Chapter Four
As Flynn peered ahead through the rain, Spot jumped over onto the seat beside him. Flynn cast the dog a stern look. “I don’t believe I gave you permission.”
Spot gave a yelp of approval.
“Oh, very well then. But sit and be quiet.”
The dog surprised him by doing precisely that. Flynn loved driving the phaeton, and bad weather didn’t bother him. He wasn’t about to put himself in the way of highwaymen, however, by driving all the way to London. And not when good company awaited him a half-hour away.
Something was amiss with Lady Brookwood. Odd that she had left Crowthorne’s in that fashion. She wasn’t about to tell him of it though, so he didn’t ask. He would not be the only one to have pursued her after her husband died. Had someone at the dinner made unwelcome advances? Herbert Frankston had an eye out for a mistress, but with his wife present, Flynn doubted the man would approach Althea. She was a lovely woman, with violet eyes, pale gold hair, and bosomy figure. He’d been bored more than once by a beautiful face, when the woman had no intellect or humor to enliven it, but Althea was anything but dull.
Althea, such a pretty name. She had a way of looking at him that made him suspect she could see through any attempts he made to charm her. Surprising, when he was lauded for his diplomatic skills. Surprising, too, that he rather appreciated their repartee. He looked forward to an enjoyable dalliance with her if he made her see the sense of it. She had a lovely laugh, and he wanted to hear more of it. To find humor lurking in those remarkable eyes of hers. But tonight… he frowned and suffered a prickle of guilt. She’d looked small and woebegone.
Why did she live in such a modest manner? Surely, as Brookwood’s widow, she was well provided for. He shrugged off these thoughts, which threatened his resolve to seduce her, and hurried the horses along as lightning lit up the sky. Thunder made the animals nervous. He glanced at Spot. The storm had no such effect on the dog. It had fallen asleep.
His mind turned to what little knowledge he had gained tonight that he must relay to the king, whose request for information on a certain matter had surprised him. Listening at key holes was not a diplomat’s job. He left that to the Home Office.
*
Althea sat up and punched her pillows as dreary dawn light crept around the curtains. “Montsimon,” she said aloud. He was obviously not a violent man if the way he treated that disreputable dog was anything to go by. He would have the connections to deal with Sir Horace Crowthorne. Perhaps, she would have to embark on the scheme her aunt suggested. Although the idea terrified her, she felt some relief for at least having a plan. She lay down again and closed her eyes.
Considerably better after a few more hours of sleep, Althea ate breakfast, then she sat at her desk and penned a letter to the family solicitor. Once she had blotted and sealed it, she called Sally. “Please pack my trunk. I shall have to hire a carriage. I’m returning to London.”
Sally’s mouth dropped open and dismay showed in her eyes. “But, my lady, weren’t you to remain with us until spring?”
“A matter has called me back to town, Sally,” Althea said, her voice hoarse with frustration. “Believe me, I don’t wish to go.”
As the carriage carried her toward London, Althea explored the possible idea of seducing Lord Montsimon into helping her. She touched her hot cheeks with gloved fingers. Any move on her part would certainly surprise him. She was tempted to ask her aunt how one might go about it. She clasped her hands tightly together. Such a request seemed lame and embarrassing. Aunt Catherine’s comment that she needed lessons in the art of flirtation, although amusing, had stung a little. She admitted to herself that she feared intimacy.
Brought to the marriage bed as a green girl of seventeen, she had wanted to love her husband and to please him. That had proved impossible. Brookwood’s lovemaking had done little to educate her. On the morning after their wedding, she had lain stunned and sickened. Nor had he grown more tender through the years of their marriage. A suffocating sensation tightened her throat as she remembered that which she had tried hard to forget.
Even supposing she could seduce Montsimon into helping her save Owltree, it was inherently dishonest. It cast her as low as Crowthorne. Sourness settled in the pit of her stomach. She hated the unscrupulousness of such an endeavor and was determined to first investigate other avenues.
In her London townhouse a week later, Althea received a reply from her solicitor, Mr. Manners. She hurried to his office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
At the death of her husband, Mr. Manners had expressed concern for her welfare, and she hoped he would keep it in mind when sending her his bill. The gangly, thin-faced gentleman greeted her soberly, confessing that, although the deed appeared sound, he had sent his clerk off with a letter to Sir Horace, requesting proof of his claim to the property.
He gestured to a letter on his desk with an embossed letterhead. “I’ve received a reply to that letter from Sir Horace’s solicitor and an opinion from a king’s counsel, Lord Coltart, a most eminent man.” Mr. Manners’ worried hazel eyes peered at her through his spectacles. “Although it’s not claimed outright that the deed is forged, he is confident it can be proved that your property is still part of Sir Horace’s estate. I feel I must advise you, Lady Brookwood, that Sir Horace is an affluent man. He has employed the best of the legal profession and could drag this matter through the courts, which would cost you a not inconsiderable amount of money with a doubtful outcome.”
Mr. Manners’ warning sent Althea into a spiral of despair. It was possible she would lose the estate to legal costs. But she was not prepared to give in to Sir Horace Crowthorne without a fight. Troubled by the news, she rushed home to Mayfair. She could not hold off Sir Horace for long. She entered her townhouse, a modest dwelling by Mayfair standards, where Butterworth greeted her, sober faced. No doubt, her kind and loyal butler feared for his job.
Her heart was heavy as she walked into the drawing room. With the legal costs, she would need to economize further, and that meant losing another member of her staff. Her nerves throbbed, and she huffed out a breath in despair, hating the prospect of parting with her loyal servants who had been with her for some years.
At her desk, after wasting several pieces of expensive bond, she was finally satisfied with her note to Sir Horace explaining that she was giving his proposition serious consideration. He would learn of her decision soon. She chewed on her lower lip, praying her words would cause him to postpone any rash action.
What she must do gnawed away at her confidence. Because of this man, she must humble herself before one of Brookwood’s associates and beg for his assistance. There weren’t a great many of her husband’s friends to choose from. Toward the end of his life, many had deserted him. As his gambling losses reduced his circumstances, he began to drink heavily and grew more reckless, often taking out his violent moods on her. Then some weeks before he died, his mood suddenly elevated. He refused to tell her the cause, sending her from the room while discussing a matter with the few friends that remained.
Althea chose Lord Churton although he had not been part of those discussions. She considered him to be the best of Brookwood’s friends. No more than a casual acquaintance toward the end of her husband’s life, Churton was a cut above the rest. His intelligent blue eyes were set in a broad face with a high color. A married man with children, he always greeted her warmly and was a respected member of parliament. She was optimistic he could do something to help her if he agreed.