The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler
Ten
B
rutally callous, relentless pounding woke Lorelei the next morning. It seemed to be coming from the inside of her head. How was that possible? She tried to sit, only to fall quickly back in searing pain. Light streamed through a crease where the drapes did not quite meet. She blinked at the assault and covered her eyes with her forearm.
The groan that echoed through the chamber was her own. The door slung back, hitting the wall behind it. Through a squinted gaze, Lorelei made out Bethie’s stout form, full tea service in hand.
A waft of sweetened pastries breached the sensitivity of her senses. She dropped from the bed, scrambling for the chamber pot. A painful bout of retching ripped through her in an effort to empty the contents of an already empty stomach.
“His lordship insisted you eat,” Bethie said fiercely. “I have prepared a saline wash too. I imagine you have quite the achin’ head.”
If Lorelei could have spoken, she would have sacked her insolent, outspoken maid. Unfortunately, the need for the saline draught was most desperate. She held out her hand, in which a glass miraculously appeared. Still on her knees, Lorelei downed the concoction, very nearly choking in the process. “What. Is. This. Vile. Stuff?”
“A half ounce of fine salt, four ounces each of vinegar and water, and two ounces of brandy.”
Brandy?Lorelei leaned over the chamber pot again, stomach roiling. Yet surprisingly, nothing surged forth. Her constitution might survive after all. She rose slowly, testing her mettle. “I believe I may live. Open the curtains. Not completely, mind.” Lorelei crawled back up on the bed, willing the room to still. “What happened?”
Bethie set the chamber pot outside the door, then tugged on the bellpull. “The footman says you stumbled from the carriage—right into his arms. His lordship carried ye up and put ye to bed.”
“Put me—”
“Ye can jest imagine my surprise when I saw him waltzin’ from yer room this morning, pleased as a cat, satisfied with his cream—”
“Satisfied… with his… this morning?” Good heavens, what had she done? But as the heat stole over her body, snatches of erotic imagery crept through her memory. Her hand wrapped around velvet steel; her hips lifting, pressing against a skilled thumb; her lips swollen with deep soul-searing kisses. The answers were all too clear. A vague recollection of his weight settling beside her, embracing her within his safety—she glanced quickly at the pillow. A slight indentation appeared. She groaned.
Words of love. Words of love? Tears pricked her eyes. Apparently, she couldn’t distinguish fantasy from reality.
She blinked back the tears. Had anything changed? Nothing, except perhaps trust in her own judgment. Thorne still had Brandon sent to the middle of who-knew-where, hadn’t he? Another important something refused to surface at her will. There was also the matter of another woman’s child. She hadn’t dreamt that. She rubbed her temples and tried to think. An impossible feat when one’s head threatened destruction of great magnitude.
Bethie bustled about, fussing with the tea and a small plate of toast. Lorelei accepted both from her maid’s outstretched hands.
Lorelei nibbled on the toast. “I think I must leave town.”
“Leave town! But the season is in full swing.”
“You must see I cannot stay here. I have important issues to contemplate, and—” She let out a disgusted huff. “Why, I can’t even trust myself. Perhaps Ginny would be willing to bundle up her girls and travel with us.” But, blast it, Thorne had forbidden her to travel to Spixworth Hall. Besides, he was right—Norwich was a hotbed of conflict. Oh, how she hated admitting her husband was right.
Bethie gaped at her, hands fisted at her massive hips. “Yer his lordship’s wife. Course ye have to stay.”
“I-I don’t!” Lorelei insisted. “Must I remind you what we heard and saw the other night?”
Bethie scowled.
“There’s more. Brandon’s valet was m-murdered.”
“Aye, there’s something strange about that.” Bethie turned back to setting the tea right.
“You heard?”
“Course I heard. The news was belowstairs two days ago.”
“Two days!” Lorelei winced and lowered her voice. “And I suppose you heard that Thorne was asked to identify his body?”
“Aye.”
“Why do I get the notion you have switched courts?”
“His lordship came home and took it upon his own self to set you to rights.”
Lorelei narrowed her eyes on her cheeky maid-general. “Set me to rights?”
“Ye was ill, and he took right care of ye. That man cares for ye.”
Fury shook Lorelei. He took care of her, for certain, and no doubt took care of himself as well, she thought, as the heat between her legs throbbed. “He fathered another woman’s child. Lady Dankworth witnessed him speaking to that same woman in a public street. He sent my helpless brother somewhere, and without a word to me. You remember my brother, don’t you? He’s an artist, not an adventurer.” She dropped the rest of her toast on the plate and shoved the tray away. Mindful of her pounding head, she worked her way to her escritoire and pulled out a sheet of vellum.
Bethie’s pitying look infuriated her.
“Never mind,” she snapped. “Pack for Kimpton. I should like to leave as soon as I hear from Lady Maudsley.”
Thorne escaped to White’s before he did something equally as appalling as he had the night before, knowing he wouldn’t stop at pleasuring Lorelei with just his hands this time. He was past ready to pleasure her with any part of him she preferred. The problem was, she hadn’t been in the proper frame of mind to make the kind of decision he’d made for her.
Soused. She’d been soused. And he’d taken advantage. A man couldn’t go much lower. He dropped his head in his hands.
“You look like hell.” Brock fell into the chair across from him. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”
“Some,” he mumbled.
“I thought you might be otherwise engrossed today.”
Heat crawled up Thorne’s neck, but with luck, the club’s low lighting obscured his embarrassment. He breathed through the discomfort and cleared his throat with a short cough. “Harlowe frequented several poetry readings, salons, and the like, didn’t he?”
“I believe so. What’s this you’re on about?”
Thorne drummed his fingertips on his knee. “Any idea what clubs he belonged to?”
“The usual I imagine. Boodle’s. Though perhaps we could enquire at the Eccentric Club, Watier’s, possibly that new one, the Au Courant.”
Thorne lifted a brow, relieved to have his mind on something useful. “Boodle’s is certainly a possibility, of course. What do you know of the others?”
“Not much. I’ve heard the patrons of the Eccentric Club are a bit, er, eccentric, hence the name.” Brock waved a hand. “Philosophic.”
“What about the new one? What did you call it?”
“The Au Courant. If I’m not mistaken, they cater to the literary and art set—” Brock shot him an amused grin. “Of course.”
“We’ll start there.” Thorne stood. “Harlowe was up and coming with his work. He’s certainly more talented than I credited him. But what I’m most interested in is the purpose of that grim symbol showing up in those paintings. The fool might have happened on more than he bargained for.”
A niggle of guilt plagued Lorelei as she and Bethie prepared for their departure to Kimpton. It wasn’t truly leaving Thorne if she resided in their country home, was it? Ginny’s note arrived, and it appeared her friend was still quite ill.
She pushed away her doubts and focused on what would be a long carriage ride with a scowling Bethie. It would not be a pleasant ride, but Lorelei supposed she deserved such a fate after seducing her husband into losing his control. Letting Thorne charm his way out of the stunts he’d pulled—well, she just couldn’t. This was the rest of her life. If anything, the carriage ride should allow her time to sort through some of the misgivings plaguing her. The things she seemed to have a difficult time remembering. She tried not to worry, and instead focused on the journey ahead.
Staying overnight at the Rose & Crown was a certainty. She’d obviously have to inform Thorne of her plans. She might be angry with him, but she balked at having him risk life and limb looking for her when her travels were but a day.
Armed with an extra dosage of saline draught, as vile as the concoction tasted, Lorelei felt certain she could survive one day. Head high, she handed the missive outlining her plans to a stoic Oswald. Cheeks flushed and eyes averted, she accepted Andrews’s assistance into the waiting carriage.
The challenging tasks of locating Miss Hollerfield and Brandon changed nothing.
Dear God, she groaned, dropping her face in her palms. She’d completely forgotten to ask Lady Smythe if her husband could help her find her brother. That settled it. No more brandy for her. Besides, she was perfectly capable of sending missives from the country.
Path decided, Lorelei berated herself into letting it go. She already had enough funds to begin her search for Brandon. If he was still alive. Besides, once her fortnight of confinement was served, she would be set for the rest of her life if she remained frugal. She swallowed.
Had Thorne been able to lay his hands on one of the scythes Harlowe had so eloquently depicted in his paintings, he would have cut his own throat with it. Two solid hours of Shufflebottom’s constant barrage of nonsensical words—words that included rhyming schemes of “haunting” and “daunting” and “duels and jewels” that would likely send half of the most sure-minded men screaming for a corner of Bedlam, and Thorne would lead the pack. Shufflebottom’s lace cuffs, bright orange waistcoat, and green pantaloons would drive the other half leaping off the cliffs of Cornwall. Holding bricks.
It was deuced convenient that the spirits flowed freely. Spirits consisting mainly of brandy and rum, along with port. Claret and sherry for the… er, uh… ladies. Thorne downed his third brandy of the afternoon and gauged the rapt audience.
The Widow Chancé was known for her love of literature, art, and poetry. Her late husband, twice her age, was now long dead. She was a handsome woman of discriminate taste. She appeared careful on whose arm she leaned on. The assemblage resembled what one might typically expect for poetry lovers, fanciful men whose gazes ranged from idealistic to pensive to vague.
Thorne recognized one or two of the more well-known courtesans. Not that he’d associated with them personally, but certainly he’d seen them with their current keepers over the years, residing in theatre boxes and the like. Their dresses barely covered rouged nipples. He didn’t believe this salon was indicative of others. But since he rarely, if ever, attended events of this nature, he had no comparison.
Baron Welton’s heir, George, was resting on a settee near the windows, his head back and eyes closed. Clarissa, one of Madame Chancé’s more exclusive girls, sat close enough to be considered on him rather than beside him. Something tugged at Thorne's memory. Weren’t Welton and Harlowe childhood friends? He skirted the crowd and made his way in that direction.
“Welton,” Thorne said.
Welton’s eyes snapped to Thorne. The younger man straightened and motioned his head at Clarissa. She scowled at Welton but set some space between them. “Kimpton. Fancy a bit of poetry, do you? Sit, please.”
It only took a second for her to ignore Welton, turning her coy smile on Thorne. He answered with a cool, dismissive gaze, after which she promptly stomped away. Thorne dropped into her vacated seat, though he maintained rather more distance from Welton than she had.
“What can I do for you, my lord?” Welton’s tone teetered on sarcasm. And why shouldn’t it? Thorne hadn’t the usual reasons for seeking out Welton. They certainly didn’t move in the same circles.
Across the chamber, Shufflebottom’s voice rose in a spectacular crescendo, culminating with “anguish that had him languish” and hands crossed upon his heart. All in all, the presentation ended with flourished dramatization. Thorne choked back a snort of disgust. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the written word, but the man positively exuded “anguish” in the most thespian proportions.
Groups huddled, and chatter rose in varying degrees of excitement. He swung his gaze back to Welton. “I’m looking for Harlowe. My wife’s brother. You are acquainted with him, I believe.”
“Of course I know him. Tell me, how is the grand Lady Kimpton?” Irritation filtered through his voice. “I’ll never forget the lashing she belted out when Harlowe and I filled her best linens with a few lively young frogs. My ears sting to this day from the pinching they took.” Disgust crossed his sullen features.
“She’s well. But she is most determined to speak to her brother. I’m hoping to find him.” Another, yet younger, man took to the floor, momentarily distracting Thorne from his task. “What the devil is this thing?”
“Ah, the Poetry Association?” Welton chuckled. “I believe the lonely widow is trolling for love—once again.”
“And you?”
He covered what sounded to Thorne like an embarrassed laugh in a cough. “Me? Well, I… uh… am easily entertained.”
“Obviously,” Thorne muttered under his breath. “And Harlowe?”
“Never fear, Lord Kimpton. I’ve only crossed paths with him here once or twice. This is not his usual set. Whatever made you believe he’d end up here?” Welton gauged him with a wary glance.
Thorne leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles, careful to maintain a disinterested air, and waited.
“The fact of the matter is I haven’t seen much of him since he took up with a certain young woman.”
“Ah, Miss Hollerfield.”
“Aye. Miss Hollerfield.” Welton’s tone turned curt.
“Well, she’s enough to turn any young man’s head. How long ago was that?”
Welton furrowed his brows. “Months, actually.”
“I see. I, ah, don’t suppose you know of any of his other hang-abouts?”
“You might try the Beefsteak. That is more to his taste, I’d wager.”
“Beefsteak!” Thorne said, startled. The Beefsteak leaned toward the political realm, and sounded nothing like the man with whom Thorne was familiar. A sudden vision of the un-shredded Guy Fawkes canvas hit him.
“Occasionally, I’ve encountered him at the Eccentric Club, though with all those philanthropists about, I avoid the place like the plague.”
A derisive bark erupted from Thorne. “The human-interest aspect doesn’t appeal to you, then?”
Welton snorted. “That, and the politicians and scientists. That particular establishment is overrun. I don’t spend much time in clubs; I prefer having women about, if you must know. Sometimes I wonder if Harlowe has switched—” He stopped abruptly.
“Switched?” Thorne prodded.
“Nothing,” Welton snapped. “I’d much rather listen to bad poetry with a willing woman in my lap.” He leapt to his feet and gave a quick bow. “If you’ll pardon me, my lord. I wish you a fruitful search.”
Thorne watched as Welton made his way across the room to the once more amiable Clarissa. She sat next to—or rather, on—the Earl of Maudsley’s lap.
Well, if that didn’t beat all. Thorne decided he’d digested enough poetry to last him a lifetime. He made his farewell to the Widow Chancé and escaped.
He took a hackney to Fleet Street. He might as well try some of the lesser known galleries. Descending from the cab, he meandered his way toward the Strand, wondering how Lorelei’s day was progressing. Was she wishing him to the devil? Or wishing he’d never left her bed? He felt certain that was too much to hope for. One thing he could count on regarding his adorable little wife—she had a stubborn streak as wide as the Thames.
Shaking his head, he set about finding Harlowe. Such a feat would clear a multitude of misunderstandings. Thorne would gain his wife back in good graces, she would have her brother—though what to do about a child? Not just a child, but a famous courtesan’s child. What a quandary. But if Thorne had to foot the bill to keep the gossips quiet, then by God, he’d make every attempt.
An irritated chuckle burst through him. He truly just wanted Lorelei back in his arms, back in his bed. No matter the consequences, they’d survive the scandal. And if he knew Lorelei, one thing he was sure of, she would never let a child of her brother’s go uncared for. Thorne would be lucky if she didn’t insist on the child taking their name, let alone bringing it into their home.
That was matter for another day. The child wasn’t even born yet. He shook away that train of thought, looked up and found himself standing directly in front of Somerset House, home of the Royal Academy Schools. Restoration was still apparent. The front facade had arches erected in stone similar to those of a Roman palladium. The building would likely not be completed in his lifetime.
With a sigh, Thorne turned and made his way back to White’s. It looked as if his and Brock’s plans for the evening definitely included a visit to the Eccentric Club and perhaps, Waiter’s.
