Blast that damn Holks woman. She and Harlowe had almost pulled off the impossible. He’d paid that buffoon at Tranquil Waters a fortune to avoid this very disaster. Loren ripped at his cravat, rending the delicate fabric into unusable threads. He stripped it from his neck and dabbed at the perspiration speckling his forehead. It was only by the sheerest piece of luck that Sid and Farcle had managed to keep Harlowe from escaping outright. But having the viscount anywhere near Colchester had grown dangerous. He’d have to be relocated immediately.
He tossed the ruined cravat on the vanity along with his fob watch, tore off his waistcoat, then shirt, buttons flinging in all directions.
“By the bye, my lord. Farcle sent a note.”
God, he was sick of notes. Loren snatched the envelope out of his hand and ripped it open and read, breath held. The pressure against Loren’s temples intensified in palpitating thumps. “This is doable. Barely, but doable.” Stark relieved air escaped him. “This is a bit of a reprieve. We’ll handle Harlowe in a couple of days on our way to London. The ship is in port. Pack a bag. I’m leaving within the hour.”
Harlowe’s fate was set. Loren strode to the escritoire and dashed off a reply, then set about a relaxing wash.
Hot water arrived, and Loren lit a cheroot as he slid down in the tub. He sucked in deep, held his breath, then blew out a perfect series of wispy rings. Winning Lady Maudsley’s hand might no longer be a necessity, and Lord knows, if he had to stomach the woman’s obnoxious laughter, within a week he’d be begging for someone to put a pistol to his head—better yet, hers. But if something went wrong, he still needed the insurance.
By the time he delivered the prissy little Cecilia to Markov, Loren would have no cause to deal with the Maudsley family again. Getting hold of the girl would be an execution of timing.
There might be a bonus—routing a dull spade through the marquis’s tender sensibilities where Lady Maudsley was concerned for all the trouble he was producing.
A thought that granted Loren significant satisfaction.
Sixteen
T
he knob rattled. Brock shot to his feet, disoriented by the wafting gauzy canopy of the bed. The color was a light indeterminate blue comparable to the Atlantic in the depths of winter. The sun beamed through sheer linens, swaying due to a soft breeze from the cracked window. Someone pummeled the door with bludgeoning force.
Again, the knob rattled. “Virginia! Open the door right this minute.”
Good God. Brock darted to the dressing room. “She’s liable to call the Watch.”
Ginny sat up, attempting to untangle herself from two sleeping children. “What the devil?”
Brock watched with no small amount of amusement as Ginny struggled to evaluate the situation through a sleep-fogged brain. “Your mother,” he whispered. “I’ll wait in the dressing room.”
“Virginia. I’ll scream down the house, I will. The children are—”
Ginny fumbled with the lock and yanked the door back.
“Missing. I went up to check on them.” It was an impressive display from Brock’s vantage point with her twisting hands. “They’re gone,” she finished on a wail.
“They aren’t missing, Mother. They are here with me. Asleep. Irene left Miss Lambert a note besides. Now, if you don’t mind.” Ginny went to close the door but her mother’s hand came up, stopping it.
“Why are they still sleeping? It’s after ten in the morning. I have shopping to do. We received an invitation to Drury Lane for tonight. I’ve accepted on your behalf from the Earl of Griston. There’s much to do—”
Brock’s blood boiled to the surface, yet he somehow refrained from kicking the door back on its hinges and bludgeoning Ginny’s mother with the same vigor she’d used, setting this farce in motion.
“I’m not attending the theater with Griston, Mother.” Brock could feel Ginny’s sorely fraying temper rapidly unraveling. “You had no right to accept an invitation in my name.”
Her mother gasped. “What are those marks on your arms?”
Brock sucked in a furious breath on her behalf. The air about her fairly vibrated with… shock? Shame? The compulsion to storm out and slam the door in the loathsome woman’s face shook him to his core.
Irene’s unflappable voice floated from the bed. “Mama. Could you order breakfast, please? I’m famished.”
Brock shifted his position and found he was able to see Irene sitting up, her back straight, her gaze darting to the dressing room then to her mother. Her lips did not so much as twitch.
With a huge yawn, Cecilia stretched and also rose to sitting. The younger girl’s bright eyes focused, surveying the room. “Where Lo—” Irene cut her off, clamping her hand across Cecilia’s mouth. Cecilia blinked up at her older sister. Nary a word passed between the two, but something obviously did. Irene removed her hand. “I’m famished, Mama. Really, really hungry.” Her childish cheerful exuberance truly was endearing.
Cecilia piped up. “I want coffee—”
Brock cringed.
