“Did you say Kimpton is looking for me?” He tried to laugh, but it came out harsh, as rough as nails on slate. It hurt to listen to him, but as long as he spoke, he wasn’t dead. Right now she welcomed the abrasive sound. “A likely story. He’d gladly see me strung from the tallest tree.”
“Oh, no, that’s not true, my lord. He and Lord Brockway have been looking for you for a year.”
He narrowed his hollowed eyes on her. “Who exactly are you?”
“Lady Irene. My mother is Lady Maudsley.”
“What of your father?” he growled in a raspy tone.
“He is dead, my lord. Shot, I believe. More water?” Irene was well aware how people felt about Papa. He was a horrible man. Guilt weaved through her. Only terrible people hated their own father.
“You don’t sound so sad at having lost a parent. Was he murdered?”
“I-I don’t know, my lord, but I think so.” Irene sighed. “Perhaps we should change the subject.”
“To what?”
“To how we can escape this ’old,” James said as he fidgeted, setting Irene’s senses on alert.
“He’s right, Lord Harlowe. We have to get out of here, or they are going to send us on an adventure. I don’t care for adventures. I’m sure I’ll be sick on the open sea.”
“Have you checked the door?”
“We may be young and small, my lord, but we are not daft.”
“Apologies, my lady. We’re in a boat?”
“James said you arrived a few days ago. Do you remember anything?”
“Nothing. I had a nurse. We escaped from somewhere, but I-I can’t seem to recall.” He paused. “There was a girl. She was with child. She—”
Dread shot through Irene’s brain. She couldn’t possibly relay Nathan’s mother expiring. The very words might kill the viscount. “You have a son,” she said quickly. “His name is Nathaniel… we call him Nathan.”
He leaned forward and attempted to wretch, the rigid jerk of his body chilling her. Again, nothing came out. She splayed her hand against the mud-crusted night rail at her abdomen. She could literally feel his pain. It passed in seconds. All strength seemed to flee Lord Harlowe.
“A son,” he parroted.
“Yes, sir. He is an engaging child. Almost a year old now.”Please. Please. Please, Lord Brockway. Don’t be too late.
“Dear God.” He fell back against the wall, exhaustion etched in his features.
Fear, stark and vivid, tore through Irene. She reached out, touching his cheek. It was damp, clammy with perspiration. “Lord Harlowe?” Her voice sounded faint past the rush in her ears.
“Blimey,” James gasped. “I fear ’e’s dead.”
Thirty-Seven
B
rock’s jittery mount reflected his own internal workings. This was not his regular horse. With no time to lose, he was forced to use one from Ginny’s stables. Kimpton and the baron pulled alongside him. “We’ll cross at Blackfriars Bridge. Maudsley supposedly has a boat calledWhite Dove.”
“Sounds as if you’ve been speaking to my wife,” the baron said, not without pride.
Any way he considered it, Brock feared time was short. The silence pounded him in sync with their horses’ hooves on the cobbled roads.
The moon disappeared behind a bank of clouds, and with the depth of soot that hung over London, it was impossible to see. The air grew thick with more promise of rain. The horses’ clopping hooves sounded unusually loud on the winding street of Fleet Street. Tugging his hat low, Brock hunkered deeper within his cloak, a disguise. It was aged and carried the distinct smell of the stables. Ginny’s butler had thrust it at him as they left Maudsley House. The closer they approached the Thames at Blackfriars Bridge, the more Brock’s mien grew more watchful. This part of town was infinitely dangerous. So far, however, the only other disturbance Brock had discerned blared from a tavern one or two streets over.
Despite the absence of cutthroats, he felt several pairs of menacing eyes burrowing sharply at his back. He pulled his aged cloak tighter about him, silently thanking his friend for insisting the need to cover their evening wear. Talking was not an option. Their upper-crust accents would mark them quicker than the shine of their boots. Which was why they’d trudged through a puddle of mud before mounting their horses outside Maudsley House. Couldn’t do much about the grand horseflesh they rode, however.
