The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Three

H

arlowe watched the house from a strand of trees in Cavendish Park. The streetlamps had been lighted, forming a line of haloes in the damp fog that had settled over the night. He’d sent Rory on his way with a promise to meet at a less than respectable coffee shop the next morning. It was too late for a proper visit. But damn it, Maeve’s avoiding him this past week didn’t change the inevitable. He would see them married and, as her future husband, it was his responsibility to assure her safety. Seeing those paintings at the widow’s salon only solidified his determination. There was danger afoot, even if he couldn’t quite pinpoint its origins.

The longer Harlowe stood in the shadows, the more impatient he grew. The only room visible from his current vantage point was the formal parlor, and it was as dark as the sky above. He wasn’t certain which bedchamber she’d taken for her own, but he suspected it wasn’t Rowena’s. There was enough light to see his fob, and the lack of light inside was worrisome, sending his imagination into wild conspiracy theories.

Was she home?

Had she fallen ill?

Had the McCaskles been knocked cold?

Was she being properly looked after?

Who was the mystery wayward she’d taken in? Street children were a savvy lot. They had to be to survive the worst possible conditions. He should have installed Rory in the household. Because he couldn’t shake the boding peril crawling over his skin.

Harlowe longed for his late night talks with Maeve. He missed her. He wanted her hand in his. His lips against hers. His cock sheathed deep with her body. She belonged to him. He’d blinked and found himself opening the door with his own key. A wall sconce’s flame flickered in the foyer, giving off a low light. Latching the door behind him, he stole up the stairs—he just wanted to assure himself she was well. At the top of the stairs, he cracked the door of the chamber that had belonged to him. The room’s stuffiness confirmed this one as a reject. He slipped inside to the adjourning door and found the same in Corinne’s old suite.

There were many other bedrooms on this level but down the crossing corridor, towards Rowena’s bedchamber, a cool breeze drifted. She had the window open, then. Stunned and a little awed at her audacity, he stole down the hall.

Just a peek.Then he would leave. He made it to the door without tripping on anything and, with his hand on the knob, he laid an ear against the thick oak, as if he could hear anything through it. After a long moment, he twisted the handle and slowly pushed.

He slipped in.

An instinct he hadn’t remembered possessing struck, and he contorted his body, just missing the swish of iron hitting the carpet. In another move, he whirled around and caught her body against his, clamping his hand over soft, full lips. “Shush. It’s me.” She bit down, and he yanked his hand away. “Ouch!”

“Harlowe! You bastard. How dare you frighten me out of my wits like that. What the devil are you doing here?” She shoved out of his arms, stalked over to the bed to snatch up her wrap.

“I was worried about you.”

“You mean in spite of the butler, housekeeper, footman, and cook you’ve installed?”

“There’s a cook?”

“As if you didn’t know,” she spat. She pointed to the tray on the table. “There are scones. I don’t know that I should let you try one. I might never be rid of you.”

He scooped up the poker from the rug. Looked at it, then at her. “That’s quite a swing you harbor.” Without comment, he went to the fire and stirred the embers to life. He set the poker in the stand and took up a scone. “They’re cold.”

“Shall I send for more?” she said with a too-sweet smile.

“No need.” He bit into a tender, flaky, buttery taste of heaven, despite its having cooled. “Good God. Who’s the cook?”

“Mrs. McCaskle’s sister.” Her unreadable gaze settled on him for a long moment. “You being here at this hour is highly inappropriate. Not to mention being in my bedchamber.”

He whipped up a serviette and dabbed the crumbs from his face, then stalked over to her. He took her by the upper arms and shook her gently. “How am I to convince you to marry me when you haven’t made the slightest attempt to reach out? Seven days!” He planted a hard kiss on her soft lips. They molded beneath his. Groaning, he ran his tongue over the seam of her lips and, to his greatest relief, they parted. He dove in, and any semblance of reserve vanished in a heated rush. His heart pounded with the depth of her reciprocation. He reveled in her response for several minutes.

Finally, he forced himself to pull his mouth away and rested his forehead against hers.

Her rapid breaths were fire, searing his skin. “How did you get in?” she asked in a breathless whisper.

“I used my key.”

“Your key. Of course. I should have known.” She broke his hold and went to the settee and dropped down.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

She let out a sigh. “About what?” Her demeanor was not an encouraging sign. Her gaze sharpened on him. “You’ve remembered something, haven’t you?”

Harlowe strolled back to the fireplace and leaned against the mantelpiece. “A couple of things. I wish to talk to you about them.”

The firelight heightened the glow in her softened gaze. “All right. I’m listening.”

“I attended the Chancé Salon.”

Her features firmed, but she held her pragmatic tongue.

“The widow has a collection of art. Two of my paintings hang there. I needed to see them.”

“They triggered—”

“Maybe. Perhaps. But it was something else.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “I was coming out of “the museum” and I heard the widow talking to a man. They mentioned the Althenaeum Order.”

He glanced over and caught her staring in the fire with a grimace. “What is this Althenaeum Order? I heard it mentioned myself.”

Ice sloshed through his veins. “Where did you hear—”

“The Martindales’ soiree a few weeks ago.”

“I know I can’t remember everything, but I don’t think the Althenaeum Order is the sort of organization discussed in polite society.”

“I don’t know any specifics. Dorset and I sat out our set on the terrace. You might remember that particular night? My slippers were shredded.”

He definitely remembered. Only he hadn’t recalled her telling him she and Dorset had been sitting on the terrace. “Go on,” he growled.

“There were two men in the gardens. I didn’t see them. Their voices were too low for me to recognize.”

Harlowe considered that a blessing. His trepidation was palpable, tangible. His hands shook. On unsteady legs he moved next to her and dropped down. “Did they see you?”

“Of course not. I told you they were too far away for me to even hear much of what they were saying. I asked Dorset about it at the time.” She shrugged. “He didn’t know anything. After that, we went inside, and I came home… I mean… I went back to Kimpton House.”

“Dorset.” Dorset was at Chancé’s. Dorset was at the Martindales’. Perhaps he warranted a closer study.

She turned an amused smile on him. “Do not tell me you are jealous, my lord.”

“Dorset was soused tonight.” He sounded almost petulant to his own ears. He’d had no idea he was so immature.

She ignored his comment. “What of your paintings? You said you wanted to see them? What do they have to do with The Althenaeum Order?”

Now was not the time for a childish act-out. “I’m not sure. There are two. One is set in the dregs of London on the Thames. Near Black Friars—”

She fell back against the brocade. “Dear heavens. Wasn’t that where—”

“Vlasik Markov.”

“Who?”

“Kimpton told me that is where Vlasik Markov was shot by the Earl of Griston.” Harlowe gripped his head. “Vlasik was the trafficker for the Slavs,” he said through gritted teeth. “He was the one who took charge of the noble children and smuggled them out.” Harlowe had followed him. He’d escaped Vlasik that time. “Addle Hill. The building I painted is a crumbling monstrosity on Addle Hill.”

The memory rushed over him in nauseating detail. Whisperings of another location. This one in the country. Tranquil Waters Asylum. “I took Corinne and Rowena to Essex County. What a bastard I am. I might as well have killed them myself.”

Maeve grabbed his hand. “Stop it. I refuse to listen to this nonsense.”

He couldn’t breathe. The need for a brown vial hit him with brutal and devasting force. “Don’t you understand what I’m saying? I used them as cover. Vlasik spotted me and took a pipe to my head. He must have thought me dead. How else could Holks have ended up with me and doctoring me to health?”

“Tell me of the other painting.”

“A summer in the country. It was of Rowena. It was similar in nature to the one I did of Corinne.”

A frown marred her brows. “It doesn’t sound as if they have anything in common.”

“Buildings.”

“Buildings. Yes. That make sense. But how did Chancé end up with two of the paintings? And Lorelei with the one of Corinne?”

Harlowe rose from the settee and paced. “Rowena. She insisted I send the one of Corinne to Lorelei.”

Maeve nodded. “Ah. Miss Hollerfield was a resourceful woman. It was likely her guarantee to ensure Corinne’s place as your wife.”

Harlowe stopped and stared at her, stunned. “Of course,” he said softly. “Yet, that still leaves the matter of the other two works.” His lips felt like curved marble. “I believe I donated them to her little salon.”

“So what is the significance of the buildings in Essex?”

“I’m not sure—”

A knock sounded at the door. It was soft, almost tentative. Maeve jumped, and her eyes darted to his. “You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed in a whispered panic.

He smiled. Sooner or later, she would see that he did belong there. “Enter,” he said.

Irritation flared in her eyes, usurping the panic.

The door swung back, and a shocked Agnes filled the arch.

Harlowe waited. This was Maeve’s home. He’d already taken a step farther than he should have.

Maeve straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “What is it, Agnes?”

“’Tis Penny, ma’am. She’s had a nightmare, and Mary can’t calm her.”

Maeve was off the settee and dashing from the room in her bare feet. The floor must be freezing.

“Who is Penny?” But Harlowe was speaking to an empty room. He saw Maeve’s slippers near the foot of the bed and swooped them up, then followed the flickering flame of Agnes’s candle up the backstairs to the nursery level. Maeve ran down the hall to an open door and rushed in. Heart wrenching cries from within filled the hall. Something in his chest tightened at the anguish in those cries.

Maeve sat on the side of the bed and swept a small child into her arms, hugging her, smoothing her hands over the child’s tangled locks, reassuring her. “It’s all right, darling. You’re safe.”

“Blinda. He hurt-ed Blinda. We has to find her ’fore he does somethin’ awful.”

Maeve rocked her. “We will, darling. I shall do everything in my power to find her.” Maeve’s eyes met his over the girl’s head.

Harlowe took in the room. The small sitting area that had been erected near the windows. There was a trunk nearby that likely held toys. He recognized Mary. She was sitting up in the smaller bed, rubbing her eyes. That surprised him. He would have thought she would have claimed the larger bed. He heard Agnes’s light steps ticking away. He turned and saw her making her way to the stairs then disappearing. He had questions, but he feared further frightening the child.

Maeve shifted position. She spoke to Mary. “What are you doing in Penny’s bed?”

“She kicks in her sleep, milady. I had t’ move.”

Maeve’s lips tipped and she nodded.

Mary caught sight of him. “M’lord? Sh-should I make a fire in yer bedchamber, sir?”

“I’m fine, Mary. Should I require a fire, I’m perfectly capable of starting one myself. Thank you for inquiring,” he said softly.

The little girl, Penny’s, head shot up, nicking Maeve’s chin. “Yer not Jervis,” she said.

Jervis. The building. The one on Addle Hill. The Althenaeum Order. They were all tied together. He knew it. But how? And what had been his role in the business?

“No, Penny. I’m Lord Harlowe,” he got out on a choked breath.

Penny’s sobs slowed to hiccups, her small body shuddering and clinging to Maeve’s neck as her only lifeline.

Maeve continued rocking her, murmuring soothing words Harlowe couldn’t make out. The urge to talk to her now had moved from desire to lifesaving. The pieces in his head were jumbled, and he felt as if she were the only one who could help him sort them out.

Agnes returned, and in her hands, she held a small tray with warmed milk and some of the scones. He took the tray from her and set it on the low table in the small sitting area, inclining his head for her to sit. He glanced over at Mary and did the same.

“Penny?” he asked softly.

“I think she’s fallen asleep,” Maeve told him. “I’ll stay until the girls calm. Drink your milk,” she told them.

Harlowe could have used a brandy.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Maeve handed Brandon a tumbler of brandy.

“The miscreant?”

“Don’t call her that.”

“The wayward.”

Maeve glared at him.

He ginned an infectious twist of his lips that was impossible to resist, though she did her damnedest.

They were back in her suite. The private sitting room. The bed was much too tempting, she’d decided. “Penny and her sister, Melinda, were with their mother when the mother died giving birth to a boy. Neither survived and Melinda has disappeared. Mr. Jervis was coming after Penny when I found her—or rather, she found me. She was hiding behind my skirts and he never saw her.”

His features turned dangerous. “This Jervis, you saw him?”

“I did.”

His whole demeanor changed. The look in his eye, feral. “Goddammit, Maeve, the man is famous in the stews for his misdeeds.”

Letting him intimidate her was not an option. She sipped at her own drink. “I suppose I should have just handed her over?”

“Of course not.” His voice was mottled with disgust. “Even if I insisted, I’m not daft enough to believe you would ever countenance such a thing.”

“I’m thrilled at your insight, my lord. Would that my mother—”

In an instant her glass was knocked away and his mouth was on hers.

It all happened so quickly, she hadn’t time to even consider resisting. She kissed him back with every ounce of her soul.

After a bit, he pulled away. “Do not toy with me, madam. I cannot bear the thought of anything happening to you.” He nuzzled her neck. “You smell delicious. Like hot house roses.”

Her arms wrapped his neck and she touched her lips back to his. Just a light brush. “Oh, Brandon. Can’t you see I’m terrified for her? For these charges I’m taking on? Did you know that it was Rowena who took in Mary and Stephen? How am I to turn them away? I could never.”

“I know, love. I know.” He tugged her arms from him, leaving her curiously empty. “We need to talk.”

“The Althenaeum Order.”

“And the paintings. I think Jervis is a pirate of sorts. Of… of children.” He stood and paced the carpet, running a hand through his hair. “He snatches them off the streets and takes them to Addle Hill. I’m almost certain that is the case.”

Maeve bent down and picked up her fallen glass with shaking fingers, forcing herself to concentrate on keeping her voice steady. She didn’t want to ask but if she was to take up this fight, it was imperative to know what she was up against. “What happens to them?”

With his eyes closed, he let his head fall back. “Different children for different things. Prostitution, soldiers, illegal labors—fencing, enslavement—sexual and otherwise.”

“Soldiers,” she whispered. “Only the fastest pinchers escape.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “Yes.”

She cleared her throat. “How does this pertain to you, to the paintings you saw tonight?”

“I’m involved somehow. I fear I was involved in something horribly gruesome.” He lowered in a chair across from her, but his gaze lit on the window. “I can’t help thinking I was part of—belonged to—the Order. I think—” His face was chalky, almost gray. “The debauchery, the perversion.”

It took a moment for his words to penetrate, and when they did, she was outraged. “You cannot possibly mean what I hear you saying? That you prefer…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words aloud. Most especially after that incident the day he took her on a tour of the house. The urge to feel him between her legs still struck her at odd intervals, catching her unaware. “Absurd. Absolutely absurd.”

“What other explanation could there possibly be?” His frustration and despondency ripped her apart. “I know Jervis. That building in the painting. That’s where they are stashing the stolen children. I painted it! I’ve been in that dilapidated structure. The odor of the nearby Thames is bad enough, but inside… needless to say, it’s uninhabitable.”

Maeve moved quickly, dropped on her knees at his feet, and grabbed his hand within hers. “You mustn’t think such a thing.” She squeezed his hand as tight as she could. “Think about it, Brandon. Think of all those other pictures. You created them. Almost every single one depicted a traitor.”

He ran his palm over his face. “God, what I would give for a heavy dose of opium right now.”

Maeve’s stomach recoiled with fury and nausea. “Stop that talk right this minute. I won’t have it. You are stronger than the pull of poison that renders one senseless.”

Her words stilled him. “And you know this… how?”

She dropped her gaze. “After Alymer. I was forced to return under my mother’s care. Parson…” She hauled in a deep breath. “It was so easy to just sleep all the time.”

“Your maid drugged you.”

“Yes. But as it turned out, I was also stronger.” She stood and smacked his hands. “You listen to me, Brandon Radcliff. Whatever you had to do with that awful group, it was not because you desired children for nefarious purposes.”

She turned to stalk away, but he snagged her by the wrist and jerked. She stumbled, landing on his lap.

“Marry me, you impossible, bossy woman. I miss you. I wish to talk to you. Day and night. You can fix me.”

She cupped his chin. “Oh, darling, only you are able to fix you. You would be disappointed in me. I’m stubborn. Hard-headed. I have a temper. One has only to look at the color of my hair to see that.”

A small smile touched him, but clearly he was still unconcerned. “Perhaps.”

Quiet filled the room and eventually settled.

Maeve laid her head against his shoulder and wondered if the young Viscount Harlowe had truly been in love with Rowena Hollerfield. And if he had been in love with the notorious harlot, how had he ended up married to Corinne?

 

Harlowe rested his arm around Maeve, listening as her breathing grew rhythmic and deep, until she slept. He went over the events of the evening. From the salon where Dorset had shown up, to his paintings in the miniature museum, to storming Maeve’s bedchamber, to the little girl screaming about that rapscallion Jervis.

Hearing the man’s name sent glacial shards of terror straight through him. Maeve was right. He had no perverted desires for children. The dark and dankness of that painting spoke of another plot altogether. He’d been hell-bent in stopping the madness. Until Parliament did something to change laws in protecting children, it was up to people like him to affect the transformation. And he didn’t foresee much happening in that regard in the near future. The divide between the upper echelon and the lower classes was too divided.

He was most disturbed by Maeve’s promise in finding the girl’s sister. How was he supposed to keep the woman safe when he had no idea who the true enemy was? Because he had no doubt of Maeve ploughing headlong into danger with no thought to her own wellbeing.

He laid his lips against her forehead. The intensity with which he wanted her boggled, yet warmed him through. He hadn’t felt this way about Corinne, of that, he was certain. His feelings for Maeve went much deeper. Maeve Pendleton would never stand down where he was concerned. She would fight him to the death for her beliefs. His hold tightened, but she didn’t awaken.

He rose from the chair and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and carefully removed her wrapper. She never stirred. The chamber was cold, and he looked about. The window was open. He went over and lowered it to a mere crack then went back to the bed and glanced down at her. He pulled the counterpane to her chin, then removed his shoes and lay next to her. He didn’t touch her, that way spelt trouble.

Her beauty was not that of the fragile, delicate sort. Hers was more indirect, less bold, that simmered just beneath the surface, but was there all the same. Her beauty was in the boldness of her actions. Thinking of her facing down Jervis stopped his heart. And at Soho Square, no less. Good God. There was no telling who’d seen her. Obviously, Andrews had.

Harlowe lay on his side, watching her, taking in her rose-scented skin. He wouldn’t stay long, he promised himself as his eyes drifted shut.

 

Harlowe bolted up. It took him a moment to acclimate himself to his surroundings.

Maeve’s chamber, and she was gasping for air. She thrashed about beneath the covers, his body having trapped hers. He shot off the bed and ripped the covers back and took her by the arms. “Darling, wake up. Maeve.” His fear made his words harsh. “Wake up.”

The wildness in her opened eyes terrified him.

“Maeve, it’s me. Harlowe. Brandon. Darling, you’re safe.” He pulled her to his chest. “You’re safe.”

“The window,” she croaked. “I-I need air.”

“I’ll get it. Will you be all right?”

She nodded, pushing her unruly hair from her face.

Harlowe went to the window and pushed it open then shoved the canopy back to allow the cool air to filter to the bed. He went back over, brushed the hair from her face. “Better?”

“Yes.” Her hands gripped his scarred wrists. They were ice cold.

He kissed her forehead. “What was that about?”

Her hesitation was pregnant, and after a moment she let out a sigh. “I sometimes dream I’m… I’m drowning.”

He rubbed her hands within his own. “Is there a reason? Or is this just your everyday understandable fear of water?”

“Is there an everyday understandable fear of water?” Her sarcasm fell short, but he applauded her effort.

“You tell me.”

She looked toward the window, but he had a feeling she was seeing into the past.

A twinge of envy touched him.

She inhaled. “My mother wasn’t always so awful, you know. I had a sister. She was four, perhaps five years older than me. I barely remember her. She was vivacious, gregarious, adventurous, and horribly spoiled.”

Her fingers touched the insides of his wrist. It was an odd sensation, but he didn’t pull away.

“We—the family—had been invited to a water party. It was very exciting. Children weren’t usually included for such outings.” She heaved in a bracing breath. “Caroline was frightfully indulged. She didn’t know the word ‘no.’ I lay that at my mother’s feet.”

Nodding, he remained silent.

“Caroline’s behavior was abominable. She threw a tantrum and, in the process, knocked us both overboard.”

“Jesus,” he said under his breath.

“I don’t know who pulled me up, but it seemed to take forever.” Her body racked with a violent shudder. “Truthfully, I can’t even remember if Caroline’s body was ever even located. I came down with a fever and was ill for weeks. Mother never spoke of the incident, at least that I can remember. You can imagine how she handled the tragedy with only me left.”

“Over-managing. Controlling,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She blinked, and her focus turned on his hands. “How did you acquire these scars, my lord?”

“The asylum. They tied me to the bed.” He answered without hesitation, surprising them both.

She lifted one hand and set her lips to the inside of the rope burn, then the other, her eyes closed. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She raised her head, meeting his eyes.

He was lost within their blue depths.

She blinked. “Good heavens, what is the time?” She scrambled from the bed. “You must leave. You can’t be seen leaving this house at this hour.”

Harlowe pulled his fob from his badly wrinkled waistcoat pocket and winced. She was right. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled on his boots. “I shall leave, but know this, my darling, this isn’t over. Now that Jervis has seen your face, don’t think for a minute he’ll hesitate to come after you.”

She stiffened.

“Or Penny.”

She deflated.

“I’ll come back later today. We need a decent stratagem.”

She groaned.