The Marquis’s Misstep by Kathy L. Wheeler

Five

L

oren paced the dank library. Even with the curtains open, the wood-paneled walls absorbed the light. He strode to the windows and pulled out his fob. He’d been waiting ten minutes already. There was a tap at the door, and the housekeeper walked in bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

“My apologies, yer lordship. Lady Maudsley is speaking with her children. She says if ye don’t mind waitin’ she’ll be a few minutes more.”

Loren tipped his head. “Of course. At her convenience, then.” He spoke calmly, though the red-hot of this temper lay dangerously close to the surface. He was not a man used to waiting. Perhaps her late husband had his reasons for—

“Lady Maudsley will see you now,” her butler said from the arch of the door. “Follow me, sir.”

“Lord Griston, milady.”

Ginny rose and glanced at the brass bracket clock mounted on the wall above the mantel over the hearth. “It seems hours early.”

Griston appeared around Kipling, smiling. “Only a few minutes, my lady. I’m here for our drive in the park.” His confidence was something to envy as not a repentant note spilled from him.

She sputtered, embarrassment flaming her face. “Heavens, I’m hardly prepared for a drive in the park.” She studied the earl in his buff pantaloons and shiny hessians. He was pleasing to look at, despite lacking Brock’s rugged demeanor and harsh facial contours. Nor did Griston possess the chiseled jaw and creases in his forehead and around his eyes. His hair was a little too perfect, his etiquette precise and above reproach.

There was no doubt the man was a catch, but why her? He had an heir. She had two girls and was the widow of a horrible, brazen libertine. Her hair, while not an unfashionable color, was unruly, and she was uncommonly tall. His interest made no sense.

Perhaps it was time to accept perfect for herself. She could use a break from Brock’s arrogance and the complication his presence added. It wasn’t as if she was in the market for a husband. She turned a brilliant smile on him. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

“And who might these two lovelies be?” Lord Griston said winningly. He moved into the drawing room and bowed over Celia’s outstretched hand while her other covered her giggles.

“May I present my daughters, Lord Griston? My youngest daughter, Lady Cecilia.”

Irene edged to Ginny’s side. Ginny didn’t blame her. Her elder daughter had been drugged and kidnapped along with Lorelei, all while Ginny had lain in an unconscious stupor, completely oblivious, the year before.

It was the very reason Ginny was determined to give her daughters an advantage she hadn’t had. Nothing could eradicate her guilt for leaving them unprotected. She should have known. Something. Anything. A good mother would have picked up on such evil. Ginny wrapped an arm around Irene’s shoulders. “And this is”—she cleared the croak from her voice—“Lady Irene.” That bastard husband of hers had apparently had nefarious plans for Irene. Just thinking about that time threatened Ginny’s ability to stand.

Irene cowed into Ginny’s hold.

Ginny kneeled before Irene, clasping both her hands within her own, and whispered, “It’s all right, darling. You’re safe. I’m right here with you.”

She stood again, humbled by Irene’s fear, and turned to Griston. “You’ll have to forgive my elder daughter, my lord. She is reserved.” Irene’s apprehension solidified Ginny’s notions for giving something innately valuable to her girls—the confidence to take care of themselves should the need arise. It bothered her greatly to make an excuse for what, in her daughter’s mind, were genuine fears.

Griston glanced at Ginny, his eyes filled with compassion and understanding. He smiled at Irene but did not approach. “I am a stranger, my lady.” He winked at her, and Ginny gave him a grateful smile. It would be all right. “In my eyes, you are wise indeed,” he said to Irene, and his smile encompassed them all. “Perhaps we could all use a ride in the park, hmm?”

“You are quite gracious, my lord.” She turned to Irene.

Irene gave a quick, short shake of her head.

Lord Griston was not to be put off. “It’s a lovely day, Lady Irene. What of a short walk? My man, Farcle, will accompany us as well. There to keep us safe.” He lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “I shall tell you a secret. He’s quite intimidating.”

“I would like a short walk,” Celia announced.

“All will be fine, darling. I’ll be with you the entire time,” Ginny said.

Irene’s flinch was slight, but true to her nature of propriety, she nodded. “I’ll find Miss Lambert, Mama.” Leaving a wide berth around Griston, she hurried from the room.

“We hardly ever get to go to the park, Lord Gwiston.” Celia’s impish lisp made her sound younger than Irene had at Celia’s age. Ginny didn’t remember Irene ever acting as young as Celia.

Griston faced Ginny, his smile touching her deep. “How engaging. You have much to be proud of, Lady Maudsley.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” Her grin matched his. “Thank you. A walk would well suit all of us.” Heart full, she paused and considered him. “I hope you didn’t take Irene’s shyness as rude, sir. I’m afraid she does not trust so easily.” She weighed her words, then made a leap of faith. “I was infirm for a time just before my husband’s death,” she said, holding back the entirety of the events. Her shrill laugh, however, burst out of its own volition—her body’s way of handling her fears through nervous energy. A most annoying trait. “Er, it was a near thing,” she finished on a weak, hushed tone. “Irene has become more reserved as a result.”

“Quite understandable, my lady.”

The skin at her hairline tingled. She laughed again. “Please forgive me, my lord.”

“Not at all.” He held out one arm to her and the other to Celia. “Shall we, ladies?”

They moved into the foyer as Irene came down the stairs with Miss Lambert.

The walk was short. Just to a large oak on the bed of the Serpentine, with the girls, Miss Lambert, and Lord Griston’s man strolling before them. The early afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and a lightness filled Ginny watching Celia bait Irene, teasing Irene to near drastic frustration, running circles around her. It was exactly the interaction Irene needed to occupy her mind and spirit.

“I’m tempted to admonish Lady Cecilia for her unladylike darting about,” Lord Griston said, smiling. Ginny’s hackles rose, but before she could defend Celia, he went on, “But she is an engaging little thing, isn’t she? She certainly succeeds in drawing out your older daughter.”

Ginny couldn’t speak past the lump in her throat, only nodded and drew in a cleansing breath. It felt glorious.

Irene’s temper snapped. Nothing overt, mind. This was Irene, after all. She grabbed Celia’s arm and whispered a sharp set down Ginny couldn’t hear.

Pouting, Celia walked to the backside of the large tree.

“Oh, dear,” Ginny said. “I should probably speak with her.” Just as she said the words, Irene let out a long-suffering sigh and moved in Celia’s direction, and Ginny held back. It was probably best to let the girls work out their differences.

One minute, Ginny was enjoying the spring day, and the next Irene was screaming. Ginny’s heart pounded hard against her ribs, threatening escape. Irene never screamed. Ginny took off in a run, but Griston surpassed her in two long strides. Celia was thrashing and kicking out at a boy not much larger than herself, who was tugging at the locket around her neck. The chain snapped just as Griston grasped him by the neck.

Celia’s hands splayed her tiny waist. “Hand it over,” she demanded. The boy’s eyes held depths of shadows, though he had to have been but a year or two younger than Irene. He dropped the locket at Celia’s feet, struggling against Griston’s hold.

“Farcle, take care of this”—Griston’s eyes narrowed on Irene’s and Miss Lambert’s widened eyes, finally moving to Ginny. She knew her own expression must have looked just as bewildered—“miscreant.”

Farcle took the boy, whisking him away in long strides.

Celia held her locket in a white-knuckled grip. “W-what’s going happen to him, my lord?”

Griston gave her shoulder a condescending pat. “He won’t be bothering you again, Lady Cecilia. He is nothing for the likes of you to worry over.”

Ginny glanced at Irene’s stark white face. She moved to Irene and wrapped an arm about her. “I’m sorry to cut this short, my lord, but I think it’s time we returned home.”

The ride to Goldhanger took Brock and Kimpton the better part of the afternoon on deplorable roads. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining. Cedar smoke rose from the sporadic cottages dotting the landscape, tangling with briny sea air. While farmland stretched before them, flat and wide, the ocean could be found over a rise less than a twenty-minute ride past the village. An outcropping of trees had been left behind some hour past. Brock shaded his eyes looking out over the small, worn village. He glanced at Kimpton. “Where do we start?”

“There’s likely less than five hundred people here. The local tavern seems the most logical place.” In unison, they kicked their horses into motion.

The local tavern was an inn by the name of The Red Stag. They reined in their mounts. “When the devil was it built? The 1290s?” Brock took in the stained wood that went halfway up the wall to the base of cracked windows. “Is it open?”

Kimpton didn’t answer for a long moment, his mouth in a tight grim line. “Harlowe was located between here and Maldon, closer to here, I believe. There’s a brook alongside the road where he was found by Evie, last name unknown.”

“So, first we find Evie.”

“Can’t be that difficult in a township this small.” Kimpton swung down from his saddle.

Brock followed suit, tying off his horse.

Kimpton moved to the tavern door and tugged. It opened.

The pungent smell of stale beer, unwashed bodies, and cooked sausages hit Brock the moment he entered the establishment. He paused, acclimating his eyes to the dark interior. Long tables with wood benches lined grimy walls. The crowd was nonexistent, but it was early yet. Then again, perhaps the town didn’t house enough men to fill up the place.

Kimpton chose an area to sit where they could watch the door and still pick up any conversation behind the bar.

A bosomy blonde sauntered their way. Her low-cut bodice exposed fleshy mounds that defied decency. “My, my. Don’t see many gentlemen of your ilk ’ereabouts too often. What can I get for ye?”

“A couple of ales,” Brock told her. “What’s your name, my dear?”

She batted lashes so light they were barely visible to the eye. “Anything ye want it to be, lover.”

“Er, I see.”

She let out a resigned sigh. “It’s Pippy, sirs. Two ales, coming up.”

Within moments two ales were planted in front of them that should have had gravity sloshing it over the table but didn’t. “Thank you, Pippy. Have you seen Evie about?”

Pippy pushed her dirty dark-blonde hair from her eyes and set her hands at her hips. “You mean Dr. Holks’s stuffy daughter? Pfft. She left town months ago. Fancied herself in love with—”

“That’s enough, Pippy. Ye got other customers.” The bark shot from behind the bar in a growl.

“That answers a couple of questions,” Brock said softly. “There are no other customers.”

Kimpton threw back his ale. “Can’t be too difficult to locate a local doc by the name of Holks.” He chucked a couple of coins on the table and rose.

Outside, dusk was setting, the sun low in the sky from the direction they’d ridden into town. “What do you say we head to Maldon and see what’s near that brook you mentioned?”

Kimpton nodded. “That is all well and good, but I think we need to see if anyone can direct us to the good doctor,” he said, tapping his horse in motion to lead the way.

Brock tugged at his cuffs. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something odd about this place. I don’t relish staying here.”

Kimpton grunted and led the way down a trodden dirt road past a small cemetery.

The church next door was the focal point. The village, while small, was spread wide. A few people milled about, but it appeared most of the populous were likely snug in their homes. Silent, but for the hooves clopping on the hardened path, Brock set back into his mount’s rhythm, his thoughts anything but. Each one was filled with a vision of Ginny’s rich mahogany locks splayed across his pillow, her willowy form writhing beneath him with responses he’d taken for granted a decade ago. His breeches grew decidedly uncomfortable, forcing him to shift in the saddle. He clenched the supple leather of the reins between his fingers, knowing every moment away from her afforded another greedy lord the opportunity to steal her away yet again. Griston courting her had Brock quelling an urge to hit someone.

“Brock, hold up a minute. Look there.”

Startled, Brock’s attention snapped to his surroundings. “What?” He didn’t see anything but a small shop closed up for the night with a couple of paintings in the window.

“Do you see them? That’s Harlowe’s work. I’d stake my life on it. He was here. Let’s find that doctor.”

Brock stopped a wiry, weathered fellow lumbering his way down a woodened walk toward the tavern.

It didn’t take long.

“Doc’s dead,” he said. “Ye might learn more from the old man’s sister. Just follow the road south of town toward Maldon. Small cottage near the bridge. Cain’t miss it.”

Thankfully, the house was just where the man said it would be, as darkness had completely fallen. By the time they reached the cottage, only dim candlelight from a front-facing grimy window guided them through a neglected garden that had Brock picking briar from the knees of his breeches.

An elderly woman cracked the door at Kimpton’s brisk knock. She peered around the edge, her gray hair poking from her limp lace cap. The bit of her drab gown visible appeared patched. “Evening, madam. We’re looking for Dr. Holks’s daughter, Evie.”

“She left town soon as her papa expired. Ain’t heard hide nor hair of her since. What do ye want with that ungrateful wretch?”

Brock clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Might we come in and sit a minute?” She studied them through the narrowed space. “We’re not here to make trouble, ma’am.”

“I ain’t got no tea or nothin’,” she said grudgingly.

Brock gave her his most winsome smile. “Excellent, madam.” He wanted this business done to get back to Ginny. “We mean you no harm.” He pushed gently but firmly on the door and stepped over the threshold. “We’re not here for refreshments.”

Kimpton followed him. “We understand Miss Evie nursed an unconscious man back to health. Our primary interest is in that man’s whereabouts.”

“Her name’s Evelyn. She found him all right. Her and her papa nursed him back to health. Well, as much as could be expected. He done gone and lost his mind, he did.”

Kimpton seemed almost in a panic. Harlowe, Lady Kimpton’s brother, had been missing for over a year, and after Kimpton and Brock stumbled across Harlowe’s murdered valet, Brock knew Kimpton was doing his level best to locate the man. No one wanted to tell one’s wife her only sibling had died. “Lost his mind?”

“Couldn’t remember a bloomin’ thang. Not his name, where he’d come from. Nothin’.”

Brock thought about the odd series of paintings he and Kimpton had found after Harlowe’s disappearance. Most, not all, depicted notorious traitors from history: Judas, Brutus, Guy Fawkes, and an adulteress kissing one man whilst looking at another on the docks at Dover before he sailed for Calais. And oddly, each showing a scythe somewhere within said work. Like the gates of the infamous Tower, its scythe prominently displayed in the iron. Looking back on the whole scenario, it was easy to see Harlowe had been on to some scheme regarding a traitor—up until the painting of the woman at Dover.

Brock had finally realized most of the works pointed back to Maudsley. The man had been an ingrate. He’d treated his dogs better than his wife and children. Brock flexed his fingers with an urge to drag Maudsley back from the dead so he could re-experience his violent death. Yet someone had beat him and Kimpton to the task, having shot the bastard just before they’d had arrived at Maudsley’s home last year. Irene had been drugged and kidnapped with no sign of the missing Lady Kimpton or baby Nathan. Thanks to Irene, they’d located the two locked in a hidden room in the wine cellar—terrified and no worse for wear. Brock cleared the memory, forcing himself to focus on the now.

“Imagine our surprise when he demanded paint. It ain’t cheap, ye know. Evie thought to help the man by letting him draw.”

“I’d be honored to reimburse you for his supplies,” Kimpton said.

Stunned at Kimpton’s words, her mouth dropped.

“Did he eventually remember? Anything?” Brock asked her.

With Kimpton’s offer, she was at once forthcoming. Her thin lips pursed. “Bits and pieces.” She shrugged her frail shoulders. “Then all of sudden Hiram was dead.”

The hair at the base of Brock’s neck raised. He surveyed the shabby parlor. “The doctor’s death was sudden?”

Her belligerence turned palpable. “Another gent stopped by, started asking questions, hauled the man away. Next thing I know, Evelyn’s disappeared and here I am. Alone.”

Kimpton’s brows raised. “Any idea who the other man was?”

“Don’t know. Pretty high in the instep. Arrogant arse, he was.”

Brock met Kimpton’s eyes. Maudsley? “How long ago was this, ma’am?” Brock asked.

“Within the last three or four months, I imagine,” she said, knocking Maudsley from the picture. “Hiram was kilt comin’ back from Chelmsworth. Thrown from his horse. Strangest thing, it was. The moon that night was bright as day. And Hiram knew the road well.”

Brock drummed his fingers on his knee. “You’ve no idea where Miss Evelyn went?”

“Fancied herself in love with that patient o’ hers. I told her she was doomed. He was blue-blooded through and through.” She dug a scraggily lace kerchief from her pocket.

“Can you give us any idea of her direction?” Brock asked gently.

She dabbed her eyes and shook her head. “None.”

Kimpton rose and pulled a handful of coins from his purse. “Thank you for your assistance, madam.”

Astonishment filled her expression as Kimpton pressed them in her hands. She quickly slipped them into her apron pocket as if she was afraid he might take them back, and led them to the door. She turned the handle and stopped. Her rheumy gaze teared up, meeting theirs. “If’n you find Evie,” she said. “Tell her… tell her I miss her.”

The ride to Chelmsworth was quiet and long—and dark, their path literally lit by a half moon. The never-ending day was taking its toll. Brock followed Kimpton to the first inn they ran across. Brock spoke first. “What now?”

“We’ll call it a night, and in the morning, we’ll make our enquiries in the local medical community. Surely there are others who knew of the Holkses. It might give us some ideas.”

By unspoken agreement, they left their horses with the stable boy and headed inside. After downing a dinner of rewarmed beefy stew, stale bread, and strong ale, Brock asked, “What have you told Lady Kimpton of your search for her brother?”

Kimpton leaned back, smiling slightly. “I want no misunderstandings this time around. She’s aware of my search. But as I’ve nothing to report and she’s limited her questions. I think she’s afraid of what I’ll learn. After that scare regarding Harlowe’s valet, I can scarcely blame her.”

It was a ghastly sight they’d stumbled upon. Harlowe’s quarters had been pillaged beyond repair: slashed canvases, broken crockery, paint everywhere. Not to mention the stench of the valet’s dead body. “Yes. Did Lady Kimpton happen to mention Ginny’s—er, Lady Maudsley’s—new endeavor?” Ignoring Kimpton’s smirk, Brock waited.

“No.”

“She wishes to instruct her daughters in the art of… safeguarding… themselves.” The expression covering his friend’s face should have been laughable. “She’s accepted my offer of help in the matter.”

“What do you know of teaching young girls to defend themselves?”

He scowled. “As much as you, I suppose.”

“Ah. Nothing, then.” Kimpton polished off the last of his ale. “Young women learning self-defense will not sit well with the beau monde.”

“I believe I mentioned that.”