Chapter Seven
Flynn met with Barraclough again. Churton had sent a note to the Home Office the day before he was killed which hinted at something of great interest to the crown, but he had not elaborated on it, instead intended to call in at Whitehall and discuss it. But that meeting never took place. It was left to Flynn and Barraclough to uncover what it was that Churton referred to.
In search of information, Flynn moved through White’s Club that evening, pausing to chat to those he knew. Many members expressed outrage at Churton’s murder. Unthinkable that he’d been struck down a mere few blocks from there. Some suggested footpads, but none had anything of value to offer.
Lord Deighton sat alone by the fire in the club’s library, an empty wine glass beside him. “Another glass of wine, sir?” Flynn took the chair beside him and gestured to the hovering waiter. A good source of information was Deighton, a regular who made it his business to learn everyone else’s.
“Thank you, Lord Montsimon. Good of you.”
When the waiter returned with two glasses of claret, Flynn raised his glass to Deighton and took a deep sip. “Bad business about Lord Churton. I wish I’d seen him that evening. I planned to visit the club but was detained.”
Lord Deighton’s faded blue eyes peered at him from over the rim of his glass. “I believe I was the last to speak to him. Wished him a good evening.”
Flynn nodded with a sad smile. “Pleasant man, Churton. Always good for a joke or an on-dit or two.”
“One could often learn something interesting from Churton, but not that night. He wasn’t here above an hour.” Deighton hunched over in his chair. “Brushed me off when I tried to engage him in conversation. I assumed he had an appointment.”
“That was unlike him,” Flynn said sympathetically. “Perturbed about something, do you think?”
“He might have been.” Deighton moistened his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue. He dropped his voice. “Knew his killer, d’you think?”
“I doubt it. More likely robbed by a footpad.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless he said something to suggest otherwise?” No sense in mentioning Churton still had his money, fobs, and gold watch when found.
“No. I believe you’re right, Montsimon, probably ran afoul of a footpad, though why he should wander into a darkened lane alone… No sense at all. Asking for trouble, I would have thought.” Deighton took another thoughtful sip of wine. “He barely spoke to Lord Frank, some political matter it was, and… who else? Oh yes, he had a brief word with Sir Horace Crowthorne.”
“Parliamentary business I imagine.”
“They stepped away from me.” Deighton gave a heavy sigh. “I didn’t catch what was said.”
“And then the poor chap left to meet his doom,” Flynn added.
Deighton nodded vigorously. “Right afterward. Off he went, to meet his Maker as you say.” He shuddered. “Gutted like a fish, it’s said, poor fellow.”
At this moment, Sir Horace himself walked past them with a purposeful stride. Flynn excused himself from Deighton and followed. He was deciding whether to question him when Crowthorne waylaid Lord Goodrich, one of the men on Flynn’s list of possible conspirators, and engaged him in conversation.
The two men entered the card room, their conversation lost in the bursts of laughter, which erupted when a member made an amusing entry in the betting book. A slight acquaintance cornered Flynn and launched into an effusive description of the prime bit of blood he’d bought at Tattersall’s that he was certain would make his fortune at the races. He was on the lookout for investors. Flynn politely declined while he kept an eye on Crowthorne and Goodrich who continued to talk in low voices under the pretext of following the action at the tables.
The two men made no move to join the card game and, instead, left the club together. Flynn excused himself from his ebullient acquaintance. He donned his greatcoat and hat and left the building to find the two still together in the street. Flynn acknowledged them with a casual nod and hailed one of the hackney carriages lined up waiting for a fare.
As soon as his hackney turned the corner, Flynn ordered the jarvie to stop. “Wait here.” He jumped out and ran to check on the men. They had just parted, with Crowthorne hailing a hackney, while Lord Goodrich strode off down the street.
A man in a black coat materialized from the shadows of the nearby alley. Skirting the halo of lamplight, he brushed past Flynn with a nod and slid off into the deep shadows again walking in the same direction Lord Goodrich had taken.
Satisfied that Goodrich was tailed, Flynn concentrated on Crowthorne, who had shouted his direction before he climbed into a hackney carriage. As the vehicle drove off, Flynn ran back and instructed the jarvie to follow.
“Right you are, guvnor,” the jarvie called with a crack of his whip. “It’s been a dull evenin’.” He skillfully backed the horse and performed a perfect turn, setting off at a fast clip. Sir Horace’s carriage was soon within sight as it traveled more sedately along Piccadilly.
*
Althea descended from the hackney on the northern side of Manchester Square outside Lord Percy’s mansion, where candlelight blazed out from every window.
She had never accompanied Brookwood to Lord Percy Woodruff’s parties. The few times she had met Woodruff socially, she hadn’t particularly warmed to him, disliking his inquisitive manner. A man who liked to poke his nose into other’s affairs. But that may serve her well.
A footman admitted her. He led her across the black-and-white marble checkerboard floor to the staircase. On the floor above, she was shown into the empty drawing room and told that Lord Percy would not be long. Chilled more with apprehension than cold, she hurried to the fireplace where embers glowed in the grate.
Her reticule in her lap, Althea held her hands encased in white evening gloves closer to the fire while she attempted to compose herself. She had not come across any other guests, for which she was grateful. It seemed that Lord Percy had obeyed her request for their meeting to remain private. She wondered if he would be helpful. He could hardly devote much time to her when he had guests to attend to. She gripped her reticule, ready to abandon the whole idea and swiftly leave if she must.
She cast aside her fears as the plump Lord Percy bustled in, all smiles, his round, childish face like one of Botticelli’s putti, lending him a benevolent air. He selected one of a pair of brocade wing chairs for her. “I guarantee we shall see snow tonight, Lady Brookwood. Might I suggest a sherry to warm you?”
“Thank you, Lord Percy, but no.” Althea wanted to get their interview over with promptly and leave. She perched on the edge of the chair. “In your letter you mentioned that you might know something of Sir Horace which would help me understand why he should want to buy my cottage.” She smiled. “I don’t wish to be unreasonable, but I dislike being railroaded into a sale. The reason he gave me makes little sense. I’m sure a man such as yourself would see that.” She smiled and fingered the pearls at her throat. “Some men can be obtuse. I’m sure it’s in the belief that we females have less understanding of financial matters. But I see you are more respectful. I am confident that you will be entirely honest with me.”
His eyes gleamed. “I am your servant, my lady. I wish to help in any way I can. But first, you must forgive me, for my guests have begun to arrive. I must greet them, bad manners not to, eh? I shall then give your problem my full attention.” He moved to the drinks table and poured wine from a crystal carafe into a glass. “Please enjoy this offering from my cellar. It’s a fine vintage. I’ll be but a moment.”
Aware that it was bad manners to refuse, or to attempt to delay him, Althea accepted his offering. “So kind of you to see me when you have guests tonight.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to help a friend or the pretty wife of a friend,” he said. “And poor Brookwood would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
The door closed behind him. Her shoulders tightened at his reference to her appearance. Her flirtatious manner could only carry her so far without getting her into worst trouble. Flustered, she sipped the wine, vaguely aware of its excellence. Why had she thought this visit acceptable? She should have been more patient, arranged a daytime meeting. But that would have had to wait until he returned to London. And who knew when that would be? And what Sir Horace might do in the interim?
Althea breathed deeply; she was hardly in the depths of St. Giles. Manchester Square was an exceptional address, its square of gardens surrounded by prosperous houses.
Loud conversation erupted in the corridor outside where Lord Percy’s guests chortled and sniggered at some joke as men did when not in the company of ladies. She took another sip of wine. The more she considered it, the more this appeared to be a fool’s errand.
The grandfather clock loudly proclaimed the hour, making her flinch. Lord Percy had been gone for over half an hour. What had detained him? At the high-pitched giggle and sounds of footsteps running on the stairs, Althea banged her glass down, spilling drops over the table, and ran to the door. She opened it a crack and peered through. At the head of the stairs, a woman in a shockingly low-cut gown of crimson satin, lavishly trimmed with gold fringe, clung to Lord Percy’s arm. He was engaged in a heated disagreement with Sir Horace Crowthorne. Sir Horace jerked his head toward the drawing room. “I’ll deal with her, Woodruff.”
Althea carefully closed the door, then spun around. She would not be caught alone with that man. There were no other doors, only the French windows. She threw them open and stepped out onto a narrow balcony enclosed by an iron railing. It overlooked the rear garden but no steps led down. She seized the icy balustrade in both hands.
She peered into the dark as she pictured herself lying with a broken limb on the ground. Even that was preferable to being at Sir Horace’s mercy. Lord Percy should not have invited her to such an affair. She did not trust either of them.
Snowflakes drifted around her, cold on her skin. She began to shiver, and if she didn’t keep moving, she would freeze to death. There was only one avenue open to her. The solid branches of an oak were within reach. It wouldn’t be so difficult to climb down. Was she mad to consider it? She dropped her reticule down into the dark. Then she removed her gloves, tucking them into a pocket, while silently bemoaning the absence of her warm cloak. The tulip sleeves of her gown left her arms bare. With an attempt to ignore the goose bumps, she hitched up her canary yellow silk skirts and petticoats, slipped one foot over the railing, and then gritted her teeth as the cold metal bit into her bare thighs above her stockings. She reached out, endeavoring not to look down and was able to grasp the branch. When confident of her balance, she swung her other leg over the rail, finding another branch below on which to stand. It was less sturdy and bent alarmingly under her weight. With a muffled curse which would have made a sailor blush, she recklessly launched herself onto another more solid branch below it, as her dress caught on a sharp twig with a ripping sound.
The ground was bathed in deep shadows. Too far away to jump. It was difficult to keep her balance as her evening shoes slipped on the damp, frosty bark. “I can do this!” she muttered. She had climbed much taller trees growing up in the country but not in shoes like these. She kicked off her slippers, despairing of her silk stockings. They fell with two soft thuds to the ground.
While she hugged the trunk and searched for a new foothold, a low-pitched, melodic voice addressed her from out of the darkness.
“Lady Brookwood. May I be of assistance?”
Shocked, Althea almost fell. She knew that voice. The branch beside her creaked and bowed, and the whole tree shook unnervingly. A breath tickled her ear while a hand snaked around her waist. She was swung into midair and lowered to the ground.
As she gained her feet, Lord Montsimon dropped down beside her.
Her face burning with embarrassment, Althea swiveled to face him, glad of the shadows. “What on earth are you doing here?” Annoyed by the tiny flip of her heart, her whisper sounded waspish. She busied herself searching around for her reticule and shoes.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, as he removed her reticule and slippers from the pockets of his great coat. “But we can hardly discuss it here.” He watched as she pushed her damp, chilled feet into her slippers. “I saw no carriage awaiting you in the square. I expect I shall have to see you home.”
She lifted her chin. How ungallant! She was in no mood to deal with the mercurial Lord Montsimon. She reached in her pocket and took out her gloves, pulling them on with a nonchalant shrug. “I plan to hail a hackney.”
“You seem inadequately dressed for such a purpose. May I offer you my coat?”
“No, thank you.” He always seemed to be giving up his coat for her. She was freezing and would have loved to wear it, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“As it happens, I have a hackney on hand.” His gloved fingers took a firm hold of her arm.
Althea had to admit she was glad of his support; her footsteps were unsure in the dark. He led her through the garden and out the back gate onto a narrow laneway. “Where are we—”
“Please be quiet.”
“I wasn’t about to yell, my lord. I’m not so reckless.”
“Really? I doubt you would be able to defend that claim.”
She sucked in a breath. “Well, neither could you!”
Althea tripped and discovered a torn double frill at the hem of her gown. Its cord now trailed behind her like a harvester gathering up gravel. “Could you please slow down,” she hissed. “My evening footwear is not designed for negotiating rough ground.”
He stopped. Wordlessly, he hefted her up into his arms, holding her close against his chest.
“Oh!” She wriggled. “This is ridiculous. Put me down.”
Evidently not suffering a need to respond, he strode with her along the lane.
“Are you deaf? Put me down!” She struggled to free herself.
“Can’t I’m afraid. At your present snail’s pace, my lady, we would be lucky to reach the carriage by breakfast. I advise you to lower your voice, or we shall have interested parties joining us.”
Althea snapped her mouth shut and held onto his shoulder while confirming her first opinion of Lord Montsimon’s physique. Slim but muscular. Definitely. She wasn’t sure why that annoyed her even more. His face was not far above hers, and she discovered a cleft in his chin. At the sight of the hackney coach waiting at the end of the lane, the jarvie at the horse’s head, she struggled in his arms. “I believe it’s safe to put me down now. Please!”
Montsimon unceremoniously dumped her on her feet. She tripped along, aware of her frills unraveling with each step.
On reaching the hackney, Montsimon gave her address to the jarvie and opened the door. When she stepped forward to enter, a loud ripping sound brought them both to a startled halt. Althea looked down.
Without an apology, Montsimon lifted his foot off her gown’s trailing flounce.
“I must have torn my gown coming down the tree,” she said, bunching up her skirts to enter the carriage.
“I find myself unable to continue this fascinating conversation at this time, Lady Brookwood,” he said, as he thrust the torn flounce into the carriage after her. “I shall call on you at home tomorrow at two o’clock. I am all agog to learn what brought about the need for you to climb trees in Manchester Square on a freezing winter evening.”
“And I look forward to learning how you came to be on hand to assist me,” she said crisply.
He slammed the door and barked at the jarvie. Althea looked back through the window as Montsimon stalked down the lane. “Well, how odd,” she murmured. What was he doing in the garden?
As the carriage took her home, she faced the fact that her last hope of assistance had failed her. There was nothing for it, she would have to beg for Montsimon’s help. She was very bad at begging, it made her fear she was giving up her hard won independence. And was he likely to agree? He appeared set on his own course. It was unfortunate that her charms seemed to have deserted her where he was concerned. She sighed. If, by some miracle, he did offer to help her, it would not be with any semblance of diplomacy, of that she was sure.