The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Five

H

arlowe’s fingers itched. Yet he had no desire to paint. He needed something to do rather than lying abed hour after hour, day after day. The problem was that he was still in the throes of battling the opium shoved down his throat the last ten months or so. And as much as he was glad he had those of Rory’s and Casper’s bulk about, he much preferred his new dragon. Those eyes of hers had a slight entrancing tilt, but he hadn’t seen her in the full light of day to determine their exact color. It seemed a simple enough mystery, one that shouldn’t overtax his beleaguered brain.

He glanced over at Rory. The man looked about to slide to the floor from exhaustion.

“Go get something to eat, man, then grab some sleep in a decent bed,” Harlowe told him. “I’ll live for a few hours without you. If it bothers you bad enough, send Casper up.”

Rory’s weary and wary gaze met his.

“Go. It’s an order.”

There was a tap at the door and, to Harlowe’s surprise, it was not the dragon, but his avenging angel, complete with cherub on her hip. “Good morning, Lady Irene.” A wariness of his own took hold. “What have you there?”

“Good morning, my lord. This is Nathaniel. I thought you might like a visit while he was somewhat calm.” Lady Irene Ennis was of slight build and hardly looked capable of holding a sturdy boy who must be half her weight. She hefted him to her other hip.

Rory, who had stood and prepared to depart, slowly eased backed down into his vacated chair.

Harlowe couldn’t bring himself to make the man leave now. Nathaniel was a bundle he hadn’t quite been able to come to grips with as yet.

“Perhaps you should sit,” Harlowe said to Irene. “So as not to, er, drop him.”

“Oh, I won’t drop him, my lord.” Irene studied Harlowe with an unsettling intensity, then looked at the baby and back. “He resembles you.” She set Nathan on the bed where he immediately bounced on his derriere and clapped his chubby hands, full of resplendent squeal, he happily let loose.

Harlowe did his best not to flinch.

Nathan attempted to stand and immediately fell on his backside, laughing with sheer joy.

“He won’t bite, my lord.” A frown marred Irene’s brow. “Not intentionally. He does have most of his teeth and I have witnessed a few marks on Celia’s arm. Since she didn’t complain overly much, I maintained that the bites weren’t lethal.”

Harlowe narrowed his eyes on her, looking for any sign of amusement. There was none. She was completely serious. He thought back to those harrowing nights in the ship’s hold. Most were a blur, but two in particular stood out. The first of which was when a small, filthy child had been tossed in alongside him. A boy who had spoken a peculiar baby-speak vernacular Harlowe had been hard pressed in deciphering. He vaguely recalled the imp attempting to feed him. When those efforts failed, as Harlowe had not the strength to lift his own head, the boy released a string of epitaphs that would make a lady’s toes curl if not outright faint dead away.

The second memory had been of Lady Irene hovering over him while the boy pronounced Harlowe already dead. It had been very nearly true. He remembered her matter-of-fact facade and put it down to the situation, but watching her now, he was struck by the solemnity of her manner. Hers was an old, old soul.

“I see,” he returned with grave sincerity. “I shall take great care in keeping my fingers from his mouth.”

The crack went over her head. She just nodded her approval, tracking Nathan’s movements in case he teetered backwards off the bed and landed on his head. The Persian rug on the hardwood mightn’t be enough to keep him from breaking his skull.

Although Harlowe was confident enough to know that it would take a lot more than a fall on the head by an heir of his to put his heir out of commission. If anyone had reservations, all they had to do was look at what Harlowe had survived in the past year.

A head of contained coiled braids appeared in the arch. What had appeared as carrot-orange the evening before, today, resembled the color of intense copper. “What goes on here?” Her eyes lit upon Nathan, wreaking havoc among Harlowe’s huge bed, and widened.

Their color hit him with the force of a wave from the Mediterranean Sea. Aegean blue. How did he even know that color? Ah, the artist in him. His fingers itched again with the sudden urge to pick up a brush.

“Good morning, Lady Alymer.” Irene’s watchful vigilance never wavered from her charge, who was crawling from the bottom corner of the bed to the other.

Nathan tumbled over and out of sight.

Irene’s terror-filled cry, and Lady Alymer’s horrified gasp, stopped cold when Rory’s monstrous hand lifted with Nathan sprawled on his stomach, kicking his feet and laughing uproariously. He handed Nathan off to Irene. “Mayhap he’s ready for a rest, milady,” Rory said to her.

“If he is not, I certainly am,” Irene retorted tersely. “Come, you little terror. You are far worse than Celia.”

“Good day, Lady Irene. Nathan,” Lady Alymer said to Irene’s disappearing head. She glided in the room, with ever the confident bearing he’d witnessed the day before. She glanced at Rory. “Good heavens, sir, you must be dead on your feet.” She frowned at Harlowe. “He is a human being, my lord. Everyone needs food and rest.”

“How remiss of me. Rory, you are hereby dismissed until you are fed and well-rested,” Harlowe said with a smirk.

The man ignored him, inclining his head as he made his escape past the indomitable lady.

She turned back to him, smiling, and took up the chair she’d occupied in the wee hours of the morning. She pointed to his emptied plate of coddled eggs and toast he’d devoured before Irene’s visit. “No ill-effects I take it?”

“None. Though, perhaps you’ll allow jam for my toast on the morrow?”

She grinned.

The sight stunned him momentarily.

“I’ll inform Mrs. Woods of the concession. Now, tell me, how are you truly feeling today?”

“Admittedly, the throbbing in my head would drop me to my knees if I attempted to stand at this moment, but, since I’m already abed, perhaps I could use a dash of laudanum—”

The Aegean-colored eyes speared him.

He closed his own against her suspicions. Yes, the remark was flippant, but… did he really feel he needed another dose of hell? He breathed in through his nose, and the subtle scent of rose teased him. He exhaled slowly through his mouth. No, he had no such desire for laudanum, just a desire to locate the spot of origin of her enticing scent.

Slowly, he took stock of his body. His one leg was sore from the cramp the night before but, other than that, there was no nauseousness, and much of his agitation had abated. The flu-like symptoms were dissipating daily, though he still experienced chills on occasion, along with the muscle cramps. All in all, positive signs.

“Lady Alymer? A missive for you.”

With a covert glance to the door, Harlowe observed a woman who was as tall as Lady Alymer but twice her weight, and dark blonde hair secured tightly at her nape. Her lips were pinched in a firm disapproving line.

Lady Alymer took the note from her outstretched hand, opened, then scanned it. The expressions flitting across her face told an unguarded story. One she was not happy about.

“Will you pardon me a moment, my lord?” She didn’t wait for an answer and stepped in the hall, pulling the door closed behind her, blocking any possibility to eavesdrop.

 

Maeve’s foot tapped the thick carpet beneath her, her fury barely leashed. “It appears my mother just cannot contain herself.” She snapped the missive.

Parson didn’t speak, just waited with her hands clasped before her, yet her disapproval emanated from her in droves.

“Go to Ingleby House and retrieve my green ballgown. I wore it last year to—never mind. You know the one I mean,” Maeve bit out, incensed with her mother. “Bring the entire ensemble. I will not step foot in Ingleby House before the Oxford ball.”

“Are you certain, my lady? The green one?” Parson had no business judging Maeve’s actions.

Maeve’s anger spiked to outrage. “Parson, let me make one thing clear. I’m a widow. If you have no need of my service, please inform me now. You are my maid, not my mother’s appointee.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Take all the time you need retrieving my gown. The ball isn’t for another two days. I’m sure the Kimptons will be attending as well. I’ll check with Lorelei. That will be all.” Maeve spun on her slippered heel and stalked back into Harlowe’s chamber, slamming the door with a thud.

“I take it the news was unsatisfactory? If not by the force of the door, then the harsh red of your complexion would be a dead giveaway.”

“How gallant of you to say so.”

“Who was that?”

“Who?”

“The woman you escorted out?”

“My maid, Parson.”

“Did you sack her?”

“Not yet,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Perhaps you’d like to talk about it?”

Maeve put a hand to her face. “I sent her to Ingleby House to pick up my ballgown for the Oxford Ball, two nights hence.” She balled her fist and looked down. She still held her mother’s now crinkled note.

“And you don’t wish to attend?”

“She has aspirations of the Duke of Oxford offering for me.” Her face grew hotter.

He lifted a brow. “Didn’t you already marry one man twice your age?”

“Exactly what I told her.” The air whooshed from her body. “She didn’t care. I asked for my green ballgown. I have my doubts that is the one with which Parson will return.”

“Surely not.”

Her head shot up, eyeing him suspiciously. “I would wager Ingleby House on the fact.” She snapped the note against her thigh. “All to impress the mighty duke, of course. It will be a miracle if it’s something I don’t spill out of—” The feverish heat returned in a rush at realizing what she’d just said.

Harlowe’s eyes moved over her modest soft olive day gown. “That is a sight I wouldn’t mind seeing.”

Maeve decided in that very moment to set about locating different lodgings, something miles from Ingleby House. She stilled her tapping foot. She was not without funds of her own. Perhaps it was time to utilize them to their fullest extent.

Harlowe’s gaze fixed on her. “What is going through that sharp brain of yours?”

“I need a new place to live.” She reached for the water pitcher and glass.

Frowning, Harlowe said, “He left you no place to live?”

“A place in the country, miles from anywhere or anyone.”

His gaze sharpened as if he read her very mind. She motioned for him to sit forward, then handed him the glass and fluffed his pillows. He gave a short nod, allowing her to assist him.

“So, tell me about your late husband. I’m trying to remember him, but all I can come up with was he loved his books and moved from town once he married. I take it that was after his nuptials to you?”

Maeve took the emptied glass and set it on the table, shooting him a smug smile. “It was indeed, to my mother’s abject dread. She was determined I marry that dandy, Shufflebottom. Even Baron Welton would have served her purposes, but when Alymer offered, I pounced.”

“And what made Alymer so appealing to such a lively personality as yours?”

“His genuine respect,” she responded softly.