Chapter Thirteen
“Althea?”
Flynn leaned forward and gently shook Althea’s arm where she lay sleeping, tucked up in a sheepskin rug. She had slept almost the whole way to London, only waking briefly for a hot drink while they changed horses. He suffered another twinge of guilt. She had been exhausted. But at least she was safe. For now.
She opened her eyes and gazed at him groggily from her corner of the carriage. “Have we reached the city?”
“We’re in Mayfair.”
Althea gazed out the window at the passing street lamps. “So I see.” She fiddled with her hair, then smoothed her crumpled gown with a moue of distaste. “I shall be glad of a change of clothes and my own bed tonight.”
He’d found her rumpled appearance rather appealing. “Are you still angry because I took you with me to Canterbury?”
“Abducted is a better description. It appears you meant well, but an overreaction on your part, perhaps.” Her slight smile held defiance. “I am neither aggrieved nor harmed by the experience, but I now must face my servants who will be worried.”
The carriage turned into her street. Minutes later, it stopped outside her townhouse, ablaze with candlelight. As Flynn assisted her onto the pavement, Althea’s elderly butler scrambled down the steps, his usual dignity deserting him.
“I’m sorry to have worried you, Butterworth….” she began.
“My lady!” Butterworth’s voice throbbed in distress. “Something dreadful has happened!”
Althea stared at him. “My goodness, what’s occurred?”
“We’ve been robbed!”
She gasped. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“When did it happen?” Flynn clenched his jaw and followed them inside.
“Sometime during the night, my lord,” Butterworth said raggedly. “They broke in through a downstairs window. A constable has come.”
Althea pressed her hands to her face in shocked silence while Flynn stalked grimly around the once elegant drawing room. It had been ripped asunder, even the furniture slashed by some maniac’s hand.
“Do you know what they’ve taken, Butterworth?” Althea asked, finding her voice.
“Not as yet, my lady. It’s difficult…” He waved his arm. “The way things are.”
“Is this the only room ransacked?” Flynn asked the old man.
“No, my lord.” Butterworth’s mouth drooped. He gazed anxiously at Althea. “I’m afraid your bedchamber has been badly damaged, too, my lady.”
Flynn scowled. “Show us, Butterworth.”
“Eh, my lord?” Butterworth put a hand to his ear.
“Take me to see Lady Brookwood’s chamber,” Flynn repeated, raising his voice.
Althea’s bedchamber and the adjoining room were an even worse mess, with drawers emptied onto the floor, her jewelry box forced open, clothes and books scattered about, wallpaper stripped, and the carpets pulled up. Althea gave a distressed gasp. Flynn wanted to hold her but remained where he was, curling his hands into fists as anger coiled through him. This was beyond anything a common thief might do. What were they looking for? “They would have created quite a racket. Did the servants hear anything?”
“None of us did, my lord,” Butterworth said. “Not even Cook, who doesn’t sleep well, but she confessed to a nip of sherry before retiring.”
Althea clutched her hands together. “What about the rest of the house?”
“Most rooms suffered some damage, my lady.” Butterworth’s voice quivered. “Except for the attic rooms and below stairs. They weren’t touched.”
“An inventory must be taken of everything stolen,” Althea said. “Then we can set about organizing the repairs.”
Alarmed at her calm voice, Flynn studied her face, blanched of color. “Pour your mistress a brandy, please, Butterworth. We shall be along presently.”
“I must speak to the servants,” Althea said after Butterworth hurried from the room. “They may not want to stay.”
“I shouldn’t think your staff is in danger, but you cannot remain here.” Flynn watched her as she moved about the room, picking up her scattered possessions in a purposeful manner. He suspected her actions hid a deep despair, for it was an impossible task. It would take several weeks for the servants to return the house to some semblance of order.
Althea examined a mother-of-pearl-backed hand mirror with the glass cracked. “I hope the robbers get seven years’ bad luck. Or will the bad luck be mine?” She shrugged. “Should we bury the shards beneath a tree at full moon?”
“Don’t cut yourself.” He took the mirror from her limp fingers and put it on the dresser.
“I’ll stay at Owltree Cottage until the house is repaired.”
“That would not be wise. They may choose to rob that house next.”
She stared at him. “I don’t understand this at all. Why would they?”
“You have something they want. Or they think you do.”
She frowned. “You keep saying that, but if you want me to believe you, you will have to be more specific.”
He wished he could. “Until I learn the cause, I can only advise you to be careful. Perhaps we can discover the reason together?”
“With you withholding information from me? I don’t see how.” She shook her head decisively. “I must go to Owltree.” She crouched to pick up the matching brush and placed it beside the broken mirror.
“Leave it to the servants.”
When she began gathering up books, he took her arm and helped her to her feet. Her distress tightened his gut. The bed had been stripped of its linens, the mattress slashed, and its innards spread over the floor. “Is it possible that someone in your employ has been bribed?”
“Certainly not. I trust every one of my staff.” Tears trembled on Althea’s lashes, her eyes violet pools of misery. “Cook and the maids wouldn’t hear a thing in the attic rooms. I left my housekeeper at Owltree Cottage. My footman isn’t here either. He is attending a funeral in Hertfordshire.”
“I’ll question Butterworth further,” Flynn said. “He needs an ear trumpet.”
She glared at him. “I admit my butler is a little hard of hearing, Montsimon, but it’s something we never mention, so please don’t insult him.”
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting the poor fellow. He’s probably longing to take his pension. But we can’t talk here, Althea. You need a good stiff drink.” The fact that someone had tossed her possessions around so violently had an unsettling effect on him.
Althea wordlessly inclined her head. She allowed him to lead her from the room.
They stood in the drawing room, sipping brandy among the disorder. The velvet wing chairs and damask sofa had suffered a similar fate as her bed.
“Do you have any idea if anything has been taken?” Flynn asked after a moment.
Althea picked up an unbroken blue and white Delft vase, lying on its side on the hearth tiles. She placed it on the mantel. “A few jewels, perhaps. I may discover something later, but I don’t think any of the china, silver, or paintings are missing.”
“This is no ordinary burglary. They were looking for something specific.”
“I can’t imagine what. The Brookwood heir inherited the families’ jewels.” She touched the pearl necklace at her throat. “I am wearing my best. The rest would hardly attract this amount of interest.”
He stepped closer, cupped her chin, and stared into her distressed eyes. “Listen to me, Althea. It’s clear they failed to find whatever it is they came for. Your life remains in danger. You must reconsider your decision to fight Crowthorne.”
She stared at him, her blue eyes sparkling with anger. “You think he’s behind this? Surely, you aren’t suggesting I sell Owltree Cottage to him?”
“It would be sensible to agree to it. To give us more time to find out what Crowthorne and the others are up to.”
“No!” She turned away to put down her glass. “Once I agree, that will be it. I’ll lose the property.”
He could see she was at the end of her tether. He moved in an instinctive gesture of comfort to fold her in his arms. Althea stiffened and then laid her cheek against his chest. Flynn recklessly stroked his fingers over the soft nape of her neck. She neither demurred nor moved away. “Have you ever been robbed before?”
“Brookwood’s London house was ransacked after he died,” she murmured into his waistcoat. “After his cousin had taken possession.”
“That tells us something. What about Owltree Cottage?”
“No. Oh but wait!” She moved away and stared at him. “My cat escaped into the garden during the night. It happened twice. We couldn’t work out how he managed to open the window.”
“Then you cannot stay there, don’t you see?”
“What about my servants, my cat? I won’t just abandon them.”
“We’ll go together. You can close the cottage, dismiss your servants, and rescue your cat. I’ll find somewhere safe for you to stay.”
“You’ll take me there? Have you no important matters awaiting you in London?”
He tried not to think about the king. “Nothing that can’t wait.”
“Thank you.” She clenched her hands together. “I wish I had some inkling of what lies behind all this.”
“It is connected in some way to Brookwood.”
Her eyes widened. “Brookwood? But he died ages ago.”
“Can you think of anything unusual he might have said or done before he was killed?”
“With Brookwood, no two days were alike. He was always erratic.” She gave a slow, disbelieving shake of her head. “Nothing comes to me.”
“You are distressed. Something might occur to you later,” Flynn said, aware he needed to speak to Barraclough tonight. “You are welcome to stay at my house. I’ll put up at my club.”
“Thank you, Montsimon. My Aunt Catherine in Hampstead will take me in.”
“Very well. The early evening traffic will be heavy with the theatres opening and the markets closing. We should leave soon.”
“I need to speak to the servants. Then I’ll change and have my maid pack a bag.”
While Althea spoke to her staff in the servants hall downstairs, Flynn went out into the street where Ben walked the horses. Flynn sent him to question the neighbors’ servants.
Ben soon returned. “The noise woke the housekeeper, Mrs. Bixby next door, but she was afraid and did nothing. The Larkins are away at their estate in Devonshire. Many of the houses in the street remain closed. Mrs. Bixby waited until morning before sending a footman to investigate, but by then, the robbers were gone.”
Althea came down the stairs dressed in green with a fur hat covering her hair. “My servants have asked to remain. I do hope that is wise. I feel responsible for their safety.”
“Is there not a member of your household who isn’t female or elderly?” Flynn asked with a glint of humor.
She frowned at him. “My footman. He is expected back tomorrow.”
“Your butler may wish to retire.”
She grimaced. “I haven’t liked to broach it with him. Perhaps after this he’ll want to.”
“I can send Ben back to stay tonight, but it will be late. To be frank, I don’t see the need for it.”
“No, please don’t bother.”
The trip north through London traffic made Flynn distinctly uncomfortable. Fear, stark and vivid, darkened Althea’s eyes, but he could do or say little with her maid sitting opposite, sniffing into a handkerchief.
An hour later, the carriage reached Hampstead Village. At the end of a long gravel drive, they stopped in front of a stone mansion built in the last century, its front facade dominated by an impressive Corinthian portico.
“You believe you’ll be safe here?” Flynn asked.
A pair of tall, strapping footmen in livery rushed out to greet them.
A sad smile trembled on Althea’s lips. “My aunt’s footmen are former pugilists. The house is like a fortified castle.”
Flynn nodded. “Lady Bellingham is a sensible woman.”
“Aunt Catherine employed them a year or so ago after losing her most valuable jewels during a spate of robberies that targeted the ton.” She frowned. “She will be upset to find me in a similar position.”
He kissed her hand. “I have business to attend to tomorrow, but I’ll drive you to Slough on the following day.”
“Thank you. You are very kind. And I fear I don’t deserve it. May I offer you food and wine before you depart? I’m sure Aunt Catherine will be sorry to have missed you.”
“Please relay my regrets to your aunt. There is someone I must see.”
Althea cast him a careful glance. “I’d forgotten about your own investigation, Montsimon. I trust it will soon be brought to a satisfactory end.”
Flynn bowed from the neck. “As do I. Goodbye.” He climbed back into the coach as Althea and her maid entered through the front door.
*
The butler informed Althea that Catherine had retired early with a megrim.
“Please don’t disturb her. I believe I’ll retire, too.”
“Shall I have Cook prepare a light meal?”
“No, thank you, Blenkinsopp. Some hot chocolate and a biscuit perhaps, I should also like a bath.”
Althea drooped as Sarah helped undress her in the sumptuous bedchamber decorated with floral silk wallpaper, a dense, powder-blue carpet covering the floor. She stepped into the hip-bath placed near the fire. As Sarah sponged her back and poured fragrant, warm water over her, Althea closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to flow.
Montsimon hoped she’d remember something relevant. She reluctantly turned her mind to the events in those last few weeks before Brookwood had been mortally wounded in the duel. His death had been hushed up by the other party. The duke’s son would have been banished from England should it become common knowledge. She was grateful, for it would have drawn her into a most frightful scandal. As Brookwood’s gambling debts spiraled out of control, his anger had turned to despair and frustration. His violent moods were taken out on her and the servants. When he struck a maid, Althea had tried to reason with him and suffered a bruised cheek as a result.
“My lady.” Sarah broke into her thoughts as she held out the towel. Althea rose from the bath and once dry, donned a dressing gown, then she sent her maid down to the kitchen for her dinner.
She sipped hot chocolate beside the fire. Once roused, she could not banish the memories. Brookwood, after a long night spent at his club, bursting into her chamber in the early hours. Inebriated, he’d talked wildly of some promising new venture. When she tried to question him, he had turned on her. She was too inquisitive. In a woman, it was decidedly unattractive. Why couldn’t she be like other wives, placid and amenable? Make him feel like a man instead of a weakling?
At the time, she’d attributed his elevated mood to a windfall at the gambling tables, but now she wasn’t sure.
Althea was too tired to think. She removed her dressing gown, climbed into bed, and blew out the candle.
Her aunt was still abed when Althea rose the next morning. Althea’s sleep had been deep and dreamless which surprised her after all that had happened. After breakfast, she wandered in the formal gardens surrounding the mansion. No sign of snow clouds, but a chill breeze blew a fine misty spray over her face from a fountain where marble nymphs frolicked.
She continued to follow the long stretch of lawn, which ended in a flight of stone steps. The gardens seemed subdued, breathless, waiting for spring. She pulled the Paisley shawl tighter over her cherry-red wool gown and sat on a wrought iron garden seat placed in a bower. With deep breaths of cold, lavender-scented air, she watched swifts dip and swerve in the gray sky. Brookwood had been away from the house a lot in those final days. Business he’d said. As far as she knew, he had never been involved in business. He always said a gentleman never got his hands dirty. As he left her to her own devices, more often, she discovered his newly acquired mistress. Althea had enjoyed those weeks of peace. She suffered no desire to challenge her husband about it.
Cold, she rose from the seat and continued her walk.
If anyone was able to discover what lay behind this, it would be Montsimon. How extraordinarily strong and clever he was. Montsimon’s image replaced her anguished thoughts, his compelling gray eyes, his elegant features, and the confident set of his shoulders. She was suddenly terribly pleased to have him as her friend.
“Althea!” Aunt Catherine appeared at the top of the steps. “My darling girl, I’m so delighted to see you.” Her aunt flung her arms around her. “I’ve wanted to speak with you. I gave you the most dreadful advice about Montsimon.”
“Oh, did you Aunt?” Althea breathed in her aunt’s floral fragrance with a sense of unease.
“Lady Shewsbury told me Montsimon doesn’t have a feather to fly with, my dear. Some improvised Irish estate is all. He won’t do. Won’t do at all. The pair of you would have to live like church mice.”