Maeve rocked her. “We will, darling. I shall do everything in my power to find her.” Maeve’s eyes met his over the girl’s head.
Harlowe took in the room. The small sitting area that had been erected near the windows. There was a trunk nearby that likely held toys. He recognized Mary. She was sitting up in the smaller bed, rubbing her eyes. That surprised him. He would have thought she would have claimed the larger bed. He heard Agnes’s light steps ticking away. He turned and saw her making her way to the stairs then disappearing. He had questions, but he feared further frightening the child.
Maeve shifted position. She spoke to Mary. “What are you doing in Penny’s bed?”
“She kicks in her sleep, milady. I had t’ move.”
Maeve’s lips tipped and she nodded.
Mary caught sight of him. “M’lord? Sh-should I make a fire in yer bedchamber, sir?”
“I’m fine, Mary. Should I require a fire, I’m perfectly capable of starting one myself. Thank you for inquiring,” he said softly.
The little girl, Penny’s, head shot up, nicking Maeve’s chin. “Yer not Jervis,” she said.
Jervis. The building. The one on Addle Hill. The Althenaeum Order. They were all tied together. He knew it. But how? And what had been his role in the business?
“No, Penny. I’m Lord Harlowe,” he got out on a choked breath.
Penny’s sobs slowed to hiccups, her small body shuddering and clinging to Maeve’s neck as her only lifeline.
Maeve continued rocking her, murmuring soothing words Harlowe couldn’t make out. The urge to talk to her now had moved from desire to lifesaving. The pieces in his head were jumbled, and he felt as if she were the only one who could help him sort them out.
Agnes returned, and in her hands, she held a small tray with warmed milk and some of the scones. He took the tray from her and set it on the low table in the small sitting area, inclining his head for her to sit. He glanced over at Mary and did the same.
“Penny?” he asked softly.
“I think she’s fallen asleep,” Maeve told him. “I’ll stay until the girls calm. Drink your milk,” she told them.
Harlowe could have used a brandy.
Fifteen minutes later, Maeve handed Brandon a tumbler of brandy.
“The miscreant?”
“Don’t call her that.”
“The wayward.”
Maeve glared at him.
He ginned an infectious twist of his lips that was impossible to resist, though she did her damnedest.
They were back in her suite. The private sitting room. The bed was much too tempting, she’d decided. “Penny and her sister, Melinda, were with their mother when the mother died giving birth to a boy. Neither survived and Melinda has disappeared. Mr. Jervis was coming after Penny when I found her—or rather, she found me. She was hiding behind my skirts and he never saw her.”
His features turned dangerous. “This Jervis, you saw him?”
“I did.”
His whole demeanor changed. The look in his eye, feral. “Goddammit, Maeve, the man is famous in the stews for his misdeeds.”
Letting him intimidate her was not an option. She sipped at her own drink. “I suppose I should have just handed her over?”
“Of course not.” His voice was mottled with disgust. “Even if I insisted, I’m not daft enough to believe you would ever countenance such a thing.”
“I’m thrilled at your insight, my lord. Would that my mother—”
In an instant her glass was knocked away and his mouth was on hers.
