Rain pelted the panes, but the blazing fire in the hearth warded off any chill. Shy, quiet Corinne edged in quietly and lowered onto the settee. “I’ve ordered tea, Lord Harlowe. Rowena is, er, entertaining. She should join us presently.”
Irritation rippled through him. Rowena knew this meeting was critical. She was jeopardizing everything. “Anyone I know?”
Two spots of high color dotted her pale skin. She was young, innocent, and represented everything he’d lost—or was about to lose—
“Harlowe, we’re in,” Kimpton’s harsh bark jarred Harlowe.
He hurried to the front and stepped inside. Shockingly, no dust covered the floors, the banister, the tops of the wainscoting. The furniture in the front parlor was uncovered. It looked as if the lady of the house had left for an outing and, but for the missing knocker on the door, would return home any minute by the smell of fresh bread, wafting through the house.Fresh bread.
Footsteps pounded the exquisite floors and a young woman appeared from the back of the house. “See here—” Her eyes stopped on Harlowe, her face went white. “Milord… Master Harlowe.” She gripped one of the spindles of the staircase to steady herself.
She was Rowena’s maid. “Agnes? What’s going on here?”
Tears filled her eyes as she gave a helpless shrug and looked everywhere but at him, at them. “There weren’t nowhere’s to go, milord. The housekeeper—”
“Mrs. Willoby…”
“Yessir, Mrs. Willoby, she left. ’Tis just Mary, Stephen, and me, taking care o’ things.”
The silence mounted in the foyer while Harlowe took this in.
“We ain’t done nothin’ but keep the house up, sir. We sleep below stairs.”
Harlowe moved toward her and she flinched. He touched her shoulder. “Don’t fret, Agnes. We’re here to check things out. You go on back to the kitchens. I’ll speak to you before we leave.” He was shocked to find he remembered Rowena’s and Corinne’s quiet maid. She’d been fiercely loyal. Knowing Mary and Stephen remained to be seen.
With a sharp nod, Agnes hurried out, her steps echoing away.
“Is that wise, Harlowe?” Kimpton asked him.
“If anything, it’s kept out vagrants, at least as far as I can tell.” He moved from the parlor and went up the stairs to a third level where he and Corinne had resided. It consisted of a large bedchamber with an attached dressing room and private sitting room. Images of the quiet, clinging Corinne floated through his memory. Soft words, preceded by unexceptional lovemaking. She’d been an innocent, intimidated by Rowena’s bold confidence. A pang went through him at remembering his inability to be what she’d needed. He rubbed a palm over his chest. He made an effort to shake off what he couldn’t change and concentrated on his surroundings.
The dust here was thick. The bed looked as if it had been hastily made. He stepped over to a vanity and blew at the dust and sneezed. He pulled out a drawer and found only a half used jar of powder. The other drawers were empty but for a few pins with strands of dark hair still attached. He remembered Corinne’s frustration when her thick locks had refused to curl, him teasing her unmercifully, at times driving her to tears. She’d been such a sensitive thing.
His own sister had been tough as nails, taking him and Welton by the ears as children when she’d found frogs in her freshly laundered sheets. Corinne had been nothing like Lorelei.
Smiling sadly at the memory, Harlowe moved to the wardrobe located in the dressing room. Nothing but empty pegs. Not a single scrap of fabric remained. In fact, he thought, surveying the space, the whole apartment had been stripped of anything personal. The staff had probably looted the property the minute they’d learned of Rowena’s death. Or perhaps, Agnes had had to sell what she’d found to feed herself, Mary, and Stephen.
Harlowe left the suite, feeling empty. On the second level, he went through Rowena’s rooms, aware of a whisper of memory teasing the edges of his mind, like tendrils of shredded gossamer. There one moment, gone the next.
Rowena Hollerfield had been a most unusual courtesan. She’d made her own way. She accepted jewels but allowed no man to rule her. She’d been fiercely protective of Corinne, in his vague recollections. She owned her own home—
She’d owned her own home.
Harlowe did a quick search through her rooms, looking for a safe, certain there wasn’t one, but checking anyway. His heart was pounding as he hurried down to the ground level to her study. It was located toward the back of the house. He dashed past the drawing room, the library, the formal dining chamber, to a small, almost closet sized nook behind the grand staircase. He stepped inside where shadowed candlelight danced on walls.
Kimpton reclined behind a large desk that took up most of the space, leafing through a sheaf of papers. “Found some interesting paperwork,” he said. “It appearsyouare the owner of Cavendish House via your marriage to Corinne, via Rowena’s death.” He selected a single sheet that was set off to the side and set it on top. “Your marriage certification.” Kimpton came around the desk and handed the entire stack to Harlowe. “Perhaps they hold some of the answers you are looking for.”
Swallowing hard, Harlowe accepted them with a sharp nod.
Kimpton rubbed his hands together. “Now, about the Martindales…”
Groaning, Harlowe handed off his package to Rory and sent him back to Kimpton House, then made his way to the kitchens to speak with Agnes before departing to fulfill an unspoken promise to Lorelei in making an appearance.
The closer Brock, Kimpton, and Harlowe drew to the Martindales’, the greater the sense of anticipation that thickened Harlowe’s blood. What was the staid Maeve Pendleton wearing? He hadn’t caught sight of her before she left due to Lady Ingleby’s overbearing presence. He wondered if Lady Ingleby was hovering about Maeve now, directing her every move, her every dance, her every word. The thought had a smile tugging at his lips until he remembered Lady Ingleby was the one who had sent Oxford to the Kimptons’ in search of Maeve against Maeve’s explicit instructions.
Once Kimpton, Brock, and Harlowe reached the Martindales’, they left their horses at the mews. Harlowe forewent the front door and being announced. He had no desire in having the entiretonjudging his appearance, leaving that chore to his companions. He stole around the side of the large house to the gardens behind, striding past several couples meandering the path, but the cool air kept the less hardy of those indoors. The gate was open, and globe-encased candles lighted his path to a large stone terrace. In the darkness, his ill-fitted garments were less conspicuous.
Once there, he decided he couldn’t resist peering in an open window, being careful to stay out of the full light, and decided wild horses could not drag him inside. He required a visit with his tailor first.
