Chapter One
County Wicklow, Ireland, January 1820
Kieran Flynn, 4th Viscount Montsimon, reined in his horse and stared ahead at Greystones Manor. His father was dead, the malevolent force of his nature gone from the house. Perhaps now, a loving family would fill the empty rooms. He eased his stiff shoulders. Some other family, not his. Let the cursed Montsimon name die out with him.
In the depths of winter, heavy clouds hung low over the house, a blunted dark shape stark against the sky, like a blemish on the beautiful land it occupied.
With a sigh which was half exhaustion, Flynn nudged the flank of his bay. He rode up to the house and dismounted. Blackened stone glistened wet in the misty air, the mullioned windows blank eyes gazing inward to shadowy corridors and empty rooms.
A grizzled-headed groom hurried from the stables.
Flynn nodded. “Gaffney, isn’t it?”
“You be the young master, Lord Montsimon. I remember ye,” Gaffney said and led the horse away.
Flynn crossed the south lawn to the shallow set of stone steps leading to a pair of solid brass-studded doors. The family crest sat above it, gold and green, a knight’s helmet, a stag, and a boar. From the top step, he turned to view the meadows stretching away to the east, where cliffs descended to the sea. Despite the lack of a breeze to carry the salty spray, he tasted it on his tongue. Memories came uninvited of his boyhood, climbing those cliffs above the thrashing waves in search of birds’ eggs.
He had quit this place and his father as soon as he was old enough to make his way in England. Flynn had believed he’d turned his back on his Irish roots, but found they ran deep to his very marrow. Almost against his will, his pulse quickened at the sight of the fertile land. Now all this was his, every brown trout in the stream, every deer in the forest, and every square of stone rising above him.
Annoyed by his unforeseen emotion, he reminded himself that his future lay in England where he would return as soon as he settled matters, long overdue. He’d raked up enough blunt to have repairs done and would seek a good tenant.
The door flew open. A wizened male servant dressed all in black with a smudge of dirt on his cheek stood beaming at him. “Welcome home, milord.”
“Thank you.” Flynn didn’t know the fellow from Adam. Their butler had died of old age some years ago.
He stepped inside the oak-paneled great hall and caught his breath at the memory of it decked out with flowers for a ball when he was a lad. The buzz of excitement in the air that not even his father’s vicious temper failed to dispel. Flynn had watched from the stairs as his mother danced with Timothy Keneally, a ringlet of violets in her fair hair matching her gown. A month later, she was gone.
He returned swiftly to the present, faced with the grayed and dusty timbers, the odor of damp pervading the air. “What is your name? You weren’t here when I came last.”
“Quinn, my lord. Your father engaged me just a few months before he died.”
Flynn handed him his hat, gloves, and greatcoat. The small man was younger and sprier than he had first thought. “You might tell me what servants I have here.” Clammy and stiff from riding all the way from Dublin, he was in need of a hot bath if one might be had.
The man’s narrow face split into a goblin’s smile. “You might call me the general dogsbody. There’s O’Mainnin, who helps about the place, out chopping wood while the rain holds off he is. And Gaffney, you would have met at the stables. The cook is Mrs. Shannon. We have only one maid at present and that’s Maeve.”
“One maid?” Flynn paused in the act of unbuttoning his expensive riding coat lovingly stitched by a Bond Street tailor while envisioning the state of the bedchamber he was to sleep in.
“We weren’t sure when you would arrive, to be sure, milord,” Quinn said. “But I’ve set Maeve to work upstairs for ye. I’ve given the drawing room a good set to. There’s whisky and a fire’s been lit.”
“Most welcome.” Flynn smiled. “I suspect you of having the An Da Shealladh.”
Quinn nodded, his eyes serious. “I believe I have been gifted with second sight, milord.”
The oak staircase with its grotesque masks carved in the banister had given Flynn nightmares when he was small. Halfway up it, he paused. “Send the groom with a note for the estate manager, will you?” he called down. “I wish to go over the books with him in the morning. The gamekeeper, too.”
“It will be done, milord.”
His mother’s portrait hung on the wall in the drawing room. Flynn wondered why his father had placed it here where she might reproach him every day of his life. Perhaps to spite her and ban her from her place amongst their ancestors in the great hall.
The room was sadly depleted of furniture. The most valuable items had evidently been sold before his father died. He supposed the massive, heavily carved pieces that remained were unfashionable. Shabby damask covered the bank of windows, hiding a splendid vista of the sea. He crossed quickly and pulled them open, sending a cloud of dust mites to ride the air, only to find the view obscured by dirty panes and fading light. Disappointed and chilled to his bones, he went to stand closer to the inglenook stone fireplace and placed his booted foot on the fender. The fire was well ablaze, a welcome circle of light and warmth in an otherwise depressing room.
Quinn came in and piled more peat on the fire, which burned steadily with a dull glow. “Mrs. Shannon has one of her tasty stews on the stove. Goes down a treat with a mug of Guinness, if you don’t mind me sayin’, milord.”
“I’ll have that whisky now, Quinn.” Flynn sat in the shabby brown leather wing chair by the fire—his father’s. With a grimace, he ran his fingers over the holes in the arms caused by his father’s cigars. His father had probably been drunk more often than not and tormented by the past. It was surprising that the whole pile hadn’t gone up in smoke. He stretched his legs toward the warmth. Well, he knew coming home would be difficult.
The next morning, a messenger rode up to the door to deliver a missive.
Flynn read it over his coffee in the unappealing breakfast room, its only redeeming feature, the view through the window. He threw it down and stood. “I must return to England in a few days, Quinn.”
“Yes, milord?”
“King George has died.”
Quinn bowed his head. “Ah. So, England has a new king, milord.”
“The Prince of Wales is to be crowned King George IV,” Flynn said soberly, rubbing the back of his neck. He expected King George to make outlandish demands. And Flynn to be the likely recipient. He must not forget that one harsh word from the king could destroy his career and send him back to this lonely place filled with bitter memories.
*
London, February
Mrs. Maxwell’s ball, despite being held so early in the season, was crammed with guests who all appeared to be talking at once. Althea Brookwood sat with Aunt Catherine while the musicians enjoyed a break.
“Two years have passed since Brookwood died.” Her aunt compressed her lips.
“I am aware of it, Aunt.” How could she not be?
“You should consider marrying again.” Neither Aunt Catherine’s conversation nor her purpose had changed from the last time they met.
Althea’s answer remained the same as well. “I have no wish to.”
Her aunt’s violet-blue eyes regarded her. “I know Brookwood was a devil. I heard the rumors. I thought it was good riddance when he died in that duel.”
Aunt Catherine didn’t know the half of it. Brookwood’s obvious dissatisfaction with her had been a torment from the very beginning. Now she was free and determined to stay that way. No man would ever hold sway over her again, bending her to his will. She patted her aunt’s gloved hand. “I know you care, Aunt, and I’m most grateful.”
“Did Brookwood leave you well provided for?”
“My dower allows me to live quite comfortably.” If she was careful. She’d learned that skill as it had been necessary to economize with a tightfisted husband.
Aunt Catherine frowned, and she touched the brilliants at her throat. “I lost some of my finest jewels in that spate of robberies two years back. When your uncle died, the bulk of the estates was lost to entail, but you will inherit all that I have. I’d like to know to whom I’m leaving my money before I die. Not another bounder like Brookwood.”
Althea kissed her aunt’s soft cheek. “Have no fear. I shan’t make that mistake. I had no say in my marriage to Brookwood. Father arranged it.” The possibility of being at the mercy of another like him made her stomach flip over.
“Lord Ingleby has recently been widowed. He’s shown a considerable interest in you, and he’s plump in the pocket. Won’t be after my money.”
“I shouldn’t think anyone would be so foolish, Aunt Catherine. You are in excellent health and will be with us for many years to come.”
“Never mind sweet-talking me,” Aunt Catherine continued undaunted. “A woman does better in this world with a husband. Why not Ingleby?”
He was another man with more than a touch of violence about him. It was in his eyes and the tight way he held himself. Althea recognized the signs and suppressed a shiver. “I don’t find him attractive.”
“Attractive? That’s of little importance. We are talking about a husband, not a lover.”
Her aunt’s husband had died some years ago. A generous, quiet man, a good deal older than Catherine. She studied her aunt, whom she was said to favor. Catherine was still arresting in a Gros de Naples gown of deep violet, the color of her eyes, which had not dimmed. Might she have taken a lover at some point? Althea dismissed the idea immediately. There had never been a whiff of scandal attached to her.
“You can’t say the Irishman, Montsimon, isn’t attractive,” Aunt Catherine said, nodding to where he moved through the crowd, a head taller than most around him.
Althea turned in his direction. “Yes, he is, and a rake.” Lord Montsimon was part of the King’s immoral court.
“Some woman will tame him. Rakes make the best husbands once they settle down.”
“If they settle down,” Althea said with a laugh. “Wasn’t it Samuel Richardson who disputed the idea of a reformed rake making the best husband? According to him, it was a false and inconsiderate notion.”
“Pooh,” Aunt Catherine said rudely. “You have simply no idea how to enjoy life, child.”
Althea did not add that Montsimon had attempted to woo her into his bed. Since she had been widowed, many men pursued her. Widows were seen as fair game. Men assumed she was dying of frustration! She supposed she was an oddity. Younger widows often remarried after a year of mourning. Others found suitable arrangements outside marriage. Her treatment since she’d been widowed had shattered her confidence. After her marriage ended as brutally as it began, she enjoyed her freedom and wished for neither husband nor lover, but still came under criticism. Ladies with roving husbands glowered at her while their husbands made discreet advances.
Aunt Catherine motioned with her fan. “Have you noticed the way Montsimon looks at you? If you play your cards right, you’ll be the one to tame him, my dear. Well worth the effort, I’ll wager.”
“How do you suggest I do that?” she asked, surprised by her curiosity. She had a vision of taking a whip to a panther and almost giggled.
“You allow him to hope you will invite him into your bed. And you play him like a salmon on a hook. For a clever woman like you that shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“It sounds downright dishonest, Aunt!”
“Don’t be so naïve. Look around you. The ton thrives on deceitfulness and game playing! And you will deliver on that promise. Eventually. Not to do so would be unsporting. And gazing at Montsimon, I would consider it foolish.” Her aunt’s cheeks flushed, and she vigorously applied her fan. “At first let him get to know you. Let him begin to want more from you than merely someone to warm his bed. When he can’t live without you, then…”
Althea gasped. Perhaps she’d misjudged her relative. “Aunt…”
Her aunt laughed. “You’re surprised?”
“I knew you to be wise, but I never suspected you capable of such…” Failing to find a polite word, she fell silent.
“Cunning?” Her aunt snapped her fan shut and smiled like a cat caught climbing the dove cote. No doubt pleased to have stunned her. “You are of my blood, and just as smart yourself. You just need practice.” She gazed over Althea’s shoulder and opened her fan to cover her mouth. “Montsimon comes to ask you to dance. I would advise you not to shun him. It would be bad ton and such a dreadful waste!”
To refuse Montsimon would be wrong when she’d been dancing earlier. He advanced on her decidedly panther-like through the crush. Could she keep a man such as him on a loose leash? He had all the charm of the Irish in his soft burr and the looks to go with it, a kind of loose-limbed grace and elegance. Althea flicked her fan, refusing to ogle him like the women around her, including, she feared, her aunt. Only when a pair of darkly clad legs of supreme length and shape stood before her, did she look up. His unusual, smoky gray eyes held a spark of humor. She admitted to not being entirely resistant to his élan, which she suspected came as easily to him as breathing. Humor was attractive in a man. That was why she’d been avoiding him.
But there was no avoiding him now. He bowed over her aunt’s hand and then hers. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Lady Brookwood?”
His eyes held a gleam which defied her to refuse as she had snubbed him in the past. She had to admire his persistence. She nodded with a polite but distant smile. “Yes, my lord.”
If he were surprised she’d accepted him so readily, he had the grace not to show it. Leading her onto the floor, he clasped a hand at her waist as the musicians began to play. Althea marveled that in spite of his long list of lovers, no serious scandal had attached itself to him. In the ladies’ withdrawing room, women did talk, but only praise and regret had reached her ears. Silver-tongued, he bewitched them. The Irish were known for it. She needed to develop some sort of armor against him, for they met often during the season. She’d become a challenge she suspected, for few women would refuse him and she’d quite deliberately done so. To keep a grip on her emotions, she settled her gaze on the surrounding dancers and imagined she danced with the king who held no attraction for her. It proved to be difficult; Montsimon’s shoulder felt hard beneath her gloved hand. She gazed at his wide chest encased in a silver waistcoat. He was lean, but she guessed his body would be strong. Her eyes drifted downward. She felt her cheeks heat. Aunt Catherine had lowered the standard of her thoughts.
When she looked up again, the invitation in his gray eyes almost robbed her of breath. A smile lurked on his handsome mouth.
“You don’t wish to talk, Lady Brookwood?” He swept her expertly around the floor. “The last time we danced you took exception to something about me. Was it the management of my neckcloth, perhaps? Or is it my dancing which displeases you?”
“Not at all, my lord. I’m a trifle breathless,” she said as he deftly turned them. “You dance extremely well.” As she supposed he did most things.
“An accomplished partner makes a man look good.”
“You are too gracious.”
His hand holding her gloved one tightened, settling her closer. “Too gracious? Would you prefer me not to be? I am of a versatile nature. I can be whatever you wish.”
She glanced up through her lashes. “I am gratified, my lord, that you desire to please me.”
“You have only to tell me what it is you wish of me,” he said, his tone persuasive, while his eyes held a wicked twinkle.
The music ended, and couples began to leave the floor. Unaccountably hot, she rested her hand on his arm. “My wish is for you to return me to my aunt, my lord.” How smug he looked. She would love to take men like him down a peg or two. She would never embark on such a scheme as her aunt suggested. It was too devious, even though she liked few men, and as for rakes, they deserved all they got.
“Ah, Lady Brookwood, you disappoint me. Here I was thinking there was more to you than being content with the quiet life you appear to lead.” He offered her his arm as they joined the rest to leave the floor. “I sensed a desire for adventure, romance. I’m sure I glimpsed it in your lovely eyes.”
She rested her gloved fingers lightly on his silk-clad arm. “I am most concerned for your sight, Lord Montsimon. Perhaps a physician?” she said crisply, annoyed by his assumption that she had nothing in her life. It would appear dull to such as him, she supposed, but that was how she preferred it.
He grinned and the glance he gave her caused her to lose her breath. “You look as pretty as a garden tonight in that gown adorned with roses and bluebells. But a man might be in danger of being stung by a wasp if he ventures too close.”
“You have the right of it, Lord Montsimon.”
He chuckled as he deposited her with her aunt. Without further ado, he bowed and left them.
“Well?” Aunt Catherine leaned toward her.
“Well, what?”
“Did you arrange an assignation?”
Althea took up her fan and waved it before her hot face. “Of course not. It would be most improper.”
“Silly girl. Do stop that action with your fan. It looks like you are swatting at insects. You have missed an opportunity.”
“I declare you wish to live vicariously through me, Aunt.”
Her aunt snorted. “A widow must make her way in the world. He talks now to Maria Broadstairs. See how she laughs with him and how elegantly she employs her fan.”
“It’s common knowledge that the duchess adores her husband. She merely likes to flirt.”
Her aunt’s eyebrows rose. “Have you never enjoyed a lighthearted dalliance?”
Althea sighed. “It would be dishonest of me to encourage anyone when I am not in the least interested in them.”
“Flirting is one of the few enjoyable pastimes a woman can participate in without censure.” Aunt Catherine shook her head despairingly. “I believe you need lessons, Althea.”
Althea shook her head at her aunt with a bemused smile, excused herself, and went to speak to good friends, Hetty, the vivacious redheaded wife of Baron Fortescue and Sibella, the smart, dark-haired beauty who married John, the Marquess of Strathairn two years ago.
“I watched Lord Montsimon approach you,” Hetty said with a grin. “He had a very determined look in his eye.”
Althea shook her head, refusing to be drawn. She was aware that her friends wanted to see her marry again. “He dances well.”
“Althea!” Sibella’s green eyes danced. “Is that all you can say about the man practically every woman in the room is ogling?” She laughed. “Even I can admit that apart from John, and Guy, of course, he really is one of the most handsome men in the ton.”
“And charming,” Hetty said.
“And rather nice, as well,” Sibella added.
“He is a rake and part of the king’s set,” Althea said. “He wastes his time pursuing me.”
“What a shame,” Hetty said with a sigh.
“Indeed,” Sibella agreed.
Althea laughed. “You shall not turn my head, ladies. Tell me, how are your delightful children?”