“Can you be more specific?”
“All right. Do you remember sending me some of your paintings for safekeeping?”
“I sent you paintings?”
“Don’t tease, you awful brother. You’ve been gone a year. I want to know where you were and why you didn’t call.”
How did he tell her he wasn’t joking? He thought back to his childhood. He could remember George Welton and him putting frogs in Lorelei’s bed. He remembered Lorelei taking him and George by the ear to gather them up. He remembered Lorelei administering a sound punishment that took him all of ten hours from start to finish, that George managed to duck out of. He remembered his parents. Their carriage accident. Spixworth Hall. But he couldn’t, for the life of him remember the past year. He breathed through a swell of panic. “How old is Lady Maudsley’s daughter?”
“Nine.”
“Good God. I was on a boat with a nine-year-old girl who does not care for adventure? Who thought I was… dead?”
Lorelei took his hand and squeezed. “I’m afraid so. But thankfully, you’ve both appeared to survive the ordeal.”
“That remains to be seen,” he said on a whisper, still trying to stem a mountain of panic.
One
Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, stole silently up a flight of stairs to the family wing of the Kimpton house while Lady Kimpton was busy giving Lord Harlowe’s nurse the boot. For a caretaker, the woman was as sensitive as a pet fish.
At the top of the stairs, she spotted Andrews, the Kimptons’ very capable footman. But how to get by him? She needn’t have worried. Molly, nursemaid to Harlowe’s heir, Nathaniel, appeared from another flight asking his assistance on something.
“The little blighter’s crawled to the back of the wardrobe and I can’t reach him,” she told Andrews.
Andrews glanced inside the door he was guarding then hurried up the stairs after Molly.
Maeve tiptoed over to the door and glanced in. A large bed shrouded with dark velvet curtains hid its occupant. The chamber was stifling. She tapped at the door.
“Lord Harlowe? I’m Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer. Did I wake you, sir?”
“Air,” he croaked. “I need air.”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Maeve glanced about. The worst she had to fear was embarrassment and being the daughter of Lady Ingleby had taught her that, while such awkwardness could be acutely uncomfortable, one would not perish from it. She strode across the room as if she breached peers’ bedchambers on a regular basis.
She reached the window and unlatched it. It swung back easily, letting in a sharp cool breeze. If anyone could understand the need for air, it was her. Having almost drowned at the age of five gave one specific insight into what it felt like not to be able to breathe.
Startled from a restless sleep, had Harlowe the strength, and could have reached his drinking glass from the bedside table, he would have hurled it across the room. He was wretchedly thirsty. Kimpton had told Lore that he suspected Harlowe had been drugged with laudanum the entire year he’d been missing.
The long-term effects of opium use were excruciating upon withdrawal. At least, for the moment, the bouts of violent retching had subsided. The door opened and, before he could make his brain function, a tall willowy woman with shockingly fire-orange hair appeared. He couldn’t pull his eyes away, and despite the coils of braids on her head, tendrils strained for liberation.
His avenging angel moved like a ghost, arranging the bedcurtains to let a sharp gust of cold air in. This was not his normal dragon, though she somehow appeared the part.
“Is that better, my lord?” Her voice… was smoother than smuggled French brandy.
“Much,” he squeezed out through the rusted confines of his throat. He watched through hooded lids as she moved quietly back around the end of the bed. He couldn’t tear his attention away from that hair. He would swear it would singe the palms of his hand upon touch.
She put a hand to her head, a slight smile curving full lips. “Frightful, isn’t it? Outside of a henna rinse on a regular basis, I’m afraid there’s nothing to do about it, much to my mother’s dismay. And frankly, my hair does serve its purposes in keeping away some of the more determined libertines.”
Harlowe frowned, at least, inside he was frowning. “Libertines?” he scratched out. He didn’t like the sound of that. He flitted his fingers in a small wave for her to approach, his wrist never leaving the top of the coverlet. Unable to resist, he watched her approach from a hooded gaze. He had no notion how long he’d been asleep.
The lady moved to the chair next to the bed where candlelight from the mantel over the grate turned the orange of her hair to wild ginger, showcasing light streaks of gold. “I’m thrilled to see you are not only coherent, but your sense of humor is intact.” That sultry resonance, strong yet soft and low, ignited a deep slow burn he hadn’t experienced in over a year. It was most inconvenient.
He swallowed his groan. “It comes and goes,” he said gruffly. He closed his eyes. “How may I assist you, madam? Is there a reason for this visit?”
“Curiosity,” she said without hesitation.
“I see. Visiting me was more convenient than a carriage ride to Bedlam. Less expensive too, I suspect. Shall I retch in your presence? Scream out in agony for the unending stomach cramps? Will you hold my hand in the middle of the night when I am hit with a bout of insomnia? Perhaps warm me when I’m chilled and shaking from a desperate need of another dose of laudanum?”
