Chapter Fourteen
Flynn sat with Barraclough, nursing tankards of ale in a corner of the Witches’ Hat, a tavern in Monmouth Street. It was close to midnight and inky black beyond the window. The establishment was in Seven Dials, the slum where the ton never ventured. Dimly lit, the tavern reeked of stale sweat, tallow, and hops. The patrons came and went, leaving a lingering air of despair. A lone man sat at a table, resting his head in his arms, after his companion disappeared upstairs with the buxom barmaid who had offered them a good time for the meager sum of a shilling.
Candlelight slanted down from the wooden wheel chandelier, painting deep ridges over Barraclough’s rumpled brow as he sat opposite Flynn, his big hand curled around the pewter tankard.
“I’m none the wiser, I’m afraid.” The rasp of frustration deepened Flynn’s voice. “Even though I managed to hear a good deal of their conversation.”
“Might I ask how you managed to do that?” Barraclough asked with grim humor.
Flynn hunched over his ale. “A healthy crop of ivy grew on the inn’s wall.”
“Ah.” Barraclough nodded.
“Goodrich and Wensley were there, and a third man who reserved the parlor under the name of Brownley. Gray-haired, solid build, gentry. Know of him?”
Barraclough gave an impatient shake of his head.
“The plotters used a code name and referred to it often. Tricoleur. Apparently, Brookwood had this item in his possession when he was shot.”
Barraclough’s eyes sharpened. “Papers concerning a French plot against the crown, perhaps?”
Flynn shook his head. “From what I’ve learned of Brookwood, he was too lazy and filled with self-interest to be involved in any plot against the government. But last night, thieves turned Lady Brookwood’s Mayfair townhouse upside down. I believe they were searching for this… item. I sent my man to question servants in the street. Two men were seen, rough types, dressed as if they’d emerged from the rookery of St. Giles.”
“Robbers searching for valuables.”
“I don’t think so. Not considering the degree of effort they went to. And why pick Lady Brookwood’s house when many of her wealthier neighbors were still away in the country, their door knockers removed from the doors? Far easier and richer pickings to be had there. Lady Brookwood’s former abode, Brookwood House, was ransacked as well, just after the new heir took possession.”
“That is interesting,” Barraclough said. “Although what it means is anyone’s guess.”
“What has convinced His Majesty there is some plot brewing?” Flynn asked, frustration imbuing his voice. “Might it be possible he knows more than he’s prepared to reveal?”
“Whatever Churton stumbled on had him killed. We have to hope we can find something to get our teeth into soon.” Barraclough gave a shrug of his solid shoulders.
“This whole business is smoky. It tends to grow thicker around Carlton House,” Flynn said. “Do we arrest these men and question them?”
Barraclough shook his head. “We might end up with nothing. Need to give them enough rope to hang themselves. Let’s continue to watch ’em. See what they’re up to. I’ll speak to the king this evening. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”
Flynn swigged the last of his ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. “Churton has taken his knowledge to the grave. The answers lie with two dead men. It seems that wherever we turn, Barraclough, death dogs us like a shadow.”
The next afternoon, Flynn met Barraclough in Hyde Park. The sun had hidden behind low clouds all day and the ice-strewn grass crunched underfoot. His breath fogged the air as Flynn crossed to the big man lounging on a bench overlooking the lake as if in idle contemplation of the few hardy specimens braving a constitutional along the paths. Flynn’s eyes rested on a man throwing a line into the Serpentine. “A waste of his time fishing there.”
“And if he hooks a mute swan, he’ll be in trouble,” Barraclough said with a chuckle.
With a quick glance around, Flynn sat down beside him. “You’ve spoken to the king?”
Barraclough nodded. “The Home Secretary has informed him that there’s no evidence to support a conspiracy. The king’s orders are to discover more about this tricoleur. We are to keep close to these men in the hope they find it.”
“Did His Majesty have anything to say about Churton?”
“If the king knows anything more, he didn’t offer it, but he appeared very interested. Very interested indeed.”
“I’ll leave this in your hands.” Flynn handed Barraclough Althea’s address. “I’m leaving for Slough in the morning. I’m driving Lady Brookwood to her country house. I’ll be gone for a few days. If something should happen which requires me to return sooner, send me a note. While I’m away, there’s something you can do for me.”
“Anything that helps to unravel this puzzle.”
“If anything can, Barraclough. I don’t like this business, I have to admit.”
What in hell’s teeth was he getting himself into? This entire affair made Flynn feel like he was walking across a bog-strewn moor in a thick fog. He leaned toward Barraclough with his request.
*
“I do hope you will manage in my absence.” Aunt Catherine put her flowery china teacup in its saucer. She motioned to one of the broad-shouldered, liveried footmen standing motionless on each side of the salon door like a pair of imposing bookends. “Fetch more hot water, Albert.”
“Of course I shall manage. Please don’t worry,” Althea said.
“You might come to France with me. You would enjoy Cousin Phillip’s company enormously. He would adore to see you.”
“If only I could. But I must await my solicitor’s instructions.”
“I don’t understand any of this, Althea. You say Sir Horace Crowthorne wishes to purchase Owltree Cottage.” She threaded the gold chain on her bodice through her fingers and the fine pink topaz swung and caught the light. “Most odd! What does he want with that insignificant property? Some people are frightfully greedy. He has no class, my dear. No class at all.”
“I am in full agreement with you, Aunt Catherine.”
Her aunt frowned. “You say you will stay at Owltree Cottage until your London property has been restored? You are welcome to stay here while I’m in France, but there will only be a few servants in residence.”
“No thank you, Aunt. Montsimon has promised to drive me to Slough tomorrow.”
Her aunt’s brilliant blue eyes sharpened. “Don’t get too fond of him, although I’ll wager it will prove to be very difficult.” She let out an audible breath. “There’s barely a handsomer man in London. I declare, honey drips from these diplomats’ tongues. Should they want something from you, they will get it.” She shivered delicately and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.
“He remains a friend, Aunt. Montsimon has no wish to marry.”
Aunt Catherine smirked. “A woman’s life does not necessarily revolve around marriage, Althea. Although the ton would have you think it does.”
“I wonder what you mean by that.” Althea smiled at her outrageous relative.
“If you don’t know now, girl, there’s no hope for you. Joseph?” She beckoned the remaining footman. “I don’t see cucumber sandwiches here. Has the kitchen staff deserted us?”
Joseph, despite his big frame, employed speed and grace to carry out her wishes. Her aunt offered Althea a plate of sumptuous cakes and pastries. “I recommend the nougat almond cake. It’s excellent. You’ve hardly eaten enough to fill a sparrow at luncheon.”
“I don’t wish to spoil my dinner,” Althea said with a smile. “You have such an excellent cook.”
“Men like a few curves, Althea. Be careful you don’t lose yours.”
“I am not interested in what men like,” she said, nibbling on the cucumber sandwich that had been promptly delivered by the footman.
Aunt Catherine gazed at her thoughtfully. “No, I see you have retreated to an ivory tower.”
“I’m happy with that.”
Aunt shook her head. “The only trouble with towers, they are an invitation to lightning.”
Althea laughed. “Oh Aunt, how imaginative you are. Have you not done the same yourself after your husband passed away?”
“Not entirely.”
“Aunt!”
Her vivid eyes turned misty. “I loved my husband and honored his memory for some years after he died. And then I indulged in a brief affair with a very special man.”
Althea raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you continue the affair? Marry the man?”
“He was considerably younger,” her aunt said, drawing her shawl closer. “I didn’t see a future in it.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “An older woman doesn’t always want a permanent man in her life. They demand too much. I’m happy with my memories.” She eyed Althea. “Don’t waste your young years, my dear. When you reach my age, you may not have any delicious memories to dwell on.”
Althea shook her head. “I will make no mistakes in the name of loneliness. I began my marriage with high hopes only to have them dashed. I don’t ever want to feel crushed like that again.”
Aunt Catherine sighed sympathetically. She patted Althea’s arm. “My dear! I pray you’ll change your mind.” She smiled. “Perhaps Montsimon will change it for you.”
“Aunt, you are a hopeless romantic! I must thank you for sending my maid back to London. The poor girl wishes to stay with her mother. This whole business has shaken us all.”
“This Crowthorne has a bad reputation, Althea. I have made inquiries about him. Do take care.”
“I will. Please do not worry, Aunt. Enjoy your stay in France. I shall look forward to your letters.”
Althea thought of the trip on the morrow and her stomach tightened. She put down the rest of the sandwich, not sure which worried her most, what they might discover at Owltree, or spending more time in Montsimon’s unsettling company.