The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Four

D

o you remember much of your time there?” Maeve asked softly.

More than any of the horrors Harlowe experienced over the past year: the pockets of black mass in his head; screams of madness; echoing against stone walls; the smell of unwashed bodies; and dank human depravity, hearing her pity was the worst. “Not much. Some,” he said gruffly. “Certainly, nothing I can speak of in mixed company.”

Lady Alymer rubbed her palms over her upper arms as if taken by a sudden chill.

He waited for her to say something, anything, but she remained quiet. He narrowed his gaze on her, but the embers in the grate did not give off enough light for him to read her expression. Not that he could have regardless. There was much beneath Lady Alymer’s practiced facade that would take a lifetime to discern. “Perhaps, you wouldn’t mind enlightening me as to what it is I’m missing? At least this time.”

She rose from the chair, leaving a soft scent of roses in her wake as she moved to the hearth and took up the poker. She stabbed at the embers then tossed in a piece of wood. “I’m not certain I comprehend you, my lord.”

“And I’m sure you do.”

“Would you like me to close the window?”

“God, no.” He drew in an embattled breath. “I would like for you to tell me what it is you believe I am too feeble-minded to know,” he bit out in a frustrated huff. How could he explain how not knowing was more terrifying than the blank canvas in his head?

She stalked back to the chair next to the bed and plopped down in a most undignified manner.

He found the motion promising. What he did not find reassuring was the amount of time it was taking her to speak. Or if she would. She was just stubborn enough, he thought, but he managed to restrain himself from saying anything that might discourage her.

After an interminable time, she inhaled deeply. “There was a woman, my lord.”

“Surely, you are speaking of my… wife.” The word was an unexpected punch to his gut. Assorted memories then assaulted him. Those of strong hands, holding his head as he retched uncontrollably, forcing broth down his raw throat. Cool, soothing water on his fevered brow, weeks of ill-health and ax-splitting headaches. Afternoon walks to the sea, a young woman fetching him sketch paper and pencils, then paints. Only… he couldn’t remember what she looked like. If she was tall, or blonde, or voluptuous. Strong. She was strong, with an iron will. That, he remembered. “Not my wife,” he rasped in a voice he didn’t recognize.

“Really, my lord. Now is not the time—”

He reached up and grasped her wrist. It was silky smooth. Slender. Delicate. He could snap it in a single twist if the notion took him. The thought appalled him, because he was sure the action was familiar.

“I can think of no better time, Lady Alymer. You will tell me. Now.” He never raised his voice, he couldn’t have if he’d tried. It was a graveled purr inside his throat. He would settle for that rather than the begging resting on his tongue.

The blaze in the hearth took hold, highlighting the stubborn tilt of her jaw and the glint of steel in the gaze she lifted to his. Slowly, he released her wrist, desperately wanting to put his lips to her soft skin to ease any pain he’d caused.

“She was found alongside a road near Colchester.”

“Found? I don’t understand. Who was found?”

She ignored the question of ‘who’? “Murdered, my lord. The earl—Griston—he was hosting a house party when the news came about. It was quite a shock.”

“Griston,” he bit out. “That whoreson. Did he kill her?” He remembered Griston. A man whose attractive facade that hid the evil that lurked beneath his Byron-like appearance. Still, relief hit Harlowe with volcanic force.

Her eyes dropped to the wrist he’d manhandled. Her fingers moved over her bared skin. “No one knows. Even if Griston was the culprit, it wouldn’t matter now.”

“Why not?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Lord Griston was confined to Bedlam on the date of his thirty-third year. A short article appeared in the Gazette.”

Harlowe grunted. It wasn’t as satisfying as putting a musket ball in the man himself, but it was something. One rarely escaped Bedlam, chained to the wall as they commonly were. A shudder rolled through him. How easily that it could have been him committed to Bedlam rather than the private asylum of Tranquil Waters.

A tap sounded at the door and a man entered. Not Casper.

“My lord?” He looked at Maeve. “I’m Rory, milady. I’ll be takin’ over for Casper the rest of the night.”

“Oh. All right then, come in, Rory,” the tart-mouthed Lady Alymer answered for him. Her change of demeanor was as swift as her rising and making for the door. “I believe Lord Harlowe will sleep better now,” she said to Rory. She turned to Harlowe. “Oh. Will that be all, my lord?”

As if she’d heed any answer he might give, slipping—no, hurrying—out before he could think of the slightest task to retain her. If Harlowe’d had the energy he would have laughed.

To Rory, it likely appeared she glided across the Persian rug, but Harlowe saw differently. She ran as if the hounds were on her heels.

Undignified as it was, Harlowe was forced to accept Rory’s assistance for the chamber pot’s use.

“No cramps, milord?”

“No,” Harlowe said. “It appears the woman knows what she is about.”

Rory went to the window.

“Leave the window, Rory, it’s stuffy in here. I need the air.” He actually preferred Rory over Casper, for whatever reason.

Rory settled in the darkest corner of the room away from the crisp waft pouring in from the window. Harlowe felt a little sorry for him, but his own recent bounded internments, in both the asylum and the ship’s hold in which he’d been dumped, had Harlowe relishing the cold breeze.

Harlowe folded one arm behind his head and stared into the black of the canopy overhead. “Rory, what do you know of Lady Alymer and her late husband?” Rory was an ex-bow street runner. Harlowe appreciated that very fact about him.

“Not much, milord. The man was a bookworm to my recollections. They, Lord and Lady Alymer, spent most of their time in the country ’cordin’ to Kimpton and Brockway. T’was only since the old man’s, er, demise, did she come to town to stay with her mother.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Don’t know, milord. Reckon as I could find out for you.”

“That would be excellent, Rory. Discreetly, of course.”

“Of course, milord.”

“How are your valet skills, Rory?”

The chair Rory sat in creaked with his movement. “Nonexistent, milord.”

“Mm. Teachable?”

“S’pose so.”

“Of course, you’ll be compensated for your rise in stature,” Harlowe told him.

“Are ye in danger, milord?”

Harlowe let out a sigh. “I won’t know until my memory comes back, will I?”

“S’pose not.”

Quiet resonated through the chamber but for the pops and hisses of the fire. Harlowe was determined to stay awake, take in his freedom, the breath of cool air from the window, the luxury of heat, and the comfort of an actual bed. He was indeed lucky to be alive.

It was then that he realized Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, had never told him who the murdered woman was.

 

Maeve woke scandalously late the next—rather, that—morning, since she’d scarcely slept at all until a gray dawn broke. “Parson? How could you have let me sleep so long?”

“Lady Kimpton stopped me on my way to breakfast and insisted I not disturb you.”

“I see.” How like Lorelei. “Well, what’s done is done. But going forward, I should like to be dressed by nine so as to check on Lord Harlowe.” Maeve hurried out of bed. “Do you know if his lordship ordered breakfast yet?”

“I believe he slept late as well.” Parson couldn’t quite mask her disapproval.

“Very well,” Maeve said, ignoring her censure. “I’ll dress and check in on him before going to the morning room.” Again, Maeve ignored Parson’s compressed lips and set about her morning—late morning—routine.

A proper lady’s attire took a notoriously amount of time. What, with the tightening of the corset until one couldn’t draw a breath to save one’s life and attacking all the buttons up the back of one’s fashionable frock, and not to mention dressing one’s rebellious hair into absolute submission.

Forty-five minutes passed before Maeve turned the knob next door and, quietly, peered in. A sharp breeze stirred the window’s coverings, which accounted for Rory huddled beneath a heavy blanket in a corner on the far side of the chamber. The large man blinked a couple of times then lumbered to his feet and met her at the door.

“Did Harlowe sleep well the rest of the night?” she asked him.

“Aye, milady. No more cramps. No thrashing about or the like.”

“Excellent, Rory. I’ll have something sent up.” Maeve turned toward the stairs.

“Er, not broth,” he said.

She stopped and faced him. “Pardon me?”

Red crawled up his neck until two bright spots flamed high. “His lordship said no more broth.”

“I… see.” With a sharp nod, Maeve strode to the stairs. She ran into the housekeeper at the base of the staircase. “Mrs. Woods, would you see to a tray for Lord Harlowe. Coddled eggs, dry toast, no jam, and tea, please. I fear he has tired of broth.”

“Of course, my lady. You’ll find Ladies Kimpton and Brockway in the Morning Room.”

On the ground floor, Maeve made her way to the back of the house towards the terrace, suddenly ravenous. The morning room was located just across. Lorelei and Lady Brockway—the previous Lady Maudsley, Ginny— were sitting there. “Good morning, Lorelei. Ginny, it’s wonderful to see you. Forgive my tardiness,” she said in a breathless rush.

“Not at all, my dear,” Lorelei said. She poured out tea and handed it to Maeve. “I understand you had a late night.”

Heat infused Maeve’s face. She concentrated on adjusting her skirts, a helpful endeavor in keeping her eyes averted. “More of an interruption, I assure you. I was soundly sleeping when I heard the commotion. Lord Harlowe suffers from debilitating leg cramps, it appears.” Her tone sounded rational enough and she chanced a furtive glance at her companions. Neither looked too shocked by her announcement, plying her with relief. She was a widow, after all. “Did Irene and Celia accompany you this morning, Ginny?”

“Only Irene. Celia was promised a ride on horseback and declined, most vehemently, to come,” Ginny said. She nibbled on a biscuit then let out a long-winded sigh. “Irene was determined to check on Harlowe. She feels responsible for him.”

At only ten or eleven years of age, Irene had the bearing of an aging dowager duchess, fully stocked with wisdom, knowledge, and serious mien. Irene was the one who had taught Lorelei how to hold an infant without fear. She had also protected her younger sister, Cecilia, from their abusive father, the late Lord Maudsley. To speak with Irene and not know or understand her could unnerve the unnerveable.

“I think Harlowe would like that very much,” Lorelei said.

“It can’t hurt. I think. Physically, he is well on his way to mending.” It was his mental recollection he feared, Maeve believed. He genuinely worried he was mad because he couldn’t recall all the events over the past year.

Lorelei’s eyes shot to Maeve, her expression grave. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes. I have my doubts you’ll be able to keep him abed much longer. I learned this morning he wanted breakfast and, I quote, not a drop of broth,” Maeve told her, grinning.

Lorelei responded with a frown. “Is that wise?”

Maeve lifted a shoulder. “He knows better than we what he can handle, my dear. I think it’s a good sign.”

The conversation turned to Brockway’s father, the Duke of Addis and his antics with Celia and Irene. Maeve was thrilled to learn the man was able to draw out Irene’s laughter on more than one occasion. Apparently, she and the duke were currently embroiled on a project that included penning Brock’s memoirs, to his great dismay.

Maeve ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, rashers of bacon, kippers, and toast. She had the notion she would require all her strength and wits about her when it came to dealing with the disturbing Viscount Harlowe.