The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Four

L

orelei sank back into the cushions of the carriage. She had never been so angry in all of her twenty-eight years. Not even when Brandon and Baron Welton’s precious heir, George, had the grandiose idea of sneaking eight toads into the freshly laundered linens of her bedchamber. They’d thought their prank fabulous until she took each by an ear, hauling them to the kitchens to assist the laundress for the remainder of the day. Brandon had paid his penance without complaint, but George had dodged his due and skated scot-free.

“I hope you were jesting about shopping for hats. I dare not step from this contraption feeling the way I do.”

“It was the only thing that came to mind on such short notice,” Ginny told her. “That was quite the bomb you dropped this morning. Lord Kimpton’s timing was admirable. One could almost believe him clairvoyant.” She flung out a hand. “Impossible, of course, as everyone knows men have absolutely no intuition. Shall I begin with the most obvious? What makes you think your husband fathered another woman’s child? There is not a woman in town who is not jealous of his devotion to you.”

Lorelei wished desperately to believe Ginny’s words, but too many coincidences disallowed it. The crack in her heart deepened in a sharp spear. “Not so difficult to believe, I suppose,” Lorelei said softly. “After all, I’ve yet to get with child.” Something dark hovered at the edge of her memory. Something so vile, her fingers trembled. She squeezed her hands into fists. “I’m unable to have a child besides.”

Ginny frowned. “What nonsense is this? Never mind. The fact of the matter is your husband adores you.”

“He’s never admitted so.” The bitterness roiled through her.

Ginny clasped her hand. “He treats you kindly, does he not?” Her voice went soft, masking anger fueled by pain. “Would you have someone flatter you with flowery words and gifts in the presence of others, then grab the nearest female walking by? All while smiling and pretending you’ve not seen a thing?”

Lorelei’s heart ached for Ginny, and she squeezed her hands. But Ginny hadn’t heard everything. “How do you know that is not the case?” Lorelei tried drawing in a deep breath, but it was hampered by her corset. She let out a stream of air. In slow, meticulous detail, she confessed Bethie’s and her visit beneath Rowena Hollerfield’s window the previous evening, concluding with that horrific nightmare. “I’m frightened, Ginny. And so furious I can hardly see straight. And if there is a child—I suppose it’s not ‘if’—what chance has a babe to survive with a mother who is a courtesan?”

Sympathy crossed her friend’s expression. Lorelei shut her eyes against the helplessness Ginny conveyed. “Oh, Lorelei. What do you propose to do? Storm Miss Hollerfield’s love nest and challenge her to a duel?”

Lorelei started. Sat up, back straight against the seat. “Of course. That’s perfect,” she breathed.

“What the devil—”

“Don’t you see, Ginny? I shall talk to her myself. I’m his wife. I have a right to… to… make his life hell.”

Ginny fell back against her own seat, hand splayed on her chest. “Oh my—you don’t mean to visit her?”

One thing Lorelei was not was helpless. “I do indeed.”

“But… she’s a… a whore. You cannot take a chance of being seen anywhere near her home. It’s… it’s unconscionable.”

“I won’t go in the dead of night. That’s much too dramatic. Besides, can you imagine the look on Thorne’s face if I were going in as he was coming out?”

Ginny stared at her, her mouth shaped into a perfect O, before her burst of laughter erupted.

The vision of her husband’s horrified expression filled Lorelei, and her own laughter crashed against the walls. The carriage nearly rocked with their uncontrolled spasms.

Lorelei wiped the tears from her eyes. Thorne might have betrayed her, but she had a true friend in Virginia Ninnis.

Ginny pulled a kerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. “We can’t possibly drive up to her house in your husband’s carriage. How do you propose we pull off this caper?”

“What do you mean ‘we’? You can’t possibly go with me. What if Maudsley got wind of our little escapade?”

For a beat of a second, Ginny’s eyes darkened. With fear? Rebellion? “You are not going alone.”

“I’ll come back with Bethie.”

“No.” Ginny chewed her bottom lip with her teeth. “Perhaps we should take tea somewhere and send her a note. Await the answer.”

“And if she doesn’t respond? What then? No. I’ll not give that woman the opportunity to sidestep me. Why, I’ll drive right up to her door. What difference does it make if someone sees the Kimpton carriage? Once I’m inside, all Thorne’s cronies will just assume that it is my husband visiting her.”

“Think about it, Lorelei. Most men would take their horse and stable it.”

“Then perhaps that is what we should do as well. She is quite prosperous, you know. She is situated at Cavendish Square Gardens.” All previous amusement fled. “My husband is spending a very shiny shilling…”

“Surely, he is not paying—”

“That is the normal course of events, I believe. To set the mistress up in lodgings and… who knows what else?”

“Oh, Lorelei, I’m so sorry.” Ginny gripped her hands and squeezed. “If she’s in Cavendish Square—well, that’s just a short walk from most of the shops on Bond Street.” She grimaced. “I hate to say this. We could walk, but most of society would see us.”

“Not if we go during the fashionable hour, late afternoon to early evening,” Lorelei said thoughtfully. “After their turn on Rotten Row, most will return home to prepare for the Martindales’ masquerade if we wait until tomorrow. Perhaps we could disguise ourselves somehow. Afterwards, we could hurry back to Kimpton Manor and dress for the party from there.”

Thorne settled in a large leather chair in a quiet corner of White’s and studied the letter from his solicitor. Rowena hadn’t wasted a moment’s time. She and her maid had departed for Kimpton early that morning. Relief fell over him in an expelled rush of air. He prayed she had enough sense to stay out of sight in Kimpton.

Concentrating his efforts on finding Harlowe might come easier now. In fact, upon further consideration, rumors that the man had boarded a ship heading for war did not even make sense. Thorne had lain awake most of the night contemplating that very thing. No, going to war would not interest his wife’s brother. He was a popinjay, into arts—poetry and painting. To the point of obsession.

“Thought you might be trying to win your wife’s favor. Instead, I find you huddled in a corner, reading, of all things.” Brock threw himself down in the chair across from Thorne.

Thorne scowled. “My plans were usurped by Lady Maudsley.”

Brock lifted a brow.

“The ladies had hat shopping on the agenda. No man can compete with that.” He tossed the missive to Brock. “Read this.”

Brockway scanned quickly and handed it back. “That should be a relief. Rowena’s out of sight. You best hope Lorelei doesn’t learn you sent her to Kimpton, however. What did you find?”

It didn’t bear thinking of. “She is definitely with child, though her skirts hide her pregnancy fairly well.”

“Any idea on Harlowe’s whereabouts?”

“Not a one. No one has seen him in several days, which lends credence to the story that he has vacated town. He is quite regular in his visits to Lorelei. Usually for a meal, with paintings in hand.”

“Word is you dragged him on board and walked away. Frankly, I’m surprised things haven’t been taken a step further, accusing you of throwing him overboard rather than on board.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Thorne growled. “What is it with these witless gossips? My wife would have my head—” He stopped. “You don’t suppose that is what she’s heard as well, do you? The man is a painter—of portraits, still lifes, landscapes. Hell, Lorelei collects every unsold piece of his work. Harlowe brings them to her for safekeeping. The house is inundated with them. And I’ll tell you another thing—there is something deuced strange about them too.” Thorne slapped the letter against his thigh. “Where did this gossip originate? Even I would not venture to send the man to war. He would only get his blasted head blown off.”

“I can help there. Maudsley attended the Eton-Harrow cricket match, proud as you please, tossing that silly coin in the air like he always does, talking to that dandy Shufflebottom. They were set a ways from the crowd.” Brock snorted. “Shufflebottom is a disgrace to the gender. I’m speaking of the outrageous oranges and bright pink waist coats.”

Thorne smirked. “You just happened to be in the vicinity?”

“I… ah… was on the other side of the tree speaking with… er, a lovely young woman.”

Thorne ignored this. It was no concern of his to whom his friend did or did not speak. “What purpose does Maudsley have inventing such a blatant untruth?”

“Good question, but I think the first order of business is finding Harlowe,” Brock said. “His townhouse perhaps?”

Thorne stood. “It’s a start.”

Bachelors’ quarters of moderate means lined Hanley Street. At the third building from the corner, Thorne strode up the walk and pounded on the door. Another flat over and up, an elderly man stuck his head out the window. It looked as if his gnarled hair hadn’t seen a comb in decades. “He ain’t home, you buggers. Told them burley men the same, nearin’ three days ago.”

Thorne froze.

“Three days, you say?” Brock said.

“Are ye deaf, man? That’s wot I said.”

Growling, Thorne turned on a booted heel. “We’ll go in through the garden. I smell a Burley rat. Several of them, in fact.”

They wound their way through the narrow alley that backed up to the lodging. Thorne counted three homes down, and with the help of a stout tree limb, he elevated himself over the wrought-iron fence. Tall grass softened his landing, and Brock was beside him seconds later.

A mutual hush fell; the quiet was ominous. A horrified vision flooded him. One in which he stumbled over Lorelei’s brother’s broken and bloodied body. And his own clumsy rambling explanations, unable to comfort her. He shook away the picture, but it did nothing to the trepidation prickling his skin.

Two steep stairs and they were standing atop the stoop. Thorne twisted the knob. Locked. With his gloved fist, he punched out a corner of the window and found the latch. He pulled back his hand and shook away the glass remnants.

“Christ. The stench.” Rotten food mingled with rotten flesh. Thorne jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth. “Watch where you step. You take the lower level. I’ll head upstairs.”

With a sharp nod, Brock disappeared.

On stealthy steps, Thorne made his way to the upper floor. The first chamber was Harlowe’s bedchamber, and it was in complete disarray. Someone had shredded the feather mattress. Stuffing littered every conceivable surface.

No body, thank God.

A few feathers stirred as he made his way into the visiting parlor. Same story. Overturned tumblers scattered on and around the settee, books ripped from shelves and strewn across the room, padding on the furniture attacked with vengeance. The last room of the small flat was across a common space. Harlowe’s studio, the source of some of the strong offensive smell, one of chemicals. No painting within sight had been spared the jagged edge of a blade. Some jars filled with mysterious liquids had been upended, others broken, their contents puddled on the wood floor. Nothing appeared untouched. Every drawer in a tall chest had been pulled out. Paint in every conceivable color smeared the walls, the door, the drapes, the furniture.

He moved into the room, circling slowly. The violence and the stench of death, was shocking. His eyes burned. He stifled the urge to vomit, blinking hard. He moved to the large windows and glanced out. Had someone seen? No. The view looked out over the garden at the rear of the property.

He started to the door, anxious to escape, but something caught his eye. Behind the chest, he caught sight of the corner of a canvas. He rushed over and tugged it from its hidden alcove.

“Not so lucky, you wily bastards.” Holding his breath, he rolled it up.

“Kimpton!” Brock’s voice bellowed from below, the echo scraping his skin like glass. “I’ve found him.”

Thorne dashed for the stairs, taking them two at a time. God, what would he tell Lorelei?

“It’s not Harlowe. It’s his valet. His name escapes me.”

“Marcus,” Thorne said. “His name was Marcus.”