Oswald’s spoken words drifted softly from the entry hall, followed quickly by Lady Maudsley’s strained laughter. Then her barked orders.
“Hell,” Brock muttered. “She’ll pulverize Oswald to ashes.”
“Go. You take care ofher.I’ll take care of this.”
Brock nodded and slipped from the room.
Thorne turned to the constable. “Identify him, you say? Tonight?”
“I’m ’fraid so, yer lordship. ’Twas murder through and through. Stabbed, he were.”
Thorne blew out a breath through pursed lips, relief filling him, a little at least. Lorelei was safely ensconced in her bed, and Lady Maudsley was under Brock’s watchful eye. There was no better time than the present. “Let’s go, then.” Perhaps the cold rain would clear his head. Help him find a way to explain to Lorelei about her missing brother, a dead valet, and her soon-to-be aunt-hood.
On the way to the Martindales’ Masquerade
“I see you were completely prepared to ignore your God-given sense,” Brock said through clenched teeth. He was irritated beyond words. Despite his pointed command, Virginia Ninnis had nearly succeeded in sneaking past him. Sheer luck had played a hand—as they were ushering out the constable, Brock found her standing on the stoop outside, set to hail a hackney. The sodden torrent of rain had slowed her efforts. No hackney would be available in this mess.
With a haughty glare down her adorable nose, she sniffed. “I fail to see where I oweyouan explanation of my comings and goings, Lord Brockway. For all I knew, you’d given me up out of sheer boredom.” Her gaze moved to the carriage window.
She was lying through those perfect straight teeth and full lips. He dragged his gaze away from such temptation and rested it on the clenched gloved hands clutching an elaborate silver mask.
Brock leaned back and stretched his legs, crossing one ankle over the other, and folded his arms over his chest. This was one woman strictly off-limits despite his overwhelming desire. He’d lost that battle years ago. He was only there to see her to her destination. Only there to ensure no harm came to her in this god-awful downpour.
“You should have foregone the Martindales’ altogether,” he said.
“Ha! You know as well as I that no one will be missing this party, save Lorelei.” Her voice dripped ice he longed to melt with the stroke of his tongue.
She pressed those full lips into a grim line, leaving the rest of the short journey spent in silence. Damn her! Damnhim.To think he’d been fool enough to let her escape him in 1809. Knowing it was his own fault did not soothe his temper in the least.
The carriage slowed, and a sharp tap sounded, startling him. He glanced quickly at his companion. The trace of unease that had passed over her expression disappeared in a blink, and her haughty countenance was restored at once. He’d imagined it. He must have.
The door opened, and the Kimptons’ footman, Andrews, looked in. “The Martindales,’ my lord, my lady. I fear the walk is a bit long,” he said. Indeed, a string of carriages were lined up.
“We’ll wait,” Brock said.
“Very good, sir.”
Lady Maudsley tossed him an imperious glance. “You may wait, my lord. I, however, shall make the traipse in.”
Andrews paused.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Ginny. You cannot possibly walk the distance in this mess. Even with an umbrella you will ruin those flimsy…” he paused, smirking, “yet attractive slippers. Andrews, get closer, if you can.” The door shut with not quite a slam, and the rig shook with the footman’s ascent. Or was that shaking Ginny’s—Lady Maudsley’s—fury. Either way, the coach lurched forward, though a chilled silence ensued for the twenty minutes it took to reach the portico until Ginny grasped Andrews’s outstretched hand, abandoning Brock to his own company.
He watched as Andrews delivered the lofty yet lovely Lady Maudsley to the door. And despite her attempt at confidence, her demeanor was tense. It settled around her like a thick fog. He wondered how no one else could see through her weak guise. Lady Maudsley was not a happily married woman. It worried him, tossed through his mind like a raft on the ocean in a thunderstorm. He smirked at that bit of analogy.
Andrews hurried back and leaned in again. “Sir?”
“Yes. We’ll give it a moment more, Andrews. Once I’ve made my entrance, see to sending for Lady Maudsley’s own conveyance. Afterwards, see yourself home. I’ll manage the rest of my evening.”
Seven
I
n less than an hour, the bloody business was done. Marcus’s body was safely removed from Harlowe’s flat, and Thorne was back home. The inquest had been a tedious formality, the horrendous weather none too helpful. After a bath of hot water to ward off the chill, he strode into Lorelei’s chamber, where Bethie held vigil, her expression rigid, yet worried.
Thorne went to Lorelei’s bedside, drawing her hand into his. “What is it? Is she worse?” He lowered himself into the nearby chair.
“Her ladyship’s worried for somethin’—more than’s normal.” Bethie scowled at him.
