Maeve shuddered. “You think he took Penny’s sister, Melinda?”
“If’n he was around, and Penny recognized him, I’d say ’tis a good chance.”
Maeve’s stomach dropped. She still held her half eaten scone. She looked at it, then at Agnes. “How attached are you to the kitchens?”
She caught Agnes’s furrowed brows in the mirror. “Tell me, honestly.”
“Someone has to cook, milady.”
“What if I told you we have a new cook?”
“Daughter of Mrs. McCaskle?”
“Sister.”
At that moment, Ina knocked on the door and entered with the tray.
“Goodness me, that smells so good, I might faint,” Agnes said.
“I know the feeling,” Maeve told her.
Twenty-Three
H
arlowe watched the house from a strand of trees in Cavendish Park. The streetlamps had been lighted, forming a line of haloes in the damp fog that had settled over the night. He’d sent Rory on his way with a promise to meet at a less than respectable coffee shop the next morning. It was too late for a proper visit. But damn it, Maeve’s avoiding him this past week didn’t change the inevitable. He would see them married and, as her future husband, it was his responsibility to assure her safety. Seeing those paintings at the widow’s salon only solidified his determination. There was danger afoot, even if he couldn’t quite pinpoint its origins.
The longer Harlowe stood in the shadows, the more impatient he grew. The only room visible from his current vantage point was the formal parlor, and it was as dark as the sky above. He wasn’t certain which bedchamber she’d taken for her own, but he suspected it wasn’t Rowena’s. There was enough light to see his fob, and the lack of light inside was worrisome, sending his imagination into wild conspiracy theories.
Was she home?
Had she fallen ill?
Had the McCaskles been knocked cold?
Was she being properly looked after?
Who was the mystery wayward she’d taken in? Street children were a savvy lot. They had to be to survive the worst possible conditions. He should have installed Rory in the household. Because he couldn’t shake the boding peril crawling over his skin.
Harlowe longed for his late night talks with Maeve. He missed her. He wanted her hand in his. His lips against hers. His cock sheathed deep with her body.She belonged to him.He’d blinked and found himself opening the door with his own key. A wall sconce’s flame flickered in the foyer, giving off a low light. Latching the door behind him, he stole up the stairs—he just wanted to assure himself she was well. At the top of the stairs, he cracked the door of the chamber that had belonged to him. The room’s stuffiness confirmed this one as a reject. He slipped inside to the adjourning door and found the same in Corinne’s old suite.
There were many other bedrooms on this level but down the crossing corridor, towards Rowena’s bedchamber, a cool breeze drifted. She had the window open, then. Stunned and a little awed at her audacity, he stole down the hall.
Just a peek.Then he would leave. He made it to the door without tripping on anything and, with his hand on the knob, he laid an ear against the thick oak, as if he could hear anything through it. After a long moment, he twisted the handle and slowly pushed.
He slipped in.
An instinct he hadn’t remembered possessing struck, and he contorted his body, just missing the swish of iron hitting the carpet. In another move, he whirled around and caught her body against his, clamping his hand over soft, full lips. “Shush. It’s me.” She bit down, and he yanked his hand away. “Ouch!”
“Harlowe! You bastard. How dare you frighten me out of my wits like that. What the devil are you doing here?” She shoved out of his arms, stalked over to the bed to snatch up her wrap.
“I was worried about you.”
“You mean in spite of the butler, housekeeper, footman, and cook you’ve installed?”
“There’s a cook?”
“As if you didn’t know,” she spat. She pointed to the tray on the table. “There are scones. I don’t know that I should let you try one. I might never be rid of you.”
