Chapter Six
Flynn reclaimed his coat and escorted the shocked and trembling Lady Brookwood indoors after reassuring her that she was not the cause of Churton’s death. He did not like her mixed up in this business. He did not like it at all. As she was, he must learn the extent of her involvement but so far there was little she could tell him.
“You need brandy. I’ll go in search of some.” He guided her to a vacant chair, aware he’d been blunt, but he needed to be. He found a crystal carafe and poured out a half-full glass of amber fluid then handed it to her.
She took a big swallow and choked.
“Take it easy, spirits are strong. Just sip it.”
She gazed up at him with enormous, imploring violet eyes, which affected him more than he liked to admit. Deuce it. “Did you come alone tonight, Lady Brookwood?”
“I did, yes.”
“I’ll take you home, if I may. We can talk further.”
She nodded and took another sip.
“Wait for me. I have business to attend to.” He bowed and left her. While they had been on the terrace, news of Churton’s death had spread like fire through dried grass. He heard it spoken of in shocked tones as he made his way through the reception rooms searching for Barraclough.
He found him. With a nod, Barraclough joined Flynn in the empty library. Flynn closed the door.
“Nasty business,” Barraclough observed.
“I liked the man.” Anger spread like a fever along Flynn’s shoulders and back. “Have you any idea who did it?”
Barraclough shook his head. “None.”
“I can’t see a link to the matter we’re investigating. Can you?”
“No. But one might emerge. We must remain alert.”
Neither Lord Goodrich nor Robert Wensley had put in an appearance tonight. Something might turn up with Sidmouth’s spies watching their movements.
“It appears that Lady Althea Brookwood might have become caught up in it.”
“Oh? How?”
As Flynn explained, his determination to find Churton’s murderer tightened his chest. They could not take it lightly, for Churton spied for the crown, as did Flynn.
*
The crowd had thinned, the last of the guests waiting at the door for their carriages, when Montsimon finally reappeared. He had been gone for most of the evening. Edgy and annoyed, and in no mood to discuss the latest fashions, theatrical performances, or poetical achievements, Althea had spent the time in a distressed fog, mystified as to why she allowed Montsimon to take her home. The shock of poor Lord Churton’s death following so closely on her request for help, had completely rattled her.
“I was about to order a hackney,” Althea said. “I’d begun to fear you’d gone without me.”
“Oh no, my lady. We must talk,” Montsimon said, thoroughly unnerving her.
“And I have a few questions for you, too, my lord,” she countered crisply.
She wrapped her warm cape around her and climbed into his carriage while considering the questions she wished to put to him.
Spot sat up, shook himself, and barked a greeting. At any other time, she would have laughed. This was hardly what one would expect of a distinguished diplomat. If indeed, that was all that he was. She eyed Montsimon, settling opposite her in his dark evening cloak.
“Sit, Spot!” Montsimon ordered. Surprisingly, the crossbreed obeyed him, turning around twice on his special pillow in one corner.
“He likes you,” Montsimon said, a smile turning up the corners of his handsome mouth. “You should be flattered. Spot’s approval is rarely given.”
“Animals can distinguish friend from foe.”
Might Montsimon help her? She reached across and patted the dog’s silky head. “I must offer my condolences to Lady Margery. I didn’t know either of them at all well, but I found them most agreeable.”
“Did you,” Montsimon said noncommittally. A probing query entered his eyes. He folded his arms. “So you say you asked Churton to question Sir Horace on your behalf?”
“Yes.” Althea fiddled with her reticule. “Do you think Lord Churton might have spoken to Sir Horace before…” She gasped and fell silent.
“It hardly matters now.”
“Well, it might not to you, my lord,” she snapped, her nerves raw. Sir Horace had been his arrogant and overbearing self tonight. She curled her fingers into her palm, recalling how she’d wanted to slap his smirk away.
Montsimon leaned forward and took her gloved hand in his, smoothing her fingers against his large palm. “Of course you’re shaken by what has happened. I advise you to leave town.” He gazed down at her hand, almost lost in his. “Spend some time in the country as you planned.”
“Why?” She almost squeaked finding his touch as unsettling as his controlling manner. She withdrew her hand.
“Wait for Sir Horace to tire of his game.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“From what I know of the man, I believe he will. Something else of more importance will claim his interest. It’s best not to cross him. Why distress yourself unnecessarily?”
She scowled at him. “I’m not about to collapse into the vapors. I can’t allow the man to beat me down. I intend to stand up for my rights.”
He frowned. “He has a reputation for being… cruel.”
She sighed, as her hopes faded. Montsimon was not about to help her. “He’s not a friend of yours then.”
His eyes searched hers, warming her despite the cold evening. “Merely an acquaintance.”
She shifted nervously on the seat but persisted. “Do you know someone who might have his ear?”
“Not off hand.”
She waited, still clinging to the hope he might do something for her. It didn’t come. The best he could do it seemed was to advise her to leave London. Well, that would solve nothing. She wasn’t about to abandon her plan to discover something about Crowthorne to use against him. She must find some associate of his. It stood to reason a man like that had made enemies.
Althea played with the fringe on her reticule. She had no idea what Montsimon was thinking. There was more to him than she’d first thought. Not just a charming rake, it seemed, for there was certainly nothing seductive in his manner. How come he knew about Churton’s murder before the news reached the rest of the ton? There wasn’t so much as a murmur until well after he told her about it. She was out of her depth and unnerved by his cool façade. A man of secrets, she suspected. Gaining any knowledge of this business would be like trying to chip away at granite. And the notion of an attempt at seduction to employ his help was laughable. Rattled, she rubbed her arms.
He quirked his eyebrow questioningly. “You’ve suffered a shock. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right, thank you.” Her voice sounded sharper than she had meant it to. She sought to build a wall between them for her peace of mind. A seduction would never have occurred to her. She blamed her aunt for it entirely.
The carriage drew to a stop outside her townhouse. Montsimon escorted her to the door. He bent over her hand. “Please seriously consider leaving London. Don’t try to best Sir Horace Crowthorne. You’ll find him too powerful an opponent.”
“I’m aware of that. But David’s fight with Goliath worked well for David, did it not?”
“Don’t forget your catapult then,” he said with a supercilious lift of his eyebrow.
“I don’t mean to sound flippant,” she said, raising her chin. “It’s just that I am unable to give up on this matter. It means too much to me.”
Perhaps it did to Montsimon, too. He clearly had an interest in Churton’s death although he wasn’t prepared to share it with her.
“More than your life?”
“That seems overly dramatic, my lord. Are you trying to scare me?”
“If it will serve.”
Masterful persuasion seemed to be his style, and she didn’t respond well to that. She took two steps up to her front door and turned to look directly into his eyes. They seemed to have turned a darker gray although it might be the lamp light. She must make herself clear. “I have no plans to return to the country, my lord.”
She was right, his eyes had turned flinty. “No?”
“No.”
“Then I wish you good evening, Lady Brookwood.”
Montsimon exuded a fierce energy, which might have resulted from anger or frustration, though why he should care she had no idea. She watched him fling himself into the carriage. It was gone around the corner before her butler opened the door.
Althea entered the house, weary to her bones. She was glad Montsimon hadn’t remained to further argue the point. He was exhausting, and she’d felt quite unequal to it. A good night’s sleep was needed. But once in bed, she lay wide-awake as anguish for Churton made her rigid with horror. Despite Montsimon’s assurance that she was not to blame, she wasn’t entirely sure. Would he discover who killed Churton? If he did, would she ever learn the truth?
Montsimon had said Sir Horace was cruel. Of that she had no doubt. She shuddered and pulled up the coverlet.
The next morning after breakfast, the butler entered the drawing room carrying a letter on a silver tray. “A letter has arrived, my lady.”
“Thank you, Butterworth.” At her desk, Althea eagerly slit the missive open with the mother-of-pearl letter opener. Lord Percy Woodruff had responded promptly to her request to see him. Still deeply affected by Lord Churton’s death, she prayed this man could help her. Her husband and Lord Percy had been close. On the few occasions she’d met him, Lord Percy appeared to be harmless enough, a garrulous man with a love of gossip. If he had knowledge of Crowthorne’s plans, it might be easy to coax it from him.
Lord Percy was her last hope. She held her breath as she scanned the page. He admitted he was an acquaintance of Crowthorne’s, but he was on the verge of departing for the country and would be gone for some weeks. He was, however, to hold a card party that evening. Was it possible for her to come to see him tonight at eight o’clock? They could then discuss the matter.
It was a less than perfect solution. To call on a strange gentleman at night, unaccompanied, was both scandalous and possibly perilous. If Lord Percy hadn’t reminded her of some friendly woodland animal, she would have refused immediately. Althea tapped her finger on the polished wooden surface, undecided. Would their discussion be held in private? Might he be able to give her his time when he had guests? She considered taking her maid, but she didn’t wish to involve her staff in this affair.
If she didn’t go, who could she turn to next? Unable to supply an answer, she decided to accept. Surely, taking some form of action was preferable to doing nothing. She trimmed her pen, dipped it into the inkpot, and paused, staring at the blank sheet of vellum. Then she dashed off a reply and rang for the footman to deliver it before she changed her mind.