A nearby door creaked. Edward quickly slipped into the closest darkened room and waited. He surveyed the space and realized he’d happened into the sitting room of the occupied chamber. He moved across the small area, and to his greatest luck, that door stood ajar.
Carefully adhering to the dark, he peered in. Surprise jolted through him, followed quickly by cynical satisfaction. So, Kimpton was not as immune to pleasures of the flesh as he let on to the eyes and ears of thebeau monde. The old boy still kept his mistress. It was all Edward could do to contain a burst of laughter. Rowena Hollerfield had survived, and nicely so, since their own affair all those years ago. Of course, he knew that she had been Kimpton’s mistress at one time. But to find her here of all places. He barely restrained rubbing his hands together in glee.
Rowena took the hand of a young lady lying abed, rubbing delicate fingers over the hand she held. The girl appeared listless. She had the look of a child. He felt a stirring in his trousers. He tamped it back.
The house echoed with the infant’s cries. The older woman hadn’t yet returned. It was obvious the child belonged to the unconscious girl. So, Rowena had a daughter. But who was the father? She’d had a string of lovers, he was sure. Rowena had been a feisty young lover. Such a fighter. The memory stirred his desire. Perhaps Kimpton—
Edward frowned. Him? Had Rowena kept knowledge of his own child from him? A roiling sensation pricked beneath his skin, stirring a compulsive need for violence. The timing fit.
“Miss Hollerfield?” The steward poked his head in through a door across the room, startling Edward into further cover.
Frustration filled him. Where was his wife?
“Get out, Mr. Quince.” Rowena spoke flatly, her gaze never wavering from the girl on the bed. “Unless you are a wet nurse, prepared to breastfeed an infant, I have no use for you.”
“A wet nurse.” His voice actually gurgled in shock. Edward almost pitied him.
“I said get out.”
“Yes. Of course, Miss Hollerfield.”
The door latched softly on his exit, and tears filled Rowena’s eyes. Still quite lovely eyes. “Corinne, darling, wake up. Your son needs you,Ineed you.”
Again, the door creased ajar.
“I said get out,” Rowena hissed, without turning.
The elderly woman with the white cap he’d seen downstairs crept in. “Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss Hollerfield,” she said gently. “But I need to check on Miss Hollerfield.”
Rowena leaned her forehead onto the back of the girl’s hand. After a small hesitation, she nodded. “Of course, Bethie. Please, accept my apologies,” she whispered. “I’m very frightened. I’m at a loss as to what to do. It’s an unaccustomed feeling for me, you see.”
Bethie moved to Rowena and squeezed her shoulder. “Mr. Quince took to the village to locate a wet nurse. I had Agnes make ye tea. She’ll have it fer ye in the parlor, ma’am. Don’t worry none, I’ll stay with yer sister.”
Sister.Ha! Edward didn’t believe it for a moment.
Rowena looked up into the woman’s harsh features. If Edward had been a more sentimental man, he might have been moved by her sympathetic kindness. But he wasn’t a sentimental man, and Rowena, though still somewhat beautiful, was nothing now but an overaged courtesan.
“Go,” Bethie ordered gruffly.
Again, Rowena hesitated, then nodded and stood. She placed the girl’s hand beneath the coverlet, kissed her forehead, and slipped out.
Edward followed suit. He did a quick check of the remaining chambers, knowing the search was futile. His wife was not in residence. Not here, at any rate.
Perhaps Rowena could enlighten him as to his wife’s whereabouts. If Kimpton had stashed Virginia nearby, Rowena might know something. He strode down the low-lit hall to the stairs, glancing back at the chamber he’d just passed. If anything, she should prove an interesting diversion. She was a courtesan after all.
Steam rose from the spout of the tea service on the table. But Rowena ignored it, moving to the windows instead. She couldn’t possibly swallow a single drop. The darkness was almost complete. The tops of the trees were barely discernible. What was she to do if Corinne didn’t survive? The thought didn’t bear contemplating. She spanned the warm chamber, her gaze resting on that horrendous painting Corinne insisted Lord Harlowe had painted.
She edged closer and studied the contours of the broad strokes, of how he’d captured the light through the Tower gate. Blinding, actually. It really was quite impressive. She leaned in, drawn to the gate’s latch and the strange symbol. But then, incredibly, she realized something else within the pattern of the gate. He’d painted the eyes of a prisoner peering through the slats. Familiar eyes. Eyes that appeared remarkably similar to Corinne’s.Impossible—
She gasped, a shudder scaling her nape. She turned slowly, wary of another’s sudden presence. He loomed in the arch of the open door, his face hidden in the shadows. A ubiquity of malevolence saturated the room.
“Rowena,” he growled.
At one time she’d believed in the delicious promises that rich, velvet resonance conveyed. How young and naive she’d been, even excusing his raping her. He’d managed to convince her she was irresistible, that he loved her and would take care of her always. But in truth, it was her young body he’d found irresistible. Learning the unholy sickness was in him, and not her, had been a long and difficult lesson.
She hadn’t heard that voice in over eighteen years. Prayed she’d never hear it again. The man was mad. But the images from that day when he’d hit his poor, desolate wife flitted through her mind like it was yesterday. All because the child Miss Hannah had borne was female and not the heir he required. Rowena had cracked the sitting room door and watched, horrified. She’d never seen him in such a fit.
He’d raged at Hannah as she lay still, near unconsciousness. Raving at her. “Two!” he’d screamed. “You dare to give me two stillborn males.” His desperation for an heir had squeezed her heart. Until his raised fist smashed her mistress’s cheek.
