The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Two

A

h. Lunch.” Thorne made his way around the small table in the morning room. “I see we have the pleasure of the children’s company today.”

“I hope you don’t mind. The entire household is testy with this relentless rain,” Lorelei said. “It may finally be giving way.”

“It’s only been three days, darling.” Thorne spoke too quickly, he realized, as every female member of his household glared daggers at him.

“You get to ride your horse.” Cecilia’s bottom lip protruded into an adorable pout. “While we are stuck indoors. We can’t even walk to the park.”

“Lady Cecilia, mind your elbows,” Lorelei reprimanded. “Young ladies do not sit like heathens if they wish to dine with adults.”

With a cheeky grin, Cecilia quickly removed her elbows.

“If t-the sun comes out, perhaps we could have a t-tea party in the g-garden.” When had Miss Elvins begun stuttering? Thorne smiled, hoping to ease her discomfort. Instead, her face flamed a dark crimson, clashing greatly with her red hair.

“Oh, could we, Lady Kimpton, er, uh, might we, please?” Cecilia bounced in her chair, arms straight at her side.

Oswald peered around the door with his shiny silver tray. “A note, my lord.”

Thorne grabbed the contents off the tray. “Ah, I am not the only recipient.” He handed off one card to Miss Hollerfield. “This is addressed to you.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She dropped the envelope in her lap. With an inward shrug, Thorne stuffed his own into an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

Shaking his head, he rose from his chair and leaned over to Lorelei. He whispered, “Do not lock the adjoining door, my dear, for I shall break it down. I care not whom I wake in the process.” He dared a swift, hard kiss, dared her to thwart him. Her color heightened, but she otherwise remained composed.

He laughed. “I’m off, ladies. Enjoy your picnic.”

Grinning like a fool all the way to the stables, Thorne made his way to White’s and tipped his hat to everyone in his path. Fifteen minutes later he’d found a quiet corner, still smiling. Nothing could shake this euphoric semblance.

Brock strode up to him.

“You look like hell,” Thorne greeted him.

“You would too if you’d been scouring the streets for a no-good bastard.” He shoved a hand through his hair and dropped into the chair across from Thorne. “Maudsley hasn’t been to any of his usual haunts.”

“When did you start looking?”

“Around two this morning.”

“Ah, well. You should have rested. It would have served you better.” Thorne tipped his head toward the common area.

Brock’s gaze followed his direction, his mouth tightening at the corners. Maudsley’s gloves and cane were gripped in one hand, his knuckles white, his stride singularly direct, straight for Thorne’s once quiet refuge. His expression was murderous.

Brock stood slowly. Thorne followed suit. Maudsley stopped nose to nose with Brock.

His glove flicked across Brock’s face, and just like that, Thorne’s euphoric mood evaporated. Brock didn’t flinch.

“I’ll see you and your seconds at Hampstead Heath. Dawn. I’ll teach you to make off with one’s wife, you bounder.” Spittle flew from his mouth, landing on Brock’s reddened cheek.

He wiped it away. “It will be my pleasure.”

Maudsley turned on his heel and marched out. Thorne watched him go with a sigh. His morning was officially ruined. He and Brock would be settling affairs well into the night. Lorelei was not going to be happy.

Sarah vomited another three times after breakfast. Mostly dry heaves, since she’d only managed crackers washed down with tepid tea in the last three days. Every day, she prayed for more rain because each rainy day was another that she could put off the inevitable. And with each additional day, she grew more sick than the previous one. For three solid days, God had seen fit to answer her prayers.

She went to the window. Alas, her luck had run dry, along with the weather. Her pun was not in the least amusing. She bit her fist, choking back tears.

Now she was down to an hour. One measly hour to ruin the lives of the very people who’d housed her, fed her. What would it matter? No one would believe she had a shred of decency. She’d been such a fool over Maudsley. And after what Irene had told Lord Kimpton, she hadn’t been alone once with Lord Maudsley’s precious brats.

Hopelessness suffocated her. She went to the bed and stood. After a long moment, she fell to her knees and put her palms together. “God, please. I’m only sixteen,” she pleaded. “What am I to do?” The tears fell yet again. She knew what happened to girls like her. They ended up on the streets begging for food, on their backs handing out favors for a pence. And how many others would she bring into the world, with yet another mouth to feed? What choice had she?

There would be no one to take care of her after today. She rose slowly, went to the basin, and rinsed her face.

The plan was in place. In another hour, she would be fifteen pounds richer and her own woman. With a deep breath, she opened the drawer containing her unmentionables, reached into the far back corner, and felt for the small brown bottle. Steeling her spine, her resolve, her eventuality, she stole from the room.

No one looked her way as she made her way down the servants’ stairwell. She paused at the kitchens. Two girls were peeling potatoes for the night’s supper.

Her stomach dipped. Cook was putting the finishing touches on the elaborate set tea service. It was to be a grand tea party. Another pot of tea was next to the tray; Sarah assumed it belonged to the servants. The woman was as broad as a house, and as she fussed about, Sarah’s mettle waned. She took a quiet step back.

“Where are those tarts?” Cook’s voice bellowed, startling Sarah and the two girls. “Damn me. I’ll get ’em myself.” She glared a warning to the potato peelers and stomped from the kitchen to another room behind.

This would be her only chance.Keeping her eye on the two girls across the room, she held the brown bottle at her back and entered the kitchens. “Oh, the tray looks lovely.”

The potato peelers gave one another a smirk and turned their backs to her. Sarah poured half the contents in the beautiful pot and a good portion of the sugar from the servants’ bowl. The rest of the contents of the bottle went into the servants’ tea with the rest of the sugar.

She glided back to the door. “The girls will love their party,” she said softly. She was sorely tempted to rush back up the stairs to her chamber. But there was nothing left in her stomach to expel.

Sarah paused at the library doors that opened out into the gardens. She still held the bottle. She glanced around. The base of a nearby potted plant would suffice. Smoothing her damp palms down her dowdy day dress, she went through the doors.

Unease ate at Thorne. Could this day drag out any longer? Estate planner, steward, banker. So many details and never-ending tasks. Each passing hour set him to wearing down the carpets in Brock’s massive study. The sense of disquiet nagged at him like a sore tooth.

He snatched a piece of parchment from Brock’s desk and penned a short note, bawdy enough to warrant a response. It drew a small laugh from him, loosening some of the tightness in his chest.

“My last dying breath at dawn, and you’re snickering like a school lad.” Brock shook his head.

Thorne tugged the bellpull. “How much longer shall we be?” A servant Thorne didn’t recognize materialized. He thrust the note at the man. “Have someone deliver this to the Kimpton town house on Culcross.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door clicked shut. “Where’s Punkle?” Thorne asked.

“Taking care of Virginia.”

Brock’s grim tone left little room for questions, but Thorne would not be put off. “Is she conscious?”

“Barely.” Brock let out a heavy sigh, leaning back. “She has twenty-four stitches on her head. I don’t think she’s even aware that part of her head has been shaved. She suffered a broken wrist, maybe a rib. Her face is a mess. It’s a wonder she survived.”

It sickened him. “Good God. And the girls saw her like that.”

“She didn’t have stitches yet. The bastard tried to kill her.” Cold steel glazed Brock’s eyes. “And now is my opportunity to kill him.”

Sarah sat so still a bird flew within inches of her feet, pecking at the ground. True, Lady Cecilia was running about and screaming like a banshee, so perhaps the bird was looking for refuge. Its dark-brown head bobbed and jerked, pausing intermittently at the four-year-old’s infuriating shrieks. One more high-pitched squeal, and Sarah would pour the drugged tea down Cecilia’s tiny throat herself.

Lady Kimpton gathered the troops. “Lady Irene, would you care to do the honors?”

The table was set for six. Sara was glad to see Bethie, Lady Kimpton’s terrifying maid, absent. Mrs. Wells held Nathan, while Lady Kimpton and Irene arranged serving plates filled with lemon tarts and biscuits.

Sarah cleared her throat with a small cough. “Um, where is Miss Hollerfield?”

“I’m not certain. She should be down shortly.” Lady Kimpton frowned. “Liza, Lady Cecilia, come. We are ready to begin.” She turned to Lady Irene. “I don’t know what is keeping Miss Hollerfield, but we shan’t wait.”

Panic skittered over Sarah. “But…” She clenched her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to speak calmly. “She would want to be here.”

Lady Kimpton glanced at her, her smile gentle, sympathetic. “Yes. But she has much to occupy her mind. She’ll be along when she is ready.” She turned to Irene. “Ready, dear?”

Irene rose and began pouring out the tea.

“Leave Miss Hollerfield’s cup, dear. It would be impolite to serve her cooled tea,” Lady Kimpton said.

Sarah willed herself from watching the doors for Miss Hollerfield’s arrival. Lord Maudsley had been most specific.

“Delicious,” Lady Cecilia said. “It’s sweet, just like I love.”

Lady Kimpton sipped from her cup and frowned, but refrained from commenting. It would be too impolite. Sarah heard her as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud.

Sarah dropped her eyes, picking up her own cup. What would happen if she followed the others? Could she drink enough to do herself in? If she survived, Maudsley would hunt her down and cut her up into tiny pieces and dump her in the Thames. She didn’t drink. Just pretended, then reached for a biscuit and nibbled. It tasted like dust.

Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the constant chatter migrated to utter and complete silence. Lady Cecilia’s head fell against Liza’s arm, her eyes drooping.

“Goodness,” Lady Kimpton said. “I feel as if I’ve gorged myself and only a short nap will do.” Her laugh fell short.

Proper Lady Irene nodded, smiling.

Sarah’s gaze cut to Mrs. Wells. She was suddenly frightened by the scene. “Might I hold Nathan for you, Mrs. Wells? Just for a moment whilst you enjoy your own tea?”

“Aye, Miss Elvins. I’d much appreciate it. The little scamp grows heavier by the day.”

Sarah jumped up and took the baby from Mrs. Wells. “He’s right sweet, isn’t he?” No one answered. Sarah walked the length of the terrace, the baby’s head on her shoulder. The hush over the garden was eerie. No maids rushed out to assist. Had she killed them all? She turned back to the group. Lady Irene’s head lay on her crossed arms on the table.

“I don’t understand.” Lady Kimpton’s words were slurred. “Why is everyone so tired?”

Sarah was stunned. The contents of the brown bottle were working. Each person’s head was either back against her chair or face down on the table. Lord Maudsley had said they would sleep.

Sarah wanted to turn back the clock. It was too late. Too late to change her plans, her fate. She darted to the gate at the back of the garden. There was nothing she wanted from anyone, anywhere. Only her fifteen pounds. She would hand Nathan to Maudsley’s man, take her money, and run, as far as her new fortune would carry her.

“Miss… Miss… Sarah…” Lady Kimpton’s whispers shattered her heart into a million pieces.

It was too late. Too late. Too late. She ran for the gate. What if the man wasn’t there? What would she do? She didn’t have the resolve to sell Nathan. She would leave him on the ground. When they woke, they would find him. Yes. That’s what she would do. If the man wasn’t there. Please don’t be there.

Nathan whimpered in her arms. “No. Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” she soothed. It came out more as a command. A burst of hysteria roared through her chest. As if one could command a tiny baby not to cry. Tears burned her throat in a bout of irony. She swallowed them back as the gate came into sight. Her fingers fumbled with the latch, but it swung open, and a man with a stubbled chin stood over her. She backed away.

“Bring the child.” Maudsley’s voice barked the order from the coach.

Sarah edged around the hulking brute, and Maudsley reached through the window, scooping Nathan from her arms. “Bring the others.”

Both the brute and another man she recognized from Maudsley’s household carried coverlets and disappeared into the garden. Terror swallowed her. Miss Hollerfield never made it to the picnic. Maudsley would kill her once he realized. The need for her small fortune ceased. Sarah swung around. They were back, each carting a victim. Irene’s small body was obvious, but who was the other? What did it matter now?

If she didn’t ask for the money, he would know something was wrong. She couldn’t get in the carriage. She’d never make it out alive.

The carriage rocked with their ascent. Sarah stood by, unable to move, horrified by the event, speechless. One of the men clamored atop, took up the reins, and snapped them. The horses started forward, and Sarah stared after the moving conveyance.

Maudsley leaned out the window and pitched out a small bag that landed at her feet. The chink of coins echoed against the garden walls. “For your trouble, Miss Elvins.” The carriage turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

In a fog she reached for the bag, then slowly stood. Her walk to the corner was sluggish; dead weight lay where her heart once belonged. Free. She was free. She blinked away the fog and took in her surroundings.

A man leaned against a tree, ankles crossed, burning cheroot dangling from his lips. He was attractive, much more attractive than Maudsley, but dread shot down her limbs, rendering her momentarily immobile. “Good day, Miss Elvins.” His voice was deep and reassuring, his hair shiny and clean.

Goose pimples pricked her skin. She backed away, but he was quick. He snatched her arm in a bruising grip. “My fifteen pounds,” she whispered. “Please, take it. Take it all.” Terror gripped her knees, and they buckled beneath her.

He laughed as if genuinely delighted. “I will indeed,” he said.

He watched her with the warmth of a reptile, but what she saw in his eyes chilled her to her depths. Her life was over. But hadn’t she already realized the same? He crushed his mouth over hers.

The sun settled into dusk. Thorne looked across Brock’s desk. “So all is finally in order now?”

“Yes,” Brock said. “The bulk of my funds, under your direction, is for Ginny and her daughters should the bastard get lucky. But, by God, Kimpton, if she ends up in his hands again, I’ll haunt you to your own grave.”

“You have my word. If you don’t kill him, then I shall. Does that help?”

“Indeed.”

Thorne frowned. “I would have sworn Lorelei could not resist my taunt and would have responded.”

“Perhaps she hasn’t read your message. There was a picnic today, you said.”

Thorne looked out at the darkening sky. “I think perhaps I shall swing home. I’ll meet up with you at the solicitor’s office for any final details.”

Brock straightened the stack of papers and slid them into a carrying brief. “Fine. And that will be the last of it.”

Apprehension tugged at Thorne, and he tore out of Brock’s house. By the time he crossed Mount Street, he’d urged Honor into a full gallop. Nothing justified the hovering sense of doom he couldn’t seem to shake; still, by the time he reached Culross, his trepidation had shifted into a full anxiety attack. Not a single light peered from the house. He slid from Honor, ran up the stoop, and tried the door. Locked. He darted to the side of the house. Deep in his gut, coiled snakes released their venom—the garden gate stood ajar. He crept into the yard, staying in the shadows.

A shaft of moonlight highlighted the center with an odd sort of halo effect. It took Thorne a moment to pick out the details of the silver tea service, the turned over cups on the table and on the ground. Flatware in the grass reflected the moon’s beam.

Mrs. Wells and Liza lay awkwardly slumped over their chairs. Nowhere could he pick out Cecilia, Irene, Miss Hollerfield, or Miss Elvins. A sharp pain pierced his chest. The sensation dipped lower, burning deep, deep within his belly. He glanced back to the open gate. Where was Lorelei?

He rushed over to Liza and placed his fingers on her neck. Her pulse was strong and steady, thank God. He shook her. “Liza!” Her eyes remained closed, but the rumblings of a small groan sounded. He shook her again. “Liza, wake up.”

Nothing. He lifted her from the chair and entered the drawing room from the terrace. He set her in a deep wingback chair, tugged on the bellpull, then ran back out for Mrs. Wells. Her reaction was identical. By the time he’d brought in the wet nurse, Oswald still hadn’t made an appearance.

Thorne lit a candle and hurried to the foyer. Muffled sobs sent an icy stab of fear coursing through him. He lit the sconces and turned to the stairs. “Miss Hollerfield?” he demanded. On the fourth stair up, she sat hunched over. “What the devil is going on here? Is that Cecilia?”

“I-I think she’s dead,” she whimpered.

He lifted the child from Miss Hollerfield’s lap and felt for her pulse. The rush of relief was short-lived. “What happened? Where is Lady Kimpton?”

“I-I don’t know. None of the servants are about. I was late to the picnic, and they were all dead. I carried Lady Cecilia in, but I couldn’t find Irene or Miss Elvins. Or… or Nathan. My baby… my baby is gone.” Her cries rattled the glass in the chandelier.

He took her by the upper arms and shook her hard. Once. “Miss Hollerfield. Listen to me. Are you listening, Miss Hollerfield?”

Eyes glazed with shock stared at him, unblinking. She nodded.

“Lady Cecilia is not dead. She’s been drugged. I found Mrs. Wells and Liza in the garden. They are not dead,” he repeated. “Where’s Oswald?”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she shook her head quietly.

“Why were you late to the party? Where were you?”

“I-I was upset. I read the letter and…”

“Letter? What letter?”

“The letter I received this morning,” she whispered.

“What the devil was in a letter that could upset you so?”

She picked up a crumpled parchment next to her that he hadn’t noticed, and held it out.

Thorne anchored Cecilia against his chest, took the missive with his open hand, and strode to the light.

My dearest Corinne,

If you have this letter, then I know something dire has happened. I would never divulge the information I’m about to impart otherwise. I must ask your forgiveness, first and foremost— for not telling you before now. The truth is, darling, you are not my sister, nor my daughter. You are the surviving child of Edward Ninnis, Earl of Maudsley, and his late wife, Lady Hannah Maudsley.

Lady Maudsley hired me when I was but ten-and-four years of age. I realize now that Maudsley raped and abused me, Corinne. That is my only defense for my egregious actions. For the longest time, I truly believed he loved me. He seemed so sad that did not have a son. Hannah had born two, both stillborn, and he believed she did so purposely.

On the night of your birth, the midwife placed you in my arms, and darling, I fell in love. With you. Lady Maudsley barely survived her ordeal. When Lord Maudsley discovered your gender, he hit his wife. He killed her, Corinne. I saw him.

I was terrified for both you and me. I locked the two of us in the sitting room. Thankfully, he never tried the door.

With the midwife’s invaluable assistance, I was able to hide you. No one suspected a thing. Ever. My dearest child, there is much more, but time is short. I write this note as you fight for your own life, bearing your own child. You must take great care that Maudsley never learns the truth. If he does, dearest, you must run. I’ve left you the house, darling. And all its contents.

Look for me in your dreams, Corinne. You saved my life in more ways than you can possibly know.

Rowena

Thorne raked a hand through his hair. Rowena must have penned this at Kimpton—during Miss Hollerfield’s lying-in. He glanced at the distraught Miss Hollerfield. She looked more like a child than a new mother. “Miss Hollerfield, I beg you to listen carefully.”

She nodded mutely.

“You are safe here with us. I am not certain what is going on, but I have every intention of finding out. Come with me to the parlor. I must leave Lady Cecilia in your capable hands. Do you understand?”

Again, she nodded.

“Liza and Mrs. Wells are there as well. I want you to stay with them in the event that they wake. Celia will likely be terrified. Can you do that for me, Miss Hollerfield?” He spoke gently. “I must locate Oswald and Cook.” Mentioning the need to look for intruders would likely send her screaming in astronomic proportions. He needed her focused.

Thorne guided her to the parlor and lay the sleeping child across her lap. “If she wakes, Miss Hollerfield, I’m depending on you to reassure her.” When she nodded yet again, he strode to the terrace doors and latched them.

Up to now, he’d been able to push Lorelei’s disappearance to the back of his mind. Once he stepped from the parlor into the foyer, her disappearance hit him with the force of a tidal wave. The urge to kill seized his reflexes. He squeezed his hand into a fist. But he required calm and a clear head.

He found Oswald sitting facedown at the servants’ table in the kitchens below. He shook him by the shoulders. “Oswald, man.”

“My lord?”

“Oswald, you must wake.”

“Of course, my lord.” The man shook his head. After a couple of excruciating moments, the fog seemed to weaken. “My apologies, my lord. I don’t quite understand what happened.”

“Think, Oswald. Did Brock’s man make it by with my note for Lady Kimpton?”

“I-I don’t believe so, sir.”

“Do you remember anything at all?”

“No, sir. After the ladies were situated for their picnic, I paused for a spot of tea.”

“Just you?”

“Well, my lord, two of the cook’s assistants were working diligently. I invited them—” He glanced around, then pointed. “My lord?”

Thorne followed his direction. “Christ,” he said under his breath. Both kitchen maids lay sprawled on the floor near the fire.

“If Cook sees those girls—” Oswald broke off, his face beet red.

Thorne jumped up and darted to the servants’ dining hall. Cook and Peg were at the table, heads down on their crossed arms, and shockingly, Bethie, the general, was slowly stirring. He strode back into the kitchen. “Nothing will happen to them. I’ll see to it. I’ll send Andrews—damn, he’s not back. Cook and Peg are at the table. Help me right them. Can you stand?”

Oswald sniffed as if insulted. “Certainly, my lord.” He did, if somewhat slowly.

Together, they lifted the girls and set them at the table. “I’ll see to the others, my lord. I’m terribly sorry, my—”

“Enough, Oswald, this is not your doing. Lady Kimpton was not with the others. Nor was Lady Irene.” Thorne reached for the pot of tea. He looked about for clean cups—then an ominous thought occurred. He lifted the pot’s lid and carefully smelled the contents. Sweet, very sweet tea, masking the distinct odor of laudanum.

“I’m sorry, sir, did you say—”

“Lady Kimpton and Irene were not in the garden where I found Liza and Mrs. Wells. Miss Hollerfield apparently hadn’t yet joined the others. She escaped their fate. We need to search the house, Oswald. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“Lady Kimpton is missing?” Bethie demanded.

“And, Nathan,” he said grimly.