The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Six

T

he Oxford rout was a crush. It was cold outside and was exactly where Maeve wished she were.

“Lady Alymer, I believe this is our set.” Viscount Beaumont stood in front of her. He barely came to her nose.

Stifling her sigh, Maeve set her hand atop his arm and let him lead her to the dance floor. “How do you find Cavendish House?”

“It’s a lovely home.”

“Yes. Yes. Rowena Hollerfield was quite popular in her day.”

There was nothing Maeve could say to that.

The rest of the night went much the same. A quadrille with Shufflebottom, country dance with Welton, a cotillion with Oxford, a waltz with Dorset, and no sign of Harlowe.

Dorset swung her in an expert turn. “How are your new lodgings, Lady Alymer?”

“Excellent, sir.”

“I wonder that you would take a drive with me in the park on the morrow, my lady?”

Panic welled up. “A drive?”

His lips tipped. “Er, yes. An event where I appear at your door at an agreed upon appointed time, assist you into my fashionable phaeton and proceed to Rotten Row. We converse—I speak of the weather, you ask about the Chancé Salon, I stop you from ruining yourself, you’re aghast and threaten to speak to the woman yourself… You know. A drive.”

Maeve couldn’t help herself, she laughed. “I should be honored to take a drive with you, Lord Dorset. I’m beyond flattered by your asking.”

“It is my honor, my lady. Will four o’clock meet with your schedule?”

“I believe it will, my lord. Thank you.”

The music ended, and Dorset escorted Maeve to the refreshment table.

“There you are, Maeve.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“Lady Ingleby,” Dorset said. “Lady Alymer. Until tomorrow,” he said softly, then melted into the crowd.

“When will you be moving from that harlot’s house?” Her low voice and darting gaze spoke volumes.

Maeve leaned in, matching her tone. “I shan’t be leaving. I love the house.”

“This is outrageous, Maeve Pendleton. That house is… is cursed.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mother.” Exasperation crawled over her skin.

“I want you home. I can hardly show my face for the tittering behind fans when I meet with my friends.”

Heat crawled up the back of Maeve’s neck, although crawl might not describe the trail of fire racing to her head. Not an encouraging sign. And at the Oxford rout. “Then perhaps they are not your friends.” Maeve tried drawing in a deep breath but there was blockage in her throat, preventing the effort. For one thing, there was the decided lack of air. The space around her was crushing, and white amoebas crowded her vision.

Her mother’s voice echoed from a valley. “Maeve, you listen to me…”

She couldn’t listen. She didn’t want to listen. Black was chasing the white. She swayed.

A strong arm banded her shoulders. “Lady Ingleby, permit me to escort your daughter for a bit of air.” The deep resonance, etched in steel, was familiar, and comforting. She wasn’t going to disgrace herself—not if they made it outside in time.

She leaned into his side, and in moments, she was gulping the cold night air.

“You looked as if you were about to faint,” Harlowe said. He led her—actually, had moved his arm around her waist—and carried her down stone steps to a bench in damp grass. Her second pair of slippers were not destined to survive another useless event. “When I first spotted you, I thought that temper I hadn’t had the pleasure of witnessing was about to erupt full force.”

“Very observant of you, sir.” Her voice cracked as if she hadn’t spoken in days, yet he was correct. Her body was flashing cold and hot—it could not seem to decide which.

 

Harlowe wanted Maeve Pendleton with a painful intensity. He could hardly stand being apart from her. The wild ginger-colored hair, the Aegean blue eyes, her tall slender body that fit his in perfect proportion. It took every ounce of his common sense to fight back Rory’s idea of ruining her. But the man had planted a seed that refused to be washed away. She was strong, independent, capable. She would hate him, and with good reason. Besides, it wasn’t sporting.

Such thoughts triggered questions. Why wasn’t it sporting? Men ruled all. He was in Oxford’s garden alone with her. All he had to do was lower the shoulder of her gown; tug it below one breast; take a plump nipple between his teeth. All it would take was one person to see them. Preferably, Lady Ingleby…

She shivered.

Harlowe quickly removed his coat and dropped it around her shoulders.

There was something in the back of his mind, manipulation, more shadows. He shoved them aside. This was not the time.

“Thank you.”

“I cannot believe it,” he choked out. “I wish to dance with you but, once again, I’m thwarted by Dorset. The man stole my waltz.”

“Your waltz? I hadn’t realized you were claiming a dance.” Her teeth chattered.

He pulled the lapels of his coat she wore together in an attempt to ward off her chill. “How was Penny after her nightmare?” he said, changing the topic.

His question had the intended effect. Her gaze softened, and she smiled. “She wanted reassurance of finding her sister, Melinda, and dived into her studies with much enthusiasm.”

“Dived into her studies?”

“I’ve acquired a governess to assist with teaching Penny, Mary, Steven, and Agnes to read. A Miss Bristol. She seems quite capable.”

“I… see.” The silence in the gardens was nice. Not uncomfortable, not ominous, not disapproving. The contentment sank into his bones, along with the icy air.

“Were you in love with Rowena Hollerfield?” she asked softly.

His contentment shattered in an instant. Harlowe’s heart thudded against his ribs. His skin felt as if a case of itching welts were breaking out. “What sort of question is that?” he demanded.

“I should have mentioned it sooner, of course, and I apologize. Truly, I do.”

“Get to the point,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Rowena left behind a diary of sorts.”

“A diary. It either is a diary or it isn’t.”

She bristled beneath his abruptness, but he couldn’t help it.

“It is.”

“And you read it?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I should have mentioned it.” Her jaw turned ridged under the ballroom candlelight that spilled out over the gardens. “But you kissed me, and I failed in remembering to mention it. So in retrospect, it’s your fault I didn’t tell you.”

“Because I kissed you?” He suddenly felt a little more forgiving.

“Don’t fun. You know the effect you have on my usually pragmatic senses.” Her lips formed an unusual, for her, moue.

He took her gloved hand in his. “I do?” A lightheadedness invaded him.

Her shoulders straightened, and she looked down her adorable nose at him.

Harlowe cleared his throat. “What was, uh, in this diary?”

“Rowena had singled you out for Corinne. She wanted her to marry into her class. She mentioned something about you having fallen in love with her, Rowena, and almost usurping all her plans for Corinne. Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Fall in love with Rowena?”

He grinned his most wolfish. “Not that I can remember,” he whispered, then kissed her.

 

Later that night, or rather, in the wee morning hours, Maeve’s feet and lower back ached from the absurd amount of dancing she’d been forced to endure. Perhaps “forced” was not the correct word. Truly, it was the most fun she’d had in an age. Still, all she wished at the moment was a night of uninterrupted sleep. Just one night.

“But, ma’am, ye promised.” Penny’s sobs had grown more hysterical by day. At night, her dreams were terrorizing Mary and Agnes, even reaching into Stephen’s chamber, until Maeve finally brought Penny into her own bed to sooth her fears and listened as Penny spoke at length of Melinda. “She don’ look like me. She be purtier with light hair. She was always wantin’ a nice dress like the one ye gots me. I wish she could have mine.” She shot to sitting, her eyes glistening in the moonlight streaming through the open window.

“You are a very loyal sister, my dear. But don’t you think Melinda would want a dress of her own. One that would fit her?”

“Aye, m’lady. That she would.” She lay back down and snuggled against Maeve. She smelled sweet, and somehow of believing, despite the dregs her life had been up to now.

Maeve made a silent vow to change that. “Tell me, darling, when did you last see Melinda?”

“Why, the day I went home with ye.”

Maeve stilled. “Are you telling me you and Melinda were together that day? Mr. Jervis hadn’t taken Melinda yet?”

“He was after her. She tol’ me t’ run. She saw ye git out from yer pretty rig.”

“Did Melinda say where she would hide?”

“She said we needed t’ run in op’sit drections. That way’d Jervis could’t grab us both. Mellie’s smart like that, ma’am.”

“Yes. She is very smart, Penny.”

A spark of hope went through Maeve. But she was only one woman. How was she to make good on a promise of finding Melinda in a city as large as London with the likes of Mr. Jervis after her? She didn’t know what the girl looked like or know how old she was. All she knew was Melinda’s hair was lighter than Penny’s darker locks.

Penny’s breathing grew steady as she eased into a deep slumber. If Maeve told Harlowe she needed to find Melinda, he would do his best to discourage her. Dorset would be even more impossible. Oxford? He had the most clout. No one would dare question a duke. Even those in the slums would not dare kill one of the king’s men. To do so would mean instant death. Plus Oxford would take reinforcements to ensure his safety. Only, a duke would draw too much unwanted attention.

Round and round her thoughts went, circling back to the fact that she had no idea what Melinda looked like. She couldn’t possibly take Penny with her. It was much too dangerous.

Maeve lay awake long into the night thinking, and nothing coming to mind.