The widow let out a resigned sigh. “Please do me the courtesy of saying goodbye before you leave.” She bowed her head and left him to his own devices.
After the door latched behind her, Harlowe took a candle over to the wall and lifted it. The partition on which his paintings hung only allowed room for one to hang above the other. He studied the top one. The colors were reminiscent of his mood of late. Various shades of blue with a dark edge. The scene was straight out of the stews of London. A muck-covered road after a harsh rain. Unbroken windows in brick buildings lined both sides of a narrow, grimy street in low light. On the top floor of the structure on the right, he’d painted the outline of a ghostly figure that seemed to blow about in a depicted wind. A chill went through him. He could almost feel the gossamer strands of fingers reaching for him, grasping for a memory that hovered just out of reach.
He took a step back and considered the other work. This one was different. A different medium, a different tone, a different color scheme altogether. It was of Rowena Hollerfield, sitting in a sun-filled garden, surrounded by a variety of blooming botany. Peonies, chrysanthemums, bluebells, hibiscus. Purples, pinks, yellows, blues, and whites. A large hat covered half her face, similar to the work he’d painted of Corinne. There was something that linked not just the two works of Rowena and Corrine, but also the painting that hung just above. But his brain had a disconnect. In the background behind Rowena, he’d worked in a blurry version of another building.
He moved his gaze between the two paintings, and he studied those buildings. They didn’t appear alike in the least. Still there was something. Only he couldn’t put his finger on it. Frustration reeled over him until he was clenching his hand into a fist to keep from pulling his hair out.
He had to step away. Let the art swirl through him. It was the only way.You cannot force the answers. They will come when the time is right, son.Someone had said that to him. Evie Holks? No. Her father. Dr. Holks.
Two buildings. One in the stews. One in the country. Nothing made the least sense. His thoughts went to Maeve.
A miscreant. What the devil was she thinking?
Harlowe couldn’t stand it another minute. He had to see her. He left the chamber, cursing himself for promising his farewells to the widow. The chatter in the hall had quieted, though he could hear that a good portion had migrated up the stairs.
He strolled toward the main salon, back the way he’d come. Voices drifted softly from one of the alcoves. Three words brought him to a halt.
“No, my dear. The Athenaeum Order.”
Every nerve ending Harlowe possessed went on alert. The hair on his body stood on end, his skin prickled. His head pounded with a desire so thick for opium, he fell against the closest wall for balance. If he let go, he would crumble to the floor in a heap. He grasped his skull and slid down.
“You sloshed, Harlowe?”
The slurred voice came through a long, mountainous tunnel.
He was grasped by his cravat and hauled to his feet and found himself face to face with Dorset who somehow was managing to stand on his own feet. “The coat of harms ain’t worthy of you.”
“Harms?”
The man made no sense. “What? Oh, arms. Brother. Bah. I’ll get you a drink.” Dorset deposited him into the closest alcove and disappeared to some unseen bar.
Thank God it was deserted. He fell back against the cushioned bench and inhaled deeply to steady his shaking hands.The Athenaeum Order. A group of debauched nobles who had no regard but for their own perverted desires. But what did heknowabout it? Harlowe closed his eyes. Dark, cold halls. The dank raw sewage of the Thames. The cries of hundreds… hundreds of what? Of whom?Who was looking out of the windows?Children. Dirty children. Boy and girls, of all ages…
He felt nauseous. Had he been a part of the depravity?
Harlowe stumbled to his feet and, on quiet steps, made his way back to the museum. Back to his own paintings.
The top one. The one of the stews. He could almost smell the horrors. Children. Children who would not be missed. Miscreant.
Maeve.
Maeve sat at Rowena Hollerfield’s desk and tugged at the drawstrings of the velvet bag Agnes had given her. She took Rowena’s diary out and began reading.
3 March 1798: Dearest Corinne, there are things I must tell you… You aren’t my sister. I stole you after Maudsley killed your mother. You were less than an hour for this world. I feared he would do the same to you. So I took you and I ran…
12 October 1798: Corinne deserves more than spreading her legs for the highest bidder, and I vow, she shall have so. Lord Maudsley shall pay for killing Lady Hannah if it’s the last thing I ever do. I vow this to you, my sweet Corinne. I cannot say when, but know this, Maudsley is a dead man. All those years with barely enough blunt to warm our cold toes. Never will you have to sell yourself. Never.
Maeve skimmed through pages of notes. Long stretches between dates. The journal was clearly intended for Corinne. A map to explain the girl’s life. There was a long period when Rowena had sent Corinne off to school. Maeve marveled at how Rowena had managed to keep from staining Corinne’s reputation with her own. One could not help but admire such fortitude.
5 April 1815: I had an interesting call today, my dear. A young viscount. Poor as he may be, your marrying him will suit me fine. He is of your class, my dear, just as I’d promised.
14 June 1816: The young viscount is not taking my hints, blast it. And they are blatant, I assure you. He is not turning out to be quite as malleable as I’d hoped. I shall have to try another, more sustainable tactic. I, however, am never without my wits.
10 September 1817: Oh dear, child. I cannot seem to wrap my head around the disarray my plans are falling into. It appears the viscount is in love with me. This will never do. It will never do at all and calls for drastic measures, Corinne. You shall have a husband of your station.
15 November 1817: How fortuitous fate is, my dear. Your husband can never escape now. I feel as if I can sleep now. With your marriage to Viscount Harlowe secured. I have kept my silent promise to your mother. All that is needed of you is to provide him an heir.
Which she had done. Maeve leaned back and, closing her eyes, found tears to her surprise. Brandon would be devastated at Rowena’s manipulations. Only, Maeve couldn’t hate the woman for all her machinations. Everything she’d done since spiriting away the first Lady Maudsley’s newborn child from her dangerous spiteful husband, was done to protect Corinne.
