The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Seven

L

ock the door, Rory.” Harlowe didn’t trust his caretaker, Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer to not burst in at her whim. She had the ears of a bat. Not that she resembled one in the least. No, if he had to compare her to anything it would be to a spotted, sleek feline, a leopard. The freckles.

It was two in the morning and Rory had been assisting Harlowe in working diligently at rebuilding his strength. There was so much he couldn’t recall.

Yet when Maeve told him he’d called her Markov, a significant piece of his memory snapped into place. Only he couldn’t recall why it was significant. It took another twenty minutes to drag out of her that he’d thought she was there to kill him. He could have killed her. The thought horrified him. As a result, he and Rory had devised a plan wherein he would be rarely alone with the lady. Still, he had questions. Many questions.

It was time to speak with Kimpton.

The missing pockets of memory would drive him mad, but one could only work with what one had at hand. Vlasik Markov had been in the human trafficking trade. That was the only thing he could recall. Nothing of Harlowe’s own mission had broken through. Had he been on a mission? That was the question that disturbed him most.

Rory heaved him from the bed, and the nausea hit him. Regular as clockwork. Harlowe suffered through the bout. There was no dignity in casting up one’s accounts. However, the bouts did seem to be lessening, and each night his stamina increased. The process was slow, he had to regularly remind himself.

“Was the late Alymer an opium eater?” Harlowe asked Rory.

“Not so’s I could figure, milord.”

“How does Lady Alymer know so much then? A brother, perhaps.” Harlowe came up from touching his toes after the tenth count, panting. He moved across the room and sucked down more water. She’d been right about that as well.

“Only child.”

Harlowe grunted. Then grabbed his wrap. “I’m going to walk the hall.”

“Don’t attempt the stairs, sir. Leastways, allow me to go first to break your fall.”

“Are you funning me, Rory?”

“No, milord.”

“Go. Get some rest. Send Casper around. He can assist me the rest of the night.”

 

Harlowe slipped out of his chamber for the first time since he’d arrived at his sister’s home in time to find his sister’s husband coming up the stairs. “Just the man I wanted to see.” Harlowe kept his voice low.

Kimpton slowed. “What the devil are you doing up and about?”

“I’m haunting the halls. Going mad, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

His brother-in-law grinned. “If you manage the stairs to the library, we can talk there. My wife will ring a peal over your head, and mine, if she finds you out of bed.”

“Rory will help me. Perhaps a small amount of brandy would be a nice change from the water my caregiver is bent on drowning me with.”

Harlowe signaled his newly appointed valet. By the time he and Rory made it down to the library, Harlowe was winded and lightheaded. But seeing different walls had a bracing effect on his mood. He dropped into a winged-back chair. “Do you mind if I crack a window?”

“Not at all. Allow me.” Kimpton did the honors then settled in a neighboring chair. “Now, what is on your mind?”

Harlowe closed his eyes and reveled in the cool air caressing his face. “The beginning, I suppose. I need to know how you learned I was missing.”

“I walked in the front door and your sister accused me of putting you on a ship bound for France in the midst of a war. Fortunately, Brockway had overheard the same. At a picnic I believe. And as I knew, I hadn’t performed such a task, I went looking for you. Only, you were nowhere to be found.”

Harlowe opened his eyes and studied him. He and Kimpton had little in common. For one thing, the man was nearing forty and Harlowe had been against his sister’s marriage from the onset. Over time, it had become clear Lorelei was wildly in love with the earl. He’d never trusted Kimpton’s motives in marrying his sister because she’d had no dowry. Seeing them now, through an adult’s eyes, Harlowe was telling, and a relief. The man’s affection was genuine.

Kimpton grimaced. “All in all, looking for you was a frustrating endeavor. With Brock’s assistance, we went on the hunt for you.” He took a sip of his brandy, then set down his glass. “It was when we decided to search your quarters and located your valet—”

Relief hit him. “Marcus.” He remembered his faithful valet. The man had a nose for trouble and had saved Harlowe from many a scrape young men of his ilk were bound for.

“They’re coming for you, my lord. You need to take yourself off for a few days. I can take care of things here. I’ll send the rest of your paintings to your sister.”

Harlowe hesitated. “It can’t be that bad. I’ve covered my tracks well—”

“No. I insist. These degenerates are the scourge of the earth in pretty wrappings.”

A clunk startled Harlowe back to Kimpton. He’d poured himself more brandy. “Yes.” He exhaled a long stream of air. “We found him dead.”

“Dead?” Knots of tension kinked in Harlowe’s neck.

“Honest to God, Harlowe, when we walked through that door, and I thought I was going to have to tell Lorelei—” He shuddered. “Well, it was then Brock and I began our search in earnest.”

He waited, white-knuckling one of the armrests. The other clutched his tumbler so tightly, it was a wonder it didn’t shatter. Marcus. Dead.

“You had been sending many of your works to Lorelei, though I had no notion why. So, Brock and I decided to assemble the mass of them to study and found something interesting. In many, you had painted a scythe. Not in all of them, mind, but enough to warrant our curiosity. It was at that point we began checking your various haunts: Boodles, Eccentric, Au Courant, Watiers. Some of the art salons.”

The tension in Harlowe’s hands loosened, and he groaned.

Kimpton speared him with a narrowed gaze. “Admittedly, I learned something.”

“What was that?”

“I was stunned to learn how talented you truly were, er, are.”

Harlowe cracked a wry grin.

Kimpton ignored it and his mien grew serious. “In the end, it was a picture we saw in a small shop in Goldhanger that gave us our first solid lead in over a year.”

Harlowe shook his aching head, more confused than ever. “What the devil was I doing in Goldhanger? That’s Essex County isn’t it?”

“Yes. We learned of a doctor by the name of Holks. Someone must have found you in the area and dumped you at his doorstep. Holks’ sister and daughter lived with him. The, uh, daughter was apparently quite taken with you.”

“I need to speak with this doctor. Goldhanger, you say?”

“The man is dead. Brock and I found the house and spoke to Holks’ sister. She was quite angry with her niece—”

“Evie,” he said softly. A vision of a young woman with a wide and generous smile. Her dark hair kept out of her face with one of those silly caps. He used to tease her about it. “She used to bring me paper and lead, and eventually, paints.” His head started to throb. “The house was modest. Shabby, yet comfortable. They lived close to the water.”

“Yes, the River Blackwater.”

“What of Evie? She would be able to tell me—”

Kimpton’s pained expression sent a shot of adrenaline through him.

“She’s still with her aunt, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid not. We followed her trail to the Tranquil Waters Asylum but… we were too late. Evelyn had been—”

“Murdered. Left on the road outside Colchester. Lady Alymer refused to tell me who. Are you telling me it was Evie that was killed?” He felt sick.

Kimpton nodded.

“Was it Griston who killed her?”

“We never found proof.”

Harlowe let out a pursed breath. “What of Vlasik Markov?”

“Dead. We were on our way to a boat called White Dove. This man, Vlasik, met us at Blackfriar’s Bridge. Griston said he’d seen Vlasik carrying Irene, then Griston shot him. Point blank.”

Harlowe ran a palm over his face and up through his hair, trying to make sense of it all.

“What the devil are you mixed up in, Harlowe? I won’t have you putting my family in danger.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Perhaps I should leave.”

Kimpton’s mouth flatlined. “Much as I agree, Lorelei won’t have it.”

“She really has no say though, does she?”

He let out a sigh. “Let’s look at this from a practical standpoint. First of all, my wife will accuse me of running you out. And while having you gone holds a certain amount of appeal, I’d rather avoid that route if possible. Second, she is not quite ready to relinquish her hold on your son. She adores that child. For those reasons, I insist you stay. But perhaps between you, Brock, and I, we should work more diligently in putting a timeline together in an effort to recover your memory.”

There was no argument Harlowe could come up with. Besides, Lady Alymer had a calming effect on him he rather liked, and he wasn’t quite ready to walk away from the mystery she presented.

The door to the library burst open, and the fey lady stood in the arch, clutching her wrap at the neck. “Lord Harlowe is missing—”

“Am I?” he drawled.

“You odious man. How dare you frighten me like that?” She stepped back out into the hall. “Rory, drag that man to his bed, right this minute.” She spun around and was gone as quickly as she appeared.

“The plot thickens,” Kimpton said with a definite smirk.

Harlowe chose not to respond. “Come, Rory. We must do as the lady says. Otherwise, she is liable to punish me with a week’s worth of saltless gruel.”