The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Twenty-Four

T

horne, where are you?” She’d never realized before now how much she truly depended on her husband. Not just for the livelihood basics of food, shelter, and such. Now she realized how much he’d protected her from life’s darker side.

No untoward noises reached her from beyond the door. Nathan’s cries had quieted, and it took a moment for the silence to soak in. She gazed down at him, desperately wishing he were her own, but equally thankful that he belonged to Brandon. She tried shoving thoughts of Irene to the back of her mind, avoiding the nefarious plans that blackguard had for that incredible child. That beautiful, beautiful girl. Blinking back tears, she rose, then leaned over Nathan.

“I must find our way out of this dungeon,” she said softly.

His eyes remained closed, and his tiny mouth smacked hungrily on his fist. He’d worn himself out.

With the silence, Lorelei was able to pick out vague household noises. Muffled footsteps, stairs creaking, a door closing. Would the housekeeper assist her? Provided there wasa housekeeper.

She studied the chamber about her. There were no windows. An interior room, then, two possibly. Lorelei moved to the one closed door and peered through. Too dark. She grabbed the candle from the table and pushed open the door. An office of sorts. A desk, a cabinet full of books, stacked papers.

An ounce of guilt plagued her as she rummaged through a pile, but remembering Irene’s peril, she shoved out any further conscience.

There was nothing with Irene’s name, but that didn’t lessen Lorelei’s fear. She flipped through the papers. And stopped. Harlowe. Her heart pounded furiously. What could Maudsley have to do with Brandon? She read through quickly. I’m pleased to inform you that Lord Harlowe is no longer an issue. The words blurred her vision. With shaking knees, she sank into the desk chair and flipped the paper over. There was no recipient listed, or signature indicating who’d penned the note.

Her fingers shook violently. Had Maudsley killed her brother?

She would never believe it. Not until they dragged his broken body before her. But the doubts tore through her, rendering her ability to stand. Would he ever know his child? A hungry child, whose very life rested in her arms. Don’t go down this road. Not without proof. Lorelei raised up and pulled herself together. She folded the offending paper and stuffed it in her pocket. Thorne would need to know. With a deep breath and stoic resolve, she braced herself. Nathan and Corinne needed her, and she intended to be there.

Glancing around again, she spotted another door. Lorelei crept back to check on Nathan. He lay quietly, exhausted slumber having taken over. She went back to the newly discovered room and lifted the candle over her head.

It was a small sleeping chamber. Still, no windows or other means of escape. She moved farther in the room, pulled out a drawer. A noise above startled her—the creak of a chair as someone stood? Sat?

Muffled voices. Definite footsteps.

Lorelei strained to hear. The voices were garbled, but a bit more coherent from this chamber. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Something about Sarah? She shook her head. Sarah had been at the picnic. Lorelei distinctly remembered her sitting across from her, so tense her neck would have snapped if anyone had bellowed unexpectedly.

She resumed her search. Searched the contents of the drawer. Something glinted in the light of the candle. Lorelei reached in and pulled out a bracelet. A child’s bracelet, and beneath that, another note.

Maudsley, as per our verbal agreement.

Lady Cecilia will suffice. The price is not negotiable.

Unsigned.

Cecilia? Yet an image of Irene’s unconscious form in Maudsley’s lap, his large hand smoothing her hair, slammed through Lorelei. “God, don’t let it be true,” she whispered. But her unwieldly nerves spoke otherwise as perspiration dampened her nape and forehead.

She moved her trembling hand to her pocket, and a blast matching the explosion of fireworks from a Covent Garden spectacle roared, shaking the walls. The candle tilted, spilling hot wax over her hand. She screamed, and the candle fell to the floor. She gasped for breath at the pain, eyes stinging, quickly tamping out the flame with her toe.

Nathan’s screams reached her from the outer chamber. Lorelei felt her way back to him by way of the wall in the pitch-black.

“I’m coming, Nathan. I’m coming.” Her whispers trembled. She hit her shin on a hard surface. “Blast it.”

His hiccupped cries led her to him. She lowered herself down before attempting to lift him. The terror of dropping him was outweighed her need to comfort him. There was no one to set him in her arms. It was just the two of them now.

Between Nathan’s gulps of air, Lorelei could make out footsteps pounding a wooden staircase. Helpless tears gave way. “Please, Irene, hide. Hide. Hide.” Somehow she kept from pounding her fists against the door and bellowing the words aloud. Instead, they became a chanted prayer. God, let her get away.

An image of Lorelei’s lifeless body suffocated Thorne. The closer they drew to Maudsley’s, the more excruciating his torment grew. He urged Honor into a run, leaving Brock behind.

Christ, what would he do if she was hurt? He couldn’t think like that. Bethie was on her way. She wouldn’t allow anyone to hurt Lorelei.

“Kimpton,” Brock snapped. “Hold up. We need a stratagem.”

Right.Thorned slowed to a canter. The house was just ahead. Lights blazed from the windows, and his apprehension soared. He pulled back on the reins and stopped. Brock pulled up alongside him.

“One of us should check out the chamber that’s lighted up like Vauxhall. The other should enter from the back.” Brock’s matter-of-fact approach calmed him.

“You go in through the back, I’ll take the bastard’s office.”

Brock’s jaw tightened. No doubt he wanted first crack at doing Maudsley in, but his friend nodded sharply and kicked his horse in the flanks. Thorne waited until Brock reached the back, then he nudged Honor into motion.

Seconds later he dropped to the ground, keeping close to the house. As he neared the blazing windows, Thorne pulled the pistol from his pocket. He edged closer but heard nothing from inside. Outside, however, hooves beat the ground in a steady retreat. He glanced out at the darkness, a futile endeavor. The canter faded away, and Thorne peered in.

He didn’t see anyone. He tried the window. Locked. Devil take it. He lowered his head, and the frame swung out.

“Kimpton?”

“Here, Brock.” Thorne heaved himself up into a cluttered library, landing softly on his feet. “Anything—” The stench hit him with the force of a fist in the nose. “Not again.”

“I’m afraid so. Look. There on the settee.”

Thorne strode over. Bruises mutilated Miss Elvins’s once finely etched features. He touched her neck. “She’s dead.”

“Maudsley?”

“Who else?” Thorne scanned the chamber. Just beyond the desk on the floor, something resembling spilled black ink splattered the wall. Chills skittered down his spine. Blood. His mind attempted to comprehend the sight as his gaze followed the pattern to the upturned chair and Maudsley leaning against the wall, watching him with dead eyes.

“Jesus,” Brock whispered harshly in the silence. “Now what?”

Thorne stood there stunned. Never had the words “deathlike hush” been applied more appropriately. The words reverberated against his temples until a creak from the hall riveted him into action. He cocked his pistol and darted for the door.

“Irene?” Thorne lowered his gun and set it on the desk.

She ran straight for him and buried her head at his waist. He met Brock’s eyes. “Send for the Watch.” Thorne rested his hand on Irene’s head. “Who brought you here, Irene?”

“I-I don’t know. I woke and was in my bed,” she whispered. “What is that smell? Is my mother back?”

Brock pulled the door shut, and Thorne silently thanked him.

He pulled her into the empty hall and went down on one knee. “Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“But—”

Thorne cut her off. “Can you tell us what happened at your tea party this afternoon?”

“I poured tea for everyone. And then we drank it.” Her brows furrowed. “It was too sweet. But I’d never been allowed to pour before, so I drank it anyway so I could pour again. I guess I-I fell asleep.” Tears filled her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Of course not, my dear. But I believe someone may have put something in it to make you sleepy.” Thorne studied her pale features. “Can you not recall anything? Lady Kimpton is not at home. I thought she might have gone with you and Nathan.” A door opened, and Thorne caught sight of Bethie from the corner of his eye.

Irene blinked quickly. “Nathan is gone too?”

“I believe they might be together.”

Irene’s head moved, denying that scenario. “That can’t possibly be. Lady Kimpton is afraid of Nathan.”

Afraid? Lorelei? Of an infant? “You must be mistaken, my lady.”

Bethie moved forward. “’Tis true, yer lordship.”

Thorne came to his feet. “I see. And I suppose there is a reason.”

“Yessir.” She heaved a deep breath. He’d never seen her less militant. She seemed bleak. “I practiced midwifery back in Silverdale, ye see.”

He nodded, but didn’t see at all.

“I took care of Lorelei when she was a child. I was nursemaid to her and Harlowe. She followed me everywhere, she did.” Her hands twisted, and her eyes clouded with sadness. “I was called for an emergency birthin’ one night when her parents were in London durin’ Parliament.”

Unease tingled, raising the hair on his arms.

“She was supposed to be sleepin’. Lady Irene reminds me a bit of… Well, the baby struggled mightily, he did. I handed him off to the nearest body. That was Lorelei. I was tryin’ to save the mama. She had eight other children to raise.”

Thorne wanted to stop her. Irene’s small hand slipped into his.

“Bless her everlovin’ heart. The room went quiet-like. The mama just give out. I looked across the room, and the babe was on Lorelei’s shoulder. He was quiet too. Too quiet. The door crashed back, and the mister came aflyin’ in. In his grief he accused little Lorelei of killin’ his babe. And me of killin’ his wife.”

Thorne swallowed. “How old was she?”

She blinked, and her focus found him. “She was seven. She had horrific nightmares. I didn’t birth no more babes… not till Miss Hollerfield had need. I-I couldn’t turn away. Lady Kimpton wouldn’t have let me, no how.”

No. Lorelei would never have let that happen. Giving himself a mental shake, he looked at Irene. “You don’t remember anything? Nathan crying? Your papa? Anything?”

Her head moved side to side.

He dropped his head back. “Where the devil could someone hide a grown woman and a crying infant?” he directed to the ceiling.

“She might be in the cellar,” Irene suggested shyly.

He froze. “Cellar?”

“Papa has a hidden chamber.” Her cheeks flamed. “He doesn’t know I learned about it.”

“Then how—”

“I heard him telling Rolf. I listened at the door.”

Hope filled Thorne. He forced himself to remain calm. “Do you know where this hidden chamber is located?”

She glanced around then brought her gaze back to his. “Will I be in trouble for telling you? I heard Miss Elvins mention it to him once. He hit her and told her never to tell anyone. Her lip swelled really fat,” she whispered.

“No. You won’t be in trouble. Can you help me?”

The door opened, and Brock walked in. “The Watch will be here soon.”

Thorne nodded. “Irene.”

She spun around and took off down the hall. “Quick, before my papa comes home.”

Thorne went after her.

“It’s below. Far past the kitchens. I once followed Papa and had to hide quickly when he turned around. He would have surely beat me senseless if he’d caught me. We’ll need candles. It’s frightfully dark.” She stopped at a table with storage doors and opened the doors, then pulled out a couple of candles. He took them from her and lit them from the hall sconce and handed one to Brock.

She led the troops down the stairs, far past the kitchens as she’d said, then past the storerooms to what appeared to be Maudsley’s extensive wine cellar.

His hopes dashed as quickly as they’d risen. There wasn’t a door in sight, nor even a place large enough to accommodate a door. A nauseating sink of despair wrenched through him. “Irene?”

She released his hand and stepped tentatively to one specific wine rack. It was set slightly apart from the others. No one spoke in the thick tension. A cry penetrated, oh so faintly.

Irene said, frowning, “I sincerely hope Mrs. Wells accompanied Lady Kimpton. Nathan will be famished.”

“Where is the door, Irene? Quickly now.” He moved alongside her, handing his candle off to Bethie.

“It’s along here somewhere. I’m not sure how it opens—”

Thorne lifted her and set her aside. He ran his hands over the sides of the designated rack. Pushed then pulled. It easily slid forward. The damned thing was on wheels. “Bring the candle closer.” Bless Maudsley’s black soul, he’d left the key in the door. Thorne twisted it—well-oiled. His knees almost buckled with the relief. He pushed the door in. Solid darkness.

Terror gripped his chest in suffocating pain. He couldn’t see a thing. An odor that permeated the air revealed that story. The child was in desperate need of a change. “Lorelei?”

Nathan wailed.

“Thorne?” She blinked from the sudden light. Her hair was mussed, her face splotched. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed in his sorry life.

He rushed in. “Yes, darling, it’s me. Are you hurt?”

“No. No. Thorne, we must find Irene. She’s in danger.”

“I’m here, Lady Kimpton. I’m f-fine. Is Mrs. Wells with you? You should have brought her along.” She stepped forward and took Nathan from her lap. “Nathan is most hungry, I’m afraid.”

“His nappy needs a change. I’ve failed miserably as a mother, I fear.” Her tear-choked laugh was barely audible.

Thorne tipped his wife’s chin up, forcing her gaze to his. “He shall live, Lady Kimpton. You are not nearly as miserable a mother as you believe.”

Lorelei burst into tears.