“Oxford seemed taken with you.”
She eyed his simply tied cravat over the rim of her glass. “He’s looking for a mother for his daughter of ten and nine. I have no desire to step into that role any more than Felicity has for a mother at this stage in her life. Especially one six years her senior.” Maeve’s thoughts went to Nathan, and she clenched her fingers around her glass, stunned by the rush of longing surging through her. “You look quite dashing,” she said, surprised by the urge to push a wayward lock of chestnut hair from his forehead. How could that be? It was a silly inclination. Seeing Nathan was definitely playing havoc with her usually pragmatic sensibilities.
Harlowe let out a long breath she found reassuring, praying her sentiment did not show.
He downed the contents of his glass and set it aside, waiting.
The silence grew taut for reasons that escaped her. To ease the awkwardness, she downed the contents of her cordial and held it out to him.
One brow lifted in mocking amusement as if he read her inner turbulence. He took the glass and handed it off to a nearby footman.
“Where are Lord and Lady Kimpton this evening? It occurs to me I have not seen them since our ride to Oxford’s last evening.”
“Something about the Peachornsbys hosting a musicale or some such nonsense.”
Maeve set her hand upon his outstretched arm, allowing him to lead her to the table. The formality of his dress, his perfect etiquette, his very mien set her ill-at-ease. Harlowe did not strike her as one who followed protocol with such precision. Mayhap Parson had reason for her concern.
Harlowe seated her most properly and inclined his head to the footman. Within minutes they were served their first course of turtle soup. By the time dessert of sugar biscuits and gimblettes de fleurs d'orange atop a large, knotted biscuit was served, Maeve’s nerves were as twisted as her biscuit.
Unable to contain her curiosity another minute, she considered her host from beneath her lashes. What exactly was he after with this dinner of his? She was desperate to let him know how much he was neglecting that very sweet child on the third floor. She opened her mouth—then thought better of it, noting the dark circles under his eyes. Inside, she softened. He’d been through enough. He didn’t her needling him about something that would eventually work itself out. He just required time.
“I wish to speak to you regarding my memoirs. I was not talking in vain when Oxford visited.”
Again Maeve opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but she wasn’t quick enough.
Harlowe sipped at the port that had appeared in front of him. Apparently, in her shock, she’d missed their plates being cleared away. “I feel it might help in recovering some of my memory.”
She swallowed. “Oh.”
“I, uh, am more than willing to assist you with reading through Alymer’s scripts on secret societies and such”—he put up a palm to stay her objection—“just as I also said to Oxford.”
Her chin dropped to her chest as she found herself unsure what to say to this sudden announcement, surprised to find that the idea of spending time with Harlowe appealed. But she’d learned long ago not to depend on any one man, or one’s mother. There was usually an underlying reason. “Thank you, my lord, I’m more than happy to have your help with Alymer’s scripts,” she murmured, frowning. She thought of the scars she’d seen on Harlowe’s wrists, more curious than ever. She wasn’t so sure that writing his memoirs would do much in recovering his memory.
Any scenario involving Oxford and Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer, did not sit well. He caught sight of the disfavor marring her brow. Blast, she was going to turn him down. In a panic, he pushed back his chair. It scraped loudly against wood floor, echoing in the vast almost empty dining hall.
Giving Rory a silent thanks for pushing him physically hard the last week, Harlowe hastened her out of her seat, latching onto her hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
“Where are we going?” she asked in a breathless huff but kept her hand in his and followed him willingly enough, he was pleased to note.
He didn’t slow, tugging her through the doors and to the curving staircase and up. “Third floor.”
“You wish to see Nathan?” She sounded much too… hopeful.
Harlowe had no explanations where his son was concerned. He couldn’t remember his wife. Only snatches of the two of them before the vicar. What if Nathan wasn’t even his? That couldn’t be. He couldn’t bring himself to think of these things now. Plenty of time for that later. “Er, he must be sleeping.” He dragged her up two flights of stairs, shocked at how winded he was, or perhaps not so shocked.
His legs burned, but he didn’t slow, guiding them to the opposite end to that of the nursery. The open forum of the portrait gallery didn’t hold the normal nobleman’s centuries of family portraits. The one wall he paused before showed a variety of paintings, so thick with paint that the artist had managed to leave thin strings from various points within each.
Lady Alymer separated from him and moved before a huge work of Brutus, standing over his traitorous sons, depicted with a large scythe stretched across the neck of one son, and another man holding up a severed head. “Oh my. It’s quite gruesome, isn’t it?” She sounded awed and not ready to succumb to a fit of vapors.
His insides tightened at how remarkable, how refreshing, he found her. Compared to his late wife, whom he couldn’t seem to recall much at all. Had he been trying to forget Corinne? The question bothered him. He shook away the thought.
“Had you seen this depiction before?” he asked her. It was certainly not the sort of art one paraded before a lady, but he had a feeling Maeve Pendleton, Lady Alymer was different. She was not a simpering green girl. Her stature may be tall and willowy, but she gave the impression of someone strong, impenetrable, afighter. She’d seen him at his worst, or almost, hadn’t she? She hadn’t swooned or called for her vinaigrette at the slightest breach of etiquette.
“The subject matter seems familiar but not this particular painting. It’s Brutus, isn’t it? Having his sons put to death.”
“Yes. Lucius Junius Brutus had staged a revolt to overthrow the last king of Rome. Brutus had vowed one man would never again rule over the Roman people, but his brother-in-law and his own sons plotted to restore the monarchy. Their machinations, however, were discovered and they were sentenced to death as traitors. Brutus, in fact, was ordered to witness his sons’ executions.”
She shuddered but did not shy away from the horror of his tale. “What is the significance of the scythe?”
