to be quite as malleable as I’d hoped. I shall have to try another, more sustainable tactic. I, however, am never without my wits.

10 September 1817: Oh dear, child. I cannot seem to wrap my head around the disarray my plans are falling into. It appears the viscount is in love with me. This will never do. It will never do at all and calls for drastic measures, Corinne. You shall have a husband of your station.

15 November 1817: How fortuitous fate is, my dear. Your husband can never escape now. I feel as if I can sleep now. With your marriage to Viscount Harlowe secured. I have kept my silent promise to your mother. All that is needed of you is to provide him an heir.

Which she had done. Maeve leaned back and, closing her eyes, found tears to her surprise. Brandon would be devastated at Rowena’s manipulations. Only, Maeve couldn’t hate the woman for all her machinations. Everything she’d done since spiriting away the first Lady Maudsley’s newborn child from her dangerous spiteful husband, was done to protect Corinne.

She wondered if Brandon would see things so generously. She glanced down at the last few entries.

30 June 1818: If I ever get my hands on that husband of yours, I shall kill him. He’s been gone for over three weeks with nary a word. We are running out of time with the babe due in another month. I am desperate for a plan. I cannot stave off the fear of danger. There is word that Harlowe has taken off for France. What shall we do now?

Nathaniel.

Maeve’s heart ached for Corinne and her caretaker and Nathan. She closed the diary, knowing, but dreading the fact that Brandon had every right to it. Perhaps it would help him in regaining his memory. She slipped it back into the velvet bag and placed it back in the safe and locked it away. She propped her elbows on the desk and rested her chin on closed fists.

What had been Rowena’s last plan? It would be much too intrusive to ask Lorelei. Would Lorelei even have an idea? It didn’t seem likely. Still, a slight niggling tugged at Maeve’s memory but slipped from her grasp. She hadn’t truly become good friends with Lady Kimpton and Lady Brockway until just before Harlowe had been discovered on that ship.

Maeve pushed away from the huge desk in the small, enclosed room, and strolled out to the entry hall. A silver salver on the entryway table was devoid of invitations. Word had spread, and she’d become a societal pariah, apparently.

Letting out a sigh, she started up the stairs and Ina came to the base, holding a tray of enticing treats. The aroma filled the hall, and Maeve’s stomach gave an unladylike growl.

“From the kitchens, milady.”

Maeve stared at the tray with suspicion. Ina’s skillset in the kitchens did not match Agnes’s which didn’t say a whole lot. In Agnes’s case it couldn’t be helped. She was a lady’s maid, not a French chef.

Ina smiled encouragingly. “There be fresh scones.”

That sounded as wonderful as they smelled, but a week ago the scones Ina had provided had been, well, frankly, inedible. Maeve wrinkled her nose, trying to find a way to decline without offending her.

Ina pressed on. “Cook will be most disappointed if ye send ’em back.”

Her words brought Maeve around. “Cook? We have a cook?”

“Well, poor Agnes was runnin’ herself ragged, if ye don’ mind me sayin’ so.”

“I see. And I suppose Cook just happens to be your daughter?”

Ina’s belly laugh filled the hall. “Course not, milady. She be me sister.”

Maeve narrowed her eyes on Ina. “Does Agnes know about this?”

“I was t’ tell her on the morrow.”

Maeve went back down the stairs and selected one of the scones. It was still warm from the oven. She took a bite and thought she might faint from its buttery softness. “Does your sister know how to prepare pheasant?”

Ina beamed. “That she do, milady.”

“All right. She can stay—”

“Thank ye—”

“Not so fast. Upon the condition Agnes does not mind. Her opinion is important to me. Do you understand what I’m saying, Ina?”

“Aye, milady. Will ye be wantin’ tea with your scones?”

“Yes.” Maeve went back up the stairs to her bedchamber. Agnes was sitting on the bench beneath the window. “Hello, dear. How is Penny doing in her new bed?”

Agnes cracked the window a couple of inches and rose from her seat. “She was excitable, but I think she’ll acclimate well.”

Maeve turned around, allowing her to unfasten her gown. “Can you tell me more about this Jervis character?”

“I don’ know much, milady. He’s a hoodlum, to be sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only the craftiest of the pinchers escape him.”

Maeve shuddered. “You think he took Penny’s sister, Melinda?”

“If’n he was around, and Penny recognized him, I’d say ’tis a good chance.”

Maeve’s stomach dropped. She still held her half eaten scone. She looked at it, then at Agnes. “How attached are you to the kitchens?”

She caught Agnes’s furrowed brows in the mirror. “Tell me, honestly.”

“Someone has to cook, milady.”

“What if I told you we have a new cook?”

“Daughter of Mrs. McCaskle?”

“Sister.”

At that moment, Ina knocked on the door and entered with the tray.

“Goodness me, that smells so good, I might faint,” Agnes said.

“I know the feeling,” Maeve told her.