he Kimptons’ country house was quiet. There would be no opportunity to nab the younger child. Not with Brockway, Kimpton, and a hoard of servants in residence. God knows he’d never make it past her most ardent protector—her mother.
Loren rubbed the base of his neck. The throb had subsided to a low pulse but was still palpable. Not a speck of wind stirred the trees, but he still made out the low intonations that had followed him throughout the English countryside. The nonsensical words were a jumble of harsh sounds, yet softly spoken and barely discernable. He glanced over at Farcle and wondered if the man could hear them as well.
Loren shoved away the question. He must be mad to even care. “I’m returning to Colchester for a couple of days. The child is too well protected for us to make off with, but perhaps you should stay close by in the event an opportunity arises.”
“Of course, my lord.”
“I’ll meet up with you in London. What of Harlowe?”
“He’s been deposited aboard theWoodlarkat Rotherhithe under the care of her captain, Middleton. I threw the boy from the park on there as well. Too many questions to use the hulks. Middleton’s awaiting orders from you to sail but strongly implied his need to launch.”
“Very good, Farcle. If I fail in my efforts to apprehend the child, I fear I shall be sailing off with him as well. I vow, if we survive this Markov debacle, I’ll retire to the country. That is if I can keep from killing my mother,” he muttered. With a short wave, he kicked his horse into a hard gallop, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able to outrun the relentless incantations chasing him.
Twenty-Nine
B
rock stepped out the front door of his townhome into another deluge that refused to abate. It had taken herculean power to see Ginny up the steps of Maudsley House the night before. Not that he hadn’t hung about another couple of hours in a silent, watchful vigil. He couldn’t help thinking that, while Ginny was softening toward him, she still held back. She hadn’t railed at him once since their return to London. In point of fact, she hadn’t said much to anyone at all in her subdued state. After that kiss in the morning room, and her heartfelt thanks, she’d melted away from him, leaving him hungry and wanting.
Perhaps exhaustion was playing havoc with his sensibilities. He’d gone soft in the head.
Their time in the country had largely been spent with quiet evenings talking of inconsequential topics. Not a word of Harlowe. Kimpton didn’t want his wife upset. Besides, they still hadn’t a clue as to the man’s whereabouts. The trail had gone cold since Colchester. It was disconcerting to say the least.
The service for laying Lady Harlowe to rest had been short. And as Lorelei had intimated, the local rector had sniffed his outrage, then his disdain at having not only women attending, but children.
“’Tis unheard of, my lords! Children at a… a burial.” The man flitted about like a trapped bird.
Kimpton had stood his ground, managing not to give their reasons to the overbearing fool.
All in all, the jaunt to Kent had taken less than four days, with most of those spent traveling.
Once he’d returned home, he sent Punkle in his place to watch after Ginny. Discreetly, of course. Brock had errands to run that had been left for much too long. He paused, concentrating past the sounds of the heavy rain. Not a single word of the odd Romanian mantra reached through. He couldn’t decide if he was relieved or disturbed. But the feeling he was running short of time refused to subside, leaving him in a cold sweat.
He bounded up into his rarely used landau and tapped the ceiling. First stop: Parliament. He had an expensive request to make. He pulled out his watch fob. There was just enough time. A couple of stops along Bond Street would follow.
He had every intention of meeting Ginny tonight at whatever soiree, rout or musicale her mother saw fit in dragging her to. There were several of note to choose from, requiring a stop at the Kimptons’. He doubted they would be attending functions anytime soon due to Corinne’s sorrowful passing.
Brock jumped out of his carriage and snapped open his umbrella. The current session was still underway. Meeting with his grace, the Archbishop, would likely take an act of Parliament. At the least, the rest of the day.
Thirty
F
or once, the fight had gone out of Ginny, and her mother’s incessant nagging rolled off her skin as if she’d coated herself with a thick layer of pomade. She wasn’t naive enough to believe her own amicableness would last long. She and the girls had arrived home late two nights before, in another downpour that hadn’t seen fit to ease one iota.
The gray skies matched her mood, leaving her to wonder if her dourness had anything to do with her meddling parents still underfoot. No. She had a sinking feeling that her low spirits had more to do with having left Brock standing on the portico as she’d ushered her and the girls inside and then watching him drive away. Her greatest desire in that moment had been to take him into her bedchamber and curl up in his capable arms. But it was one thing to sleep the night away in one’s lover’s arms as they had in Colchester, and quite another to do so with half of London watching.
She was nothing but a coward. Brock’s kiss, his innate goodness. She was truly unworthy. She knew she’d confused him. Her emotions were scattered from Scotland to the Americas. Her desire for him grew every moment he was near. It was too much to take in for someone so… so fidgety. That last night, she’d lost her nerve and skittered to her chamber like a startled rabbit confronted with a musket. And most disappointing of all was that he’d let her go.
He remained attentive, but something had shifted in him over the last few days. Something akin to stony determination. And she had no notion what it could be.
She meandered her way to the morning room. Strong tea usually had a fortifying effect. She crossed the threshold and pulled up short, her head suddenly beating with a relentless drumming.
The baroness threw up her hands, her strident tone grating. “I demand an audience with my granddaughters, Virginia.” Her frustration didn’t come close to Ginny’s, but Ginny was just too worn to battle.
Celia bounded through the door at that moment. “We could take coffee with her, Mama.”
“Mrs. Couch, please have tea and biscuits sent to the morning room.” Ginny shifted a stern gaze on Celia. “No coffee.”
