Lorelei could only nod.
“She scared them into silence by threatening to sell them.”
The air rushed from her body. Quite suddenly, she was thankful for her husband’s presence.
The carriage clopped to a stop, and she squinted into the night. There was just enough candlelight spilling from the portico to see Agnes standing in the open door of the cottage. Lorelei looked over at her husband. “You are certain that the girls’ governess—”
“Miss Elvins.”
“That Miss Elvins is on her way back to London?”
“Rest assured, she is nowhere near Lady Maudsley’s children.”
“Who is with the children now?”
“Peg.”
Lorelei nodded, sharply relieved. Peg was a good sort. “I suppose that will suffice for now.” The carriage door swung back. Lorelei accepted Andrews’s outstretched hand and stepped down. Only to see Quince looking decidedly out of place atop a pony cart, most especially with a buxom woman beside him. Her uncombed hair looked as if it was hastily pulled to her nape, her cloak threadbare. “And what have we here, sir?”
Quince hopped down and extended his hand to the woman in question. “May I present Byrn Wells, my lady, my lord?” He cleared his throat. “She is the wet nurse,” he murmured. “She lost her own babe just a few days ago.” Mortification colored his tone.
Lorelei was thankful the evening sky hid his embarrassment from her. He deserved his dignity. “Of course. How thoughtful of you, Quince. I should have thought…” Lorelei swallowed. Blast it, how much more inept could she be?
Agnes hurried out to greet them. “Thank goodness, Lady Kimpton, Lord Kimpton. Come quickly.”
Unexplained fear gripped Lorelei as she moved quickly inside. “Has there been some change?”
“It’s Miss Hollerfield. I found her in the drawing room.”
“The drawing room? Miss Hollerfield should be abed, Agnes.”
Agnes ignored her, running for the parlor. “She’s hurt, madam. Please hurry.”
“I don’t understand. She was in no condition to rise.” Good heavens, the woman had just had a child.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. I only just found her.”
“Lorelei,” Thorne growled. “What is this about?”
“What of the child?” Lorelei asked, momentarily stunned.
“The infant, ma’am? She is upstairs with—”
Her shoulders fell. That was a relief. “See the wet nurse to the babe, Agnes. Quince, Lord Kimpton and I shall check on Miss Hollerfield.” Agnes led Mrs. Wells up the stairs and out of sight.
Lorelei stepped into the parlor. A breeze cooled her face from an open window, but nowhere did Lorelei see Miss Hollerfield. In fact, the room was devoid of anyone.
Thorne was right on her heels. “Lorelei—”
A low, pained groan caught her attention, and she glanced to her left. The only thing she saw was that awful painting Brandon had done of the Tower. Oh, she could see it was special—her brother had a way with lighting that rivaled the masters. It was the subject matter that disturbed her. Enough so that she’d had it sent to this cottage so she would not have to look at it. There was no question of not keeping the silly thing. The fact that it sent chilled pricks over her skin each time she looked at those gates with the strange circular latch revealed its very brilliance. The pained moan sounded again, but weaker this time. Her stomach dropped, as did her gaze, sliding down the wall to the floor. Her words lodged in her throat.
Quince was already moving. “Quickly, over here.”
“Good God, Rowena?” Thorne knelt beside her, touching his fingers to her neck. “She’s alive.” He gently lifted her. Lorelei ran for the settee and cleared it of pillows.
“Get some brandy, Quince,” she commanded. “Miss Hollerfield? It’s Lady Kimpton.” She touched her hand. “Can you hear me?” To Lorelei’s profound relief, Miss Hollerfield squeezed her hand. “Who did this to you, madam?”
“The eyes,” she gasped. Miss Hollerfield’s eyes fluttered. “Harlowe.”
