It was then that he realized Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, had never told him who the murdered woman was.
Maeve woke scandalously late the next—rather, that—morning, since she’d scarcely slept at all until a gray dawn broke. “Parson? How could you have let me sleep so long?”
“Lady Kimpton stopped me on my way to breakfast and insisted I not disturb you.”
“I see.” How like Lorelei. “Well, what’s done is done. But going forward, I should like to be dressed by nine so as to check on Lord Harlowe.” Maeve hurried out of bed. “Do you know if his lordship ordered breakfast yet?”
“I believe he slept late as well.” Parson couldn’t quite mask her disapproval.
“Very well,” Maeve said, ignoring her censure. “I’ll dress and check in on him before going to the morning room.” Again, Maeve ignored Parson’s compressed lips and set about her morning—late morning—routine.
A proper lady’s attire took a notoriously amount of time. What, with the tightening of the corset until one couldn’t draw a breath to save one’s life and attacking all the buttons up the back of one’s fashionable frock, and not to mention dressing one’s rebellious hair into absolute submission.
Forty-five minutes passed before Maeve turned the knob next door and, quietly, peered in. A sharp breeze stirred the window’s coverings, which accounted for Rory huddled beneath a heavy blanket in a corner on the far side of the chamber. The large man blinked a couple of times then lumbered to his feet and met her at the door.
“Did Harlowe sleep well the rest of the night?” she asked him.
“Aye, milady. No more cramps. No thrashing about or the like.”
“Excellent, Rory. I’ll have something sent up.” Maeve turned toward the stairs.
“Er, not broth,” he said.
She stopped and faced him. “Pardon me?”
Red crawled up his neck until two bright spots flamed high. “His lordship said no more broth.”
“I… see.” With a sharp nod, Maeve strode to the stairs. She ran into the housekeeper at the base of the staircase. “Mrs. Woods, would you see to a tray for Lord Harlowe. Coddled eggs, dry toast, no jam, and tea, please. I fear he has tired of broth.”
“Of course, my lady. You’ll find Ladies Kimpton and Brockway in the Morning Room.”
On the ground floor, Maeve made her way to the back of the house towards the terrace, suddenly ravenous. The morning room was located just across. Lorelei and Lady Brockway—the previous Lady Maudsley, Ginny— were sitting there. “Good morning, Lorelei. Ginny, it’s wonderful to see you. Forgive my tardiness,” she said in a breathless rush.
“Not at all, my dear,” Lorelei said. She poured out tea and handed it to Maeve. “I understand you had a late night.”
Heat infused Maeve’s face. She concentrated on adjusting her skirts, a helpful endeavor in keeping her eyes averted. “More of an interruption, I assure you. I was soundly sleeping when I heard the commotion. Lord Harlowe suffers from debilitating leg cramps, it appears.” Her tone sounded rational enough and she chanced a furtive glance at her companions. Neither looked too shocked by her announcement, plying her with relief. She was a widow, after all. “Did Irene and Celia accompany you this morning, Ginny?”
“Only Irene. Celia was promised a ride on horseback and declined, most vehemently, to come,” Ginny said. She nibbled on a biscuit then let out a long-winded sigh. “Irene was determined to check on Harlowe. She feels responsible for him.”
At only ten or eleven years of age, Irene had the bearing of an aging dowager duchess, fully stocked with wisdom, knowledge, and serious mien. Irene was the one who had taught Lorelei how to hold an infant without fear. She had also protected her younger sister, Cecilia, from their abusive father, the late Lord Maudsley. To speak with Irene and not know or understand her could unnerve the unnerveable.
“I think Harlowe would like that very much,” Lorelei said.
“It can’t hurt. I think. Physically, he is well on his way to mending.” It was his mental recollection he feared, Maeve believed. He genuinely worried he was mad because he couldn’t recall all the events over the past year.
Lorelei’s eyes shot to Maeve, her expression grave. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes. I have my doubts you’ll be able to keep him abed much longer. I learned this morning he wanted breakfast and, I quote, not adropof broth,” Maeve told her, grinning.
Lorelei responded with a frown. “Is that wise?”
Maeve lifted a shoulder. “He knows better than we what he can handle, my dear. I think it’s a good sign.”
The conversation turned to Brockway’s father, the Duke of Addis and his antics with Celia and Irene. Maeve was thrilled to learn the man was able to draw out Irene’s laughter on more than one occasion. Apparently, she and the duke were currently embroiled on a project that included penning Brock’s memoirs,to his great dismay.
Maeve ate a hearty breakfast of eggs, rashers of bacon, kippers, and toast. She had the notion she would require all her strength and wits about her when it came to dealing with the disturbing Viscount Harlowe.
Five
