Chapter Nine
As Flynn walked down the steps from Lady Brookwood’s house, he noticed a shabbily dressed fellow over the road. He lounged against a garden wall with his hat pulled down to obscure his face. Flynn didn’t like the look of him. He didn’t strike him as a workman and was clearly no Mayfair inhabitant.
When Flynn crossed the road, the man turned and hurried away around the corner. Flynn broke into a run but, on reaching the next street, found no sign of him. He might have taken several paths, and Flynn didn’t have time to engage in a pursuit even if he could pick up his trail. Was the fellow watching Lady Brookwood’s home? If so, for what purpose? His furtive behavior nagged at Flynn as he went in search of a hackney.
As he was driven to Carlton House, Flynn considered possible methods of removing Lady Brookwood from London. Over his shoulder in the dead of night? He recalled how shapely her body felt in his arms. He would welcome a chance to discover more of her charms, but right now he was more concerned with the threat to her life. If only there was somewhere he might persuade her to go. At least until he removed the danger, which she refused to take seriously.
He shelved his thoughts when he found the monarch out of sorts at Carlton House. A plot to murder the Cabinet had been exposed, which was labeled the Cato Street Conspiracy. The king then launched into a diatribe against the queen. Caroline had been angered by the Milan investigation’s attempt to discredit her through her association with her butler, Bartolemeo Pergami. She declared her intention to return to England and challenge her husband.
The king wanted her stopped at all costs.
“When her chief legal adviser, Henry Brougham, failed to meet her in Lyon, she fled back to Pesaro.” The king shook his head. “But it won’t deter the woman. She’s a shrew and tough as shoe leather. I want you to ensure that Castlereagh’s instructions are carried out. Caroline is not to be given any special attention while traveling in France. Find a way to prevent her crossing the channel, use the French police.”
“I doubt that’s possible, Your Majesty.” Alarmed, Flynn imagined what a furor that would cause.
“Caroline will be barred from my coronation.” George pointed to his green bag stuffed with papers. “I’ve collected damaging documents from witnesses in Milan for my ministers to use against her. Those Italians, they are as fond of gossip as an old woman, and her relationship with Pergami provides us with enough fuel to draw Caroline into an imbroglio.”
“I fear rumor will rebound on you, Your Majesty.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am the king. Lord Liverpool is studying the law and talks of an old parliamentary maneuver, a Bill of Pains and Penalties. Ha! Let her defend her Italian at trial. Explain why she bought him an estate in Sicily–made him a baron.”
Patently aware of Queen Caroline’s actions, Flynn tactfully refrained from referring to the king’s own indiscretions, which, amongst other extravagances, made many of the people disapprove of him. “Nevertheless, the queen remains a popular figure in England.”
King George glowered at him as the footman refilled their glasses.
Flynn expected gossip to return like a swarm of bluebottles to settle on His Majesty, and like his ministers, he feared the monarchy would suffer. He sorely wished to wipe his hands of the whole affair. “You plan to delay the coronation?”
“Yes, until next year.” The king rubbed his plump hands together. “It’s going to be a splendid affair, and I won’t have it spoiled by that harpy.”
Flynn tamped down a sigh of relief. “Excellent. I need time to come to grips with this new development.”
“What development?” King George asked idly, poking the green bag.
“You wished me to investigate the possible plot against the crown, Your Majesty.”
King George looked up, his gaze suddenly clear and sharp. “You’ve learned something?”
Flynn told him the precious little he had, making no mention of Lady Brookwood. “This investigation may take me away from London for a time.” He surprised himself. There seemed little likelihood of it, apart from his visit to Canterbury; but he supposed he was testing the waters. To be free to leave town should he need to. In the back of his mind, Lady Brookwood’s plight returned.
King George scowled. “It might be prudent, at some stage, for you to go to France and bring back evidence of my wife’s infidelity.”
Flynn swallowed on a sigh. “If it should prove necessary, Your Majesty. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for the French police to investigate Pergami.”
King George’s restless eyes settled on a painting on the wall, Turner’s The Rise of the Carthaginian Empire. “Have I informed you of the latest plans for the redevelopment of the Queen’s House?”
Flynn tamped down a sigh and adopted an expression of interest. “It goes well, Your Majesty?”
Two hours later, Flynn rode his horse along Rotten Row. There was a crisp bite to the air but no snow on the horizon, only sludge piled up in the shadows. The park was almost deserted, a shade early for the ton to appear, which suited their purpose perfectly.
Barraclough approached, ungainly atop a small roan gelding. He reined his mount in alongside Flynn’s horse.
Flynn grinned at him as they trotted together down the Row.
The big man grimaced. “Yes, I know. Little to choose from at the stables.”
“What news?”
“It could well be that Goodrich and Wensley are leading us on a wild goose chase,” Barraclough said. “They meet at the Old Gate Inn in Canterbury, noon tomorrow.”
“Why Canterbury, any idea?”
Barraclough shrugged. “Goodrich has a property near there.”
“Why not meet at his house?”
“Perhaps they wish to keep the meeting secret. Interesting.”
“Indeed. I’ll be there.” Flynn wasn’t happy to leave Lady Brookwood unprotected. Such distractions could kill a man. Annoyed at allowing the lady to fill his thoughts when they should be focused elsewhere, he nudged his horse’s flanks and broke into a canter.
Flynn slowed his horse to allow Barraclough to catch up with him. Barraclough raised an inquiring eyebrow.
Flynn winced. “I have a problem.”
“You may confide in me if you wish to.”
Flynn promptly told him about Sir Horace’s treatment of Lady Brookwood.
“Crowthorne is a nasty piece of work by all accounts,” Barraclough said. “And has his nose in this business, too.”
“Why would a wealthy businessman involve himself in such a scheme? Unless it’s to his advantage,” Flynn said. “And this business with Lady Brookwood puzzles me.”
“You think Lady Brookwood has got in his way?”
“She stands against him. But it’s more to do with her husband.”
They trotted along in silence.
“Pity you can’t take Lady Brookwood with you to Canterbury,” Barraclough said finally.
Flynn huffed out a laugh. “She’d never agree. She wouldn’t like it if the ton got wind of it.”
“Don’t see why. What you two get up to would hardly cause a ripple. Not with the latest gossip doing the rounds,” Barraclough said. “The queen has made the king look a fool from Lake Como to Jericho. It is on everyone’s lips.” He lowered his eyebrows. “You appear to be involved with this lady whether you wish it or not. If something happens to her, you might regret it.”
“The lady is stubborn and doesn’t wish for my help.”
“And you are still keen to aid her? Shall we see you fall into the parson’s mousetrap?”
“Good lord, no.”
Flynn didn’t know much about love, but he was sure he wasn’t motivated by that emotion. Lady Brookwood merely stirred his protective instincts. Odd that. He parted company with lovers on the best of terms and never suffered from a desire to protect any of them. Moreover, Lady Brookwood was not his lover, nor ever likely to be, for she had looked at him with intense dislike and ordered him from her drawing room. She was like a beautiful swan. Try to pet her and be pecked for your pains.
An amused gleam lit Barraclough’s eyes. “A dainty blonde to add to your list then.”
Flynn would have laughed at that in the past, but for some reason, he found the suggestion offensive. “She’s tied up in this business somehow, has no husband, and her only brother doesn’t live in London. I dislike seeing any woman threatened by a powerful man like Crowthorne.”
Barraclough smothered a laugh. “A knotty problem. I should be so lucky.” He turned his horse’s head. “I must go. We shall speak further on your return. After whatever you discover in Kent, if it is anything, we’ll decide how next to proceed.”
Once Barraclough rode away, Flynn headed home in sober contemplation. Barraclough was jesting, but Flynn had to admit Lady Brookwood impinged on his thoughts rather a lot of late. He had begun initially to pursue a pretty woman, a pleasure both sexes enjoyed. No one in their right mind could call what went on between them now a seduction. But until this matter was dealt with, it remained unfinished business, for he had glimpsed a reluctant interest in her beautiful eyes.
He preferred to keep control of his emotions whilst carefully mapping out his future. When in Lady Brookwood’s presence, however, he wasn’t entirely confident of either. His mouth set in annoyance. He must never forget that women were not steadfast. His mother had left Ireland with Timothy Keneally without a backward glance. Flynn had no idea where she was, if she ever thought about him, or if indeed she still lived. He understood why she had left his father. But could she not have taken him with her? She condemned him to a miserable childhood. His father was a morose drunkard with an evil temper, and freedom only came when Flynn was sent to be educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Yes, it was safer to treat women lightly.
He delved deeper into his emotions and discovered he suffered from a degree of guilt. As a lad, he had been helpless to defend his delicate mother against his father’s violent wrath. Might that be the reason he wanted to help Lady Brookwood?
With a shake of his head to clear the annoying thoughts, he rode his horse into the mews behind his townhouse. Spot’s welcome bark greeted him in the warm, hay-strewn stables with the familiar smells of hot horseflesh, dry feed, and manure. He handed the horse over to the groom, then bent to greet his dog.
Flynn shrugged the tightness from his shoulders as he crossed the lane to his house, relieved to have come to some understanding of his confusing emotions. Now his thoughts were clear. He understood what plagued him and knew what he must do. Rescue the lady and move on with his life. What remained unclear, was how.
*
Althea had spent most of the afternoon pacing the drawing room. Her thoughts dwelt on Montsimon and his word of warning more often than she cared for. Life with Brookwood had been grim, but nothing of late brought her much joy either. She fiddled with the top button on her bodice, wondering when she would hear from her solicitor. Not until then would she know what action would be available to her. She was determined to continue to live as she had planned while keeping her distance from Sir Horace Crowthorne. She had read in the newspaper that Crowthorne had berated Lord Canning in Parliament over some bill. Reassured that he would not be invited, she had accepted the Canning’s invitation to their dinner party. It would prove a perfect distraction.
For the occasion, she dressed in a flattering celestial blue silk gown with a deep scooped neckline. White satin and lace decorated the hem and sleeves, the same edging on the tight bodice was a perfect foil for her pearls. Her pearl and diamond earrings adorned her ears, the matching bracelet on her wrist. Her hair was dressed in loose curls with pearl ornaments and ostrich feathers. She picked up her beaded reticule, pulled the sable-lined hood of her cape carefully over her hair, smoothed her gloves, and ventured outdoors.
The crisp air greeted her. Wisps of clouds shrouded the moon in a star-studded sky. Assisted into the hackney coach, Althea pulled her cloak closer, glad of the heated brick at her feet. The carriage lurched forward, and she watched the shadowy streets pass by.
They were nearing the exclusive square in which the Cannings resided when a horseman rode past them. Moments later, the carriage rocked violently and shuddered to a stop.
A broken axle? More vexed than alarmed, Althea pulled down the window. “What has happened?” she called to the jarvie.
A man appeared from the front of the vehicle leading his horse, muffled against the cold, his hat obscuring his face. He stood in the shadows. “I’m afraid your jarvie is indisposed, madam,” he said in a low gruff voice. “A malaise of some description.”
“Poor man,” Althea said briskly, hiding her misgivings. They could hardly accost her here in St. Audley Street, a hare’s breath from Grosvenor Square. “Please put down the steps; I may be able to help.”
She leant forward to open the door.
“No need for that,” he said. “I have offered to drive you to your destination.”
Althea struggled with the handle. “This door appears to be stuck. Open it, if you please, and I shall see for myself.”
She spluttered in outrage as the man coolly dismissed her request. He relinquished the reins of his horse to another fellow before disappearing out of sight. The carriage rocked as he mounted the box. They set off again, passing the jarvie who, looking well enough, stood on the pavement studying something in his hand.
With the crack of a whip, the carriage juddered as it gained speed. Althea gasped. They were traveling away from the Canning’s home.
“Go back! That’s not the right way!” Panic strangling her breath, Althea banged on the carriage roof.
No one answered, nor did the driver slow the horses. Who was he? Althea shivered, her stomach churning. Was Sir Horace behind this abduction? Where were they taking her?
The coach traveled on. They soon reached the outskirts of the city, continuing at a harrowing pace. Althea sniffed, tears clinging to her eyelashes. She was unable to do anything other than listen to the drum of horses’ hooves on the road and hang on to the strap as the carriage rocked. London’s lighted streets disappeared behind them.
They drove through the deep purple darkness of the countryside. The clouds drifted away to expose a luminous pearl of a moon which cast violet shadows over the landscape. Althea still had no clue as to where they were going.
Another hour passed. She’d fallen back against the squabs exhausted, considering her fate, when the carriage stopped. “Where on earth are we?” She peered from the window, her body tense as a harp string. No lighted buildings in sight, only the silhouette of a copse of trees growing close to the road.
She felt around on the floor and grasped the wrapped brick, which had cooled long before. She held the reassuring weight on her lap under her cloak and waited. A man moved beyond her sight and lit the carriage lamps, which formed an arc of light over the ground, beyond which was impenetrable blackness.
In the distance, the thunder of hooves erupted into the still air. The carriage rocked as the driver jumped down, the horses stamping and whickering.
A lone horseman galloped up to the carriage. He passed Althea’s window. Althea opened the window and a blast of cold air rushed in. She blinked and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head while trying to decipher their low voices. “Who are you?” she yelled with little expectation of a response. “Show yourselves, you cowards!”
The door suddenly whipped open, and the man with the scarf climbed inside. Althea raised the brick, hoping to strike him before he gained his balance. But it was heavy and made a difficult weapon to wield. And he was so tall.
Lightning fast, he wrestled the brick from her grasp before she could get it high enough to bring it down on his head. He tossed it out of the open door. “I think not, my lady,” he said in a genial tone.
She knew of only one mellow-voiced Irishman. “Lord Montsimon?” she shrieked, disbelieving her own ears.
He unraveled the scarf and smiled. “We must continue our journey, Lady Brookwood. Allow me to assist you from the carriage.”
“I’ll go nowhere with you… you…” Further words deserted her when her breath seemed caught in her throat. She glared at him, drawing gulps of air.
Her apparent distress failed to move him. “Will you consent to come with me peaceably?” he asked in a cool tone, nodding toward the door. “Or shall it be necessary to remove you by force?”
“I declare you should be incarcerated,” she yelled. “Go where?” She squinted at him in the gloom. She couldn’t smell drink. “You must be mad.” What on earth did he want with her? Surely, he wouldn’t go to all this trouble just to have his way with her. She doubted he wanted to, the way he looked at her was anything but lover like. She admitted to being a little relieved that he wasn’t Crowthorne. “If you take me back to London at once, we shall keep your outrageous behavior between us.”
“If I appear mad, Lady Brookwood, it’s you who has driven me to it,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I’ve an appointment in Canterbury. I would like you to join me. Never fear, I shall return you to your home afterward, safe and sound.”
“Why take me there?” She stared into his handsome face. He might have been asking her to take a turn around the room at a soiree! She glared at him. If Montsimon wished to carry her off to Gretna Green, he might ask her first. Even though she would refuse him. Though why he should wish to take her anywhere against her will eluded her. “I demand to know why you abducted me in this fashion.”
“I told you to leave London, Lady Brookwood. And you would not listen.”
She stared at him. “So you chose to remove me without my consent.”
“There was no alternative. You would not have agreed to go.”
“You’re certainly right about that!” She folded her arms. “Tell me why you consider this necessary.”
“To keep you safe.”
“I was safer in London than I am now.”
He sighed. “You’re wrong about that. Did I not make it clear to you how dangerous Horace Crowthorne is?”
“So you say. But how do I know you’re not a murderer? You might have killed poor Lord Churton. You seemed to know of his death before anyone else.”
“You shall have to take my word that I didn’t kill him. Shall we alight?”
His gray eyes bored into hers. He was certainly very determined. It was perhaps best to agree to his demands and take him by surprise at the earliest opportunity.
“Very well.” She scooted to the edge of the seat.
He hesitated and eyed her. “I become suspicious when you give in so easily.”
“I feel it best to humor you,” she said, her tone brisk.
“Then please continue to do so.” He jumped down from the carriage, turned, and held up his arms.
That’s what you think! She leaned into his warm hands, and he lifted her from the coach. Once on the ground, she pulled away from him and fussed with her cloak, allowing time for her heart to stop its infernal fluttering. The moon chose that moment to slip behind a cloud. Beyond the dim gloom of the carriage lanterns, the night was as black as a coal chute. “Where on earth are we?”
“Some miles from Canterbury I’m afraid. You’ll have to ride with me.”
“You shall recompense me for this gown.” She looked around. “Where’s my horse?”
“It stands before you.”
“What? We ride together on the same horse?” The idea stripped her of breath. She backed away and shook her head. “No. Oh no.”
“We have only the one. The hackney coach must be returned to its owner.”
“Preposterous.” She put her hands on her hips. “I shall return to London in this coach, but first, I demand you explain.”
A chuckle erupted from the box.
“Take them away, Ben,” Montsimon ordered.
“Right you are.” The man snapped the whip, and the horses leapt forward.
“No, wait!” Althea cried, turning to run after the carriage. It was useless. She was ruining her evening slippers and could only watch as the swinging lamps faded into the dark. Her chance to return to London gone with it. She spun around and glared at Montsimon. “How dare you!” She aimed a slap at his face but could only see his shadowy outline as he darted back. She squealed with frustration as her hand met thin air. He was so annoyingly tall.
The horse whickered. “Temper, my lady.” His amused voice came out of the dark. “You are frightening our only mode of transport. I assure you I have an excellent reason to take you with me.”
She fought to control her temper. It wouldn’t do to lose the horse. “As I can’t think of a single reason, kindly enlighten me.”
“I decided it best not to leave you in London.”
“That’s a poor answer. Why not?”
“You are in danger. As I have already told you.” He made the whole affair sound reasonable. How did he manage to do that? It was entirely irrational. His diplomatic skills she supposed. Well he’d have to work harder than this to convince her. And she was cold, her evening slippers did little to protect her feet.
The moon sailed clear from the clouds again and revealed him in the act of throwing a leg over the saddle. He removed his foot from the stirrup and leaned down. “Will you join me?”
Still seething, she ignored his hand. “Might this be your way of showing your affection?” she asked, her tone brittle.
“No. It has more to do with your stubbornness.” He edged the horse closer.
She sidestepped him. “My refusal to bow to your insane wishes?”
“You might have gone to stay with your brother as I suggested.”
She sighed. “Because I refused your officious order, you deemed it perfectly acceptable to remove me forcibly. You are beyond the pale!”
Montsimon gave an exasperated sigh. “We can’t stay here all night arguing. They’ll find our frozen corpses in the morning. I apologize in advance for the uncomfortable mode of travel. But we must get to Canterbury.” His apologetic tone was so deceitful; she put her hands on her hips and huffed at him.
“I can’t leave you here, now can I? Will it become necessary for me to throw you over the saddle? You’ll find that far less comfortable, I can assure you.” A thread of steely determination lowered his voice.
Althea sensed his threat was real, and before an undignified struggle ensued, she hurried forward and eyed the stirrup. Impossible to mount the horse gracefully in this slim skirt. How annoying it was to be small. Once she put her foot in the stirrup, the dress would ride up and reveal her stockings up to her garters and heaven knew what else. “You like to control women, I see,” she said bitterly. “And you don’t wish to be thwarted. Very well. I shall pander to your outrageous request, I see I’ve no option. But please adjust the stirrup!”
Before she could say another word, Montsimon reached down and, with a fluid motion, swung her up before him. Sudden contact with a large, hard body so intimately close to hers brought an audible gasp from her lips. His arms pinioned her, one big hand grasping the reins, the other settling somewhere close to her derriere. She twisted to eye that hand suspiciously, then caught sight of the ground. It would be painful to fall from the sixteen-hand black stallion as it danced around, impatient to be gone.
He lowered his head close to hers. “We’ve quite a ride ahead.” His warm breath tickled her nape before he settled the hood of her cape back over her head. “I hope that you won’t find it too uncomfortable.”
“How considerate of you,” she muttered grimly as they took off and a rush of numbing, icy air hit her face.