“Lorelei, we must go.”
Ginny tugged her through the front hall and out the door. Ice-cold rain slashed across her face, seeped down her neck, saturated her garments, freezing her skin. Thick bile choked her.Thorne dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Ginny pounded the ceiling of the hackney. “Go!” she yelled, as Lorelei slipped into a dark fog.
Studying the painting without Lorelei looking over his shoulder or bombarding him with questions was the ideal situation, Thorne thought, as he followed Brock through the archway into Brock’s library. It was the only sensible solution, after realizing this was the only piece of work that had survived Harlowe’s bachelor quarters. The less Lorelei was exposed to this business the better. Whatever “this” was.
“In here. Punkle, brandy. And light more candles.” With a wide sweep of his forearm, Brock cleared a large, flat desk cluttered with papers.
Thorne unrolled the canvas, taking unusual care when it came to Harlowe’s “art.”
“What is it?” Brock asked.
“A group of men. My guess is some kind of political meeting.” Eight men wore hats from the late sixteenth to early seventeenth century. They appeared to be arguing. Almost all sported full beards groomed to a point and elaborate mustaches that covered their top lips. All in all, the work was skillfully detailed. “I must admit, Harlowe’s talented, despite the bizarre subject matter.”
“Look at this. Third man from the right. Looks like Guy Fawkes, don’t you think?”
Thorne leaned in. “Or a very close resemblance. Here.” He pointed just above the figure. “He’s labeled. Most of them are. You’re right, it is Fawkes. The name is difficult to read though. See? Just above his hat.”
Brock indicated the next man over, toward the center. “He looks markedly familiar, doesn’t he?” But it wasn’t a question. “No hat, and his coat is not in line with the others. Looks more in line with something Shufflebottom would wear, considering the excess of lace.”
Thorne let out a bark of laughter at Brock’s observation. “He’s certainly out of place. And I agree. He does look familiar.” But he couldn’t place him. Nor was the figure identified, not legibly, just a squiggled loop above his hatless head. “This strikes me as a message of some sort. I would swear it,” Thorne said. Surprise filtered through him as another thought took shape. One that had him thinking crow might be on the menu in the very near future. And still the words took voice. “Mayhap Harlowe is not the idle libertine I’ve believed all these years.”
Startled, Brock stood back and narrowed his eyes on Thorne. “You said he’s been bringing his works to Lady Kimpton?”
Thorne’s gaze moved back to the unidentified man in the sketch. “For months now. Perhaps it’s time to take a closer look at what exactly he’s entrusted to my wife.”
Rain pounded the roof of the carriage. The muscles in Lorelei’s face felt like marble. She couldn’t remember running down the walk or getting into the conveyance. She bit her knuckles, unable to unleash the clog in her throat, but the force of pressure was too great, and a gulping sob erupted. “It-it cannot be.” She couldn’t see for the blinding tears, hear for the rushing blood, feel for her numbed fingers.
From the seat across, Ginny leaned forward, snatching her by the shoulders, and shook her. Again, she said, “Lorelei, listen to me.”
Lorelei forced herself to focus on her friend, clinging to her words as a lifeline. Yet the roaring in her ears refused to subside.
“Breathe,” Ginny spoke quietly. Her manner was confident and matter-of-fact. Hysterics crawled up Lorelei's spine, gripping her by the throat in an unusual urge to giggle.Ginny speaking quietly.“Breathe, Lorelei. You must breathe. You cannot faint. Do you hear me? I cannot carry you.”
Yes.Yes, I hear you.The words wouldn’t squeeze past the constriction. Breathe, she needed to breathe. Lorelei fought to pull in air, but the pain was too great. She tried again. And yet again. Each attempt helped, and the roaring lessened, until she could distinguish the sound of rain from her erratic pulse. Prickles in the form of ice tripped over her arms, and her fingers began to tremble. The tremble moved up her arms, to her neck, and over her scalp, until her teeth began to chatter and wouldn’t quit.
Ginny’s hands were warm on hers. “We cannot know for certain it was your… your h-husband, Lorelei. You must pull yourself together.”
“B-but you heard—”
“Yes, I heard what they said, but that was merely speculation.” Ginny dug a lace handkerchief from her reticule, and the cold attacked. She shoved the scrap into Lorelei’s hand. “Dry your eyes, dear. We shall see this through, whatever it is.”
Lorelei buried her face into the scrap of linen. What was there to say? Ginny was right. Lorelei moved a hand over the pain in her chest. She strived for the calm she was renowned for. She wouldknow. She would know if Thorne were dead. She would feel it, in her heart.
As they pulled up before Kimpton Manor, Ginny grasped her hand and squeezed. A true friend. The door swung back. Once Andrew helped them out, Ginny hurried them ahead and through the open door Oswald stood before. “Tea, Oswald, and brandy.”
“Very good, my lady.”
Ginny guided Lorelei to the parlor and planted her in a chair near the fire just as the knocker pounded from the hall.
“We should get the door.” Lorelei rose on shaking knees. “O-Oswald’s i-indisposed.” Her teeth chattered embarrassingly.
“No—”
“W-we m-must.” Lorelei reached the foyer the same instant as Bethie.
Bethie rushed to her side. “Ye’ll catch yer death, ye will,” she chided.
