The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Eight

H

ow ravishing you look,” Dorset told her.

Maeve smoothed her gloved hands over the silks of her brilliant cerulean skirts. “Thank you, my lord. I seem to have inherited an exceptional lady’s maid.”

His lips tightened. “From Rowena Hollerfield.”

Maeve ignored the slight. “Well, Agnes is quite exceptional. I am lucky to have her.” She wondered why she had allowed Parsons to last as long as she had. Her insolence was glaring after being around Agnes’s calm demeanor for the short amount of time Maeve had known her. She was thrilled with Agnes.

“I suppose last night was quite the coup for you.” He spoke pleasantly but there was an edge present. “Your entry hall. The flowers.”

“Ah. Yes, well, that was an excellent surprise. I admit my astonishment, and,” she chuckled softly, “pure vain delight.”

His jaw softened. “I can imagine. While I must admit hating at walking in the hall and being hit with puerile envy.”

Her joy burst forth and she abruptly covered her mouth. The park was indeed crowded and several heads turned in their direction. “Er, thank you for saying so, my lord.”

“Don’t you think it’s time you called me Sebastian?” He was most definitely testy.

Maeve frowned. “That doesn’t seem proper.”

His laugh was a reluctant gasp. “There is something to be said for a beautiful woman who has been out of the school room for a number of years.”

Maeve choked, swallowing another bout of mirth.

A deep shade of red crawled up his skin. “That was most irreverent of me to say,” he sputtered.

Once she gained control of her laughter, she patted his hand. “Do not fret, Sebastian. Women fresh out of the schoolroom are but children. It’s indecent when you think of what they are expected to endure before they even know themselves. I think the marriageable age should be moved from eighteen to five and twenty.”

“And you are?”

“Four and twenty.”

“So in your own eyes you are not of marriageable age.”

“I do so enjoy my freedom.”

“And you’ve been married before.”

“Yes. But thanks to Alymer, I am able to enjoy my independence. Not many women have that luxury.”

“No. I suppose not.” He was quiet for a time, then, “I wonder how my sisters felt upon the arrangements of their marriages.”

Maeve smiled at his thoughtfulness because that is what he was… thoughtful. “Somehow, I fail to see you forcing them into an unpleasant situation. If I’d left things up to my mother, I would be relegated to the country with Shufflebottom tearing through my dowry.” She shuddered at that fate. Welton would be the better choice between the two, and he acted like a boy led by his leading strings.

“I noticed your gardens being tended. Come spring they will look beautiful.”

Her own jaw tightened. So. She had a gardener now.

 

“What do you mean ‘she’s out for a drive’? With whom? And where the devil did all these flowers come from?”

“The lady’s evening was a smashing success, I’d say,” McCaskle said.

“Who the hell sends a woman rhododendrons?” He dug out the card. I shan’t sleep at’all until we dance again. S. “And who is S?”

Mrs. McCaskle appeared in the hall. “Here, now, m’lord. Readin’ the lady’s personal correspondence ain’t seemly.”

Blast it, she was right. Appalled at his lack of etiquette, he shoved the card back into the bunch. “Where’s Agnes? She’d better not be here. She’d best be with her mistress.”

Agnes appeared at the top of the stairs. “Did you need me, milord?”

Harlowe was ready to pull out his hair. Instead, he threw up his arms. “No,” he ground out.

McCaskle chuckled. “Calm down, m’lord. Baird has everthin’ under control.”

“Who the devil is—ah, the gardener. Right. Suppose that’s all right then.” But it wasn’t. Maeve was with Dorset and the man was besotted. Who had sent all these flowers? “I’ll, uh, wait for her in the parlor.”

“You think that’s wise, m’lord?” This came from Mrs. McCaskle, a chastisement. “This be her house. I advise you to return after she does.”

“Damn it.” She was right. Again. Harlowe slammed out of the house and jumped in his carriage, guiding it across the street just out of sight.

Minutes later a huge, bulky man lumbered atop beside him.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Baird, m’lord. They be driving up soon.”

Harlowe looked him over, then grunted. McCaskle was doing an excellent job of filling Maeve’s household with servants who appeared more than capable of keeping her and his future charges safe.

Seconds later, Dorset’s smart, high phaeton rolled in the drive. A conveyance certainly didn’t leave room for a lady’s maid to accompany her lady.

Dorset jumped to the ground and went around to assist Maeve down, leaving Harlowe gnashing his teeth. They stood in the drive a moment, neither making a move towards the portico. Finally, Maeve strolled over and waved until Dorset drove off. The door opened behind her and McCaskle said something. She donned him with an over bright smile and shook her head. McCaskle inclined his own head then disappeared inside.

Maeve took a quick glance about.

Harlowe’s instincts for danger roared through him.

Maeve threw her shoulders back and marched down the street in the direction of Oxford Street. “Hell, she’s going to hail a hack.” He lifted the reins and said to Baird. “I’ve got this. That garden needs work.”

“Ye might need me, m’lord. Ye can’t verra well drive and run after the lady at the same time.”

Dammit. And if she spotted him, his advantage would dissipate like a puff of smoke, just like her body was disappearing into the waiting cab. He tossed the reins to Baird. “I’ll ride inside. Just don’t lose her.”

 

“Soho Square, if you please.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

“There’s an extra crown in it for you, if you drive slowly, sir.”

The cabby gave Maeve a toothless grin without responding.

Good heavens, the traffic on Holles Street was clogged to the gills. That explained his grin. The view out the window was abhorrent at best through the layers of grime. It was getting late in the day and the shops would be closing soon. Still, if Maeve remembered correctly, there was a flower seller on the corner near Trotter’s. If Melinda had been able to escape Mr. Jervis, it stood to reason she would be keeping watch over the area for some sign of Penny.

If only Maeve had brought her own carriage, but she hadn’t dared waiting. She thought she’d never escape Dorset. Dusk was within a half hour of setting when her cab reached Dean St, and Maeve’s heart stopped. The flower seller had closed up and was carting her goods away.

Then she saw it. A young girl scouting the area. She was taller than Penny, looking closer to Irene’s petite size. She banged on the ceiling. “Stop. Stop. Please.”

The hack pulled up and Maeve jumped out.

“Hey, me crown!”

“Wait for me.”

“Damn toffs. That’s wot ye all say.”

She raced for the corner, but the girl had caught wind of her and darted from sight. Maeve came to a halt, panting. Where could she have gone? Shop doors were shut, and she glanced about. None of the polite world were anywhere in sight. Why should they be? They’d all been on Rotten Row for the fashionable hour. At the least, they’d been in their carriages blocking traffic.

When had she become so impulsive? Oh, yes, that was when she’d lost her senses and offered to undertake the Viscount of Harlowe’s state of health.

Uneasiness slithered through her. If anyone of her set had seen her dashing down the street like a hellion or spotted her without her maid, she’d be ruined. Her heart pounded in her breast, but she lifted her chin and, wrapping her cloak of dignity around her, turned back in the direction of her waiting hack… only the man was driving away. She shot a helpless glance around and barely managed to hold back her groan.

“Lady Alymer, how pleasant to see you.” The gaze Shufflebottom raked over her sent another shiver of dread through her. Thank heavens Welton was with him. “We hear congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations?” Dear heavens, they were at the Martindales’ that night. She was at a loss for a plausible response.

“I say, Lady Alymer. ’Tis late for shopping, don’cha know?” Welton said.

“Yes,” she said on a nervous breath. “I-I thought to reach Boucher’s before she closed for the day, but I missed her… by moments it appears.”

 

She wouldn’t dare. But, of course, she did dare. She was Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer. Hard-headed, stubborn, pragmatic, independent woman without the slightest care for her reputation. Harlowe jumped from his own carriage, stormed down the road, tossed her driver a coin, and growled at him to move on. “The lady is with me.”

Maeve marched down the street with her shoulders back and her head held high, her carriage determined and proud. Any other time and place, he’d stand back and watch the production that was worthy of Drury Lane. She was a vision in her day frock of bright blue. Hell, it was a beacon, and as no other shoppers were about, she was sure to be seen.

Unfortunately, Shufflebottom and Welton had seen her and had stopped, blocking her path. Harlowe picked up his pace. How was he supposed to salvage this situation? Pieces of her ginger hair had worked free beneath that blue confection she’d call a hat. He would catch the very devil for all his effort to salvage her reputation. He let out a sigh. There was only one thing for it. Plenty of time to face the consequences later. He firmed his resolve.

“Boucher’s?” Shufflebottom said with a narrowed gaze. “They’ve been closed for hours.”

“Er, yes, I suppose I lost track of time…”

“Dammit, Maeve,” Harlowe said, startling her. “That temper of yours will be the death of me.”

“What—”

A knowing grin slid over Shufflebottom’s features. “Harlowe. Appears as if your betrothed has lost track of time.”

The flush in Maeve’s face told Harlowe what he would be facing to clear up this little matter. A matter of her own making, he reminded himself, and ploughed ahead.

“You do look flushed, Lady Alymer,” Welton chipped in. “Surely it’s something that can be fixed without too much trouble. Harlowe and me, we go way back. He’s an easygoing bloke, leastways, he used to be.”

“Lovers’ spat?” Shufflebottom asked. She did not appreciate the sly look in his eye.

Neither did Harlowe. He pulled himself to his full height and leaned forward. His bicep flexed beneath her fingers on his arm.

She squeezed. “Certainly not,” Maeve huffed.

The calculating glint in Shufflebottom’s eye spiked Harlowe’s temper. “I hear Lady Ingleby is thrilled,” he said, sounding to his ears around the rushing blood, pleasant.

“We were hoping to wait a bit on making the announcement,” Maeve said through gritted teeth.

“Fascinating, since it was Harlowe himself who delivered the news to half the ton at the Oxford’s ball,” Shufflebottom said.

“That cat is out of the proverbial bag now, isn’t it, darling?” He bowed to the gentlemen. “If you’ll excuse us, we still have a few things to iron out.” He casually turned her about and led her to the carriage.

“Like the iron I shall bash in your skull with.” She spoke with a sweetness that promised her retribution would not be kind. “Is that my rig?” she asked.

“It is indeed.”

“Who is that driving?”

“Your gardener. Baird.”

“My gardener’s name is Baird?” She took in a deep breath. “How nice to have a gardener. Does he know how to garden?”

One could only hope.He hid a grin.

“This is outrageous,” she muttered darkly.

Then he remembered why he was angry. “As outrageous as you jumping out of a hack, running down the street like a… a street urchin. What the devil were you thinking?”

“Penny said her sister was with her when Mr. Jervis came after Penny. I thought if her sister escaped, that perhaps she was keeping an eye out for Penny. I saw a girl, and when I called out, she dashed off.”

“Wouldn’t you, if a lunatic was chasing you down the street?”

She ignored him. Likely because she knew he was right. She halted in her tracks, spun to him, and poked her finger in his chest.

He rubbed the spot. “Ow, what is that for?”

“You told Welton and Shufflebottom we were to be married.”

“That dandy and his tale-bearing cohort likely had the news all over London by midnight once it was circulating. I have news for you, Maeve Pendleton, soon-to-be Lady Harlowe. You might as well get used to the notion of our wedding. It’s inevitable.”

“But…” Her voice trailed off in a helpless whisper.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Harlowe glanced over his shoulder and saw Shufflebottom still watching them with undisguised curiosity. “I’m afraid you’re out of options.”

He looked down at her and saw her eyes on Welton and Shufflebottom as well. Her shoulders fell. He put an arm about her shoulder and squeezed. “I shall do my best to prove my worthiness, my lady.”

Her head snapped around.

The resignation in her eyes was disheartening.

“Darling, I don’t understand. You asked me to marry you. Why are you balking now?”

Her eyes glistened. She shook her head, seeming at a loss for words.

“If it was my ungentlemanly reaction, I assure you it wasn’t you. I was caught by surprise. I couldn’t understand why you could want a man who’d lost his mind, been confined to an asylum.” He took out a handkerchief and pushed it in her hands.

She dabbed the moisture from her eyes, and after a moment, she nodded. “All right,” she said without lifting her head.

He assisted her inside. “Back to Cavendish Square, Baird. Take the long route.” He climbed inside.

“Good heavens, I just remembered.”

“What?”

“My mother. She will jump on this little snafu like a suffocating blizzard. You’ve really done it now, my lord.”

Harlowe grinned at her back. Exactly what he was counting on. “I believe I can handle your mother, my lady. You are no longer alone.”