“Of course he is,” he muttered under his breath. With a forefinger, he lifted Lorelei’s chin, meeting her eyes. “I must tend to the matter of Miss Hollerfield.”
Her exquisite face, still much too pale, nodded mutely. He brushed his lips against hers. “I’ll return as quickly as possible.”
Shock rendered Lorelei immobile as Thorne’s words jumbled and reassembled in her head. A rush of air deflated her body, leaving her lightheaded. Brandon, a father! He’d never said a word. Why? A stab of pain pierced her insides. He hadn’t trusted her. Her own brother. A brother she’d raised from a child to adulthood.
Lorelei rubbed her hands vigorously over her arms. No fire blazed in the grate. Just a single candle burned in the candelabrum, throwing a dancing shadow on the wall. When had she last seen him? Two, maybe three weeks ago, when he brought her the Judas painting? There was nowhere else to hang it besides her chamber. Thorne had never expressed any fondness for Brandon. He would have drawn the line at having that particular picture in the public rooms. It was another brilliant work of craft with another dire subject. What else had her brother failed to share?
Snippets of conversations with Thorne flitted through her head. Every time her husband had opened his mouth to speak of Brandon, she’d cut him to the quick. She winced. There’d been no word from Brandon since she’d learned of his transport, and that was most unlike him. He was a prolific artist, driven by his compulsion to create. Yet she hadn’t received a single letter since learning he was gone.
His last words penetrated her confusion. “Lorelei, you don’t mind, do you? Holding on to some of my paintings?”
It was a strange request, since he’d been sending them to her for safekeeping for years. “If you keep working as hard as you are, my husband will need to purchase another property just to house them,” she’d said dryly. “Of course I don’t mind, Brand, but really, couldn’t you try painting more desirable subjects? I mean, a, er… woman hugging a loved one just before boarding the ship to Dover, making eyes over his shoulder at her lover—” She stopped, embarrassed at the direction she’d taken the conversation.
Her brother’s handsome face had creased into a mischievous grin. “Surely Kimpton appreciates my sense of humor.”
“I sincerely doubt that,” she’d said with an indignant huff.
He’d laughed and dropped a kiss on her brow. “Thank you, darling.”
She’d let out a sigh. “As it is, I do happen to love the one showcasing the young girl in love.”
“Yes, I thought you might.” He’d spoken softly, tenderly. “Au revoir, I must go. I shall see you in a day or two.” Then he’d slipped out the door. Little had she realized those words to one another might be their last.
I thought you might.Her stunned thoughts wrenched her back to the present, and her hands stilled on her arms. Miss Hollerfield? Could it be? Dear Lord. She dashed from the barren library and raced up the stairs.
“Agnes,” Lorelei called out sharply.
“Yes, my lady?”
She looked out over the landing. The maid appeared, drying her hands on a towel. “Inform Andrews to prepare the cart. We shall transport everyone to the main house as soon as possible.” She stepped away then moved back to the landing. “Also, Miss Corinne Hollerfield is to be addressed as Lady Harlowe until we learn differently, is that understood?”
A small smile flitted across Agnes’s waiflike features. “Yes, my lady.” Then she whispered, “Thank you.”
Lorelei moved away from the landing. She may not have proof of Brandon’s marriage to Corinne, but something about Agnes’s response convinced Lorelei she was not wrong in believing her brother had done right by his child’s mother. It was enough for her… for now.
Thorne wanted to shake the man and rush back to Lorelei.
“And ye say ye found her crumpled on the floor like so?” To the magistrate’s credit, his coat was brushed clean and his cravat simply knotted. His large square head overtook his neck, and his mustache was sorely in need of a trim, rendering his lips invisible when he spoke. He stood, and clasped his hands at lower back, studying the small pool of blood on the floor just beneath another of Harlowe’s gruesome works. This one depicted the gate to the Tower.
The painting screamed something, but Thorne had yet to piece it together. Like the others, it contained a large circular scythe that served as a latch for the gate. A blinding sun poured through the slats but for a small area where—Thorne frowned and stepped closer. Eyes. Familiar eyes, but from where? They weren’t Harlowe’s. They peered from the bars, looking out toward freedom, not in toward imprisonment.
“No one heard or saw a thing? Strange,” the magistrate mumbled. “Very strange.”
Thorne forced his attention back to the man. “What will you do with her?” he asked, tipping his head in Rowena’s direction.
His gaze followed Thorne’s to the settee. “Find the next of kin, I s’pose. Someone’s got to pay the expenses. Dying costs money. A shame, that. She looked a lovely piece.”
“Send the bill to me,” Thorne said gruffly. “What about her body?”
“Since yer the one payin’, then s’posin’ it’s up to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We can have her put on ice, or I can take her to the church… or—”
Thorne cut him off. “The church will suffice.”
The man cleared his throat, and Thorne clearly read his thoughts.Ye uppercrusts are all the same, and yer wife just down the road.“Will do, my lord. I’ll have the vicar get in touch regarding the burial arrangements.”
