The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler
Thirty-Six
L
ord Harlowe.” Panic seared Irene at the man’s silence. “Help me, James. We can’t let him die. Lord Kimpton has been looking for him. We can’t let him die.”
James scooted closer. His rank smell triggered a sneeze. From both of them, actually, Lord Harlowe and Irene.
“Did you say Kimpton is looking for me?” He tried to laugh, but it came out harsh, as rough as nails on slate. It hurt to listen to him, but as long as he spoke, he wasn’t dead. Right now she welcomed the abrasive sound. “A likely story. He’d gladly see me strung from the tallest tree.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true, my lord. He and Lord Brockway have been looking for you for a year.”
He narrowed his hollowed eyes on her. “Who exactly are you?”
“Lady Irene. My mother is Lady Maudsley.”
“What of your father?” he growled in a raspy tone.
“He is dead, my lord. Shot, I believe. More water?” Irene was well aware how people felt about Papa. He was a horrible man. Guilt weaved through her. Only terrible people hated their own father.
“You don’t sound so sad at having lost a parent. Was he murdered?”
“I-I don’t know, my lord, but I think so.” Irene sighed. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”
“To what?”
“To how we can escape this ’old,” James said as he fidgeted, setting Irene’s senses on alert.
“He’s right, Lord Harlowe. We have to get out of here, or they are going to send us on an adventure. I don’t care for adventures. I’m sure I’ll be sick on the open sea.”
“Have you checked the door?”
“We may be young and small, my lord, but we are not daft.”
“Apologies, my lady. We’re in a boat?”
“James said you arrived a few days ago. Do you remember anything?”
“Nothing. I had a nurse. We escaped from somewhere, but I-I can’t seem to recall.” He paused. “There was a girl. She was with child. She—”
Dread shot through Irene’s brain. She couldn’t possibly relay Nathan’s mother expiring. The very words might kill the viscount. “You have a son,” she said quickly. “His name is Nathaniel… we call him Nathan.”
He leaned forward and attempted to wretch, the rigid jerk of his body chilling her. Again, nothing came out. She splayed her hand against the mud-crusted night rail at her abdomen. She could literally feel his pain. It passed in seconds. All strength seemed to flee Lord Harlowe.
“A son,” he parroted.
“Yes, sir. He is an engaging child. Almost a year old now.” Please. Please. Please, Lord Brockway. Don’t be too late.
“Dear God.” He fell back against the wall, exhaustion etched in his features.
Fear, stark and vivid, tore through Irene. She reached out, touching his cheek. It was damp, clammy with perspiration. “Lord Harlowe?” Her voice sounded faint past the rush in her ears.
“Blimey,” James gasped. “I fear ’e’s dead.”
