Chapter Eight
After he sent the beguiling but troublesome Lady Brookwood home, Flynn returned to the garden of No. 4 Manchester Square. Snow dusted the ground in a cloak of white, muffling his footsteps. As the pervasive cold seeped into his bones, he stamped his feet and blew out gusts of steam into the frigid air, considering how he might gain entry to the house unseen. Before he could act, his patience was rewarded when Woodruff and Crowthorne erupted onto the balcony and peered over the rail.
“See! There’s no way down.” Woodruff waved his arm. “Lady Brookwood must have left by the servants’ stairs. I’m not sure how she managed to get by my footmen. I shall deal with them later.”
“Very badly handled indeed,” Crowthorne muttered.
“I’m not to blame!” Woodruff cried. “When the lady fell into our hands like a plump partridge, I adroitly maneuvered her into my drawing room, did I not? If your temper hadn’t got the better of you when you took exception to my lady guest, our plan would’ve worked perfectly.”
“Some lady!” Crowthorne snorted in disgust. “Couldn’t you keep your strumpet under wraps? Locked her in your bedchamber?”
Woodruff huffed. “I planned to, but Lucille can be difficult. She has her talents though. Lady Brookwood left her cape behind. She must have suspected something. I shall call on her with it tomorrow and endeavor to charm her around.”
“I’m not about to rely on your charm to mend fences. Send the cape with a note of apology. Leave the rest to me. For God’s sake, come inside. It’s as cold as a dead man’s arse.”
“It’s all that devil-born Brookwood’s fault, may he rot…,” Lord Percy’s voice faded to silence as doors slammed.
Woodruff’s words set off a new train of thought. Flynn stared up at the balcony for some minutes before emerging from behind the oak’s trunk. He went in search of the hackney which he hoped had returned after taking Lady Brookwood home. He was sorely in need of a hot bath and a brandy.
Perhaps it was the promise of a handsome recompense, for the jarvie waited blowing on his hands. His horse sported a blanket, its nose in a feedbag. “Good man,” Flynn said appreciatively. “Home to Curzon Street as quick as possible. There’s a healthy tip in it for you.”
Flynn considered Woodruff’s final outburst as the hackney bore him home to Mayfair. It seemed his investigation had taken an interesting turn. It was clear that Lady Brookwood’s husband had been involved in something fraudulent before he died. Flynn wondered if she, wittingly or unwittingly, had any knowledge of what that might be.
A note awaited him on the entry hall console with the king’s seal. Flynn levered it open with his thumb. His presence was requested at Carlton House the following afternoon.
Chilled through to the marrow, he grabbed the brandy decanter from the drawing room and ran up to his bedchamber. His valet bustled in after him with a pail of hot water. Flynn stripped by the fire and sponged himself down, foregoing a bath which would necessitate rousing the servants from their hard-earned rest. Scrubbed dry until his skin glowed, he donned a banyan, poured brandy into a tumbler, and settled close to the fire, while his valet gathered up his clothes. “Go to bed, Frome. My clothes won’t run away in the night. Leave them until the morning.”
“Only take a minute, my lord.”
Flynn settled back and let the heat loosen his tense muscles. This business with Lady Brookwood had become urgent. She was obviously trying somewhat unsuccessfully to deal with it herself, which could prove disastrous. It must not be ignored even for the demands of royalty. What were these men up to? He doubted a conspiracy against the crown. But whatever it was, if they were responsible for Churton’s death, they were dangerous.
The brandy slipped down his throat, warming as it went. Lady Brookwood had no idea how much danger she was in. He must swiftly discover the reason, but first remove the stubborn woman to a place of safety. He accepted it would prove a challenge. How irritating that while in her presence his powers of persuasion, which worked so well in matters of diplomacy, seemed to fail him. It wasn’t just her beauty. He’d known many lovely women. A vision of her raising her chin at him and narrowing her eyes came to him. And despite the gravity of the situation, he huffed out a reluctant laugh.
“Pardon, my lord?” Frome hesitated in the doorway.
“Nothing, Frome. I shan’t require you until past noon.”
“Goodnight, my lord.”
*
“Good morning, my lady. It snowed during the night.” The maid placed a cup of hot chocolate on the table beside Althea’s bed and then drew back the fern-green damask curtains.
“So I see, Sarah.” Althea sipped her hot drink as dazzling morning light flooded the room. In the garden beyond the window, the bare branches of elms were sprinkled with snow like white sugar candy.
“My goodness, my lady.” Sarah held up her torn dress. “What has happened to your gown?”
“A man stepped on it on the dance floor, and then I’m afraid it tripped me up when I climbed out of the carriage.”
“You were lucky not to measure your length.” Sarah tsked. “Some men are so clumsy. Never fear, I’ll fix it in a trice.” She ran the flounce through her fingers. “It’s dreadfully soiled.”
“I’m sure you will make it like new, Sarah,” Althea said.
The alarming events of the previous evening at Lord Percy’s and the ensuing embarrassing debacle with Montsimon, returned in full force. Her face burned. She threw back the covers and slipped into the dressing gown her maid held out for her. What had Sir Horace intended? She tightened the belt in a huff of fury. Was it a ploy to scandalize her and weaken her defenses? Or, worse, had he planned to ravish her? Her mind skittered away, refusing to grasp the horror of such a possibility. Perhaps he was acting out of pure spite because she had rejected his advances. Some men were like that.
Lord Percy had betrayed her to Sir Horace. But why would he assist Sir Horace in such a scheme? It made no sense. Bewildered, she took up her brush in front of the mirror.
“My goodness, my lady.” Sarah took the brush from her hand. “You’ll have none left if you continue to treat your lovely hair like that.”
As the maid expertly applied the brush to her long tresses, Althea studied her frowning visage reflected back at her from the mirror. Lord Montsimon would arrive at two o’clock to question her. He’d been quite critical of her, but his behavior was equally suspicious. Once dressed, she descended the stairs, steeling herself for the day ahead. She had much to ask of the viscount although she wasn’t at all sure she’d get the answers she sought.
Althea sat in the breakfast room eating toast and marmalade when a further letter arrived from Woodruff. As she read it, the bread in her mouth began to taste like ashes. She hastily washed the crumbs down with a sip of tea.
Lord Percy’s extravagant scrawl ranged across the page:
Dear Lady Brookwood, I deeply regret what happened last evening. I cannot rest until I advise you of the truth of the matter. I had no knowledge Sir Horace intended to call, or the frightful woman who somehow managed to slip by my butler. A thousand apologies! I can imagine how insulted you must have felt. Once I dealt with the problem, I hurriedly returned to the drawing room to explain the situation and to reassure you, only to find you had left! Your cloak accompanies this letter as you will surely have need of it in such cold weather! I can only pray you returned home safely and were not overly beset or made ill by the experience. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I remain your humble servant….
It had been a completely wasted evening. Althea threw the letter down on the table. She did not believe a word of it.
Montsimon was announced punctually at two o’clock. Butterworth showed him into the drawing room where Althea waited, fidgeting with the fringe on a cushion. She drew in a steadying breath and rose to greet him.
He bowed his sleek, dark head over her hand.
“Will you partake of some wine, Lord Montsimon?” she asked, annoyed at how faint she sounded.
“No, thank you.”
Althea gestured to a chair. “Please do sit.” Sinking back down, she arranged her skirts over her legs.
His gray coat, dark trousers, and silver-and-black striped waistcoat served to emphasize the intense expression in his eyes. The aggravating man was so elegant he made her feel like a frump, although she’d done her best to deal with the ravages of a few hours’ sleep, resorting to the flattering tones of lilac crepe. When she questioned the trouble she’d taken, searching for matching ribbons for her hair, she concluded that she wished to look her best to face what would be tantamount to an interrogation. And she intended to give him as much as she got.
He chose a different chair to the one she had offered. She watched him warily as he sat, facing her. It was now impossible to avoid his gaze, which seemed to take in every bit of her. His presence was so male, so bracing, she straightened her back, unsettled.
“My lady, I must apologize. My behavior last night was inexcusable,” he said in his lyrical brogue.
She had not expected appeasement. It quite threw her off. “I don’t see that you have anything to apologize for,” she replied. “You saved me from having to search for a hackney and with the snow….” She paused, for he had held up a hand to silence her.
“Please, let us not waste time playing word games,” he said in the same conciliatory tone.
She bit her lip. Damn the man, it was like attempting to catch hold of a slippery fish. “Games, my lord?”
“You had a reason for climbing down that tree. I assume it wasn’t merely an agreeable pastime in which you indulge.” He crossed his legs, reminding her of their pleasing length and shape, and folded his arms. “I trust you don’t intend to leave me in the dark?”
“I understand how intrigued you must be. As I confess to being about your motives for wandering Woodruff’s garden at that hour.”
Exasperatingly, he merely nodded and offered no explanation.
After another awkward pause, she was forced to speak. She fought to gain the upper hand. “My reason for being there is perfectly simple. I wished to employ Lord Percy’s help in persuading Sir Horace to cease legal proceedings, as he intends to remove my house from my ownership. But when Sir Horace arrived, I preferred not to see him.”
“I hardly find that to be a good strategy. Sir Horace is a man not easily swayed, not by a fop like Lord Percy at any rate.”
Her face heated. He was right, of course. It had not been wise of her. Sensing her composure was under subtle attack, she raised her chin. “It was all I had on offer, my lord, especially as those I asked to help me in the past have failed me.”
“You can hardly blame poor Lord Churton for that.”
“I was not thinking of Churton!” she cried outraged. “I was referring to you, my lord. After all, I had sought your help. I ask it again of you now.” She attempted a smile, but doubted its success as it seemed to freeze on her stiff cheeks.
Montsimon grasped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “You must listen to me.”
She fought the desire to look away and stirred uneasily in her chair, caught by his compelling, magnetic eyes. “You have my attention.”
“Leave London. But do not go to Owltree Cottage.”
Not that again! “It doesn’t suit my plans to leave London, as I believe I have already said.”
Montsimon lifted his eyebrows. “There must be somewhere you can stay for the rest of the season,” he continued smoothly as if she hadn’t spoken “A good distance from the metropolis.”
She frowned. “No.”
“Your brother, I believe, is in Dorset?”
“What?” she spluttered, bristling with indignation. “How do you know about Freddie?”
“You are on good terms with… Freddie?”
“Yes, but I don’t…”
“Then you should go to him as soon as possible. Today would be best.”
The effrontery! Aware her mouth had dropped open, she tightened her lips. Should she merely agree just to placate him? No! She’d done enough of that in her life. She gathered what remained of her dignity and glared at him. “Are you ordering me?”
Montsimon sighed. “I am not,” he said in the mild tone she had come to distrust. “You are free to do whatever you wish, of course. But I am advising you to leave, for a very good reason.”
“Oh? What reason is that?”
“You seem to have something Crowthorne and Woodruff want.”
She shrugged, bewildered. “But I don’t. I’m sure I don’t.”
“It is to do with Brookwood.”
“I have nothing of my husband’s. Everything was left to his heir, including his debts. Let them ask Aubrey if he has whatever it is at Brookwood Park.”
“They seem to believe you have it.”
She folded her arms. “Let them ask me then. I shall be only too pleased to answer their questions, and as I’m in London, they know where to find me.” She stiffened as Montsimon’s gaze took the measure of her. What was he thinking?
“You don’t seem to realize how much danger you are in,” he said after a long pause.
She scowled at him. “I’m in danger of losing my reputation and of losing the house I love. But I shall deal with it and not place myself in such an invidious position again. I grant you that last night was foolish. I don’t usually make mistakes on that grand a scale.”
“I’m not concerned with your reputation.” The force behind his raised voice made her start. “I am talking about your life.”
A cold shiver rushed down her spine. Althea licked her lower lip. “Isn’t that a little melodramatic my lord? Tell me why.”
“You’ll have to trust me. Until I learn more.”
She was not the trusting sort. “Then explain this, if you please. Why were you in the garden at Manchester Square?”
“I am interested in Crowthorne myself, but for a different reason.”
“What reason?” She leaned forward. “Would it help me to learn of it? I might use it to persuade Crowthorne to give up his quest.”
He shook his head. “It’s none of your concern.”
Althea had had enough. “And neither is my life, and what I choose to do with it, concern you, my lord.” She stood. “I bid you good day.”
Forced to rise with her, Montsimon towered over her. A faint glint of humor lit his eyes and a corner of his mouth quirked. “I expected as much from you, Lady Brookwood.”
“Then you’ve not been disappointed.”
She found it difficult to dismiss his boldly intimating presence as she pulled the bell cord. “Lord Montsimon is leaving,” she said when Butterworth entered.
Montsimon bowed. “Good day, Lady Brookwood. Please think seriously about what I told you. I do not say it lightly.” He glanced at the butler. “I’m sorry I can offer no clearer explanation at this time.”
She watched him follow Butterworth from the room, his long strides carrying him out the door with speed. She felt little satisfaction that he had meekly obeyed her without further argument. Not for one moment did she believe that she had won this round.
She roamed the room, straightening the matching Delft urns at each side of the mantelpiece and plumping the cushions on the sofa. She caught her expression in the gilt mirror and blanched. Her eyes looked like a deer’s facing the hunter. Although she’d die rather than admit it, she had taken in Montsimon’s warning. But even if her life was in danger, she could not abandon her fight to keep her home. For to do so would sink her into total despair.