The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Two

L

orelei woke slowly, eyes heavy, crusted shut with dried tears. The pain in her chest squeezed. An agonizing reminder of the night before and her shattered marriage. She drew in a shuddering breath, suddenly realizing her marriage was likely no different than any other among those of hers and Thorne’s stature.

Pride, however, refused to let her look the other way. The thought of others pointing and snickering behind her back made her skin crawl. Blast that husband of hers. Well, Thorne could have his mistress and choke on her, but he would not have Lorelei!

Again, tears threatened, but she quickly pressed her fingers against her eyes and inhaled deeply through her nose. Dear Lord, she would be unfit for callers. After a long moment, composure steadied, though her head was pounding soundly, Lorelei rang for her maid. That heart-wrenching cry she’d suffered long before sleep had finally, and blissfully, claimed her was all she was willing to give over. Finished. She was finished. Now, she just needed to find Brandon, however one went about finding someone in another country.

Bethie, her no-nonsense maid, swung through the door and whipped back the curtains. The sun crashed against Bethie’s starched white apron, blinding Lorelei. Yes, the sun would shine another day no matter how drastically life changed in the span of one short hour.

Bitterness roiled through her stomach as her gaze landed on the door connecting Thorne’s chamber to hers. She shoved back the regret and, while embracing the resentment, wondered briefly if he’d come home at all, or if she’d sent him straight into the arms of that woman.

Disgusted with the thought, Lorelei refused to take responsibility for his behavior. She’d never—not once had she ever turned her husband away. She’d done as she promised herself upon marrying him: been the most devoted wife; and loved him with her body. Once again, her tears threatened, and she blinked quickly.

A shadow blocked her view. “My lady, your eyes are most puffed this morning,” Bethie said.

Lorelei considered Bethie’s stout countenance, the sharp gaze that missed nothing, grayed hair pulled into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. “Yes. I must be coming down with something.” She covered a delicate cough with her fingers.

“You’ll be wantin’ to stay abed, then.” It wasn’t a question. “Tea should be along shortly.”

Truly, Bethie had missed her calling as commander of her own unit in the war. France would never have stood a chance.

Lorelei smiled in spite of the pain in her head. “No, Bethie. I have much to do today. I shall need to dress.” Arm herself, more like. Not a sound breached the connecting door, forcing her to swallow the large lump blocking her airway. She had to locate someone, find out exactly where Brandon was destined, but had no idea where to begin her search. La! She was scheduled for tea at Lady Dankworth’s later in the week. That woman was a veritable mountain of information. Lorelei expelled the air in her lungs with a sense of mission marching through her. She would pose the question to Lady Dankworth.

A timid knock tapped the door, and Bethie assaulted her duties by snatching a tea tray from Liza, the upstairs housemaid. The poor girl stumbled back as Bethie slammed the door on the girl’s horrified expression, barely missing her toes.

Lorelei winced. “You’re terrifying the help again, Bethie,” she murmured. Bethie appeared not to hear, and set down the tray. Pointless words, regardless. “Thank you.” She rubbed her eyes and pinched her cheeks. It wasn’t much, but it made her feel better. She scooted to the center of the bed, allowing room for Bethie to move the tray next to her. With a sigh, Lorelei poured out her tea. She dipped her spoon in the sugar dish and stilled. An envelope addressed with an unfamiliar scrawl rested beneath the plate of scones. “That will be all for now, Bethie. One half hour, if you please.”

“Very good, my lady.” A diligent soldier, her Bethie, bound by duty.

The latch clicked softly behind her maid, and with trembling fingers, Lorelei picked up the envelope.

Mr. Chubb. He would arrive by ten. She glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle. Two hours. Could she really do it? Install a lock to keep Thorne out? One solid kick, and the door would crash to the ground.

She.

Lorelei swallowed back not just another lump, but also a bitter taste of regret. She clamped her lips tightly together, hardened her resolve. Things with Thorne were forever changed. Eight hundred pounds would go far in retrieving her brother, she vowed, even allowing her to set aside enough to take care of herself should the need arise. And five-hundred pounds was an excellent start.

She was through giving herself to Thorne. And while the law might not share her decision to withhold herself from her lawful husband, she knew deep down that Thorne would never force his himself on her. Installing a lock on the connecting doors was a statement. One that would strike her husband in the heart or, perhaps more appropriately, below the belt—

“My lady?” Bethie’s gray head peered around the door, startling her.

Startled, Lorelei’s tea sloshed over the rim. “Come in, Bethie. Though I feel inclined to mention it is not yet a half hour.”

Thorne lifted his head from the pillow, grunted at the pain, and dropped again, facedown. He vaguely recalled one arm from the club’s attendant and another from Brock, assisting him to bed. He was pretty sure it was not the favored one at home. That elicited a resounding groan. Lorelei was bound to think the worst now. God, what a fool he was. A temperamental, prideful fool. Still, Lorelei had never voiced her undying devotion either. Just opened her body to you whenever you pleased. Well, wasn’t it her duty as his wife? And not once in the past ten years had she initiated their intimacy. Therein lay the crux. Did she lie with him for duty only or something more?

Rising slowly, he gathered his bearings and rang for coffee. He fumbled for his pocket watch on the bedside table. Damnation, it was already past noon. At this rate he would not be home before three. He scrubbed a palm over the scruff of his beard.

Someone knocked. “Sir?”

“Do you have to pound the bloody door?”

“Apologies, sir.”

Thorne waved his hand about. “Coffee, strong. And arrange a bath.”

“Very good, sir.”

Three hours later, Thorne pulled his horse up to his London townhome, head still pounding to an annoying degree. He dropped to the ground, tossed the reins into the hands of a waiting groom, and stopped short. A gentleman, face obscured by his hat, satchel in hand, climbed into a waiting carriage. His cane tapped the ceiling, and the conveyance jerked forward. A whiplash of panic bolted through Thorne.

Thorne broke into a run and burst through the door, surely upsetting Oswald’s normal efficiency. “Lorelei!” His voice rang through the house.

Oswald hurried into the foyer. “Sir?”

“Where is Lady Kimpton?”

“Out, sir.” Oswald’s calm tones grated against Thorne’s last nerve.

“Out?” He pulled up short.

“Yes, sir. Out.”

“Well, who the devil was that leaving? I thought he was a doctor.” Thorne set about gathering his wits and willed away the heat in his face.

“Mr. Chubb, sir.”

“Chubb. Chubb?” How odd. That band about his chest tightened.

“The locksmith, sir.” Oswald’s stoic demeanor gave nothing away.

“The locksmith?” Thorne closed his eyes, forcing himself to remain patient. “Tell me the servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, Oswald.”

“The servants’ entrance had need of a new lock, sir.”

He lifted a brow. “Indeed?”

“No, sir.”

The pounding in Thorne’s head refused to subside. He paced his study, stormed to the windows and looked out. The sight brought nothing new, and he resumed his pacing. Once Lorelei returned, he’d sit her down—no, he’d lay her down. Yes, once Lorelei was home, he’d lay her down. Smother her neck, her jaw, her mouth with kisses, until thoughts regarding any other women were obliterated from her head. His wife was not immune to his kisses. On about the fifth or eighth pass—he’d lost count—he groaned. Rowena’s note. Right where he’d dropped it the night before. He snatched it up, and Rowena’s heavy perfume permeated his nostrils. He darted back to the window and threw it open, then forced himself to do a quick read-through.

What the hell was so important that he had to meet her at dusk? And at her home? Such action was marital suicide, that’s what it was. Good God, if Lorelei got wind of this, he’d be done for, for sure. Disgusted, he stalked to the hearth and tossed the expensive vellum into the fire.

He glanced up at the old English lantern clock. The ornate face with etched Roman numerals showed a quarter past four. If he wasn’t mistaken, Lorelei had accepted the invitation to the Peachornsbys’ bash. And his most proper wife never reneged on an accepted invitation. He settled back on the settee and closed his eyes. Anything to stifle the pounding and his temper.

Later, the creak of the front door opening, then closing, stirred Thorne from a heavy slumber. He blinked slowly, trying to gather his bearings. A shaft of the early evening sun breached the drapes, reminding him he hadn’t seen Lorelei since the night before. Clopping horses pulled away and Thorne dived for the windows. He jerked the drapes apart to see the tail of the Kimpton carriage entering traffic… as dusk fell.

Dusk.

He tore out of the study, taking the stairs two at a time.

Lorelei settled against the plush seat of the Kimpton coach. Bethie scowled at her from across, arms folded beneath her massive bosom. Lorelei plucked off a piece of imaginary lint to avoid her disapproving gaze.

“’Tis madness, I tell ye.”

“Bethie, please, I refuse to discuss the matter further,” she said firmly. Of course, instructing Bethie had never deterred her before and wouldn’t now.

“I never heard the like. Ye’er s’posed to attend Peachornsbys’.”

“And I will. I’m just making a slight detour. You’ll take the carriage home once Andrews lets me off.”

Bethie’s scowl deepened. The effect reminded Lorelei of one of those odd pug-nosed dogs she’d seen Lady Dankworth tugging through Hyde Park of late.

If Lorelei hadn’t been so frightened of what she might learn on this underhanded mission she was on, she might have laughed. But she was frightened. So many things frightened her: the loss of her reputation, if someone happened upon her plans; her husband’s reaction, if he caught her; and most importantly, learning he truly still held the woman’s affections.

Lorelei glanced out the window. The Peachornsby home was just ahead. Steel in her spine, she turned to Bethie with a stern question. “You understand what you are to do?”

“Aye, but I don’t like it.”

“I didn’t ask you if you liked it.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll flag down a hackney,” she huffed. “It’s just not seemly for my lady to be a-ridin’ in such a common way.”

Her maid was a snob! Lorelei bit back a small grin. “Be that as it may, I have my reasons.” She fastened her cloak clear up to her neck, veiling her bronze skirts, and tapped the roof. “Andrews,” she called. “We shall walk from here.” The carriage slowed to a stop.

She alighted before Bethie, no doubt further shocking her military-maid’s delicate sensibilities with the lack of natural ordered precedence. “Go,” she whispered.

Bethie marched down the street like the general Lorelei could depend upon. An earsplitting whistle pierced the air, and she flinched. Seconds later, a badly sprung cab pulled over. Bethie gave the driver their direction in low tones. Lorelei picked up her step.

One whiff of the stench inside and Lorelei whipped through her reticule for her lavender-scented handkerchief.

Lorelei ignored Bethie’s mocking smirk. “You did tell him to drop us two blocks—”

Bethie expelled an exasperated sigh. “My lady,” she said, indignant. “I cannot have you bein’ seen in the vicinity of that harlot’s abode. I gots my own reputation to see to.”

“Bethie, you will mind your place when you speak to me,” Lorelei informed her primly. “I can sack you, you know.”

Bethie shook her head at the fate she appeared resigned to. “Won’t matter none, iffn’ we’re caught. His lordship will see to the sackin’ himself.” But then Bethie straightened her large militant form, her lips forming a firm line.

Relief flooded Lorelei. Ever faithful, Bethie would never fail her. The hackney took several turns that carried over some twenty or thirty minutes. Lorelei was concerned. “Does the driver know where he’s going? I didn’t think it was this far.”

“I had him take us in a roundabout manner, so no one’s to recognize ye,” Bethie returned. “Iffen’ we’re gonna’ do this, then we might as well get it done right-like.” She glanced out the window. “We’re close,” she said softly. “You stick by me, my lady.” The carriage rolled to a slow stop.

Anxiety crawled over Lorelei’s skin like a rash. “Can you see her door from here?”

“Aye, just barely. What is it yer lookin’ for?” Bethie’s eagle-eyed glance never wavered from the window.

Lorelei let out a small cough. “Er… well—”

“Weel, weel, what do ye know?” Bethie’s eyes narrowed on something beyond Lorelei’s vision.

“What is it?” Lorelei leaned closer, her nose touching the glass.

“There.” She pointed, but Lorelei could make out nothing. Darkness was falling quickly.

“It’s his lordship, hurrying like the Watch was after ’im.”

Lorelei’s stomach lurched.

“He’s goin’ up to the door, the cur!”

“Bethie! That is my husband you are speaking about.” Lorelei felt silly defending the “cur” when said “cur” was walking into the house of the most infamous member of the demimonde. Still, it was Lorelei who married to the bastard.

Bethie had the courtesy to appear chagrined. “’e’s gone inside.”

Lorelei drummed gloved fingers on her knee. What should she do? Wait, she decided. If he hadn’t gone there to… to satisfy his lust, then he should be but a moment. After all, he was answering Miss Hollerfield’s summons.

But seconds dragged into minutes, and minutes into… well, surely an hour had passed. And still he hadn’t reappeared. Each passing second was an eon that Lorelei studied the house. And each passing second, she fumed. She was so angry it was a wonder the carriage did not combust.

A light flickered to life in tall windows facing Lorelei and Bethie. A curvaceous woman looked out, then spun around. Lorelei gasped for breath as the woman’s bosom almost spilled from her elegant, low-cut gown.

She swallowed back a lump of tears. Her own bosom barely filled her husband’s hands. She’d never realized how lacking she was until that moment. Shaking the thought from her head, she concentrated on the scene. Something about Miss Hollerfield’s demeanor seemed, well, out of place. Her body was as tense as a violin string. Lorelei narrowed her eyes.

Unable to stand it any longer, Lorelei flipped the latch and lashed out with her foot, sending the door crashing against the outer carriage wall. She hopped down as gracefully as her skirts allowed. “Wait here,” she told Bethie.

“Over my dead body.”

Ignoring Bethie’s grumble, Lorelei strode down the street, past caring if anyone saw her. Besides, the sky was no longer light with the soft gray clouds of early evening, but pitch-black but for a sliver of moon attempting to break through. Only a lamppost offered illumination barely reaching a three-foot perimeter. Her focus was riveted on the woman at the window.

As Lorelei drew closer, she could see the woman raging at someone. Though she couldn’t see whom, she knew it was Thorne—he certainly had the ability to drive a woman mad.

Bethie huffed beside her.

“I told you to wait,” she said furiously.

“Hmph.”

“I am no longer the child you raised, Bethie. I am a woman grown.”

“Aye, and yer actions show how much good sense ye ’tained after all my teachins’.” Bethie was panting heavily now.

Shame clawed Lorelei, and she slowed. “Shush.” If her husband could manage to keep Miss Hollerfield’s attention for just a moment longer, Lorelei could edge alongside the hedges and possibly hear some of their conversation.

To her relief, Bethie obliged her request, for once, shoving wayward tree limbs aside and allowing Lorelei closer access. She could just make out Bethie’s compressed lips, courtesy of the soft glow from the window. Bethie had obviously assessed something of the situation. Good.

Guilt squeezed Lorelei’s chest. Bethie would just as soon chop off his protruding parts if her expression was anything to go by.

“But, darling, you do realize your marriage will never recover?” The presumption in Miss Hollerfield’s tone grated on Lorelei’s last nerve.

“I shall worry about my marriage, darling.” Thorne’s anger carried through the night air, controlled but furious. It warmed Lorelei’s heart. “When is the child expected?”

“Two months.”

Spots dotted the edge of Lorelei’s vision. Child?