Days later, in a hazed stupor, Edward saw his wife buried in the family plot and Rowena gone—yes, gone—as he’d demanded. She’d run, and he hadn’t chased her.
If he’d seen fit to find her, perhaps it wouldn’t have been so difficult. There was no need once her life as a high-priced courtesan emerged. He was ensured of her whereabouts. He’d steered clear of her since those days, and never was a word uttered regarding Hannah’s death. No suspicions or accusations of murder had ever surfaced. The gossip would have run rampant.
Edward paused.She’d never said a word.
Rage ignited, and with it a slow burn gripped him by the throat.
Voices sounded over his head, and Edward strained to hear, but all he could make out was Lady Kimpton’s emotional rambling.
“Harlowe.” The name floated into the night sky.
A rumble started in Edward’s chest. He clamped his lips together tightly lest he burst out in laughter.Thank you, Rowena dear. You’ve no idea how you simplified my life.
Edward narrowed his eyes up at the open window again. A panicked Lady Kimpton was calling out Rowena’s name.
She was dead. Kimpton’s voice softened then dissolved altogether.
Another daughter. Yet this one might serve his purpose. There was much to do, and his newest young lover might be just the one to help. Crouching low, he made his way back to his horse.
Thorne assessed his wife’s strained pallor. She looked at him with such anguish, he longed to cradle her in his arms, to shield her from life’s harsh realities. But he hadn’t that luxury.
Thorne took the now empty tumbler from her slightly steadier fingers and set it aside. He looked into those blue eyes, as haunted and dark as the evening sky. “Lorelei, about this Miss Hollerfield… er… Corinne Hollerfield.”
She lowered her lashes. The flickering candle flame reflected unspilled tears. “I know her child is not yours.” Color tinged her cheeks. “I’m appalled at my behavior in having leapt to such an outlandish falsehood.”
“You thought—” Thorne raked a hand through his hair, flummoxed. “You knew Rowena was pregnant, or rather, thought she was? Withmy child?”
Her head snapped up, and anger flared through the shimmer in her eyes. “What was I supposed to think after Lady Dankworth’s tea? You were seen speaking to her in the middle of a public thoroughfare. Not to mention your own words, ‘She means nothing to me.’ Dear God, Thorne. Coupled with that missive she sent demanding your presence. What other conclusion was I to come to? I’d just learned you’d sent Brandon off, possibly to his death.”
He clamped his jaw shut, determined to hide his annoyance. The audacity of her reading his private correspondence, then believing the worst of him regarding her useless—well, maybe not so useless—brother. Then again, it appeared he had his own explaining to do. He shoved a hand through his hair. What a dreadful comedy of errors he and his wonderful, wonderful wife had fallen into.
The crimson in her cheeks deepened. Yes, she followed his exact train of thought. He cleared his throat. “About your brother—” he started.
She opened her mouth to stay him, but he held up his palm.
“If I may?”
That delectable mouth snapped closed, compressing those plump lips. The sight distracted him momentarily.
With a deep breath, he shook his head and fought his way to the matter at hand. “Your brother—” He waved a hand out, indicating the floor above. “There is strong reason to believe that the child may belong to your brother.”
Lorelei shook her head. “But I distinctly remember Miss Hollerfield saying—” She stopped.
Thorne’s eyes narrowed on his lovely, well-informed wife. “What is it you remember Miss Hollerfield saying, my love?”
“T-that, t-that…” Her stammered words faltered.
He straightened. He could browbeat the truth out of her later. “Never mind,” he said. He took her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. “Lorelei.” Alarm swept her expression, and he hastened to reassure her. “Did you hear what I said?”
She lowered herself back into the chair.
“There’s reason to believe Miss Hollerfield’s child was sired by Harlowe.”
Her brows drew together. She regarded him as if he’d just dispensed orders that they were to vacate the country for Russia.
She shook her head. “Did you just say—”
“Pardon, my lord.” Thorne jerked his head up. A nondescript maid stood in the doorway, her eyes wide and somewhat terror-stricken. “T-the m-magistrate is here.”
