The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Fifteen
T
he long clock chimed the ungodly hour of two, and yet Loren’s mother still held court with some of the more determined matchmakers. A few energetic dancers fell in line on the parquet floor for the Scottish reel. The dowager was a staunch adversary, as he well knew. His jaw ached from forced smiles, his toes pinched in the patent pumps with their jeweled buckles. Even the Belgian lace at his wrists itched, never mind the blinding pain at the back of his neck he’d been nursing the entire weekend. How he detested hosting these ridiculous events.
He’d had enough.
The unexplained pressure built behind his eyes, and his temples throbbed. He caught sight of the maestro and gave a discreet signal to halt the music. Then stood near an alcove, leaning against a column, one ankle crossing the other with the toe of his shoe on the floor. With an arm folded over his chest, he brought a tumbler of whiskey to his lips and sipped, waiting for his mother to forge an escape.
The strategy for obtaining Lady Maudsley had turned into an unmitigated disaster. When she’d crossed that threshold at the Peachornsbys’ musicale, he’d believed his plans were coming to fruition. If most of the haute ton had retired to the country, he could quietly have made his move. They hadn’t.
The plan had been a simple one when inspiration had struck. By inviting her to his country home, he would occupy her time while Sid stole back into London to snatch the younger child with no one the wiser. But Sid had reported back that Maudsley House had been invaded by the Baron and Baroness Wimbley, Lady Maudsley’s parents, and Sid hadn’t seen a sign of the children.
How was he supposed to pull off Markov’s demand now? Hatred, black and seething, blinded him momentarily. Choked him with bile as a voracious roar filled his ears. He blinked. His vision cleared as the quartet’s last notes trailed off in a melodic whimsy, even if his elaborately tied cravat seemed to strangle him.
The last of his mother’s cronies meandered off, and her eyes met his. He straightened from the wall and strolled in her direction, daring her to defy him. He inclined his head. “Mother.”
“Good evening, my dear. It was a lovely ball, wasn’t it?” No one, unless they knew her well, would detect the underlying tremor in her voice.
“It was lovely. But I missed seeing my future bride.” He leaned in, softening his tone to a deadly menace. “I checked her chamber, you see, and alas, it appears she left.”
“Oh, yes.” Her hand flittered about like a nervous bird. “She mentioned something regarding her children falling ill.” This last was scoffed out. “She bid my pardon. I, of course, generously concurred. She didn’t wish to trouble you…” she finished on a whisper.
Crushing her wrist with guests still milling about was out of the question. There would be time enough to deal with her at a later date. “I see. She is a woman who thinks highly of her children.” He made a pretense of considering her words. “I believe I will leave for London at first light. She may need me. Thank you for your kindness, Mother. I shall send your regards.”
She sputtered, “B-but, your guests—”
Loren tipped his head to the few curiosity mongers and headed for his bedchamber. His life was quickly turning to shambles. Markov’s unreasonableness. The Harlowe debacle. The Holks woman. The damned talking trees. He slammed through the door. “Danvers, a bath.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Blast that damn Holks woman. She and Harlowe had almost pulled off the impossible. He’d paid that buffoon at Tranquil Waters a fortune to avoid this very disaster. Loren ripped at his cravat, rending the delicate fabric into unusable threads. He stripped it from his neck and dabbed at the perspiration speckling his forehead. It was only by the sheerest piece of luck that Sid and Farcle had managed to keep Harlowe from escaping outright. But having the viscount anywhere near Colchester had grown dangerous. He’d have to be relocated immediately.
He tossed the ruined cravat on the vanity along with his fob watch, tore off his waistcoat, then shirt, buttons flinging in all directions.
“By the bye, my lord. Farcle sent a note.”
God, he was sick of notes. Loren snatched the envelope out of his hand and ripped it open and read, breath held. The pressure against Loren’s temples intensified in palpitating thumps. “This is doable. Barely, but doable.” Stark relieved air escaped him. “This is a bit of a reprieve. We’ll handle Harlowe in a couple of days on our way to London. The ship is in port. Pack a bag. I’m leaving within the hour.”
Harlowe’s fate was set. Loren strode to the escritoire and dashed off a reply, then set about a relaxing wash.
Hot water arrived, and Loren lit a cheroot as he slid down in the tub. He sucked in deep, held his breath, then blew out a perfect series of wispy rings. Winning Lady Maudsley’s hand might no longer be a necessity, and Lord knows, if he had to stomach the woman’s obnoxious laughter, within a week he’d be begging for someone to put a pistol to his head—better yet, hers. But if something went wrong, he still needed the insurance.
By the time he delivered the prissy little Cecilia to Markov, Loren would have no cause to deal with the Maudsley family again. Getting hold of the girl would be an execution of timing.
There might be a bonus—routing a dull spade through the marquis’s tender sensibilities where Lady Maudsley was concerned for all the trouble he was producing.
A thought that granted Loren significant satisfaction.
