The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Fourteen

T

he hunter’s cottage should not be too difficult to locate, if memory served. Edward had joined a fox hunt some twenty years before with the previous earl. Dense woods cooled the air sharply, along with restricting visibility, forcing him to slow his mount to a more sedate pace.

Kimpton had much to account for. Hoarding another man’s wife was… criminal. Perhaps rather than killing Virginia, he would attempt selling her to a pauper, a practice still popular in the lower classes. Alas, that would only complicate matters. He’d still be married to her. He’d just have to kill her. Cruel satisfaction settled over him.

“My lord!”

The feminine cry startled him. Edward pulled up his horse. He squinted into the growing darkness. The slight figure had one hand on a tree. She was bent over at the waist, panting. “Miss Elvins? Whatever are you doing in the middle of the woods, on Kimpton property, of all places?” He dismounted, and the fool girl threw herself into his arms. He set her aside and brushed off his coat. “Miss Elvins, you must remember yourself.”

“Oh, pardon, my lord, but they are bent on rushing me back to London.”

If Edward needed further convincing that Kimpton was hiding his wife, Miss Elvins’s presence cemented any lingering doubt. “I suppose my children are at the cottage?”

“No. No, of course not. Whyever would they be at a cottage?” she said. “They are at the manor house. I barely made my escape through the servants’ entrance.”

He narrowed his eyes on her. She was young, just not as young as he preferred. Her hair was a bit on the unfashionably red side and coming free from its hold. She was a fair bit of muslin. Energetic and a willing partner after her forced initiation, but she was not his equal. Her youthful appeal had already began to fade. “Miss Elvins—”

She grabbed his hand. “I knew you’d come for me, my lord.”

He snatched it away, watching with banal curiosity as the hurt filled her eyes. Inside, he felt nothing. Her convenience had waned. Fortunately, there were plenty more where she came from. Each one younger and fairer than the next.

Her spine straightened, and she stepped away from him. Something hard shifted in her demeanor, forcing a grudge of respect. “You will never find her,” she said.

Like a cobra, he struck fast, with no thought but his own need for an answer. He grabbed her hair and jerked her to his chest. “You forget with whom you speak, my dear.”

She had the audacity to laugh, though her breathless whimper gave away her fear. Still, she taunted him. “Never.”

He thrust her aside, slamming her head into the harsh trunk. She sank to the ground like a pile of soiled linen.

With a snort of disgust, he clambered onto his horse and set off at a swift trot. Dusk had fallen by the time he spotted the old Tudor house. The stone structure before him was larger than he remembered. A rounded tower stood at one end of the L-shaped building, its roof timbers reaching for the heavens. There were easily ten to twelve rooms. Edward grinned. The Kimptons’ ancestors had loved their hunting parties.

In the distance, a horse stomped its foot and snorted. Edward slid from his own mount and secured the reins on a branch, using the trees to cover his presence.

The servants’ entrance was an excellent place to start, he decided. Edging his way to the back of the cottage, he found an unlocked door and tapped lightly, then slipped inside. A brawling cry scorched his ears. Odd, Sarah had said the children were at the main house. And that cry sounded nothing like either of his daughters.

Edward bypassed the stairs leading to the kitchens below and made his way down a darkened hall, alert for any footfall. A second later, he stepped back into the shadows as, indeed, footsteps tripped down the stairs. He peered around a corner.

Mr. Quince stopped to speak to an older woman Edward he recognized as the countess’s lady’s maid. “He’s healthy?” Quince asked.

The white cap atop the woman’s head skewed at her brisk nod. “Got a set of lungs on ’im, he does.” She stood ramrod straight, and that’s when Edward caught sight of the squawking child at her breast. “’Tis all right, little man, we’ll set things to right.” Her brusque tone softened as she addressed the babe.

The steward darted back up the stairs, the woman close on his heels.

Letting out a sharp breath, Edward set a quick pace through the lower floor. A library here, a drawing room there. The morning room, dining room—all eerily quiet but for the sobbing infant’s cries throughout.

He happened on the back staircase and paused. The house had little in the way of help, he decided. The risks were in his favor. He darted up on stealthy feet. Most of the rooms were devoid of light altogether. Just a few uncovered windows that allowed in the waning twilight. No fires or candles burned. A pall of death seemed to hang over the atmosphere. Strange, as the child had clearly survived. Perhaps the mother had perished. He continued through the gloomy hall.

A nearby door creaked. Edward quickly slipped into the closest darkened room and waited. He surveyed the space and realized he’d happened into the sitting room of the occupied chamber. He moved across the small area, and to his greatest luck, that door stood ajar.

Carefully adhering to the dark, he peered in. Surprise jolted through him, followed quickly by cynical satisfaction. So, Kimpton was not as immune to pleasures of the flesh as he let on to the eyes and ears of the beau monde. The old boy still kept his mistress. It was all Edward could do to contain a burst of laughter. Rowena Hollerfield had survived, and nicely so, since their own affair all those years ago. Of course, he knew that she had been Kimpton’s mistress at one time. But to find her here of all places. He barely restrained rubbing his hands together in glee.

Rowena took the hand of a young lady lying abed, rubbing delicate fingers over the hand she held. The girl appeared listless. She had the look of a child. He felt a stirring in his trousers. He tamped it back.

The house echoed with the infant’s cries. The older woman hadn’t yet returned. It was obvious the child belonged to the unconscious girl. So, Rowena had a daughter. But who was the father? She’d had a string of lovers, he was sure. Rowena had been a feisty young lover. Such a fighter. The memory stirred his desire. Perhaps Kimpton—

Edward frowned. Him? Had Rowena kept knowledge of his own child from him? A roiling sensation pricked beneath his skin, stirring a compulsive need for violence. The timing fit.

“Miss Hollerfield?” The steward poked his head in through a door across the room, startling Edward into further cover.

Frustration filled him. Where was his wife?

“Get out, Mr. Quince.” Rowena spoke flatly, her gaze never wavering from the girl on the bed. “Unless you are a wet nurse, prepared to breastfeed an infant, I have no use for you.”

“A wet nurse.” His voice actually gurgled in shock. Edward almost pitied him.

“I said get out.”

“Yes. Of course, Miss Hollerfield.”

The door latched softly on his exit, and tears filled Rowena’s eyes. Still quite lovely eyes. “Corinne, darling, wake up. Your son needs you, I need you.”

Again, the door creased ajar.

“I said get out,” Rowena hissed, without turning.

The elderly woman with the white cap he’d seen downstairs crept in. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Hollerfield,” she said gently. “But I need to check on Miss Hollerfield.”

Rowena leaned her forehead onto the back of the girl’s hand. After a small hesitation, she nodded. “Of course, Bethie. Please, accept my apologies,” she whispered. “I’m very frightened. I’m at a loss as to what to do. It’s an unaccustomed feeling for me, you see.”

Bethie moved to Rowena and squeezed her shoulder. “Mr. Quince took to the village to locate a wet nurse. I had Agnes make ye tea. She’ll have it fer ye in the parlor, ma’am. Don’t worry none, I’ll stay with yer sister.”

Sister.Ha! Edward didn’t believe it for a moment.

Rowena looked up into the woman’s harsh features. If Edward had been a more sentimental man, he might have been moved by her sympathetic kindness. But he wasn’t a sentimental man, and Rowena, though still somewhat beautiful, was nothing now but an overaged courtesan.

“Go,” Bethie ordered gruffly.

Again, Rowena hesitated, then nodded and stood. She placed the girl’s hand beneath the coverlet, kissed her forehead, and slipped out.

Edward followed suit. He did a quick check of the remaining chambers, knowing the search was futile. His wife was not in residence. Not here, at any rate.

Perhaps Rowena could enlighten him as to his wife’s whereabouts. If Kimpton had stashed Virginia nearby, Rowena might know something. He strode down the low-lit hall to the stairs, glancing back at the chamber he’d just passed. If anything, she should prove an interesting diversion. She was a courtesan after all.

Steam rose from the spout of the tea service on the table. But Rowena ignored it, moving to the windows instead. She couldn’t possibly swallow a single drop. The darkness was almost complete. The tops of the trees were barely discernible. What was she to do if Corinne didn’t survive? The thought didn’t bear contemplating. She spanned the warm chamber, her gaze resting on that horrendous painting Corinne insisted Lord Harlowe had painted.

She edged closer and studied the contours of the broad strokes, of how he’d captured the light through the Tower gate. Blinding, actually. It really was quite impressive. She leaned in, drawn to the gate’s latch and the strange symbol. But then, incredibly, she realized something else within the pattern of the gate. He’d painted the eyes of a prisoner peering through the slats. Familiar eyes. Eyes that appeared remarkably similar to Corinne’s. Impossible—

She gasped, a shudder scaling her nape. She turned slowly, wary of another’s sudden presence. He loomed in the arch of the open door, his face hidden in the shadows. A ubiquity of malevolence saturated the room.

“Rowena,” he growled.

At one time she’d believed in the delicious promises that rich, velvet resonance conveyed. How young and naive she’d been, even excusing his raping her. He’d managed to convince her she was irresistible, that he loved her and would take care of her always. But in truth, it was her young body he’d found irresistible. Learning the unholy sickness was in him, and not her, had been a long and difficult lesson.

She hadn’t heard that voice in over eighteen years. Prayed she’d never hear it again. The man was mad. But the images from that day when he’d hit his poor, desolate wife flitted through her mind like it was yesterday. All because the child Miss Hannah had borne was female and not the heir he required. Rowena had cracked the sitting room door and watched, horrified. She’d never seen him in such a fit.

He’d raged at Hannah as she lay still, near unconsciousness. Raving at her. “Two!” he’d screamed. “You dare to give me two stillborn males.” His desperation for an heir had squeezed her heart. Until his raised fist smashed her mistress’s cheek.

Rowena’s stomach dipped. Dear God. The eyes in the painting were Maudsley’s. Why would Harlowe depict them in a work of art? And why such a vile subject matter?

She gripped the familiar cloak of rancor tightly about her and strolled to the tea service. Biting back bile, she poured a cup with trembling fingers. “My, my. Lord Maudsley, what an unpleasant surprise.”

He slithered into the room, into the light.

She took in the cruel twist of his mouth, the deep creases in his face from the indulgent lifestyle he’d never seen fit to modify. He pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it in the air, then caught it. She took a fortifying sip of her tea, but had to force the swallow. “I see time has not been kind to you, my lord.”

He laughed. A deep vibration that reverberated to and from the high ceilings. “As forthright as I recall.” He raked an appraising gaze over her that started at her toes, paused at her bosom, and lingered on her mouth before meeting her eyes. “You hid your sister well, I see.”

Stunned, she blurted, “My sister?” Oh God. He’d seen her with Corinne. A shudder racked her.

His eyes narrowed on her. She shivered again at the depths of such malice. So much at stake.

Up that coin flew. He snatched it from the air like a venomous snake. Then again. “Tell me,” he said, “how is the prostitution business these days? No unexpected… children through the years? Perhaps you’ve”—he leered at her—“missed me.”

Somehow she suppressed a flinch at the direction this horrifying conversation had taken; keeping a cool head was imperative. He believed Corinne was herchild, just as Lady Kimpton believed. “I’d rather be dead,” she said flatly.

“That can be arranged,” he said softly, strolling within touching distance.

She would not be cowed by this bastard. She stood her ground, willed her hands steady.

He lifted a finger, grazing her cheek. “A shame. I must say, time has been extremely kind to you, my dear. Your body doesn’t look as if you suffered through bearing a child.”

The coin pitched up again, but this time she snatched it from the air. Hate infused her; disgust surged through her veins. “True. But must I remind you, Edward? You prefer them… much younger. Remember, darling? Surely you do. How old was I when you first took me—raped me? Oh, yes. Fourteen, I believe.”

His fist landed across the cheek he’d brushed. The dainty cup tumbled from her grip, its contents scalding her fingers. Yet she clung to that coin.

Another violent lash sent her head snapping back.

He caught her up before she slid to the floor. Her eyes squinted against the pain. Yet she welcomed it. Pain scrubbed away the despicability of his touch. The salty copper taste of blood touched her tongue.

“Yes, and it seems you’ve kept a tasty morsel from me all these years. How old is she, Rowena?”

She clamped her swelling lips together, refusing to answer.

“She is mine, is she not?”

A toxic poison infiltrated her veins. An elixir of malevolence and utter loathing. “What of it? She is yet another girl,” she hissed.

“Ah, but she bore a son, did she not?” he said calmly. His hands dug deep into her arms. She was sure to bear the imprint on the morrow. What of it? She strove to drive his madness to the surface. The bruises would fade, but perhaps he would be exposed for the merciless rapist and murderer he was.

Coarse laughter filled the room, hers. She lifted her eyes. Two Maudsleys danced before her. She shut her eyes against the sight. “You!” she bated. “You think you could sire a son? Everyone knows what a failure you are.”

His breath touched her face. The effect was nauseating. “You are a most unwise woman.” His voice was soft, harsh, deadly.

His hand slid along the base of her skull and sunk into her hair as he grasped with all the cruelty she remembered from the past.

His fleshy lips brushed hers. She recoiled, gagged at the bile. “Ah, darling, no one would know if I took Corinne—is that her name? No one would know if I took Corinne in as mine and my long dead wife’s, and claimed her as legitimate.”

“No.” Horror clawed her. “No. no. no. no.” It was the only word she could seem to utter. Large dark spots swarmed her vision. Oh God. He was winning.

He stilled, and an evil light glinted from the four eyes before her. “Perhaps I’ve stumbled upon the truth after all.”

Shove him away.The words sounded like a mantra in her head. She tried lifting her arms, but her limbs refused to obey. She squeezed both fists tightly to hold on to the coin. She couldn’t be certain which hand it lay in. That damned coin would be his downfall, she vowed.

Maudsley jerked her head back and slammed her against the wall.

Voices reached her ears just before the blissful blackness overtook her. A moment too late to save herself and, worse, Corinne. Always a moment too late.

“I don’t know why you insisted on accompanying me.” They were in the country, for heaven’s sake. What on earth could happen, and on their own property? Thorne’s presence within the close confines of the carriage was irritating at best. Mostly because Lorelei wished to bury herself in the safety of his embrace. To stave off the impending sense of doom that suffocated her.

“It’s dark, my dear. I’ll not have a horse throwing a shoe over your pride in keeping me at bay. Besides, we must talk, and this is as good a place as any.”

She turned her gaze out to the moonless sky. “I fail to see what there is to talk about.” He was right, of course.

“For one thing, Lady Maudsley’s children.” His tone seemed bland to her numbed senses.

She jerked her eyes to his. The low-lit lantern gave off a subtle enough glow that showed the seriousness portrayed in his countenance. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Virginia Maudsley’s children. Ladies Cecilia and Irene.”

“I know Ginny’s children are Cecilia and Irene,” she said impatiently, but her impatience was quickly replaced by a sense of dread. “They aren’t hurt, are they?”

He took her hands in his. They were warm, comforting, familiar. “No, they aren’t hurt,” he said quickly. “But they accompanied me to Kimpton.” He said this gently.

For a moment, Lorelei wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. She leaned back against the seat, relief filling her. “So Ginny accepted my invitation after all. Thank God.”

“I’m afraid Lady Maudsley didn’t accompany her daughters.”

Lorelei straightened. “I don’t understand,” she said. “She must have been more ill than I realized. I should have checked on her when Lady Dankworth said she was not well enough to attend tea.” She glanced up. The transformation of Thorne’s expression went from grim to one hewn of stone. Her apprehension soared. “How is it that you ended up with Irene and Cecilia, Thorne? The truth, if you please.”

“I’m afraid Lady Maudsley did not fare so well. Brockway discovered her reply to your invitation, and was… concerned for her. He returned to the house with the girls and their maid within an hour and asked that I escort them here. Place them under your care.”

“But of course.” A long silence followed, and Lorelei swallowed. Unable to force the questions past her closed throat, she stared at their conjoined fingers. Yet she had to know. “Lord Maudsley hurt her, didn’t he?” she whispered. “Dear God. I knew it would come to this.” She raised her eyes to his once more. “Where is Ginny, Thorne?”

“I don’t know where she is.” His mouth formed a grim line she longed to coax into something less stern.

She inhaled deeply, releasing the stream of air slowly. “Leastways the maid was able to accompany them,” she said, tugging her hands from his.

“About that—”

She narrowed her eyes on him. “Yes?”

“I fear Maudsley has been having his way with the maid.”

“Good heavens, the girl is but a child herself,” she breathed, falling back against the seat. “And you learned of this how?”

“Irene and Cecilia told me.” He moved his hands to the top of his knees and shifted awkwardly on his side of the carriage.

There must be much more to this horrendous story if her husband’s apparent discomfort was anything to go by. “And?”

Thorne glanced out the carriage window, pushing his fingers through his hair. “There is the distinct possibility Miss Elvins threatened her charges.”

“Threatened!” She hadn’t expected that. “We must turn back. Right this instant. We can’t possibly leave those girls in her care another moment.”

The grim line of his lips softened into a small smile. “Lorelei, I am not completely daft. The girl is on her way back to London as we speak.”

Lorelei forced herself to take another deep breath. Her corset was unbearably snug. “My lord, perhaps you’d best give me the entire explanation. Starting with Miss Elvins.”

The grimace returned. “Once we entered the house, I had Mrs. Metzger attend Miss Elvins in the kitchen. Once she was out of hearing distance, the girls had plenty to say.”

“I suppose it had something to do with Maudsley’s lack of discretion.”

“Yes. But I fear there was something else.”

“I hesitate to even inquire,” she whispered.

“Yes, and as much as I regret exposing you to such horrific information, I feel you should be informed.” His tone was as dark as the sky outside.

Lorelei could only nod.

“She scared them into silence by threatening to sell them.”

The air rushed from her body. Quite suddenly, she was thankful for her husband’s presence.

The carriage clopped to a stop, and she squinted into the night. There was just enough candlelight spilling from the portico to see Agnes standing in the open door of the cottage. Lorelei looked over at her husband. “You are certain that the girls’ governess—”

“Miss Elvins.”

“That Miss Elvins is on her way back to London?”

“Rest assured, she is nowhere near Lady Maudsley’s children.”

“Who is with the children now?”

“Peg.”

Lorelei nodded, sharply relieved. Peg was a good sort. “I suppose that will suffice for now.” The carriage door swung back. Lorelei accepted Andrews’s outstretched hand and stepped down. Only to see Quince looking decidedly out of place atop a pony cart, most especially with a buxom woman beside him. Her uncombed hair looked as if it was hastily pulled to her nape, her cloak threadbare. “And what have we here, sir?”

Quince hopped down and extended his hand to the woman in question. “May I present Byrn Wells, my lady, my lord?” He cleared his throat. “She is the wet nurse,” he murmured. “She lost her own babe just a few days ago.” Mortification colored his tone.

Lorelei was thankful the evening sky hid his embarrassment from her. He deserved his dignity. “Of course. How thoughtful of you, Quince. I should have thought…” Lorelei swallowed. Blast it, how much more inept could she be?

Agnes hurried out to greet them. “Thank goodness, Lady Kimpton, Lord Kimpton. Come quickly.”

Unexplained fear gripped Lorelei as she moved quickly inside. “Has there been some change?”

“It’s Miss Hollerfield. I found her in the drawing room.”

“The drawing room? Miss Hollerfield should be abed, Agnes.”

Agnes ignored her, running for the parlor. “She’s hurt, madam. Please hurry.”

“I don’t understand. She was in no condition to rise.” Good heavens, the woman had just had a child.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. I only just found her.”

“Lorelei,” Thorne growled. “What is this about?”

“What of the child?” Lorelei asked, momentarily stunned.

“The infant, ma’am? She is upstairs with—”

Her shoulders fell. That was a relief. “See the wet nurse to the babe, Agnes. Quince, Lord Kimpton and I shall check on Miss Hollerfield.” Agnes led Mrs. Wells up the stairs and out of sight.

Lorelei stepped into the parlor. A breeze cooled her face from an open window, but nowhere did Lorelei see Miss Hollerfield. In fact, the room was devoid of anyone.

Thorne was right on her heels. “Lorelei—”

A low, pained groan caught her attention, and she glanced to her left. The only thing she saw was that awful painting Brandon had done of the Tower. Oh, she could see it was special—her brother had a way with lighting that rivaled the masters. It was the subject matter that disturbed her. Enough so that she’d had it sent to this cottage so she would not have to look at it. There was no question of not keeping the silly thing. The fact that it sent chilled pricks over her skin each time she looked at those gates with the strange circular latch revealed its very brilliance. The pained moan sounded again, but weaker this time. Her stomach dropped, as did her gaze, sliding down the wall to the floor. Her words lodged in her throat.

Quince was already moving. “Quickly, over here.”

“Good God, Rowena?” Thorne knelt beside her, touching his fingers to her neck. “She’s alive.” He gently lifted her. Lorelei ran for the settee and cleared it of pillows.

“Get some brandy, Quince,” she commanded. “Miss Hollerfield? It’s Lady Kimpton.” She touched her hand. “Can you hear me?” To Lorelei’s profound relief, Miss Hollerfield squeezed her hand. “Who did this to you, madam?”

“The eyes,” she gasped. Miss Hollerfield’s eyes fluttered. “Harlowe.”

Lorelei started, as that feeling in her stomach sickened. “That’s impossible. Brandon—h-he’s out of the country.” With a shake of her head, Lorelei reined in her panic. “Please, Miss Hollerfield. You must conserve your energy. We can sort out the matter later.” Miss Hollerfield’s urgent, fierce clutch terrified her.

“You must take care of Corinne. I-I beg you.” Her hand tightened on Lorelei’s and cut off her circulation. “You… you must… swear to… me.” Her broken, breathless words tore through Lorelei.

“Of course, but please—”

A breath expelled from Miss Hollerfield’s body, and her fingers loosened.

“Miss Hollerfield?”

Warm fingers closed over Lorelei’s shoulders and gently moved her aside. A ringing buzzed in her ears, spots edged her vision. A second later liquid fire burned down her throat, choking her. Her vision cleared only to blur with tears. “S-she’s gone, isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so, darling,” Thorne said softly. “Come.” He guided her from the room into the library. Only a single candle burned. It was a library bare of books. How odd to notice such a thing. But then nothing would ever be normal again. She was sure of it.

He set her in a nearby chair, then crouched down to meet her gaze. He pressed a glass into her hand. “What did she say, Lorelei?”

“Eyes,” she whispered. “She said to look for the eyes.” Lorelei raised her gaze to his. “What did she mean, Thorne? She said—” Lorelei stopped, certain she couldn’t repeat the rest. She sucked in a deep breath, then forced herself to say, “She said Brandon did this, and to take care of Corinne.”

Thorne frowned. “Who is Corinne?”

“Her daughter.” Lorelei gripped the glass with both hands. “She barely survived childbirth.”

“Daughter? I don’t understand. I was under the impression Ro—Miss Hollerfield was with child.”

The statement startled Lorelei. Of course! She looked at her husband, registered his confusion. Her own shock made it difficult to put the pieces together. “Miss Hollerfield—Rowena Hollerfield,” she said slowly, “was apparently covering for her daughter.” A bright light of hope stirred deep in her chest. “You were unaware of her daughter.”

“I knew of no daughter,” he said grimly.

“My lord?” Quince’s head appeared around the door.

“Go for the magistrate, Quince. Take a lantern. I pray that cart you were on is not your only means of transportation?”

“No, my lord. My horse is in the stable.”

“Best get to it, then.”

A long silence ensued after Quince’s departure. “I-I need to look in on Miss Hollerfield,” Lorelei said. Her fingers shook so badly, she feared she would spill the contents of the glass she held.

“There’s nothing you can do for her, Lorelei. I’ll handle—”

Lorelei tilted her head, confused, before she took his meaning. “T-the other Miss Hollerfield, Thorne. Her name is Corinne.”

Thorne took the glass from her hands and put it to her lips. “Drink,” he instructed gently. “We’ll talk in a bit.”

Lorelei nodded. She was beginning to dread the word “talk.” How did he manage to remain so calm… so strong, when all she could think of was Miss Hollerfield’s dead body, lying less than ten feet away in a nearby room? Her throat clogged, and she couldn’t swallow. Dear God. How was she supposed to tell the girl her mother was dead?

Edward landed deftly on his feet and put a hand to his pounding heart. The night had grown considerably cooler, but the adrenaline pulsing through his veins heated his skin from the inside out. Candlelight and low voices spilled from the window through which he’d just escaped.

Was it true? Could Rowena have absconded with his own flesh and blood? He was too shocked to feel anger. The raw fear in her expression had pricked his instincts like nothing before. If it was true, and Rowena was the girl’s mother and he her father, she’d borne a boy. A boy of his direct blood.

He could scarcely recall the details of Hannah’s death. He reached for his past, trying to recall the details. Had the babe passed? He couldn’t remember. Had he asked? Rowena held the crying child at her breast. Yes. Yes, the cry had been muffled.

After bearing him two dead sons, he’d had no interest when the last child was announced a female. A man required sons. The turmoil was instinctive, roiling through him like water rushing over a broken dam. He’d lashed out, catching Hannah on the cheek with his fist in one solid punch. Horror had struck the old nurse’s face, but what care had he? Hannah deserved what she’d been dealt. It wasn’t like his wife had felt a thing in her listless state. The woman had only sisters. Something he would take under careful consideration after Virginia’s assured demise. She had no brothers either. No siblings whatsoever.

He’d rubbed his throbbing knuckles and shook out his hand, then glanced up and caught the accusations from the exotic eyes of his young lover searing through him. Her screams grew hysterical. Nothing of the loving pupil he’d taken to his bed showed in her stiff, frightened form. “You killed her, you bastard.” Her screams echoed through the chamber. “You killed her.”

“Get your things and get out.” His control had been phenomenal.

She had slammed the door to the sitting room and flung the latch. He’d almost laughed when he heard some piece of furniture being dragged across the floor. His fourteen-year-old lover had a fierce temper. There was no time to deal with her. He doubted her pliability after what she had witnessed; she would be gone by morning.

Days later, in a hazed stupor, Edward saw his wife buried in the family plot and Rowena gone—yes, gone—as he’d demanded. She’d run, and he hadn’t chased her.

If he’d seen fit to find her, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult. There was no need once her life as a high-priced courtesan emerged. He was ensured of her whereabouts. He’d steered clear of her since those days, and never was a word uttered regarding Hannah’s death. No suspicions or accusations of murder had ever surfaced. The gossip would have run rampant.

Edward paused. She’d never said a word.

Rage ignited, and with it a slow burn gripped him by the throat.

Voices sounded over his head, and Edward strained to hear, but all he could make out was Lady Kimpton’s emotional rambling.

“Harlowe.” The name floated into the night sky.

A rumble started in Edward’s chest. He clamped his lips together tightly lest he burst out in laughter. Thank you, Rowena dear. You’ve no idea how you simplified my life.

Edward narrowed his eyes up at the open window again. A panicked Lady Kimpton was calling out Rowena’s name.

She was dead. Kimpton’s voice softened then dissolved altogether.

Another daughter. Yet this one might serve his purpose. There was much to do, and his newest young lover might be just the one to help. Crouching low, he made his way back to his horse.

Thorne assessed his wife’s strained pallor. She looked at him with such anguish, he longed to cradle her in his arms, to shield her from life’s harsh realities. But he hadn’t that luxury.

Thorne took the now empty tumbler from her slightly steadier fingers and set it aside. He looked into those blue eyes, as haunted and dark as the evening sky. “Lorelei, about this Miss Hollerfield… er… Corinne Hollerfield.”

She lowered her lashes. The flickering candle flame reflected unspilled tears. “I know her child is not yours.” Color tinged her cheeks. “I’m appalled at my behavior in having leapt to such an outlandish falsehood.”

“You thought—” Thorne raked a hand through his hair, flummoxed. “You knew Rowena was pregnant, or rather, thought she was? With my child?”

Her head snapped up, and anger flared through the shimmer in her eyes. “What was I supposed to think after Lady Dankworth’s tea? You were seen speaking to her in the middle of a public thoroughfare. Not to mention your own words, ‘She means nothing to me.’ Dear God, Thorne. Coupled with that missive she sent demanding your presence. What other conclusion was I to come to? I’d just learned you’d sent Brandon off, possibly to his death.”

He clamped his jaw shut, determined to hide his annoyance. The audacity of her reading his private correspondence, then believing the worst of him regarding her useless—well, maybe not so useless—brother. Then again, it appeared he had his own explaining to do. He shoved a hand through his hair. What a dreadful comedy of errors he and his wonderful, wonderful wife had fallen into.

The crimson in her cheeks deepened. Yes, she followed his exact train of thought. He cleared his throat. “About your brother—” he started.

She opened her mouth to stay him, but he held up his palm.

“If I may?”

That delectable mouth snapped closed, compressing those plump lips. The sight distracted him momentarily.

With a deep breath, he shook his head and fought his way to the matter at hand. “Your brother—” He waved a hand out, indicating the floor above. “There is strong reason to believe that the child may belong to your brother.”

Lorelei shook her head. “But I distinctly remember Miss Hollerfield saying—” She stopped.

Thorne’s eyes narrowed on his lovely, well-informed wife. “What is it you remember Miss Hollerfield saying, my love?”

“T-that, t-that…” Her stammered words faltered.

He straightened. He could browbeat the truth out of her later. “Never mind,” he said. He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Lorelei.” Alarm swept her expression, and he hastened to reassure her. “Did you hear what I said?”

She lowered herself back into the chair.

“There’s reason to believe Miss Hollerfield’s child was sired by Harlowe.”

Her brows drew together. She regarded him as if he’d just dispensed orders that they were to vacate the country for Russia.

She shook her head. “Did you just say—”

“Pardon, my lord.” Thorne jerked his head up. A nondescript maid stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and somewhat terror-stricken. “T-the m-magistrate is here.”

“Of course he is,” he muttered under his breath. With a forefinger, he lifted Lorelei’s chin, meeting her eyes. “I must tend to the matter of Miss Hollerfield.”

Her exquisite face, still much too pale, nodded mutely. He brushed his lips against hers. “I’ll return as quickly as possible.”

Shock rendered Lorelei immobile as Thorne’s words jumbled and reassembled in her head. A rush of air deflated her body, leaving her lightheaded. Brandon, a father! He’d never said a word. Why? A stab of pain pierced her insides. He hadn’t trusted her. Her own brother. A brother she’d raised from a child to adulthood.

Lorelei rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms. No fire blazed in the grate. Just a single candle burned in the candelabrum, throwing a dancing shadow on the wall. When had she last seen him? Two, maybe three weeks ago, when he brought her the Judas painting? There was nowhere else to hang it besides her chamber. Thorne had never expressed any fondness for Brandon. He would have drawn the line at having that particular picture in the public rooms. It was another brilliant work of craft with another dire subject. What else had her brother failed to share?

Snippets of conversations with Thorne flitted through her head. Every time her husband had opened his mouth to speak of Brandon, she’d cut him to the quick. She winced. There’d been no word from Brandon since she’d learned of his transport, and that was most unlike him. He was a prolific artist, driven by his compulsion to create. Yet she hadn’t received a single letter since learning he was gone.

His last words penetrated her confusion. “Lorelei, you don’t mind, do you? Holding on to some of my paintings?”

It was a strange request, since he’d been sending them to her for safekeeping for years. “If you keep working as hard as you are, my husband will need to purchase another property just to house them,” she’d said dryly. “Of course I don’t mind, Brand, but really, couldn’t you try painting more desirable subjects? I mean, a, er… woman hugging a loved one just before boarding the ship to Dover, making eyes over his shoulder at her lover—” She stopped, embarrassed at the direction she’d taken the conversation.

Her brother’s handsome face had creased into a mischievous grin. “Surely Kimpton appreciates my sense of humor.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” she’d said with an indignant huff.

He’d laughed and dropped a kiss on her brow. “Thank you, darling.”

She’d let out a sigh. “As it is, I do happen to love the one showcasing the young girl in love.”

“Yes, I thought you might.” He’d spoken softly, tenderly. “Au revoir, I must go. I shall see you in a day or two.” Then he’d slipped out the door. Little had she realized those words to one another might be their last.

I thought you might.Her stunned thoughts wrenched her back to the present, and her hands stilled on her arms. Miss Hollerfield? Could it be? Dear Lord. She dashed from the barren library and raced up the stairs.

“Agnes,” Lorelei called out sharply.

“Yes, my lady?”

She looked out over the landing. The maid appeared, drying her hands on a towel. “Inform Andrews to prepare the cart. We shall transport everyone to the main house as soon as possible.” She stepped away then moved back to the landing. “Also, Miss Corinne Hollerfield is to be addressed as Lady Harlowe until we learn differently, is that understood?”

A small smile flitted across Agnes’s waiflike features. “Yes, my lady.” Then she whispered, “Thank you.”

Lorelei moved away from the landing. She may not have proof of Brandon’s marriage to Corinne, but something about Agnes’s response convinced Lorelei she was not wrong in believing her brother had done right by his child’s mother. It was enough for her… for now.

Thorne wanted to shake the man and rush back to Lorelei.

“And ye say ye found her crumpled on the floor like so?” To the magistrate’s credit, his coat was brushed clean and his cravat simply knotted. His large square head overtook his neck, and his mustache was sorely in need of a trim, rendering his lips invisible when he spoke. He stood, and clasped his hands at lower back, studying the small pool of blood on the floor just beneath another of Harlowe’s gruesome works. This one depicted the gate to the Tower.

The painting screamed something, but Thorne had yet to piece it together. Like the others, it contained a large circular scythe that served as a latch for the gate. A blinding sun poured through the slats but for a small area where—Thorne frowned and stepped closer. Eyes. Familiar eyes, but from where? They weren’t Harlowe’s. They peered from the bars, looking out toward freedom, not in toward imprisonment.

“No one heard or saw a thing? Strange,” the magistrate mumbled. “Very strange.”

Thorne forced his attention back to the man. “What will you do with her?” he asked, tipping his head in Rowena’s direction.

His gaze followed Thorne’s to the settee. “Find the next of kin, I s’pose. Someone’s got to pay the expenses. Dying costs money. A shame, that. She looked a lovely piece.”

“Send the bill to me,” Thorne said gruffly. “What about her body?”

“Since yer the one payin’, then s’posin’ it’s up to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“We can have her put on ice, or I can take her to the church… or—”

Thorne cut him off. “The church will suffice.”

The man cleared his throat, and Thorne clearly read his thoughts. Ye uppercrusts are all the same, and yer wife just down the road. “Will do, my lord. I’ll have the vicar get in touch regarding the burial arrangements.”

Thorne froze. Burial arrangements. “Of course. Have the vicar stop by the main house tomorrow.”

“Hadn’t heard of any unusual activity on Kimpton. Have ye?”

“No.” Just Maudsley’s unpleasant visit. Thorne glanced to the open window and strolled over to it. Darkness had settled, and cool air poured in. Odd, that. He ran his fingers over the framework. There, he’d found it. Near the latch was evidence of someone’s hasty exit in the form of splintered wood. “Has there been any in the village?”

“No more than the usual. The overexuberant drunkard, the missin’ dog, and such.”

Another forty-five minutes passed before the magistrate finally made his way out, promising a quick return to remove Rowena. Thorne would prefer that no one witness that scenario. Perhaps he should relocate her to a room near the servant’s entrance.

He started for the library where he’d left Lorelei, dodging the same maid who’d announced the magistrate. He glanced into the room, but the candle was gone, leaving it in complete darkness.

He turned to the maid, who was now tripping up the staircase. “Where is Lady Kimpton?”

She paused halfway up. “Overseeing the packing, my lord.”

“Packing!” Of course she was. No doubt Miss Hollerfield would reside in one of the nicer chambers at Kimpton Hall.

“Aye, sir. She’s readying Miss Hollerfield for transport now.” The girl stood there, wide-eyed, obviously waiting for him to yea or nay the action.

“Where might I find Lady Kimpton, er…?” He stopped, irritated that he couldn’t call the girl by name. He didn’t know it.

“I’m Agnes, my lord. And she’s upstairs with Bethie, seeing to Miss Hollerfield’s comfort.”

“Carry on, Agnes. I’ll find her.” It didn’t take long. Lorelei rounded the corner just as Agnes hurried away. Her perfect hair didn’t look so perfect, as loose tendrils escaped their confines. She was delectable. He caught her by the arms before she could rush by. “Lorelei, do you really think it’s wise to move her?”

Lorelei glanced quickly about. “Keep your voice down,” she commanded. “We cannot possibly leave her here. Not in her current condition. Most especially so now that her mother is… is—”

Thorne pulled her into his arms, touched his lips to her forehead. “Never mind, love. I see your point. How much longer do you need?” Nothing but disaster lay ahead if the magistrate arrived to remove Rowena’s body and the rest of the household were departing at the same time.

“We’ll take what is necessary for now. Andrews and Agnes can return for the remainder tomorrow.” The look she bestowed on him was so grateful, he would have carted the entire house on his own shoulders if need be. “What of Miss Hollerfield’s—”

“I’ll take care of Rowena. The magistrate is due to return any moment. Just keep everyone up here until I return.”

Lorelei backed away out his embrace. “Yes. Yes, of course.” She moved to the open door of a nearby lighted chamber, but turned to him before entering. “Thank you, Thorne,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

Edward lit a lantern he’d retrieved from the cottage stables. He found Sarah several feet from where he’d left her, her red locks hardly discernible in the depths of the woods. If she hadn’t been crying, he might not have located her at all. The gods were smiling on him. Ah, well. Such was his fate.

He lifted the light. “Hello, my dear.” Leaves rustled at her attempt to scramble away. He chuckled.

She tried to stand, but her balance was precarious. She put her hand out for the tree, but it was out of reach, and she tumbled forward. He caught her by the arm.

Her trembling lips made him smile. “Surprisingly, I find myself in need of your assistance,” he whispered against her mouth. He hoisted her over his shoulder and took his horse by the reins.

A little later, keeping his ears open, Edward deposited her near the gates and made his way back to where he’d hidden his horse just inside the trees. His timing was close, as Kimpton’s steward was making his way up the drive. Grinning, Edward plunged his hand in his pocket to finger his lucky coin.

It was gone.