The Earl’s Error by Kathy L. Wheeler

Eight

T

horne looped his cravat in a careless knot. In the mirror, he caught Dante’s wince and chuckled. “It shall have to suffice, my man. I’ve no time to spare this morning.”

“But, my lord,” Dante gasped, splaying his hand against his heart. “My reputation.”

“I’m off to meet with Brockway, if my lovely wife should happen to inquire.” Which was most unlikely. Breaking through her stiff resolve was proving more difficult than he’d anticipated. That slight shift of surrender he’d felt from her soft lips had turned to hardened resolve. She was nothing if not stubborn.

Thankfully, she was not quite up to her usual self. He’d love nothing more than spending the day abed, plying her body with techniques he knew would sway her to his will. Ah, well. Not an option. The search for Harlowe was becoming dire.

The man’s disappearance bedeviled Thorne. The notion that he might have pegged his wife’s scoundrel of a brother wrong all this time was troubling. Coupled with Marcus’s death—well, something was definitely afoot. And whatever Harlowe’s faults, Thorne certainly didn’t believe the man capable of murder.

After a hot bath, Lorelei felt completely restored. Well, almost. A yellow muslin, trimmed in ivory satin with a myriad of small bows edging the seams on both sides from the bodice down the length of the frock, went far toward those efforts. The dress was sunshine in and of itself.

“Bethie, send Andrews for the carriage. I shall be attending Lady Dankworth’s tea with Lady Maudsley.”

“Aye, my lady.” Bethie marched from the room.

Less than an hour later, Lorelei found the streets more crowded than usual, making the drive a hindrance. But she knew the gossip that flowed through Lady Dankworth’s would be well worth her efforts in the end. Not only did she have hopes of gaining information about the elusive Miss Hollerfield, but it was the perfect opportunity to find out who she might contact in the Foreign Office regarding Brandon’s location. If he was still alive. She swallowed the sudden lump. Crying wouldn’t help her brother. Or lessen the hurt inflicted by Thorne. Or her body’s own betrayal—

She refused to dwell on the man. On the breadth of his shoulders, on which she’d learned to lean, or the gaze of his gray eyes that never seemed to miss a thing.

But despite her determination, thoughts of his, firm yet soft, sensuous lips intruded. His hot breath on her neck turned her to mush, despite his betrayal. Her treacherous body infuriated her. Even now her lips burned with the taste of him. She clenched a fist, furious with him, with herself. Then she unclenched it and breathed as deeply as her confining corset allowed. She would need all her wits about her for this social outing.

The carriage slowed and shook with the placement of the steps for her exit. The door opened, and Lorelei snatched up her matching bonnet. Once inside the town house, Lorelei stripped off her bonnet, pelisse, and gloves, and handed them over. Patting her hair into place, she followed the butler up the stairs to the parlor.

She’d visited Lady Dankworth many times over the past few years, and never would she get accustomed to this room. Overdone in pinks and roses, there was nothing subtle about the entire display. The settee, the chairs, the drapes, the linings—each and every one were a different shade of pink.

Even the doilies covering the tables were of the palest orchid. Word was the late Lord Dankworth detested the color, and upon his demise… well, one only had to walk into this room to see how Lady Dankworth regarded the late Lord Dankworth. It made one wonder if the rest of the residence patterned the same atrocity. Lorelei had a feeling it did.

Ladies Smythe and Faulk sat near the window, their heads together, whispering animatedly, while Ladies Peachornsby, Martindale, and Alymer were gathered more centrally, giggling amongst themselves. Lorelei’s eyes stayed on Lady Faulk. Her husband was in public life, if Lorelei wasn’t mistaken. It was just a matter of subtlety.

“Ah, Lady Kimpton, how delightful of you to join us.” Lady Dankworth spoke loudly, drawing the other ladies’ attention. Her pink silk skirts rustled softly as she glided across the room to greet Lorelei. “We were uncertain…” A small, awkward pause ensued. Lorelei waited. “Er, you see…” A long hush fell over the chamber.

The hair on Lorelei’s nape lifted. “Uncertain?”

“In light of Lord Kimpton’s… er… foolishness…”

Fury burned through Lorelei, overpowering her dread. But she had come here to learn, hadn’t she? Survival in town required acting skills worthy of Sarah Siddons. “Yes, it’s quite dreadful,” she murmured.

Lady Dankworth patted her hand. “Come, come, Lady Kimpton. Pray join us. Tea with a splash of brandy makes everything better.”

Lorelei had no doubts where that was concerned. If she was to get through the afternoon with these women, she ventured she would need more than just a splash, however.

Lady Dankworth hooked an arm through hers and dragged her toward Lady Peachornsby, who was already pouring out a cup. “Sit, sit, my dear. Lady Dankworth was just telling us how she spotted Lord Kimpton speaking to that awful Miss Hollerfield in the middle of the street just two days past.” She sniffed. “Dreadful woman.”

One thousand pounds, Lorelei chanted silently. Perhaps she would retire to Kimpton for the rest of her two-week prison sentence. The thought held merit.

She accepted the cup from Lady Peachornsby. “Thank you.” She took a healthy sip and choked on the amount of brandy.

Lady Peachornsby pounded her on the back. “Don’t worry, dear. It only burns for a moment.”

Lorelei nodded, blinking back tears. She took a more cautious sip. Truly, it wasn’t so bad in small doses. “Lord Kimpton was seen speaking to Miss Hollerfield?” Surely that wasn’t her voice squeaking like a frightened mouse.

“Perhaps we ought not to speak about it,” Lady Dankworth said.

Lorelei cleared her throat and waved her hand. “Whyever not, Lady Dankworth? Please, feel free.” The words popping from her own mouth gave her pause. She’d never spoken so openly with others.

The elder woman leaned forward, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Well—”

Lorelei took another sip, if only to keep from slapping the glee from her expression.

“I was walking Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles—”

Confused, Lorelei straightened. “Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles?”

“My adorable little pugs.” Offended, she pointed to the corner, where indeed Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles looked up from their elaborately made pink beds, cocking their heads upon hearing their names.

Goodness, they were smart. “Oh, yes. Of course.” Lorelei handled a gulp this time, downing the entire contents. How could she have forgotten Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles. She held out her emptied cup to Lady Peachornsby. “More, please.”

Undaunted, Lady Dankworth went on. “As I was saying, Mr. and Mrs. Wriggles and I were out for our daily jaunt when Miss Hollerfield called out to your husband.” Her long nose wrinkled as if something odious smelled, forcing Lorelei to bite the inside of her cheek to hold back a giggle. “She said she was carrying something, but I failed to hear exactly what it was she was carrying.”

Oh my.Lorelei snatched her cup from Lady Peachornby’s outstretched hand and drained the cup.

“What do you suppose it was, Lady Kimpton?”

Lorelei shook her head. Ha! She knew exactly what it was Miss Hollerfield was carrying. She felt faint.

“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Smythe moved next to her and slipped the emptied cup from her shaking fingers. “You look slightly pale. I’d heard Lord Kimpton sent for Dr. Pogue last night.”

Lorelei inhaled slowly. “Yes, yes. I’m quite all right. It’s true. Dr. Pogue did come to our home. I’m afraid Lord Kimpton believed me at death’s door, as I’d gotten caught in the rain. He panicked, the silly man. Please. Do go on.”

“Yes, well, I fear that’s all I know. Though I’ve since learned that Miss Hollerfield has left town.”

“Left?” Lorelei could hardly squeeze the words past her throat. “Where to, do you suppose?”

“It hardly matters, does it? The important thing is that she’s gone,” Lady Dankworth said.

That much was true, Lorelei supposed. She glanced around at the curious faces, each watching, awaiting some reaction. Someone was missing, but because of her brandy-fuddled brain, she couldn’t remember who. She snapped her fingers as her mind grasped her thought. “Lady Dankworth, have you word from Lady Maudsley? She was to meet me here.”

“Oh, no, dear. She sent word that she, too, was under the weather, having been caught in the rain last night. Though she looked remarkably well at the Martindales’ masquerade, I must say.”

Lorelei’s stomach fluttered with anxiety. “Did she?”

Light laughter rippled through the room, and dread touched her. “It was quite the coincidence,” Lady Martindale piped in. “Lord Brockway followed her in by some fifteen minutes. That man is smitten, I daresay. His eyes never once strayed from her.”

Fear knotted inside Lorelei. This was a deadly turn of talk for Ginny. “Lady Martindale,” Lorelei gasped. “Everyone knows Lady Maudsley would never stray from her… her husband.” She had a sudden urge to see her friend.

Lady Martindale had a kind, genteel face. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a knot at her nape, her wide green eyes sharp. She chuckled. “Of course not, dear. But a married woman does not keep a single, eligible man from being besotted.”

“No,” Lorelei agreed reluctantly. She hesitated a long moment. “And Lord Maudsley? Was he present as well?”

In what would have otherwise been comic unison, all six women frowned at once. Lady Martindale said, “Yes. He was losing heavily in the cardroom, Martindale told me later. I’m certain he was not even aware of when or if Lady Maudsley appeared.”

Lorelei let out a slow, relieved stream of air, a little mollified. It was perfectly sensible that Ginny would have caught a small chill. After all, she did appear at the party, and as Thorne said, most likely no one saw that Ginny and Lord Brockway had arrived together. The Kimpton carriage would have offered some protection.

Lady Alymer sipped daintily from her cup and clinked it on her saucer, the sound reverberating in the hush, drawing sudden attention. Her auburn hair was a shade too red to be fashionable, as were her freckles too prominent to hide with dusting powder. She seemed so unbothered by her unsightly looks, Lorelei couldn’t help admiring her. Her blue eyes flashed with curiosity. “Is it true that Lord Harlowe’s valet was found murdered?”

“How did it go last night?” Thorne dropped into the chair across from Brock, soaking up White’s soothing atmosphere. “Bring another glass,” he told a nearby attendant. A slight hum stirred the air as other gentlemen throughout the club’s plush decor visited quietly.

“Fine. Did you think it wouldn’t?” Brock emptied the contents of his glass. “Maudsley was too far in his cups by the time we’d arrived, and he was none the wiser. How is Lady Kimpton today?”

“Snug in her bed when last I left her.” Thorne could still feel her hot breath, her warm hand on his chest, the depth of his arousal. He couldn’t deny it. He was drowning in a deep, dark hole. Each passing hour felt like the swing of a lowering pendulum’s sharp blade. Her blonde locks tickling his nose, her fragrant skin scented with the softest of roses. He missed her. His own wife.

He shook his head and made a concerted effort to focus. “I’ve been thinking. There is something odd in Harlowe’s one etching. I get the feeling he is into something deep. That perhaps he is hiding information in some of his works. I mean, who paints a political meeting with Fawkes?”

“Unless he is planning on blowing up Carleton House.”

That jerked his head up. “Christ, you don’t think that, do you?”

A small, bitter smile curved his friend’s mouth. “It was a jest.”

“Yes, well. Perhaps we should take another look at Harlowe’s quarters.”

“Excellent idea.”

Thorne rose, but a looming figure blocked him. He lowered back into the leather chair. “Maudsley.”

“Gentlemen.” Maudsley stood there, malice in his eyes, pitching a coin that he never seemed without into the air.

The man’s attire was slightly out of kilter, not quite as pristine as was his norm. His face was gruff and unshaven. He looked as if he’d been carousing all night—that part, not so unusual.

“Lady Kimpton survived the rain, I take it?”

Thorne flexed his hands and cupped his knees, when what he truly preferred was his hands around the man’s neck. The effort to remain calm was difficult. He abhorred his wife’s name coming from Maudsley’s foul mouth. “Pogue looked in on her last night. She’d taken a chill.”

“Ah, so Lady Maudsley implied. She herself is not up to par. A shame, that. Such a lovely day and all.” Maudsley pocketed his guinea and brushed off his coat. “She had a late night. Martindales’ party, you know.”

The tension surrounding Brock was so thick, Thorne could have sliced the air with a knife. “Yes, I believe I did catch sight of her at the Martindales’,” Brock rumbled. “I hope it’s nothing serious. She seemed fine last evening.”

Thorne winced at the thinly veiled threat.

Out came the coin as Maudsley narrowed his eyes on Brock. “I’m certain her customary good health will return within a few days.” Maudsley inclined his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”

Maudsley sauntered away, and Thorne glanced at Brock, his expression indecipherable. Maudsley was a bastard, and Thorne felt for his friend. But one did not interfere in another man’s affairs with his own wife. He made a mental note, however, to ask Lorelei to check in on her friend. “Perhaps we should stick to the problem at hand.”

With a curt nod, Brockway stood. “Harlowe’s, then?”

Twenty minutes later, Thorne jumped the fence to Harlowe’s garden with Brock at his back. He pulled out his handkerchief, prepared for the odor of death, and opened the door.

Nothing had changed since the last time they’d entered. The air was stale, though the stench had almost dissipated since the body’s removal from the night before. He shoved the cloth into his pocket.

In an unspoken agreement, they went up the stairs to the hall and stood between the three rooms.

“You say that Maudsley told Shufflebottom I’d put Harlowe on a boat?” Thorne said.

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps its Maudsley’s abode we should be searching?”

A feral gleam lit Brock’s expression. “Perhaps.”

Thorne wandered through the parlor, then moved to Harlowe’s bedchamber. The violence of destruction was disturbing. He saw nothing that indicated Harlowe had been forced from his home. The bedclothes were strewn haphazardly across the mattress. No indentations indicated anyone had been lying there when the knife had been taken to it. There was no blood. But also, nothing had been left unturned.

The wreckage fit that of rage. Was it rage? Or an orchestration made to look like rage? Thorne studied the scene.

Shirts, breeches, cravats all thrown about. The only thing ripped to shreds was the bed. The drawers from the dressing table were pulled out, contents spilled around the room in chaos, appearing almost… organized.

Thorne withdrew and found Brock in the studio. “I’ve almost convinced myself that this scene is posed for a specific purpose,” he said.

Brock righted an easel and positioned one of the nearby paintings atop it, though the canvas bore rips. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure, but I get the feeling that this destruction is designed to look like anger, when, in fact, it was nothing more than routine.”

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“Look around. To my eyes the whole scene looks more cold-blooded than genuinely angry.”

Brock stepped back and circled slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean. The slices with the knife in these works look deliberately placed, not shredded out of some passionate hatred.” He pointed to the slash that started near one corner, then picked up another painting. “The cut is identical, as if someone went through each one methodically.”

“They must have been in here when Marcus arrived home, then killed him before they departed. My guess is that the culprit or culprits had almost finished their task when he returned. Which has me wondering—did they already know Harlowe wouldn’t be coming back?”

“Interesting indeed,” Brock said.

“Let’s see if there is anything else before we head to Kimpton Manor. Those works that Harlowe has been gifting my wife have me quite curious.”