The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twelve

D

awn was well on its way toward a brilliant sunrise before Thorne finally walked through the doors of the Kimpton townhouse, Brock right on his heels.

Thorne shook his head. “It cannot be true.”

“It would explain much, however,” Brock said. “We need to take another look at those paintings. There is a something in them, besides that odd, out-of-place scythe.”

“I hope you are right. Come, let’s check the library.” Thorne grabbed a candelabra off the entry hall table, lighting one of the candles from the wall sconce, and led the way down a low-lit hallway just beyond the grandiose staircase. He lit a few more candles along the way. He pushed through the door to the library and lifted the candelabra, surveying the chamber.

Two more paintings of Harlowe’s work decorated the walls. One was a lovely depiction of Lorelei painted shortly after Thorne and Lorelei’s wedding. Harlowe had only been fourteen at the time. Her blue eyes twinkled with mischief. She looked so happy, a band of iron seemed to tighten across his chest.

Harlowe had outdone himself, having created an ethereal effect with the lighting above her head. Sunlight streamed in through an open window, turning her flaxen hair into shimmering ribbons of pale gold. Harlowe knew his sister well. Her teasing manner, which he’d caught with superb genius, showed a woman in love. Love. Did she love him?

Something to dwell on later. Thorne forced himself to look past her face and study the setting. The heavily brocaded bench on which she sat contained a cushion of deep green velvet. Her long slender fingers rested on the keyboard of a pianoforte of dark mahogany. His gaze drifted back to his wife. Her dress was of the softest cream. The only thing Thorne could see in the folds of her skirts were the many gathers. Not a scythe in sight. But, of course, there wouldn’t be a scythe, would there? This was one of Harlowe’s earliest works.

With concerted effort, Thorne moved next to Brock, who was staring at the other work. A crudely etched neighborhood scene met his gaze, angled from a corner looking down the middle of a cobblestoned street. The doors of each home were uniformly painted in a bright blue, the buildings in white. Dread filled Thorne as he considered the work. Each and every lamppost globe was attached to its post by way of the circular sword, modifying the idyllic scene to something haunting. Something menacing.

Oswald’s head appeared around the door. He spoke with his usual aplomb. “Lady Kimpton, sir—”

“I don’t wish to speak of Lady Kimpton presently, Oswald.” Having spent the whole day doing everything possible to avoid thinking of her, he damn sure didn’t want to speak of her right now. He had no desire to be the brunt of Brock’s amusement.

Oswald inclined his head. “A letter, sir.” He held out an envelope.

“Grab one end of the frame,” Brock said.

Thorne snatched the letter from his stoic butler and stuffed it in his waistcoat, then took the other end of the large frame. It took both him and Brock to haul the damned thing back to Thorne’s study. “Set it next to the other one.” They lowered it against the wall beside the one with the traitorous lover. Thorne stood back and compared the two. Nothing jumped out at him. “I think we need the painting from my wife’s bedchamber,” Thorne said. “But she is certain to be sleeping.”

“I doubt that, Lord Kimpton.” The formal address startled Thorne, and his gaze snapped to Brock. He stood at the far corner of the desk, holding out another missive.

“What is that?”

“It looks to be a note from Lady Maudsley to your wife.”

Impatience rippled through Thorne. “What of it? They send notes to one another frequently.”

“Yes, well, this particular note implies that Lady Maudsley regrets she is still too ill to accompany your wife—to… er… Kimpton.”

Thorne snatched the weighty paper from Brock’s hand and scanned Lady Maudsley’s uneven scrawl. “Good God.” He tossed it on the desk. “This is disastrous,” he muttered. “I have to stop her.”

Brock picked the note back up, grimacing. “Something is wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong. You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. He strode from the room. A second later the front door slammed, shaking the paintings that leaned against the wall.

He would contemplate Brock’s words later, he thought. Dashing from the room, Thorne took the stairs two at a time and stormed the hall toward Lorelei’s chamber. No light showed beneath the door, sending a skitter up his spine. It was too bloody early in the morning. He should have sent word to Lorelei last night. Told her she could have control of every last sterling to their name. He hesitated before the door, his hand on the knob, the doubts crowding in. Perhaps he should wait until a reasonable hour.

Damn it. He would just tell her the truth about Harlowe. Even if she didn’t believe him, the truth would eventually stand in his favor. That’s the step he should have taken from the beginning. His shoulders fell. No. She would be devastated to know her brother was missing, and he couldn’t bear seeing her hurt. Thorne reined in a flicker of apprehension and pushed open the door.

It was dark. Dark and cold. No coals flared in the grate, no candles flickered. A tingling sensation rippled up his over his skin, raising the hair on his nape. In four long strides, he stood at the windows, whipping the curtains apart. The dense atmosphere beyond did not help much in the way of light, but it was enough.

He looked to the bed. No Lorelei. The letter.

Thorne jerked the envelope from his pocket and tore it open.

My Lord—

I compose this note to alleviate any worry on your part, sir, and to let you know you are in no way you responsible for our interactions last evening. The fault is truly mine, much to my acute embarrassment. Please be advised, I have departed for Kimpton to wait out the remainder of our two-week agreement.

Regards, Lady Kimpton

Thorne dragged himself to his chamber, groaning. He dropped Lorelei’s note on a chair and rang for hot water, then peeled the clothes from his body and splashed cold water on his face. The ride to Kimpton would be a hard one, but it was early—bloody early—and despite his dreary body, he should be able to make excellent time.

Dante handed him a towel.

“I’m headed to Kimpton, but I’ll rest for just a moment. God knows what I’ll find when I get there.”

God, he missed her. Thorne fell back on the bed, eyes closed—only for a moment, he promised himself. In his deepest fantasies, the key would scrape the metal lock on the door adjoining his wife’s chamber. She would ease the door ajar, then stroll to his bed, wearing only the moonlight streaming through the open window. Rising, he would beckon her forward.

But being his Lorelei, she tossed her head in feigned resistance. The small, reserved smile that touched her plump lips only heightened his anticipation. She’d shake her head, and her eyes would be all mischievousness and full of play. Then, tease that she was, she would cup her breasts. Lift them in invitation. He’d prowl forward, but rather than accept her offering, he’d fall to his knees, bury his face in her abdomen. Part her legs—

Discomfort roared through him. He gripped his throbbing cock, stroked twice, perhaps three times, and the seed spilled in a torrent over his hand.

Torture.He had to quit torturing himself.

A sharp knock startled him upright. He glanced around, disoriented. No Lorelei. He jerked the counterpane over his body.

“Your bath, sir,” Dante said. “And a word from Lord Brockway.”

Fifteen minutes later, Thorne bounded down the stairs, where Brock paced the foyer like a caged animal. Two small children, girl children, and their nursemaid stood watching like skittish cats.

“What the de—” Thorne stopped at Brock’s raised brow. “Pardon, my ladies.” Thorne bowed.

The older girl stared at him with a sturdy unwavering gaze. She looked remarkably like— “Lord Brockway, a word, if you please?” Thorne’s voice was carefully pleasant as he opened the door to his study. Once inside, he shut it softly behind them. “What the devil are you doing with Lady Maudsley’s children?”

Brock shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair. “He beat her to a bloody fucking pulp.”

“What—who—” Thorne stopped. “Christ, Brock. You took his wife?”

Brock ignored him. “I need you to take the children to Lady Kimpton.”

“What of Lady Maudsley’s family?”

“They disowned her years ago.” Brock looked him in the eye. “Because of me.”

Air expelled from Thorne like a punctured balloon. “Children? You want me to escort children to Kimpton?”

“What choice do I have? They can’t possibly stay with me. Your wife is the perfect solution. No one even realizes she’s gone.”

“You know there’s no telling what I’ll find when I arrive at Kimpton,” Thorne said, exasperated.

“Look at it this way, Kimpton. Your wife is certain not to turn away Lady Maudsley’s children.”

Thorne acknowledged that comment in silence. “Where is Lady Maudsley now?”

“It doesn’t matter where she is.”

“Well, I suppose that answers my question.” Thorne shoved his hands in his pockets. “Lorelei will insist on returning to London when she learns of Lady Maudsley’s predicament.”

“She can’t. Not if she’s looking after Gin—Lady Maudsley’s children.”

“What did you tell Irene?” Thorne asked, referring to the older daughter. “She’s not four like Cecilia.”

“I told her she was going on an adventure. That she could ride a pony.” Brock looked sheepish. “You do have a pony at Kimpton, don’t you?”

“And if I don’t?”

Brock glared.

Thorne sighed. “I suppose I’m in the market for a pony.”

Lorelei busied herself with assisting the Misses Hollerfields’ maid, laying out a breakfast no one was likely to touch. Not a single wink of sleep had passed in the household the night before. How could they sleep with the younger Miss Hollerfield’s agonizing cries? Tormented cries that had sounded intermittently for some eight hours now.

Her labor was hard, and no end appeared in sight. Lorelei truly feared for the girl’s life. Any words of comfort she might offer escaped her.

Shock still filled her with the revelation. Miss Hollerfield, Miss Rowena Hollerfield, was not the one with child. It was her sister. The notorious courtesan was not carrying Thorne’s baby. There was cause to doubt that Miss Hollerfield’s—Miss Corinne Hollerfield’s—child belonged to Thorne as well.

Of course, he could not be excused for sending her brother to his unknown fate. Lady Smythe’s words trickled through her. He was dropped on a boat bound for Spain. Brandon hadn’t closed his house. He hadn’t dismissed his valet. Things were not adding up. Perhaps there wasn’t time, if what the rumors portrayed were true. That Thorne had literally dropped her brother on a ship. Lorelei rubbed her temples, attempting to clear the fog in her head.

This new revelation regarding the Hollerfields was nothing short of relief. Could she have possibly been mistaken—or worse, wrongly accused her husband based strictly on rumors of a society that thrived on such gossip?

Sadly, yes. But the rush of relief regarding the Hollerfields could not be denied.

Tea arranged, Lorelei started up the stairs, wincing as another heart-wrenching scream bounded through the house. She dashed the rest of the way up and pushed open the door.

Bethie stroked Corinne’s arms in an effort to comfort the poor child. Off to one side, tears streamed down Rowena Hollerfield’s pale face. Her fine black hair was completely out of sorts, her hands trembling violently. A wave of compassion swept through Lorelei. The woman dearly loved her sister. It was written in every crease of her face.

Corinne’s tormented screams rattled the windows, competing with the fierceness of the storm beyond. “I need to check ye,” Bethie said gently.

“Don’t. Don’t hurt her.” The panic in Rowena’s pitch pierced Lorelei deeply.

Lorelei rushed over, desperate to help. “Miss Hollerfield, please. Why don’t you take yourself downstairs, have some tea? It’s freshly made up.”

Rowena glared at her. But Lorelei didn’t see anger, she saw fear. Rowena shook her head in a barely discernible move. A niggling suspicion took hold of Lorelei that refused to dispel. “She’s not your sister, is she?” Lorelei asked softly.

Alarm infused with panic flashed over Miss Hollerfield’s fine features. She froze.

Lorelei touched her hand. Miss Hollerfield flinched at the gesture. “I suspect she is—is she your… daughter?”

Miss Hollerfield blinked and seemed to grasp at something within. “Yes, yes,” she said in a rushed, hushed whisper. “My daughter. She’s my—my daughter. I can’t lose her.”

Something akin to relief fell from Miss Hollerfield’s shoulders with the admission. Her reprieve was swift, Lorelei noted. Too hasty? With an inward shake of her head, Lorelei met Bethie’s worried frown. She looked back at Miss Hollerfield. “If God sees fit to grant your daughter her life, Bethie is the one person to see her through,” Lorelei spoke softly.

A surprised pause filled the chamber. Miss Hollerfield nodded then. “She is all I have. I cannot lose her.”

“Please, Miss Hollerfield, I’ll stay with her. No harm shall come to her.” The words were a silent prayer to herself. The Hollerfields’ maid stood at the door, stark terror written on her face. Lorelei beckoned to her. “Come in, Agnes. See Miss Hollerfield to the parlor.” She turned to the maid. “And please, send up fresh water.”

“No, I—” Rowena started.

“Please, Miss Hollerfield,” Lorelei said firmly. “You’ll do your daughter no good if you have no sustenance or rest. She shall be fine with me and Bethie for an hour.”

Corinne writhed on the bed, moaning.

She turned from Rowena and moved to the bedside. “What can I do to help, Bethie?” To Lorelei’s relief and surprise, the door clicked closed behind Rowena Hollerfield.

“Bathe her face, my lady,” Bethie said. “I don’t hold out much hope, I’m afraid.”

“At least we can make her comfortable.” Fear threatened to paralyze her, but Lorelei breathed in deeply. “Miss Hollerfield?”

“Rowena,” Corinne panted, delirious.

Bethie handed her the dampened cloth. “I need to check her progress, my lady. Are ye sure you should be ’ere? This ain’t for the likes of ye.”

“Do what you need to, Bethie. I’m not leaving.”

Lorelei dabbed perspiration from her patient’s face. Corinne gazed up at her through pain-fogged eyes.

“You will make my baby a fine aunt,” Corinne whispered. Another pain ripped through her.

Lorelei swallowed back tears, but inevitably some spilled over. The doubts gained root. Was Thorne the child’s father? No. There was something… She couldn’t think clearly, and met Bethie’s eyes.

Bethie murmured quietly to their charge, pressing her palms against Corinne’s protruding stomach. “We gots to take this child, if there’s hope for either of ’em,” Bethie spoke softly.

Lorelei nodded, despite the bile that pinched the inside of her jaw. She breathed small, quick, shallow breaths.

“The babe is turned all which-a-ways,” Bethie said harshly. “We has to turn it.”