Chapter Three
Precisely at six o’clock, Sir Horace’s coachman drove the shiny blue landau up to the door to take her to his mansion. By road it was several miles. They crossed a stone bridge over a river which flooded every winter and cut off his estate from the village.
They drove through gates and down the tree-lined avenue to his crenellated monstrosity of a house. A huge faux castle, it had been built only a few years ago after he tore down an Elizabethan house. Such pomposity.
In the entry hall, Althea greeted Lady Crowthorne warmly, hoping her presence didn’t affect the lady unfavorably. Crowthorne’s wife curtsied with a sour expression, her thin body clad in an unattractive shade of lavender.
The shoot had been successful with many birds bagged and the atmosphere in the reception rooms merry. As she entered, familiar faces turned toward her. Althea shrugged off her tiredness, determined to enjoy the evening and went to greet those she knew.
The thought of a pleasant evening was short lived when she saw two men whose attentions toward her had been unwelcome since Brookwood died.
A jolt of pleasure surprised her when Lord Montsimon appeared and bowed to her. She put it down to the fact that he measured up far better than the married wolves around him. He was every bit as bad as the rest, but he did not cheat on a wife and came in an altogether more attractive package. Still, she had no intention of encouraging him. His smile of greeting reminded her of his insufferable cockiness. She nodded coolly and turned back to the lady at her elbow.
At dinner, Lady Crowthorne placed Althea at the far end of the table beside Skiffy, Sir Lumley St. George Skeffington, a small, thin man with sharp features and rouged cheeks. Heavy perfume wafted in the air as he waved his hands and talked incessantly about fashion. He had designed his elaborate costume and confessed to frequently advising George IV in matters of dress before he became king.
Montsimon was seated at the head of the table, on Lady Crowthorne’s left, and was busy charming their hostess if her laughter was any judge.
After a superb dinner, which lived up to Crowthorne’s boast, Althea danced with several partners. When the musicians struck up a waltz, Montsimon beat several other men to her side. She stepped reluctantly into his arms, but the skill of both the musicians and Montsimon’s dancing lifted her mood and she began to enjoy herself.
“Sir Henry must have brought the musicians from London,” she said. “They are outstanding.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you enjoy the country?” Althea asked. She was surprised to see such an urban creature in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, and Crowthorne did not seem the type of man she expected Montsimon to associate with.
“In small doses,” Montsimon said as he swept her around the floor. “The air is invigorating. But then, when one becomes suffused with energy, there is little of the right company with which to enjoy it. What can one do?” He laughed.
Must he make every comment sound suggestive? “One might ride or hunt.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or play whist or backgammon.”
“That would certainly account for a few hours.”
“I find no difficulty in employing myself.”
“How fortunate you are not to suffer ennui from the lack of society.”
“We are fortunate tonight,” she said, smiling at her hostess who danced past and stared at them. “But sometimes society can be a bore.”
“You think so?” He studied her face. “You surely can’t be much above one-and-twenty.”
A soft gasp escaped her as she caught the white flash of his grin. He’d taken three years off her age. She smiled to herself. She was no ingénue, and he knew it. “How old I am has nothing to do with it.”
He frowned. “You’re not ill?”
She raised a brow. “I’m in the best of health, thank you for your concern.”
“Of course, you are.” His gaze roamed her face. “You’re positively glowing.”
“Dancing with you might contribute to my high color, my lord,” she said, imbuing her voice with sarcasm.
“I’m pleased to hear it,” he said, deliberating misunderstanding her.
“You may not be if I elaborated.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Surely you aren’t about to retire and become a recluse? I believe I just heard a collective sigh from all the gentlemen in the ballroom.”
“Not at all,” she said crisply. Was he working up to request a liaison as two other men had done? She tensed, preparing to give him short shrift.
“Do you like dogs, Lady Brookwood?”
Startled, she gazed into his gray eyes, finding them sharp and assessing. How unpredictable he was. “I like all animals. I have a cat.”
“I seem to have acquired a dog,” he said with a rueful expression. “Turned up at my stables in London. I tried to give it to my coachman, but Spot…” He shrugged apologetically when a laugh escaped her lips. “Yes, I know, not very original a name, is it? But he does have an awful lot of black spots, and is not at all handsome, I’m afraid.”
“What sort of dog is he?”
“Eh? Of an indifferent breed. A bit of this and a bit of that, with a remarkably long curly tail.”
“Is he friendly?”
“Very much so to me, although not always to others.” He grimaced. “But a fine ratter as it turns out.”
“He won’t like to be left behind.”
“No he wouldn’t.” He grinned. “So I didn’t. Spot is spending the evening in Sir Horace’s stable.”
Her smile broadened in approval. “You brought the dog with you?”
Montsimon adopted a chagrined expression although she doubted the validity of it. “I did attempt to leave Spot in London, but he would have none of it. Followed my carriage, so I had to take him up.”
Althea was still smiling when the dance ended. His kind heart was a nice surprise, but it may well have been a ploy to soften her attitude toward him. She still considered it wise to keep him at arm’s length. Perhaps even more so now as he proved to be a good deal too charming.
She next partnered the flamboyant, Edward Hughes Ball for a quadrille. He had inherited the princely sum of forty thousand a year from an uncle and expressed a fervent desire to buy Oatlands from the financially strapped Duke of York.
Sir Horace escorted her onto the floor for the final waltz. He was a forceful dancer without a shred of grace. She disliked his hands on her. “I require a word with you,” he murmured in her ear. “Come to my study after the dance. It’s to your right at the top of the stairs.”
She drew in a breath. “What will Lady Crowthorne think? Can you not tell me what this is about?”
“No. It’s a business matter. Lady Crowthorne understands.”
Althea doubted she did. “What sort of business? I’m about to leave.”
His hand crushed hers, and his hard eyes compelled her. “I shall go up first. Slip away after a few minutes.”
She had to steel herself not to disengage from his grasp. It wouldn’t do to cause a scene. “I’m sorry, Sir Horace. I don’t feel it’s wise.”
“I must insist that you do come. It will be to your disadvantage not to, Lady Brookwood.”
At the conclusion of the dance, Sir Horace strode from the room. What lay behind this invitation? Surely he didn’t plan to seduce her with his wife already on the alert. She hesitated. Could she slip away and go home? She had no transport. And if she did not see him now, he would turn up at her home tomorrow and force his way in as he’d done this morning. She wanted this at an end. If he was about to suggest a carte blanche, she would firmly put him in his place.
Althea searched the ballroom for Lady Crowthorne. Her hostess’ attention was fully engaged with Montsimon. Althea murmured to the lady beside her that she was to visit the retiring room, then left the ballroom. She located Sir Horace’s study at the top of the stairs and entering, leaving the door ajar.
“Ah, there you are.” He crossed the room and closed the door behind her.
She clutched her reticule in nervous fingers. “I can’t imagine what this is about, Sir Horace,” she said, her tone all business. “But could you be brief? I am about to retire.”
He waved her protest away with a hand, his eyes gleaming with intent. “Please sit. The leather armchair close to the fire is comfortable.”
“No, thank you. I shan’t be here long.”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll come right to the point. I wish to buy Owltree Cottage, and although it’s not a valuable piece of property, I’m prepared to offer you a good price for it.”
Althea went cold. “What made you believe I want to sell?”
Sir Horace strode to his desk and unrolled a length of paper. He beckoned her over. “This is what I wished to show you.”
Curious, she stepped closer to the desk. He held up a plan of his property and the surrounding area. She located Owltree Cottage, like a small island in the sea of woodland on his vast estate.
“I don’t see why you would want to buy my house.” She stared up at him, alarm bells ringing.
He stabbed at the center of it with a finger. “My gamekeeper uses this forest road, which peters out a half mile from Owltree Cottage.”
“Of course. I’m well aware of it.”
“It’s my intention to extend the road and join it up with the road to the village. It will cut off miles of travel for us when the weather is bad.” His hard eyes raked hers. Ignoring her rapid heartbeat, she shrugged, not wishing him to see that he’d frightened her. “You know, of course, heavy snow blocks our access to the village in the winter,” he said. “We are forced to travel many miles by the south road.”
“You speak of a mere trail. No carriage could use it.”
“It would carry small vehicles once improved sufficiently.”
She shook her head. “The terrain is heavily treed and there’s a brook.”
“There is a watercourse, I agree, which makes it impossible to place the road anywhere but here.” He ran his thumb over the page. “This, as you see, must cut across your property.”
There was something brutal about that thumb. She couldn’t turn her gaze away. Her panic grew to tighten her chest and restrict her breathing. “Absurd. I shall never sell my home. Nor will I agree to your invasion of my land.” She fought to hide her anger, but it was intolerable to think of his vehicles rolling through her garden, her peace forever destroyed.
“I advise you not to be too hasty in your refusal, Lady Brookwood. Should you not agree, I shall take it from you.” His smile was savage as he rolled up the map with jerky movements. “You must be aware that you would lose should you fight me in this.” He nodded at a painting hanging above them on the wall. “My great-great-grandfather granted Owltree Cottage to his steward. Your ancestor to be precise.”
“It was legally done. I have the deed.”
“You are sure it is legal? Loose arrangements were made back then. I have my solicitor searching the archives. He is confident he can prove the original document to be flawed. If so, I would regain the property, and you will not be paid a shilling.”
Althea spluttered, unable to contain her feelings a moment longer. “I don’t understand. Why would you do something like this?” She spat out the words contemptuously. “There are other ways; the village road might be improved, the bridge rebuilt for far less expense….”
She had made a mistake. His eyes glowed, satisfied to have shaken her. He stared again at the murky oil painting, his ancestor perhaps. A more decent man than him, it seemed. “There’s a way you can dissuade me.”
“And what is that?” She feared the answer, but felt compelled to ask. To hear the shabby words from his lips, she hoped it would shame him.
“By becoming my mistress.” He turned to her, his expression conveying such covetousness she dropped her gaze.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she countered icily.
He reached out and grabbed one of her hands. “Think about it. With me as your protector, you shall gain in so many ways, my dear. I know Brookwood left you in straightened circumstances.”
She pulled her hand away. “I’m not yet in debtor’s prison.”
“You’re not being sensible. A lovely young woman like you deserves to be dressed like a queen. I can establish you in London in the greatest comfort. You would want for nothing.”
It was a ploy to control her. Once she was his mistress, it gave him power over her. And he would still take the house. The thought of that man on top of her rendered her close to fainting. “You wish a reluctant mistress, Sir Horace?” She tilted her head. “I find myself wondering why you are reduced to buying your women.”
He was so sure of himself and his place in the world, he batted the insult away with an indifferent shrug. “Why do you wish to hold on to that old house?”
“That is my concern.” She put her hands on her hips. “You shall never frighten me into falling into your arms. Surely, you wouldn’t want a lover you have to threaten into sleeping with you. One who might bring a knife to your bed and stab you while you slept.” It gave Althea satisfaction to visualize herself in the act. “Let’s forget this foolish conversation ever took place.”
She’d touched on a nerve, for his face flushed bright red. “Say your goodbyes to Owltree Cottage, Lady Brookwood, for if you don’t agree with my demands, I will take it!”
“We shall see about that!” Althea rushed to the door and flung it open.
She ran to the stairs. Stupid to goad him, but she didn’t regret it. The man was a monster. No wonder his wife looked so unhappy! A footman stared at her from the entry hall. “Please fetch my cloak,” she called as she ran down the steps, almost losing a slipper. He rushed to comply.
As soon as the bewildered footman opened the front door, she breathlessly instructed him over her shoulder to make her apologies to his mistress. A megrim had forced her to return home. She stumbled down the steps to the gravel drive, cursing her flimsy footwear. Her evening cape was fur-lined, but her thin dress clung to her legs and was hardly fit for walking about in the night air. A glaze of frost whitened the grass. It would be a vigorous hike to Owltree Cottage even in good weather, and she could hardly cut across the muddy fields in the dark. When she passed the last of the braziers lighting the carriageway, the night would close in, and every rock and pothole would trip her up.
She was striding alone, the gates still quite a distance, when hoof beats and the clatter of a vehicle sounded on the gravel behind her. Did Sir Horace pursue her? Her pulse quickened. She spun to face him, then slumped with relief. Lord Montsimon drove toward her in a sporty phaeton. He reined in the matched pair of thoroughbreds and placed the whip in the whip holder beside the seat.
He leaned down. “May I escort you home?”
Close to tears, she was in no mood for another unwelcome tête-à-tête. She shook her head and continued walking. “No thank you.”
“It’s a devilishly chilly night.” He slapped the reins, and the phaeton jingled and rattled alongside her. “Surely you don’t intend to walk home,” he called. “By the look of the weather it won’t be a pleasant trip.”
“I shall manage.”
She dropped her gaze to the shadowy way ahead and marched on, attempting to ignore her freezing feet. He made no move to drive past her. The golden light from the lamps strung on the vehicle lighted her way down the drive. She cursed under her breath when a drop of rain splattered on her cheek.
“It’s raining,” Lord Montsimon said, stating the obvious.
“Merely a shower.” She grimaced. Her expensive evening cloak would be ruined, and she couldn’t afford to replace it.
The few drops were quickly followed by several more. Heavier, with the icy touch of sleet. Althea hesitated, seeing the sense of it. If seen riding off with him alone, she would be the subject of talk, but that hardly mattered. If Lady Crowthorne learned of her husband’s desires, a far bigger scandal would erupt. She stopped. “It might be best if you did drive me home.”
“A sensible decision.” He secured the reins and leapt down.
She backed away as he approached her.
“My, you are jumpy. I was merely going to assist you.”
“Very well. You may do so,” Althea said ungraciously.
Montsimon placed his hands at her waist and hoisted her up onto the high seat with astonishing ease. She arranged her skirts with a sidelong glance at his muscular shoulders as he climbed in beside her.
When Montsimon pulled up the hood, sudden doggy breath warmed her cheek. Althea glanced behind her. A rather ugly terrier sat scratching an ear. The ear looked slightly chewed.
“Do sit down, Spot,” Montsimon said with a grimace.
“So, this is Spot,” Althea said politely. Montsimon’s description of the dog was apt. It was hardly the progeny of careful breeding.
“Yes, that’s Spot,” Montsimon said heavily as he wrestled a fur-lined travel rug from where Spot had been sitting. He spread it over her knees. “I do hope this doesn’t have fleas.”
“It’s most welcome, nonetheless.” The thick blanket was warm, and she tamped down the urge to pull it up to her chest. Maybe the warmth would stop her infernal shivering, although, whether that was caused by the weather, Sir Horace’s proposition, or Montsimon’s proximity, she couldn’t be sure.
“We can’t have you getting ill, can we?” He slapped the reins and urged the horses to walk on. “Owltree Cottage, I believe?”
She stared at his profile in the lamplight, reluctantly admitting it was a fine one. “You know where I live?”
“Your husband once offered to sell Owltree Cottage to me.”
“He did what!”
Montsimon gazed at her apologetically before turning back to watch the road. “He was in his cups and losing at cards at the time.”
“Oh.” Surely he hadn’t meant it.
“Of course, the cottage would be of little use to me. I seldom come to this part of the world.”
“He couldn’t have sold it to you. It belongs to me.” She bit her lip, wondering if Sir Horace had been bluffing.
“Don’t all properties revert to the husband on marriage?”
Althea stiffened, overwhelmed by anger that as a female, she was subject to men’s outrageous whims. “It was not part of my dower. My uncle made sure of that in his will.” But it in no way protected the property from an unscrupulous husband.
At the bitter tone in her voice, Montsimon gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. The patter of rain increased on the hood and dripped down all around them.
She clutched the rug to her, glad of it in spite of possible bugs. “You’re a friend of Sir Horace’s?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“The evening was more business than pleasure.” He bit the words off with a ring of finality. She was not to ask more. He was an important diplomat. A man with powerful friends. Powerful enemies, too, perhaps.
She was grateful when he didn’t attempt to flirt with her. He seemed more thoughtful, and the excuse she gave the footman was now true, as her head ached intolerably.
Montsimon drove the dangerous high perch phaeton with skill, rounding bends at a clip. She hung on to the seat, glad of his expertise. “I believe your estate is in Ireland, my lord.”
“Indeed. County Wicklow.”
“Do you not intend to return there to live?”
“Settle down to domestic life? It doesn’t appeal.”
His life in England and the Continent working for the foreign office would be far too exciting to exchange for a country estate in Ireland, she supposed. She had never been there and was suddenly curious. “Is it a pretty place?”
He huffed out a short laugh. “No one would call the house pretty, but it’s beautiful country. And not far from the sea.”
They approached her house where lamplight in the downstairs windows flickered a welcome. Montsimon drove into the carriageway and pulled up the horses. He leaped to the ground and held out his arms to assist her down. Althea placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, held for a moment against his hard body before he politely released her. She stepped back, suffering the urge to throw herself upon his chest again and sob out her sorry tale. The notion was so ridiculous she almost laughed. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. She was very grateful that he’d come along when he had. “Thank you, my lord. You have saved me from a long, wet walk.”
“I should not have liked to learn you became ill from an inflammation of the lungs.” He replaced his hat and leapt back into the phaeton, his long legs making the action appear easy.
“You are driving all the way back to London tonight?” she asked, wishing to extend the conversation. “In this vehicle?”
“Not likely.” He grinned. “I plan to stay with a friend, Viscount Warren. He has a country house in Biddlesden, Aylesbury Vale.”
The heavens opened with a deluge. Althea hurried to shelter on the porch as he drove away, carriage lights fading into the mist. She remained staring into the dark, her worries returning in full force. What was she to do? Her heart lurched when she remembered Sir Horace’s hard stare. He had the upper hand or he would never have spoken. Even if the deed she held was sound, it would not be beneath him to get what he wanted by skullduggery. She could not lose Owltree. She would not. Her next step would be to appeal to her solicitor, but she feared he’d be of little help. She rented her London townhouse, and with her meager stipend from Brookwood, it was always a squeeze to make ends meet, even with stringent economic measures and few staff.
When Brookwood’s nephew, Aubrey, had returned from the West Indies to claim Brookwood’s title, he had been scathing about the lack of children in her marriage, rudely intimated that her family came from further down the social scale, and that she had married his uncle for his money while refusing him her bed. Hardly her fault that her husband was usually too drunk to visit her bed. Aubrey made no offer to help her. The dower house stood empty. That didn’t bother her, apart from the unfairness of his insinuations. She would choose to live in a hovel before she became beholden to him, a younger version of her husband. He was driven more by greed than misplaced moral outrage, she suspected. In truth, the only man she trusted was her brother. But if driven from her home, she wouldn’t return to Dorset. Freddie and his wife, and their six children, filled every corner of their small farmhouse.
She had to think. If only this headache would fade. She entered the house where Sally waited up for her.
“I have a dreadful megrim, Sally.”
“You go on up, my lady. I’ll bring some feverfew in a trice.”
After Sally’s kind ministrations, Althea retired to bed and lay silently as hour after hour passed. Eventually, the tincture did its work, and her headache ebbed away. She might go to her aunt. But Catherine couldn’t help her hold on to Owltree. No, she must turn to one of the men who had shown an interest in her. A man with considerable influence who could uncover Sir Horace’s secrets.
Why did the baronet really want Owltree Manor? If she learned more about his intentions, perhaps they might be used to fight him. But this powerful gentleman whose help she sought, what might she offer him? It would not be marriage. She gasped with a shiver of panic and fought to calm herself. No, that was impossible, and yet, what else did she have to offer but her body? An affair?
She believed Brookwood had broken something inside her. Remembrance caused a hollow vacuum of loss to well up and flood her with sadness. She turned over in bed, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof and hoped Montsimon had reached his destination safely.