The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Six

T

horne clasped Lorelei’s hand. How small, how delicate it seemed. He rested a finger on her wrist and felt for the small throb of her pulse. Her skin, in the glow of the blazing fire from the hearth, was translucent, her flaxen hair plastered to her head.

Fear gripped him. She’d taken a chill and was trembling in a mass of shivers, her skin hot against the back of his hand. The wet cloak and dress he’d stripped her of lay in a heap before the fire. Her no-nonsense lady’s maid barreled in with a basin of cool water.

Thorne cleared space on the bedside table. “Set it here.”

She obeyed quickly enough, but her countenance was most defiant. Confusing, but unimportant at the moment. Thorne ignored her. “A cloth, if you please,” he said softly.

“Aye, my lord.”

The cloth landed in his hand.

He dipped it in the water, wrung it out, then dabbed it along Lorelei’s forehead. Blast it, she was much too warm. “Tell Oswald to send for Dr. Pogue.”

She swooped up Lorelei’s wet clothing and then shut the door softly. “Where on earth were you in this deluge?” He murmured questions and nonsensical words, praying for a flutter of her eyes. Just a flash of her previous fury would ease his mind.

The door opened again. “I brung you some tea, my lord.” Bethie’s tone was grudging at best.

“Thank you, Bethie. Is Lady Maudsley still about? I should see about getting her home.”

“Aye, sir, but I believe Lord Brockway is waiting to see her to her destination.”

“Dr. Pogue?” He dipped the cloth in the water once more and pressed it to Lorelei’s wrists.

“Andrew’s been dispatched to fetch ’im, sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll tend to Lady Kimpton until Pogue arrives.” The door closed again.

Lorelei’s eyes fluttered, and her gaze rested on him, confused. “Thorne?”

“I’m here, darling. You fainted, you fool girl. What on earth possessed you take such risks with your person?” He spoke softly, something inside his chest tightening. “It’s raining torrents.”

“I-I didn’t faint. I’m so c-cold.”

He leaned in and tucked her hands beneath the coverlets, tugging them clear to her neck. He smiled slightly.

Her eyes focused, and tears glittered. Hurt glared out at him. Her eyes closed, shutting him out. With a shiver, she rolled over to face the wall.

“Lorelei,” he whispered. “Darling, you’ve taken a chill. Dr. Pogue is on his way.”

Silence loomed like a hovering cloud before her muffled voice sounded. “Where is Ginny?”

“Brock is seeing to Lady Maudsley.”

Quickly, she rolled back over. “No!” She fumbled with the counterpane, kicking at it. “He mustn’t.” She kicked furiously, stood, and swayed precariously.

Thorne caught her for a second time that evening. “I’m afraid the only place you are going is back to bed.” He gently but firmly tucked her back beneath the covers. Voices filled the hall outside the chamber, then a quick tap came at the door. “Enter.”

Bethie ushered Pogue in and took to lighting more candles. She straightened her ladyship’s dressing table.

Pogue set his black bag into the chair Thorne had vacated.

“I came as quickly as I could, your lordship,” he said, as indeed his panting breaths indicated.

“Your expediency is appreciated. I worry that Lady Kimpton has contracted a chill in this foul weather.” That she would treat her health so carelessly sent a ripple of irritation through him.

Dr. Pogue was a painfully thin individual with a pointed chin and nose to match. His most distinguishing feature, aside from his perpetually red cheeks, were ears that did not lay flat to his head. They rather looked as if he could use them to fly.

“Let us take a look.” Thorne stepped back, allowing the doctor access. “Lady Kimpton, you do appear a tad flushed. If I may?”

Thorne bit back a grin at her short nod. Lady Kimpton was not an easy patient, though not a word passed her compressed lips. Pogue pressed the back of his hand against her forehead.

Her brightened eyes and flushed cheeks, despite the unnatural paleness of her skin, indicated that her body temperature was abnormally high. The doctor confirmed this a minute later. “I recommend a drop or two of laudanum, my lady, and plenty of fluids and rest.”

“I do not wish for laudanum, Dr. Pogue.”

Thorne wandered to the foot of the bed and leaned against the post, annoyed with the interchange. Truly, she was the most stubborn woman.

Pogue frowned, obviously unused to women arguing with such sound recommendations. It mattered not, however, as Lorelei would do as instructed if Thorne had to personally administer her medication.

Thorne glanced over at Bethie. Her lips were compressed into a tight grimace at Lorelei’s rebellion, which sent a rush of relief through him. Her devotion to Lorelei was priceless in his estimation. “I’ll see the good doctor out, Bethie. Bring fresh tea for her ladyship.”

She inclined her head and marched out as Pogue gathered up his satchel of goodies.

Thorne followed him out, leaving the door ajar. He didn’t trust his wife an inch.

Lorelei’s eyes burned from the light of the blazing fire in the hearth. Blast it, she could not be ill. She shoved the covers away despite the lethargic sludge crawling through her veins, and rose. But a dizzying sensation rushed her head, and she fell back against the pillows, black spots filling her vision. There was something, something that dangled, teased her… but for the life of her she couldn’t remember… Something vital.

Squeezing her eyes tight, she forced herself to concentrate. Thorne. Yes, she was angry. With Thorne. He’d put Brandon on a ship for war. Lorelei shook her head, attempted to clear the cobwebs. Then she gasped as the images rushed in. Miss Hollerfield’s. No knocker. Her and Ginny. Sneaking into the woman’s abode. Had she dreamed the entire episode? Her and Ginny’s scandalous visit to that woman’s home? Ginny. No.

Oh, God. Thorne.Dead! The servant at Miss Hollerfield’s had announced such, hadn’t he? Yes, but another image floated before her. Thorne drenched with rain, his storm-gray eyes flashing, his full lips pressed into a grim line. The nonsensical thoughts shifted into a semblance of order. Her husband, definitely not dead. Not hurt. Not ill. Not indisposed. No, just pictures of him pressing a cool cloth to her head. Dr. Pogue’s fingers against her wrist. His recommendation. Laudanum. A strained groan mewed from her chest as things grew more clear. The stubborn determination in his chin, his clipped words.

“Bethie,” she managed to croak out. Her throat was so parched.

“Ah, yer awake. I brung you tea.”

“Yes. Thank you. But quickly, Bethie. There is much to do.” She had to see Ginny. If Maudsley believed Ginny was playing with another man… Lorelei shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Bethie, general that she was, set her mouth grimly and poured. She handed over a cup and put fisted hands at her broad hips.

“Why are you glaring at me so?” Lorelei drank it down, then held the cup out for more. I have to help Ginny. The thought pounded her aching head.

Bethie took her empty cup, filled it again, and handed it over. “Yer ill, and I can see from yer countenance yer plannin’ something foolish.”

The over-warm liquid felt like velvet against the rawness of her throat. Her eyes stung, and yes, she longed to lie back and sleep. But she couldn’t. Someone had to see to Ginny. Lorelei swallowed the entire contents and again held the cup out.

Her dutiful soldier poured, despite her tensed jaw. Lorelei feared the woman’s teeth would shatter. That last cup fortified Lorelei enough to venture dropping her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Ye ain’t well enough to go traipsin’ all over kingdom come and back. Ye need yer rest.”

“Be that as it may, you must help me.” She held out her empty cup.

“Help ye with what?” Bethie’s lips formed a grim line, but she poured the pot’s remainder, only a half cup’s worth.

Lorelei stared down into the cup, wishing she knew anything about reading tea leaves. She tossed the rest back in one sound gulp. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel so… so exsiccated.” The look on Bethie’s face was comical, but somehow Lorelei’s ability to laugh was stagnated.

“Pardon?”

Lorelei closed her eyes. The swell of dizziness overtook her ability to speak sensibly. “Exsiccated… you know.” Her voice resounded an echo in her head. The effort to speak grew intense. How else was she to procure help for Ginny? “Exsiccated… dry…” She was almost whispering. She held up her hand for her tea, but the silly thing had taken on a life of its own and refused to obey. “P-parched.” The blasted cur had snuck the laudanum into her tea. That’s why her tongue stuck to the top of her mouth.

Bethie took the miserly little cup and scurried over. She lifted Lorelei’s legs back onto the bed.

“Ye need yer rest, my lady. His lordship will see to that.”

But Ginny. I need to help Ginny… What was wrong with her?

“How’s our ungrateful patient, Bethie?”

“Stubborn, as always, my lord.”

Lorelei’s panic was swallowed into a blackened world.

After a quick consultation with Pogue that included Bethie, Thorne had bounded down the stairs with a desperate hope that the constable had left some insight. Luck was with him. The man had moved inside, dirty water puddled at his feet. “My apologies for the delay, constable. Thank you for staying. Oswald,” Thorne barked.

“Here, sir,” Oswald said.

“Get the man a tow—”

Oswald held out a towel pinched between index finger and thumb. Thorne snatched it away, shooting his high-and-mighty butler a glare. He handed off the towel as Brock stepped from Thorne’s study—alone. He lifted a brow in a silent question.

A smirk marked his friend’s mouth. “She is preparing her person for the Martindales.’ I’m to escort her.”

Splendid. He hoped Brock had sense enough not to let anyone see.

“I know the risks,” Brock growled under his breath.

Thorne shot a quick glance at the constable. His head was down; Thorne nodded sharply. Maudsley might be the worst lecher in the ton, but it was another thing altogether for his wife. Thorne clamped his jaw tight. Anything said before the constable and the servants could prove disastrous for Lady Maudsley.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord.” The constable shifted his weight and glanced at Oswald and Andrews. “If’n we could speak private-like?”

“We’ll talk in my study, sir. Brock, you might as well come along.” Thorne ignored Oswald’s blank expression that surely masked his inward pain as the constable started forward, shoes squelching with each step.

Brock held back in front of Oswald and bit out, “Do not allow Lady Maudsley to sneak away, Oswald. She’s liable to get herself killed in this foul weather.”

“Very good, sir.”

Thorne leaned in, unable to stop himself. He spoke quietly. “Are you out of your head? Everyone knows Maudsley’s nicked in the knob. The bastard’s a jealous cur.”

“You think me a fool? But of course you do. We can’t send her out unescorted in this weather. I’ll take your rig. Once we arrive, I’ll send for hers with no one the wiser.”

The fool plan might work, and regardless, Brock was right—under no circumstance should Lady Maudsley travel alone in this downpour. And if she failed to attend the party? No telling what Maudsley’s pea brain would conjure up and react to.

“It might work,” Thorne groused. He turned to the constable. “This way, sir.” He led the way into his study. Shutting the door behind them, he turned to his guest. “Well, sir, let’s have it.”

“There’s been a murder.”

Thorne narrowed his eyes on him. Brock stilled beside him. “That so?”

“Aye, sir. At none other than Lord Harlowe’s apartments.”

A surge of red edged his vision. “And did you happen to impart this information to my wife?”

The constable’s inscrutable features scrambled into confusion, then shock, settling into something of a comedy of horror. “No! No, yer lordship. I’d never—”

The blaze of rage slowly ebbed. But his pulse throbbed and the oxygen seemed to fall short of what his brain required to operate efficiently as his hands formed fists that desperately ached to strike…

Brock pushed Thorne aside, clearing the slight fog. “Explain yourself.”

“Lord Lunacy—” He stopped and covered his mouth in an embarrassed cough. “Uh… beggin’ yer pardon, sir, er, uh, Lord Lumsford, ’e’s Lord Harlowe’s neighbor, ye know…”

Thorne gathered his bearings and forced himself to remember that Lorelei was home. Home and safe. “Go on.”

The constable cleared his throat. “The smell was affectin’ the neighbors.”

“Are you saying Lord Harlowe was murdered?”

Thorne shot Brock a quick glance. They both knew Harlowe was not the one who’d put out the pungent odor.

“Well.” The constable scratched his greasy head. The sight made Thorne itch to wash his hands. “We don’t rightly know who the dead bugg—er, dead ’un is.”

Thorne met Brock’s gaze. “When are you likely to know?”

“Well, that’s the thing, mind. We’re needin’ someone to identify the body.”

Oswald’s spoken words drifted softly from the entry hall, followed quickly by Lady Maudsley’s strained laughter. Then her barked orders.

“Hell,” Brock muttered. “She’ll pulverize Oswald to ashes.”

“Go. You take care of her.I’ll take care of this.”

Brock nodded and slipped from the room.

Thorne turned to the constable. “Identify him, you say? Tonight?”

“I’m ’fraid so, yer lordship. ’Twas murder through and through. Stabbed, he were.”

Thorne blew out a breath through pursed lips, relief filling him, a little at least. Lorelei was safely ensconced in her bed, and Lady Maudsley was under Brock’s watchful eye. There was no better time than the present. “Let’s go, then.” Perhaps the cold rain would clear his head. Help him find a way to explain to Lorelei about her missing brother, a dead valet, and her soon-to-be aunt-hood.

On the way to the Martindales’ Masquerade

“I see you were completely prepared to ignore your God-given sense,” Brock said through clenched teeth. He was irritated beyond words. Despite his pointed command, Virginia Ninnis had nearly succeeded in sneaking past him. Sheer luck had played a hand—as they were ushering out the constable, Brock found her standing on the stoop outside, set to hail a hackney. The sodden torrent of rain had slowed her efforts. No hackney would be available in this mess.

With a haughty glare down her adorable nose, she sniffed. “I fail to see where I owe you an explanation of my comings and goings, Lord Brockway. For all I knew, you’d given me up out of sheer boredom.” Her gaze moved to the carriage window.

She was lying through those perfect straight teeth and full lips. He dragged his gaze away from such temptation and rested it on the clenched gloved hands clutching an elaborate silver mask.

Brock leaned back and stretched his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, and folded his arms over his chest. This was one woman strictly off-limits despite his overwhelming desire. He’d lost that battle years ago. He was only there to see her to her destination. Only there to ensure no harm came to her in this god-awful downpour.

“You should have foregone the Martindales’ altogether,” he said.

“Ha! You know as well as I that no one will be missing this party, save Lorelei.” Her voice dripped ice he longed to melt with the stroke of his tongue.

She pressed those full lips into a grim line, leaving the rest of the short journey spent in silence. Damn her! Damn him.To think he’d been fool enough to let her escape him in 1809. Knowing it was his own fault did not soothe his temper in the least.

The carriage slowed, and a sharp tap sounded, startling him. He glanced quickly at his companion. The trace of unease that had passed over her expression disappeared in a blink, and her haughty countenance was restored at once. He’d imagined it. He must have.

The door opened, and the Kimptons’ footman, Andrews, looked in. “The Martindales,’ my lord, my lady. I fear the walk is a bit long,” he said. Indeed, a string of carriages were lined up.

“We’ll wait,” Brock said.

“Very good, sir.”

Lady Maudsley tossed him an imperious glance. “You may wait, my lord. I, however, shall make the traipse in.”

Andrews paused.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Ginny. You cannot possibly walk the distance in this mess. Even with an umbrella you will ruin those flimsy…” he paused, smirking, “yet attractive slippers. Andrews, get closer, if you can.” The door shut with not quite a slam, and the rig shook with the footman’s ascent. Or was that shaking Ginny’s—Lady Maudsley’s—fury. Either way, the coach lurched forward, though a chilled silence ensued for the twenty minutes it took to reach the portico until Ginny grasped Andrews’s outstretched hand, abandoning Brock to his own company.

He watched as Andrews delivered the lofty yet lovely Lady Maudsley to the door. And despite her attempt at confidence, her demeanor was tense. It settled around her like a thick fog. He wondered how no one else could see through her weak guise. Lady Maudsley was not a happily married woman. It worried him, tossed through his mind like a raft on the ocean in a thunderstorm. He smirked at that bit of analogy.

Andrews hurried back and leaned in again. “Sir?”

“Yes. We’ll give it a moment more, Andrews. Once I’ve made my entrance, see to sending for Lady Maudsley’s own conveyance. Afterwards, see yourself home. I’ll manage the rest of my evening.”