Chapter Twelve
As they tucked into the lavish spread which Mrs. Fletcher prepared for them, their son, Robert, arrived from Canterbury, where he worked at an inn. A good-natured fellow, he agreed to drive them in the trap after breakfast. His father reddened with pleasure when Flynn bestowed his horse upon him. Fletcher and his wife bowed them out of sight as the trap took off down the dusty road.
“How are we to get home? By stage?” Althea raised her eyebrows at him as they were jolted along on the trap’s hard seat.
“Do you prefer to ride back to London on the horse with me?”
“I do not.” She wrinkled her little nose at him again. He’d rather like to kiss it.
“My carriage. Ben will turn up with it shortly.”
Flynn admired Althea’s pale, pretty face, and eyes like the sky in mid-summer. She wore a plain straw hat belonging to Mrs. Fletcher; tendrils of fair hair curled at her neck. She was not as delicate as she appeared. He liked that she’d tidied herself without complaint or bemoaning the absence of her abigail. Her only protest came when he laced her stays and did up her buttons. A job he was beginning to enjoy.
They arrived in Canterbury before noon and climbed down from the trap outside the Old Gate Inn, a three-story, whitewashed building, its end wall covered in a thick mat of ivy. Flynn was confident the plotters had either not yet arrived or would still be abed.
The innkeeper’s look of surprise turned to concern when Flynn related his fabricated story of a carriage accident. “It’s fortunate I have a bedchamber free, my lord,” the innkeeper said, puffing out his chest. “I’ve several gentlemen occupying my best rooms and my private parlor has been reserved for today.”
“So early? I had hoped to engage your parlor,” Flynn said.
The innkeeper reddened and scratched his head with his pencil. “I have no other to offer you, my lord. I’ve never had such a demand for my parlor! Mr. Brownley asked me to hold it for him yesterday. He has reserved the room for most of the day.”
“Perhaps I might speak with him. Is he traveling with family?”
“No, my lord. He’s here with two other gentlemen.”
“Ah. Business. Perhaps not then.”
When they entered the inn’s modest bedchamber, Flynn removed Althea’s cape. “You must remain here until I return. Keep out of sight.”
She shrugged. “I don’t see why.”
“You could do with some rest.” He put a hand on her bare arm, her skin soft beneath his fingers, and tried not to eye the bed. “You’ve barely slept.”
“I don’t feel tired.” Althea wriggled out of his grasp. “I wish you would tell me more.” Her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip and sent an unwanted message to his brain. “Is there some reason why you cannot?”
Flynn forced his gaze away from her mouth. “You don’t expect me to answer that, do you?”
“You have answered it,” she said coolly. “I could be of help to you, if you’d be honest with me.”
“Thank you. I believe you do wish to.” He’d long suspected Althea to be stifled by the life she’d been forced into by men who didn’t give a damn about her. Might she have begun to enjoy the escapade? Now he had only to keep her safe, then, when they returned to London, well… he’d deal with that later. He walked over to where she’d removed her bonnet and was tidying her hair before the mirror.
He cupped her shoulders, meeting her gaze in the glass. “I am guilt-ridden at those shadows beneath your lovely eyes.”
“I’m sure you’re tired, too. I daresay we both will recover.” Althea smiled and ducked under his arm, walking to the window. He came to stand beside her. She leaned on the sill and stared down at the street where barrels were unloaded from a dray. A ginger cat perched on a wall watching. “What do you plan to do whilst I’m whiling away the hours here?”
“I shan’t be far away if you need me.”
“At shouting or running distance?”
He grinned and gently stroked down her cheek with a finger, aware of how flawless and kissable her skin was. “Ring for a servant. They will find me.”
She frowned. “I wonder if the proprietor’s wife has a book or magazine I might read to amuse myself.”
“Excellent idea. I’ll go and ask.”
He descended the stairs in search of the innkeeper’s wife, wishing he was more confident Althea would stay put. Would it have been safer to leave her in London? Was it fair that he’d brought her here for his own peace of mind?
*
Althea picked up the ladies’ magazine Montsimon sent up and flipped idly through it again. The fashions were several years old, and the pages held even less interest than when she’d first perused them. No woman with taste would ever have been seen in that atrocity of a hat! She dropped the magazine and listened to the raucous sounds of laughter and bursts of song, which floated up from the busy taproom, on the alert for Montsimon’s return. Why did he come here? And what was he doing now? He had ordered her to stay in the room, in his annoyingly officious manner, trying to make her see the sense of it. But there were times when commonsense stifled one and should be ignored. Did he think her bird-witted and unable to think for herself? Might he behave toward all women like that or only her? It was insulting!
She narrowed her eyes. He’d expressed interest in the men who’d engaged the parlor. Might he have joined them? And if so, for what reason? He had not sought a solemn promise from her to remain here all day. She would have to visit the water closet again at some point. Had that not occurred to him? She opened the door a crack, determined to discover something for herself.
A surprised maid stood in the corridor holding a tray of food. “Your luncheon, your ladyship.” She entered and placed the selection of cold meats, pickled cucumber, crusty bread, and cheese upon a small table, and added the glass of claret.
The wine was Montsimon’s attempt to appease her. Well, she was grateful for it. “Thank you. What is your name?”
The ginger-haired, comely maid bobbed. “Sophie, your ladyship.”
“Is my husband about, Sophie? I have need of him.”
“Would you like me to give him a message?”
“No, that’s not necessary. Just tell me where he is.”
“His lordship was in the taproom moments ago. He instructed me to serve your luncheon. But I’m not sure where he has gone.”
“Where is the private parlor?”
“It’s the room at the end of the corridor, my lady.”
“Perhaps my husband is there?”
“He was not when I took the three gentlemen a jug of wine.”
“Just now?”
“No, it was closer to an hour ago, my lady.”
“I might know them. Can you describe them?”
The maid scratched her nose. “Can’t say, your ladyship. I’m not one to take much notice.”
Althea smiled. “You’re a pretty girl, Sophie. I’m sure they would take notice of you.”
Sophie giggled. “One man told me I had a nice smile. Gave me a silver coin, he did.”
“How kind. Did he say his name?”
“No, my lady. He was an older man. Quite the gentleman he was.”
“Older, how? Was his back bent? Did he use a cane?”
Sophie worried at her lip. “No. He was spritely. But his hair was gray.”
“What about the other two men?”
“Neither was gray-haired, my lady.” She rubbed her chin. “One had red hair, and the other was bald as an egg.” She giggled.
“I doubt I do know them. You’ve been most helpful, Sophie, thank you.”
Althea wished she could give the girl a tip. She sat and ate the food. It was tasty, and the claret was a good vintage. The meal quite replenished her energy.
More restless than ever, she opened the door. The empty corridor tempted her. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped out to tiptoe along it. At the far end, she placed her ear against the door but heard nothing of the conversation beyond a murmur. A sudden scrape of chairs and the voices grew louder. Althea ran back to her room. Before she reached it, the parlor door opened. She glimpsed a man in the corridor before scuttling inside. She turned the key and leaned against the door, her heart banging against her ribs.
She stirred uneasily. She’d met that man socially although his name escaped her. Might he have recognized her? But why should it matter if he did? She wished she knew more of what went on there and wondered uneasily if she’d been foolish to go against Montsimon’s wishes.
Someone tapped on the door.
Unsure whether to open it, Althea waited and held her breath.
They rapped again. Sharper.
“Who is it?”
“Althea, for heaven’s sake, open the door,” Montsimon said.
“Oh!” Althea unlocked it. “Montsimon!” So relieved, she fought the urge to hug him, and then his sharp questioning gaze dampened her enthusiasm. She drew in a deep breath and strolled away from him.
He followed her. “Who did you think it was?” Those sharp gray eyes of his studied her intently as if he could read her mind. “You did not leave the room?”
“Well, here I am, am I not?” She smiled. “Thank you for luncheon and the periodicals.”
He raised an eyebrow.
She reached up. “What is this in your hair?” She plucked a leaf from his head. “Ivy?” She tilted her head. “How did a leaf get in your hair?”
“I have been outside.”
“Doing what? Did they engage you as their gardener?” She widened her smile, but he folded his arms and refused to answer. He was very difficult to interrogate. Far better at distracting her. Every line of his body revealed how tense he was. He was making her jittery. “Has your business been successful?”
Montsimon exhaled on an exasperated breath. “Althea, I can’t keep you safe if you disobey me. Don’t be tempted to move about the inn. Ben will arrive in an hour or so.”
“All right! I promise.” After he left the room again, she sank onto the bed. The day was interminably long, and her curiosity drove her to distraction. But now she’d given him her word and must stay. She lay back and closed her eyes.
Someone shook her. She must have dozed off for a moment. When she opened her eyes, Montsimon leaned over her with an unreadable expression in his eyes. “Ben waits below.”
“At last.” She rose quickly and hurried to the mirror to tidy her hair.
At her shoulder, Montsimon studied her frowning visage in the mirror. A brief smile ruffled his mouth. “You’re more than ready to leave, I daresay.”
They were soon rattling along the London road in Montsimon’s fine carriage, this time in relative comfort. Althea was about to mention the man she’d seen in the corridor, but a glance at his pensive expression and his knitted brow made her think better of it, or asking him what had gone on there. It would be a waste of time, and an admission of her guilt. She had no way of understanding what might be troubling him, so she settled comfortably beneath a rug in the corner of the carriage. Warm air swirled around her legs. “Where is that heat coming from?”
Montsimon smiled. “The heating system beneath the coachman’s seat. The air is drawn from outside, passes over three lanterns which warms it, then flows through the ventilator.”
“How clever!”
“A Frenchman designed it. It also cools the carriage in summer.”
Luxuriating in the warmth, she smiled and closed her eyes.