Chapter Two
At first, Flynn had believed Lady Brookwood would welcome his advances. But it now seemed there was little hope of her doing so. He hadn’t yet found the reception warm enough for him to broach the matter of a liaison. If she refused him, manners would require him to desist. He wondered why her indifference bothered him as he nodded to Miss Rutherford, who cast him an arch, come-hither smile. Wise to move on to where the reception was warmer, but he found it difficult to do. Althea’s crisp wit and beautiful violet-blue eyes both intrigued and aroused him. He roamed the length of the ballroom and pushed his way through the crowd gathered around King George. The king beckoned from where he slouched on a high-backed gilt chair. He dressed in the color of mourning while at the same time upholding his aesthetic sensibilities with the liberal addition of gold braid and buttons.
“Your Majesty.” Flynn sank into a low bow.
The rotund king nodded impatiently. “We had little time to speak at my father’s funeral, Montsimon. Did your visit to Ireland go well?”
“It did, thank you.” Flynn had failed to find a tenant for the house but saw no point in mentioning it.
“Excellent. Then you have no need to visit again for some time.” He beckoned Flynn closer. “Alterations to the Pavilion go splendidly. John Nash’s stables are a tour de force.”
Flynn steeled his mouth where a smile threatened. He had just read Hazlitt’s comment in his Travel Notes: The King’s horses (if they were horses of taste) would petition against such irrational a lodging.
King George wiped his cheeks, then employed the monogrammed silk handkerchief to shoo his lackeys away. He said in a low voice, “Come to Carlton House tomorrow at two. We would have words with you.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty. Might I enquire as to the reason?”
“Tomorrow,” the king snapped.
Patently aware of the king’s ability to abandon political principles and forget friends with barely a backward glance as he had Beau Brummell, Flynn bowed. “Your Majesty.”
Flynn made his way over to Guy, Baron Fortescue where he stood within a circle of men. They turned to greet him. “Montsimon, you might wish to take up Alvanley’s bet at White’s,” Guy said. “It concerns who among the dandies’ latest fashion disasters would Brummel most condemn. Petersham’s trousers or Mildmay’s coat?”
Montsimon chuckled. “Of equal fortune, I fear.”
Seated nearby were three lovely ladies. Guy’s wife, Horatia, chatted with Althea Brookwood and John’s wife, Lady Sibella. It was Althea that drew his eye. With her fair hair swept up in the latest fashion, she had the most graceful neck he had ever seen. He studied the widow’s shapely form with regret as he wondered what King George wished to discuss with him. George had looked unhealthy for some time, but in the hot ballroom, he was perspiring heavily, his sweat-drenched hair curling around a pallid forehead, his fleshy cheeks flushed. Worse than that, he appeared to have developed a nervous tic. It might be the result of criticism for the huge debts he incurred while lavishing money on the Brighton Pavilion. But more likely, it was fear that his wife, Caroline, who he refused to acknowledge as queen, planned to return to England and insist on attending his coronation as his consort. Whatever it was, Flynn felt sure George expected him to solve it. Did he think Flynn had the wisdom of Solomon?
*
Slough, Buckinghamshire
Alone again after spending Christmas with her Aunt Catherine, Althea breathed in the fresh country air with the hope that a spell away from London would revitalize her senses.
The hackney coach entered the busy market town of Slough. She enjoyed Aunt Catherine’s company, but of late, she seemed determined to see Althea married. “I don’t wish you to spend your life alone,” she said more than once. “With no children to brighten your old age.”
Her aunt’s marriage had been happy, but no children had resulted from it. Althea sympathized with her, which made it impossible to dissuade her aunt from her view. And she wasn’t about to reveal the appalling truth of her marriage to Brookwood.
Althea gazed out the window and winced fearing she’d made a poor companion. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a good laugh; her melancholy was like a steel weight she seemed unable to shrug off. Owltree Cottage would make her feel better. It always did.
Ahead, a stagecoach sounded its horn, blasting its arrival through the air, before halting outside the Crown Inn. Travelers from Bath alighted. While fresh horses were led from the stables, passengers traveling to London hurried from the porch of the inn to take their seats clutching bundles and bandboxes.
Althea’s carriage continued past the butcher’s shop on the corner and, passing the gray-stone church, climbed the hill, leaving the melee behind, entering a peaceful country lane edged on one side by forest. A mile farther on, the hackney slowed and turned into the circular driveway at Owltree Cottage.
As her tense limbs unwound, Althea viewed the country house she had inherited years ago which had become the secure, quiet bay she needed. It was too modest a dwelling to interest her late husband, who had ignored its existence for years. In the month before Brookwood died, however, he’d struck fear into Althea when he’d come there twice in the space of a few weeks.
Owltree Cottage had been built four hundred years ago. A thatched-roofed stone cottage, with cream painted shutters, it nestled in an old garden, surrounded on three sides by her neighbor, Sir Horace Crowthorne’s woodland.
Althea alighted from the carriage. She stretched her legs and breathed deeply of the cold fresh air while her trunk was heaved inside. Brought up in the country, the daughter of a Dorset farmer, she had found it difficult to adjust to London Society’s habit of staying up most of the night and sleeping half the day. During the season, she was constantly tired.
After she paid the driver, he climbed onto the box, seized the reins, and the hackney trundled off again. Althea turned to her maid waiting in the entry. Sally, a fresh-faced, reliable young woman who hailed from the village, greeted her with a bob. “Did you have a good trip, milady?”
“We were fortunate the rain held off, thank you, Sally. Has Mrs. Peebles returned from visiting her sister?”
“Friday, milady. But everything’s been made shipshape for you.”
Althea smiled. “Shipshape, Sally? Has Ned Thomas returned to port?”
The maid grinned. “He’s been on leave.” Her normally cheerful face drooped. “But he returns to duty again tomorrow.”
“I expect I’ll lose you soon.” Removing her fur hat, Althea patted her hair as she entered the front door.
“We plan to wed when Ned leaves the Navy next year. He hopes to one day become the landlord of the Red Cow.”
“A fine goal. What an asset you will be to him. I wish you both well and will help in any way I can.”
“Thank you, milady. We’ll be ever so grateful.”
After Sally assisted her out of her olive pelisse and took her things upstairs, Althea entered the snug salon where leaded windows gave a view of the garden. The leaves of the magnificent old oak hung like curled dusty fists on the branches, and beyond, the trees in the wood were still skeletal, waiting to be painted in fresh green leaf. Althea gazed about her, pleased to see that, as usual, every surface was polished, and every rug soundly beaten. This house, humble though it was, had kept her sane through the bad times.
Althea needed no urging to come home. It was here in this small, quiet corner of England that she had escaped her husband’s company when he was busy with his own pursuits, and had no need for her to act as hostess at his country seat, Brookwood Park. Her husband’s nephew, Aubrey, had inherited the estate, along with the other entailed properties, but she didn’t miss the draughty old mansion. She had no need of grand establishments.
The delicious aroma of fresh bread and biscuits wafted in the air. Althea’s stomach rumbled. “Cook has been baking?”
“All morning, milady,” Sally said.
“I have barely eaten today and shall indulge with a cup of tea, as soon as I’ve changed out of my traveling gown.” A sleepy black tomcat woke and stretched on the window seat. He jumped down with a meow of welcome and stalked over to rub against her legs.
Althea reached down and picked him up. “Have you missed me, Jet?” She stroked his sleek vibrating body and walked to the window to run a critical eye over her rose garden, picturing how delightful it would be in a month or so.
“It happened again, my lady,” Sally said. “I came downstairs and found Jet in the garden. Somehow, he managed to open the window.”
Althea put down the cat. Her body ached and she longed for a hot bath after the uncomfortable carriage ride with its inferior springs on rutted roads. “How very odd,” she said with a moment of disquiet. “He’s a clever cat, but that window latch isn’t loose.” She beckoned to her maid. “Come upstairs, Sally, I require a bath and a change of clothes. Then you must spend what’s left of the day with your Ned.”
The next morning, Althea woke with a luxurious stretch. She slept like the dead here. How pleasant to wake to the sparrow’s chirrup on the roof instead of the noise of traffic and shouts of early tradesmen and hawkers in the streets. After drinking a refreshing cup of coffee and nibbling a sweet roll at breakfast, she donned a shawl and wandered out to better inspect the garden. It was a treat not to be in London and have to be one’s well-turned out best from morning till night. A crisp breeze toyed with her hair, which Sally had yet to dress, as she was busy unpacking Althea’s trunk.
A volley of gunshot carried on the breeze from deep in the Crowthorne Woods. She stared at the pale sky now filled with fluttering birds. More shots followed. Sir Horace’s weekend guests, no doubt.
The crunch of heavy footsteps on the gravel made her turn.
“Lady Brookwood? Your maid said I might find you here.” Sir Horace strode toward her, his gray head bare, hat in hand. She stiffened. Sally would not have directed him here. How dare he come unannounced into her garden?
She nodded. “Sir Horace.”
He tucked a thumb into his crimson waistcoat, which strained over his stomach, and smiled unabashed. “I heard you had arrived yesterday. Nothing remains a secret for long in Slough. I called to welcome you home.”
“How kind. I expected you to be out with your party.”
“And so I was.”
“Have you left your guests?” Aware of her hair loose over her shoulders, she smoothed it back while the baronet, a man of some fifty years, stared at her with hooded, hawkish eyes.
“They shan’t miss me when their blood is up. I’ll return to them shortly. Lady Crowthorne has asked me to extend a dinner invitation to you for this evening.”
Althea very much doubted it. His second wife, Lady Crowthorne, had not been at all welcoming in the past. A widow such as herself young enough to tempt a husband, made her unpopular with some married women. “How good of her to think of me. But I must decline. I came here to rest after a demanding Christmas season.”
He cocked his head. “Surely someone so young and full of life prefers bright company to her own?”
The chill breeze whooshed through the poplars and lifted the hair from her neck, blowing strands across her face. She tucked it back while suppressing a shiver. “Please consider me for the next occasion. I shall have to decline, I’m afraid I’m exhausted.” Annoyed by his boorish behavior, she picked up the skirts of her morning gown and crossed the damp grass to the house. “You must excuse me. I must dress. You have caught me en dishabille.”
“I shan’t complain about that. You look as fresh as a dewy morning.” He strode after her. “My guests will be greatly disappointed. I believe you know many of them.” He rattled off some familiar names. “I promise to return you to your home before midnight, so it needn’t tax your strength.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to halt. Althea’s hackles rose at his effrontery, but she held her tongue. Unwise to foster bad relations with a neighbor, especially a wealthy, powerful man such as he.
He held out his hands, palm upward. “How can you say no to music, dancing, and the superb food prepared by my excellent French chef?” Hard brown eyes assessed her as he crossed his arms. “I won’t leave until you agree.” It infuriated her. Another man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Under his steady gaze, she sought for a polite excuse. “I keep no carriage here.”
“No problem. I’ll send mine to get you.”
He was intractable. She forced a smile and decided to agree if only to get rid of him. “Then I can hardly refuse such a promising evening’s entertainment.” She dipped a curtsey and continued to walk to the house, refusing to escort him to the door. Let him exit the way he came.
“Six o’clock,” he called after her.