The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Four

M

aeve was exhausted. She wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over her head, but she needed to check on Penny. She stopped in the office off the stairs and consulted her diary. Miss Wilson’s Governess Agency was sending over two prospective candidates for Maeve to interview. Currently, she was housebound until she hired additional help, especially in teaching the children—and Agnes—to read and write and mathematics, oh, and geography. Children deserved a well-rounded education.

She came out of the office and almost knocked over the maid who held a stack of fresh linens, Maeve pulled up, frowning. “Who are you?”

The girl dipped a short curtsey. “I be Abby, m’lady.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I be the upstairs maid, ma’am.”

“I see.” Maeve shook her head, resignation setting in. “And you’re related how, dear?”

“The McCaskle’s eldest daughter.”

“Of course you are,” Maeve said with a sharp smile. “Welcome to Cavendish Square, Abby.”

“Thank ye, m’lady. There be some letters for ye in the foyer, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Maeve watched Abby round the corner and pound up the back staircase. She wondered if Rowena’s servants were so… so familiar. Highly doubting it, she strolled into the foyer, and took up several missives.

Maeve meandered to the parlor and broke the seal on the first one. It was from the Duke of Oxford’s daughter, Felicity, Lady Lexum.

Lady Alymer, I hope you’ll forgive the late notice, but Papa is hosting a rout and I fervently wish for you to attend…

The rout was scheduled for the next night. Maeve dashed off a note, accepting Felicity’s invite. She had some questions of the girl. She and Lexum had been married on Christmas Eve at the Foundling and Orphans Charity home. It had been quite the party. They’d taken two of the children into their home and encouraged others to step forward to do the same. Maeve felt helpless thinking of Penny’s sister. How to find her. But she had to try. She’d promised.

McCaskle tapped at the open door. “A Miss Bristol to see you, milady.”

“Thank you. I’ll see her in the small parlor, McCaskle. Send in tea.” Maeve flipped through the rest of the notes, discarding one from Lady Dankworth but setting another couple aside for consideration then threw her shoulders back and on clipped heels entered the small parlor. “Hello, Miss Bristol. I’m Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer.”

 

Whatever had happened the night before, Harlowe was thrilled to realize more of his memory was returning. In particular, his valet’s murder. Vlasik must have gone looking for Harlowe at his bachelor’s quarters and found Marcus instead. While there was no guarantee he would regain the whole of his memories, he decided to remain hopeful.

He stopped off at the pre-designated coffeehouse. The ones near Cavendish Square didn’t garner the grandest of reputations, but these sorts of places were chock-full of information—good and bad. He spotted Rory right away, at a table near the kitchens. Harlowe lowered his hat down over his brow, raised his collar, and made his way over. Harlowe smoothed a hand over his wrinkled clothes. In most cases, one wouldn’t be caught dead in less than his best, in this case, however, it was preferable.

“Surprised to see you this early,” Rory groused, his eyes going over Harlowe. “’Pears ’if I’m failing in me duties as valet.”

“Fell asleep. Which is more than I can say for you. No sleep, my friend?”

“Not a wink.”

Harlowe grinned. “Don’t tell me. You stood guard over the house all night?” He clucked his tongue. “And after I specifically remember instructing you to return home.”

The man grunted and lifted his hand, signaling for a cuppa.

“Saw somethin’ interestin’ skulkin’ about Cavendish last night.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Believe so, milord. Goes by the name of Dorset. He stood on the street for a long while staring up at the house.”

“He didn’t go up to the door?”

“Nah. Couple of other blokes drove by. Picked him up and drove him away.”

As irritating as that tidbit of information was, Harlowe couldn’t very well fault Dorset’s actions, since Harlowe had let himself in, with his own key, uninvited. He let out a pursed breath and focused on another pressing matter. “There’s an old building on Addle Hill. Scout around and see if you can determine any odd comings and goings. My guess is that the structure will look uninhabited.”

“Will do, Guv. By the bye, I took the liberty of sending a gardener to Cavendish. Big fella. Goes by the name of Baird.”

Harlowe grinned. “Can’t wait for the reaction to him.”

Harlowe took the seat across. “There was an incident with the child last night. She woke screaming from a nightmare. Mentioned Jervis.”

“Not a good sign ’cept for the fact knowin’ he’s still about. Man’s a menace.”

They kept their voices low. A mug of strongly brewed coffee was clunked down in front of Harlowe without a spilled drop.

The bell over the door jangled and the atmosphere shifted and an air of toxic exigency permeated. The chatter fell to a hum then a rippling silence. Wrinkled or no, Harlowe didn’t move, his clothes were a cut above most of the patrons’ present. “Who is it?” he whispered.

“The man hisself.”

Jervis.Harlowe took up his coffee and sipped, watching from lowered lids. The place smelled before, but now, it positively reeked. Slowly, the silence reversed, going back to its almost normal chatter.

Harlowe leaned in. “When he leaves, you think you can follow him without being seen?”

Rory’s expression could only be interpreted as insulted.

“All right. Apologies. But do your best to keep from getting killed,” Harlowe said. “How the devil am I supposed to keep her safe?” He spoke more to himself than to Rory.

Rory stood, plunked his hat on his head. “Don’t you toffs just put the one ye want in a compromisin’ situation, and then just marry the gel?”

A red haze clouded Harlowe’s vision and cleared almost instantly. Ruin her? The idea held merit. She would hate him.

But better to hate than be dead.