The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Three

P

arson is settling you in a chamber in the family wing,” Lorelei said.

“I hope it’s not too far from Harlowe,” Maeve said. “However improper.” Though she knew the words needed to be said, she could feel the heat crawling up her neck. She accepted the cup from Lorelei and watched as Lorelei prepared her own.

“I admit to struggling with the impropriety, but practicality won out. But no adjoining doors. That is a stretch even I could not quite muster.” She tapped her spoon against the china then set it aside, spearing Maeve with a glint of amusement. “So, I’m a harridan, am I?”

Maeve winced. “You heard that, did you?”

Lorelei sipped at her tea. “You may refer to me as anything you like if you are able to get my brother to laugh again. My heart swelled to twice its normal size. It was the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in an age.”

Maeve’s heart melted at her friend’s words. What happened to Harlowe was heartbreaking. He had a long road to full recovery ahead of him, and the beau monde was not known for making things easier. The upper nobility were, in fact, notorious for exploiting ones perceived weaknesses.

“Has he seen Nathan?” she asked softly, thinking of that sweet plump child, too young to realize the tragedies that had already befallen him.

“Once or twice. While Nathaniel’s exuberance can be overwhelming, it’s his unpredictable shrills I fear will drive my brother to outright madness.” She finished this on a small smile.

Maeve’s marriage to Alymer had not been blessed with a child. She’d had to settle with fond affection. On the plus side, he’d respected her knowledge on various topics. A respect she hadn’t been afforded since before her father’s death. Mama believed she was ‘too’ smart. Which, if looked at from the proper angle, was a compliment, in and of itself. “Were you able to locate a man to sit with Harlowe?” Maeve hadn’t expected to like Harlowe so much.

The door to the parlor swung wide and Kimpton swept in. “Yes, Lady Alymer. Two, in fact, Rory and Casper. Both are big as oxen.” He sauntered over to his wife, leaned down, and kissed her on the cheek. “Hello, love.”

The outward show of affection had the lace fiche on Maeve’s neck itching, and her wanting to rip it away. She finished her tea and, as unobtrusively as she could muster, set her cup on the tray. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire for the evening.”

Maeve took her leave and went up the second flight of stairs, to the family wing. Lorelei said she’d placed Maeve next to Harlowe’s chamber, and that made it a simple matter of elimination to locate her own. There was only one door near her “patient’s.”

She stopped outside his door, cracked it open and peered in. A man whose head looked too large for even his bulky frame, sat in a chair near the windows, keeping vigil. There was no movement from the bed. She backed away and went to the next door where she found Parson laying out her toiletries on the vanity.

“Oh, there you are, my lady. I’ve called for your bath. It should be along in a moment.”

Those were the most heavenly words Maeve had heard all day. “Thank you, Parson.”

The bath water was hot and sprinkled with rose oil, and without Lady Ingleby demanding every waking moment of Maeve’s time, and with the soft patter of rain drumming the glass panes, she might have her first peaceful night’s sleep since the day she’d moved back to Ingleby House. She was indeed in heaven.

 

Maeve shot to sitting, heart pounding in the unnerving black surrounding her. Something woke her. In the fog of her brain, she fought the bed sheets, then realized the curtains had fallen closed. The Kimptons. She was ensconced at the Kimptons’. For as long as she could remember, she could not abide enclosed spaces, and many times woke, fighting for her breath as if she were underwater, her skirts dragging her down. You are not drowning. You are not underwater.

She splayed a hand against her chest and took a centering breath. After a long moment, the pounding steadied, and Maeve tried to make sense of her jumbled wits. Why had she woken so suddenly? She reached out and moved the bed curtain aside, relieved to see the window cracked. That explained why the bed had been enclosed. The wind shook them loose. Parson knew she did not like them shut. Maeve wouldn’t care if it were twenty below, she hated the enclosure. The sensation of being entombed.

She shuddered.

Then she heard it. The grunts. The thrashing. The low murmur of pain.

Harlowe.

Maeve dove out of bed, whipping up her wrap and cinching it at her waist. Lorelei was too proper to have put Maeve in a room with an adjoining door, so she had no choice but to enter Harlowe’s chamber from the hall. She pushed her way into his room.

The mountain of a man she’d seen earlier stood over the bed holding Harlowe down by the shoulders. He glanced up. “I have him, milady. You shouldn’t be here. It ain’t seemly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, hurrying over. “What is your name?”

“Casper, milady.”

Harlowe’s eyes were closed, his face gaunt and neck strained with pain, one long muscular leg had escaped its confines in a bed large enough to hold three people. The dark heavy coverlets were twisted about his lower body, exposing an expansive chest despite the loss of muscle. Her late husband had looked nothing like this man.

“Is it a cramp, my lord?” She reached for his leg. The taut muscles of his calf jerked beneath her touch. She ran her hand down to his foot. “I’m going to attempt to push your foot forward, my lord. Believe it or not, it will release some of the tension.” This she did, all the while speaking softly.

After a moment, the muscle released, and left Harlowe panting.

“Casper. Water, please. He needs hydration.”

He moved slowly, as if he didn’t quite trust Harlowe not to leap from the bed and murder the both of them.

“I could use a whiskey,” Harlowe croaked.

Maeve smiled in the darkness. “That may be, my lord, but in my experience, alcohol tends to dehydrate, which would defeat our purpose in dealing with these cursed cramps.” Casper handed Maeve the glass of water, she put it to Harlowe’s lips. “Take it slow, my lord.”

He drank. “Enough,” he said without heat.

She took the glass away and set it on the bedside table. She glanced at Casper. “Why don’t you go to the kitchens, sir. I can sit with his lordship for a short time since I’m awake.”

“But—”

“Go,” Harlowe barked.

The door latched shut on Casper’s exit, leaving the chamber in a hush.

“How did you know?” Harlowe said.

“Know what?” Maeve’s hand flew to her hair. She was appalled to realize the plait she’d fallen asleep with had long since unraveled. A frequent outcome after a nightmare of near drowning.

His hand fluttered to his still exposed leg. He pulled it beneath the coverlets.

“Oh, yes. My late husband, of course.” She smoothed her hair back as casually as she could under the circumstances. “He had frequent leg cramps, though not from the overuse of laud—I mean—”

“Do not concern yourself with niceties, my lady. We both know I spent months in an asylum in which they doused me repeatedly. It’s a wonder I’m not dead, though half the time I feel so.”