Chapter Twenty-Eight
Flynn was pacing the carpet in his drawing room when his butler knocked and entered.
“A Mr. Wrightsbridge to see you, my lord.”
Flynn’s breath bottled in his chest and he sucked in air. “Send him up, Bellamy.”
The Bow Street runner, a whippet-thin man with a narrow, intelligent face, entered the room, hat in hand, his short sword at his side. A flintlock pistol was thrust into his belt. “I bring news, your lordship.”
Tense, Flynn nodded. “Sit down and let’s have it, Mr. Wrightsbridge.”
Wrightsbridge lowered himself carefully onto the brocade seat, his face grave. “I discovered your quarry was ’eading north. The trail led me to Liverpool.”
Flynn clutched the arms of his chair. “Bloody hell! Did you get him?”
“No, milord. Set sail ’ours before I got there.”
Flynn raked his fingers through his hair. “Where was the boat bound for? France? America?” Might that be the last of Crowthorne? He wished he could be sure of that.
“Dublin Port.”
“What!” Flynn leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you send me word?”
“I sent a note before I left Liverpool, milord.”
“Dash it all. It’s yet to arrive,” Flynn cried.
Wrightsbridge scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ve been on the road for days, milord, but as Crowthorne ’as left the country, I didn’t see the urgency.”
Flynn eyed the exhausted man. “Are you up to following him to Ireland?”
“I don’t work out of England, milord. Can’t speak for other runners, but it will take you precious time to find someone prepared to go.”
“You’re right, it will. I shall have to go myself.”
Wrightsbridge’s chin dropped. “Sorry, milord. I would have liked to deal with the excrement, snuff ’im out like a candle. If it’s any ’elp, ’e was easy to follow. Left a trail of destruction behind ’im.”
“Like what?”
“Abused ostlers and unpaid inn keepers, exhausted ’orses, ’im, and some rutterkin with ’im, said to be mean enough to rob God. Given a wide berth. Scared of ’im everyone was.”
When the man had left, Flynn sat at his desk. He penned two hasty letters to John and Guy, sanded them and sealed them with wax. Then he rang for his butler.
Bellamy came in holding a silver salver.
“Send a footman to deliver these immediately. Direct my valet to pack me a portmanteau. I shall be returning to Ireland directly.”
“Yes, my lord. Your mail.”
“Thank you. I rely on you and the housekeeper to keep the home fires burning. I’m not sure when I shall return. Have my valet throw those letters into the bag. I’ll attend to them later.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
Bellamy left with nary a question. He was used to Flynn taking off for parts unknown, sometimes for half a year or more.
Flynn leaned back and stroked his jaw where a muscle jumped. Had Crowthorne run to Ireland to avoid Bow Street? He would face the rope for Churton’s death and the murder of his colleagues. Was it possible that he’d somehow learned that Althea was at Greystones? Flynn went cold at the thought.
*
After a successful trip to Dublin where Althea engaged several more staff, she was kept busy, working with Mrs. O’Riordan, the new housekeeper. Together, they organized the maids. Cobwebs were removed from ceilings, carpets taken up and beaten, furniture polished, floors scrubbed, and windows washed. A strong, heavy-set fellow, O’Mainnin, continued to carry everything she wished to employ in the house down from the attic, while Quinn and Cook set the new additions to the staff at their tasks.
Every morning, Althea looked for word from Flynn. When none came, she began to lie awake at night, her mind too busy for sleep. Tired and frustrated, she wandered in the gardens and took to walking through the fields to the cliffs. The salty breeze greeted her as she stared out over the pounding waves toward the coast and England. If only he’d write and tell her what he’d discovered. Even if it was nothing, just to hear from him, to know he was alive.
“We are still in need of a footman,” Althea told Quinn. “The fetching and carrying can’t all be done by you and the maids, and O’Mainnin is at his best in the outdoors. I shall have to return to Dublin again tomorrow.”
After breakfast the following morning, Gaffney drove her and Sarah to town. The wind swirled around them and sent the clouds scudding across a sleet gray sky as they traveled through the lanes. They made excellent time, the roads having dried out after days of rain, but here in Ireland it rained even more than at home. Two hours later, she had engaged an experienced footman whose employer had recently died. He would join them in the following week.
Pleased that things had gone nicely to plan, she lunched with her maid in the hotel dining room where she and Flynn had enjoyed a meal on her first day in Ireland. As she gazed around at the people chatting at the tables, she realized how much she had changed. When she first arrived, she’d been very aware of how dissimilar the country and its people were to England, their accents foreign and the Gaelic one heard everywhere, indecipherable. But in a surprisingly short time, she felt at home here and would be content to remain for the rest of her days. She refused to dwell on that possibility, for Flynn had never shown the slightest desire to live here himself. Nor had he asked her to marry him.
It continually nagged at her that he had not. Surely the tenderness he’d shown her, the passion he had for her was love? Or wasn’t what he felt for her a strong enough emotion to change his mind about remaining single? He might just wish to return to the London season and become entranced by some other woman. It was like a stab to her heart to think it. But he had a reputation with the ladies. Was it possible he’d changed? How disloyal of her to question him. What was wrong with her? She didn’t just love him. She liked him, and her respect for him knew no bounds. Her worry for his safety nagged at her again. If only he’d send word. She put a hand to her stomach.
“Are you well, my lady?” Sarah’s eyes appraised her.
It was difficult to keep such a thing from one’s personal maid. It might be because she wasn’t sleeping, but Althea had missed her monthly courses, which came as regular as clockwork. It was too early to tell for sure. And even if she was enceinte, with her history, who knew if the babe would survive? If by the grace of God it did, and Flynn did not wish to marry her, she would raise it herself at Owltree. Despite her fears, she greeted the possibility with joy, impatient for Flynn’s return.
She sipped her coffee in the warm, aromatic dining room while she watched the crowded Dublin street beyond the window. A man paused in conversation with another. Even though his back was turned, he was obviously a gentleman, and the man who bent his head as if taking orders, was likely a servant. She was about to look away when the gentleman turned his gray head in her direction. Althea stiffened. Her hand shook and she put down her cup. Coffee spilled into the saucer.
Sarah looked at her anxiously. “My lady?”
“It’s all right, Sarah. I thought I saw someone I know.”
The man walked on out of sight around the corner. Might it have been Horace Crowthorne? Or was fear making her fanciful? Why Dublin, when his intention was to go to France? Cold logic didn’t prevent the chill threading through her veins and causing her to shiver. Might he have discovered she stayed at Greystones Manor? Entirely possible for it was difficult to keep such a thing secret if he made it his business to discover where she was. Would he come here after the diamond? Surely, he could not still believe she had it. “We must return home. Now, Sarah.” She rose to pay the bill.
Shielding her face with her parasol, Althea hurried with her maid to the landau. “Put up the hood, Gaffney, please, and take us straight home.”
As they left the town, Althea craned her neck to stare behind them. No one followed. She scolded herself for being foolish, but her trembling still hadn’t abated when they reached Greystones.
She scurried into the house, fear coiling like a serpent in her belly. “Quinn, if a man comes calling, I am not in residence. Sir Horace Crowthorne may go by another name. He is of middle years, gray-haired, heavily built, and has a hawkish nose and hooded eyes.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “He might send someone else in his place, a shorter man, dressed like a servant.”
Quinn’s eyes grew wide and he stared at her askance. “You look so pale, milady. You’ve not been taken ill?”
“No, it’s just that…this man is dangerous. He wants something from me. Something I don’t have.”
Quinn drew himself up and his chest swelled. “I shall turn him away, milady, never fear.”
She did not want the fierce little man hurt. “You are not to oppose him. Let’s plan what’s best to do should he come here. You are to tell him I’ve returned to England with Lord Montsimon. If he refuses to believe you, invite him to search the house. We shall set up a lookout in the wood. O’Mainnin can fire off a gun. Crowthorne will expect him to be the gamekeeper. That will give me time to hide. But where?”
“He would not find you in the oubliette.”
She gazed at him, her heart thumping against her ribs. She couldn’t go down into that awful place. “Isn’t there anywhere else?”
Quinn shook his head. “The oubliette is by far the safest, milady.”
Althea slowly nodded. “Very well, the oubliette it is.”
“A wise decision,” Quinn said with relief. “I’ll be letting you out, milady, just as soon as I can.”
“But perhaps he won’t come.” Another horrifying thought turned her veins to ice. If Crowthorne was here in Ireland, where was Flynn?