The Viscount’s Vendetta by Kathy L. Wheeler

Eight

T

here you are. You’re late.” Lady Ingleby’s mango colored gown was blinding under the myriad candles lighting the Oxfords’ ballroom.

“How can I be late, Mother? I arrived the same time as the Kimptons. I rode with them.” Maeve scanned the ballroom for Ginny but didn’t see her anywhere.

“Who did your hair? Certainly not Parson.”

“No. Parson was busy lowering the hem on this gown you insisted she bring instead of the one I requested.” Maeve resisted tugging at the squared neckline. “Mercy, if I breathe wrong, I’ll spill out of the thing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That burgundy is lovely on you. Madam Chaput assured me your unsightly hair would not clash. Though I’m surprised, I feel I must agree. That gown will go far in attracting the Duke of Oxford’s attention.” Her mother snapped her fan. “I’ve secured both waltzes for you. The duke of course, and for the supper dance, the Marquis of Dorset.”

“I will not dance with that dandy—”

“You can and you will. Shush. Here comes Oxford.”

“Lady Alymer. How nice to see you’ve arrived. I fear your mother worried you would not make it in time for our dance.” The Duke of Oxford was a portly man whose head came to her chin. His eyes fastened to her cleavage.

She resisted the impulse to tell him her eyes were located slightly higher. She dipped into a low curtsey. “Your grace.”

His long pointed nose looked out of place in the flaccid jowls, as if someone had molded one out of clay and stuck it in the middle of his face. Even the shade did not blend with the rest of the magenta undertone of his face.

“I trust your daughter had a pleasant birthday today,” Maeve said.

His face lit up. “Yes. Yes. Took her to Gunther’s for ices and a ride in the park.” He inclined his head to the parquet floor where a country dance was in play. “She is dancing with Welton. The whelp hasn’t a chance in hel—” He pulled himself up at her mother’s gasp. “Hades of obtaining her hand.”

And the duke hadn’t a chance in hell for hers, Maeve vowed. He was nothing but a pretentious blowhard.

“I hear you’re staying with Lord and Lady Kimpton these days,” he said.

“Yes. Lorelei has her hands full with her brother now home and his heir.”

Oxford grunted. “That’s what servants are for.”

“Perhaps,” she returned. “But a change of scenery is nice for me as well, your grace.” Maeve caught sight of Ginny standing next to Lorelei and grasped the opportunity. “Oh, please excuse me, your grace, Mother. I see Lady Brockway. I look forward to our dance, sir.”

He clicked his heels together, bowing his head over her gloved hand. Her mother stood behind him, a foot taller, and lips clamped.

Maeve couldn’t bring herself to care. She would never marry that man. She’d take her own bottle of laudanum first.

“Don’t tell me,” Lorelei said. “Lady Ingleby is vying for Oxford on your behalf.”

“I’m sure the ballroom is all abuzz with the notion.”

“Dear heavens,” Ginny said. “You aren’t desperate for funds, are you?”

“Certainly not. In fact, I’ve made the decision to find my own lodgings. Perhaps Kimpton or Brockway could assist me in finding something suitable,” she said. “I have decided I will not return to Ingleby House.”

“That should go over well,” Ginny said.

“I’m also going to hire a new maid. Parson is too much under my mother’s thumb.”

“You know you are perfectly welcome to stay with me as long as you like,” Lorelei said.

“Thank you. Oh, dear.”

“What?” Ginny said.

“They’re playing a waltz—”

The duke appeared in front of her. “Lady Alymer, I believe this is our set.”

So the night went. After Oxford, came Stockton, followed by Beaumont, Greenwood, Lexum, Lampert, and Hamilton. She lost track of the order, but by the time the supper set came around, and Dorset made his appearance, Maeve thought she would faint from the pain in her feet.

“Lady Alymer. You look as if you require a rest.”

“Would you mind horribly, my lord? I have not sat for two hours.”

“You have had some enthusiastic partners tonight,” he said smiling.

“That’s one word for it,” she muttered.

Dorset held out his arm. “Perhaps we can sit on the terrace for a bit of air, if you don’t mind it being cool.”

“I would be most grateful,” she told him, placing her hand atop. “But we’d best make our escape before my mother is onto us.”

The Marquis of Dorset was Oxford’s exact opposite. He was taller than Maeve and younger than Oxford by at least a decade. He had a pleasant voice and pleasant mien. His hair was light and his eyes green. He found them an empty bench next to a fountain, in full view of the ballroom.

“I heard you’ve finally married off the last of your four sisters. The house must seem quite quiet now,” she said.

“You heard correctly. I never thought I would admit to my home being too quiet. And, yet it is.”

“I was an only child with an overbearing mother. I thrive in the quiet. Give me a good book or a project to research and I am quite the ghost.”

“Ah, yes. I believe that is one of the things Alymer seemed to admire most about you. You are unique in your diverse topics of interest. He was working on a text for ancient societies, as I recall.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did anything come of it?”

The cool air, stirring her hair, felt heavenly. “No, but it was recently suggested I carry through his wishes of publication. It hadn’t occurred to me, but I am taking the recommendation to heart.”

“I have contacts in the field. You’ll let me know if you desire my assistance?”

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I shall. Thank you very much.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, the hum of conversation spilling out of the ballroom along with the lights. As did low-lying conversation from the paths below. “What of the Athenaeum?”

Maeve wouldn’t have noticed it had their urgency not been so fierce.

“Shut up, you fool.”

The voices were not loud enough for her to recognize.

“Are you ready to return inside, Lady Alymer? You should eat a bite before heading home.”

That was the last thing she wanted. “I suppose I should locate my hosts and see when they are prepared to leave.” She glanced over her shoulder as she stood but didn’t see anyone, the voices had moved on. “Is the Athenaeum a new literary club? I’ve never run across it in my working with Alymer.” She laughed. “It sounds like one of those secret societies Alymer would have enjoyed investigating.”

“Nor have I,” he told her. But Maeve thought he stiffened slightly and seemed intent on hurrying her back inside. “Would you care to take a drive with me in the next day or two? I realize you are staying at Kimpton’s.”

“That would be lovely. Perhaps the day after tomorrow. I feel as if I require a full day to recover from tonight’s adventure.”

Bowing his departure, Dorset deposited Maeve with Ginny, and within minutes Lady Ingleby had made a beeline for her. “Where have you been, young woman? You didn’t dance the second waltz.”

“Calm down, Mother. I spent the time conversing with Dorset. He was very pleasant. And, as it turns out, he was fine with talking over dancing.”

Her eyes took on a calculating glint. “Oxford wishes to take you driving tomorrow afternoon. I told him he could pick you up tomorrow at Ingleby House at four.”

“Ah. Good, then perhaps you can go with him. I have a previous engagement.”

“You will go.”

“I will not. Excuse me, Mother. It’s time for me to depart.”

“So nice to see you, Lady Ingleby,” Ginny said. Ginny took Maeve’s arm and they strolled away. Once they were out of earshot, Ginny leaned in. “We’ll find Brock and take you home. I vow, your mother is worse than mine when it comes to charting your course. And, I assure you, that is not an easy feat to pull off.”

Maeve squeezed her hand. “I feel as if I should somehow be defending her, but at the moment, no argument comes to mind.”

 

Harlowe sat in the formal dining room of Kimpton Manor with four lit candles surrounding a painting of a young lady wearing a large ruby on her left hand. It was a simple country scene of the girl sipping her tea, her pretty smile coy, her velvet-brown eyes full of dreams and hope. The building behind sat on an expansive lawn and was blurred, to focus on the girl in the forefront. It was... sweet. He vaguely recalled the oversized hat she wore that covered part of her face.

He’d obviously painted the girl with a loving hand, but why couldn’t he remember her?

The lavish background should have pricked his memory, and it did seem familiar, but defeat roared through him with brutal reality. He must have fallen in love with her. While it was a frequent enough occurrence where artists and models were concerned, this went further. He’d married her for God’s sake. Yet why couldn’t he remember her?

No answer came forth.

He felt sick all over again. He pushed away a plate of food Mrs. Woods had placed before him, despite his protestations at not being hungry. He wanted to smash something. He shoved away from the table, went to the wall and drew back his fist, trembling with frustration and fury—

“Lord Harlowe?”

He froze. “Lady Alymer.” He lowered his arm to his side. Her dress, the color of a rich cabernet and square neckline, drew his gaze to the swells of small enticing breasts. The most shocking aspect was that the dark red shade did not contrast violently with her bright hair.

“Are you well, sir?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, swallowing back bile at the utter irrationality of the situation.

“What is this?” she asked in that seductive, captivating sonance that was now haunting his nights.

Harlowe dropped his hand, and with a wary gaze, watched her move into the room. “What is that in your hand?”

She grinned and held up a pair of tattered slippers.

The sight stole his breath. “Good God. You danced your slippers off.” In an instant, his tension lifted.

She let out a long-winded sigh and dropped into the nearest chair. “All my mother’s doing, I assure you.” Her eyes lighted on the plate of scones and finger meats. “Do you mind?” she said, fingers poised above. “I missed the late supper.”

Shaking his head, he lowered in the chair at the end of the table which put him within touching distance of her.

Her gaze sharpened on him, her brows meeting in a concerned frown. “You’re trembling.” She reached over and clasped her hand over his. “What is it?” Her gaze moved around the chamber as if searching for the source of his discontentment. It stopped on the painting, framed by the four candles. She inclined her head to the picture. “Corinne. She was a lovely girl.”

He jerked his hand from her, flinching. “Was she?”

“You don’t remember.” She stated it as fact.

“No,” he said harshly. “I don’t remember. I have no memory of where I met her or if I loved her. Was she a model and I desired her? Why would I marry her? It makes no sense, she was not of my class.”

Those full lips of hers curved into a small smile. “Ah, but she was.”

That took him aback. He stared at her, speechless.

Her eyes dropped to the plate of food. “I, ah, don’t know all the details, of course.”

“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing those you do know,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as angry as he felt.

She blew out a pursed breath. “Corinne was the late Earl of Maudsley’s daughter from his first marriage. His wife before Lady Brockway.”

That statement alone made his head ache for all the confusion she wreaked over him.

“The first Lady Maudsley, Hannah was her name I believe, was Corinne’s mother. She had a young companion who disappeared with the child when Hannah perished giving birth to Corinne. There was also a rumor that Maudsley killed his first wife.”

“Why would he kill her?”

“I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “He was terribly abusive. Lady Brockway can attest to that. The man had once set his attention on me, but Brockway happened to walk in and intervened, thankfully.” A shudder shook her shoulders.

Harlowe’s fist tightened until the blood showed white.

“In any event, Maudsley is dead now and, I for one, could not be more thrilled. I suppose that is not a terribly nice thing to say.” She plucked up a scone, breaking off a piece, and put it in her mouth.

He forced his hand to relax, flexing his fingers, and for the first time that night, a smile tugged at him. “From all accounts, I shall not hold that against you. I do remember some things, and Maudsley’s abuse was as notorious as his desire for very young women. Forgive me for saying so.”

“Not at all, my lord. It was quite common knowledge.”

“Did you know her, Corinne? Personally, I mean?”

She looked down at her hands. “A little. She was…very reserved.”

A sense of desperation to learn surged through him. To learn something. Anything about the woman in the picture. “In what way?”

She glanced up at him, but he couldn’t read her eyes. Not in the low light.

“Tell me,” he growled.

“She was… quiet.”

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. She was being deliberately difficult. “That would go with the reserved.”

“Well, yes. Nor did she give a care for going about in society.”

“She was reclusive?”

“It looked that way to me.”

He waited for more, but it didn’t appear she was going to elaborate. He let out a breath then strove for something to lighten the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Tell me about Oxford’s ball.” Perhaps hearing her speak about some of her acquaintances would trigger other memories.

In the low candlelight the Aegean blue of her eyes appeared midnight, if not outright black. Disgust covered her pert features. “Well, the moment I walked in, my mother informed me she had secured both waltzes of the evening for me.”

There was a tightening in Harlowe’s chest he rubbed a palm over. He remained quiet, deciding to revel in the dulcet, well-modulation of her voice.

“The first, and thankfully so, was the Duke of Oxford.”

“That blackguard. But why ‘thankfully’?”

“Because it was not the supper-set,” she said loftily.

He hated to ask, but couldn’t resist, knowing the answer would keep him awake the rest of the night. “And the supper-set belonged to?”

“The Marquis of Dorset. He was blessedly more pleasant. We didn’t dance. By then my shoes were practically threads. We sat and talked instead.”

“How pleasant for you.” His sarcasm floated over her head.

“Yes, it was.” The dreamy quality in which she spoke was a knife in his ribs.

Harlowe’s jaw tightened. Damn. He remembered Dorset. The man was five years older than Harlowe and was nothing like the usual popinjays of Welton or Shufflebottom. Dorset cared about his position in society, followed through on his responsibilities in Parliament. He probably remembered every blasted thing that had ever happened to him, too. He was everything Harlowe wasn’t. Whole.

What the devil was Harlowe thinking? He certainly had no designs on Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, yet he didn’t care for the notion of anyone else fancying her either.

“He asked to take me driving,” she said, then snapped out of her reverie, her eyes gaining focus. “Forgive me, my lord. It’s late.” She rose from the table, snatching up her ruined slippers. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

 

Maeve stepped out of the formal dining chamber into the darkened hall with a pounding heart that was not showing any signs of slowing a whit. She peered in the dark looking for one of Harlowe’s caretakers. Harlowe’s ennui disturbed her greatly. It didn’t bode well for one’s success in desisting an addiction to laudanum. Unfortunately, she had some idea of what the viscount was feeling. She, herself, had almost been caught up in its snare after Alymer passed. Having to return to her mother’s home almost did her in.

Maeve turned in the direction of the entry hall and found Rory seated on a low bench. She touched his shoulder, startling him.

His head jerked up.

She took a step back. “I think your master requires your services,” she said gently.

He gave a sharp nod. “Thank you, milady.”

Maeve ran for the stairs in her stocking feet, nodding at Oswald who hovered in a dark nook. The man could be a ghost himself. She reached the sanctity of her chamber to find Parson standing at the windows.

“You’ve been back for some time.” Her sibilant, withering tones were reminiscent of Lady Ingleby’s, straightening Maeve’s spine as if it were nailed to a stake.

“I’m sorry, are you my mother?”

“No. No, of course not, my lady.” Her stance stooped the minutest fraction.

“I should like to make something abundantly clear, once and for all, Parson. I will say this only once. I am a widow. Not a child for you to report my comings and goings to my mother. Do you quite understand?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Parson couldn’t quite mask her disdain and Maeve’s resolve in replacing her maid renewed. Along with her strategy to move from her mother’s dwelling as soon as humanly possible.

The next half hour passed in an awkward silence as Parson took down Maeve’s hair and unfastened her gown. Once Maeve stepped out of the beautiful frock and it pooled at her feet, she said, “Send it to the resale shop.”

The comment made its mark with Parson’s sharp gasp filling the room.

That should be then end of the matter, Maeve told herself as Parson excused herself, her hands overflowing with burgundy silk.