She’d touched on a nerve, for his face flushed bright red. “Say your goodbyes to Owltree Cottage, Lady Brookwood, for if you don’t agree with my demands, I will take it!”
“We shall see about that!” Althea rushed to the door and flung it open.
She ran to the stairs. Stupid to goad him, but she didn’t regret it. The man was a monster. No wonder his wife looked so unhappy! A footman stared at her from the entry hall. “Please fetch my cloak,” she called as she ran down the steps, almost losing a slipper. He rushed to comply.
As soon as the bewildered footman opened the front door, she breathlessly instructed him over her shoulder to make her apologies to his mistress. A megrim had forced her to return home. She stumbled down the steps to the gravel drive, cursing her flimsy footwear. Her evening cape was fur-lined, but her thin dress clung to her legs and was hardly fit for walking about in the night air. A glaze of frost whitened the grass. It would be a vigorous hike to Owltree Cottage even in good weather, and she could hardly cut across the muddy fields in the dark. When she passed the last of the braziers lighting the carriageway, the night would close in, and every rock and pothole would trip her up.
She was striding alone, the gates still quite a distance, when hoof beats and the clatter of a vehicle sounded on the gravel behind her. Did Sir Horace pursue her? Her pulse quickened. She spun to face him, then slumped with relief. Lord Montsimon drove toward her in a sporty phaeton. He reined in the matched pair of thoroughbreds and placed the whip in the whip holder beside the seat.
He leaned down. “May I escort you home?”
Close to tears, she was in no mood for another unwelcome tête-à-tête. She shook her head and continued walking. “No thank you.”
“It’s a devilishly chilly night.” He slapped the reins, and the phaeton jingled and rattled alongside her. “Surely you don’t intend to walk home,” he called. “By the look of the weather it won’t be a pleasant trip.”
“I shall manage.”
She dropped her gaze to the shadowy way ahead and marched on, attempting to ignore her freezing feet. He made no move to drive past her. The golden light from the lamps strung on the vehicle lighted her way down the drive. She cursed under her breath when a drop of rain splattered on her cheek.
“It’s raining,” Lord Montsimon said, stating the obvious.
“Merely a shower.” She grimaced. Her expensive evening cloak would be ruined, and she couldn’t afford to replace it.
The few drops were quickly followed by several more. Heavier, with the icy touch of sleet. Althea hesitated, seeing the sense of it. If seen riding off with him alone, she would be the subject of talk, but that hardly mattered. If Lady Crowthorne learned of her husband’s desires, a far bigger scandal would erupt. She stopped. “It might be best if you did drive me home.”
“A sensible decision.” He secured the reins and leapt down.
She backed away as he approached her.
“My, you are jumpy. I was merely going to assist you.”
“Very well. You may do so,” Althea said ungraciously.
Montsimon placed his hands at her waist and hoisted her up onto the high seat with astonishing ease. She arranged her skirts with a sidelong glance at his muscular shoulders as he climbed in beside her.
When Montsimon pulled up the hood, sudden doggy breath warmed her cheek. Althea glanced behind her. A rather ugly terrier sat scratching an ear. The ear looked slightly chewed.
“Do sit down, Spot,” Montsimon said with a grimace.
“So, this is Spot,” Althea said politely. Montsimon’s description of the dog was apt. It was hardly the progeny of careful breeding.
“Yes, that’s Spot,” Montsimon said heavily as he wrestled a fur-lined travel rug from where Spot had been sitting. He spread it over her knees. “I do hope this doesn’t have fleas.”
“It’s most welcome, nonetheless.” The thick blanket was warm, and she tamped down the urge to pull it up to her chest. Maybe the warmth would stop her infernal shivering, although, whether that was caused by the weather, Sir Horace’s proposition, or Montsimon’s proximity, she couldn’t be sure.
“We can’t have you getting ill, can we?” He slapped the reins and urged the horses to walk on. “Owltree Cottage, I believe?”
She stared at his profile in the lamplight, reluctantly admitting it was a fine one. “You know where I live?”
“Your husband once offered to sell Owltree Cottage to me.”
“He did what!”
Montsimon gazed at her apologetically before turning back to watch the road. “He was in his cups and losing at cards at the time.”
“Oh.” Surely he hadn’t meant it.
“Of course, the cottage would be of little use to me. I seldom come to this part of the world.”
“He couldn’t have sold it to you. It belongs to me.” She bit her lip, wondering if Sir Horace had been bluffing.
“Don’t all properties revert to the husband on marriage?”
Althea stiffened, overwhelmed by anger that as a female, she was subject to men’s outrageous whims. “It was not part of my dower. My uncle made sure of that in his will.” But it in no way protected the property from an unscrupulous husband.
At the bitter tone in her voice, Montsimon gave her a sidelong glance, but said nothing. The patter of rain increased on the hood and dripped down all around them.
She clutched the rug to her, glad of it in spite of possible bugs. “You’re a friend of Sir Horace’s?” she asked, suddenly curious.
“The evening was more business than pleasure.” He bit the words off with a ring of finality. She was not to ask more. He was an important diplomat. A man with powerful friends. Powerful enemies, too, perhaps.
She was grateful when he didn’t attempt to flirt with her. He seemed more thoughtful, and the excuse she gave the footman was now true, as her head ached intolerably.
Montsimon drove the dangerous high perch phaeton with skill, rounding bends at a clip. She hung on to the seat, glad of his expertise. “I believe your estate is in Ireland, my lord.”
“Indeed. County Wicklow.”
“Do you not intend to return there to live?”
“Settle down to domestic life? It doesn’t appeal.”
His life in England and the Continent working for the foreign office would be far too exciting to exchange for a country estate in Ireland, she supposed. She had never been there and was suddenly curious. “Is it a pretty place?”
He huffed out a short laugh. “No one would call the house pretty, but it’s beautiful country. And not far from the sea.”
They approached her house where lamplight in the downstairs windows flickered a welcome. Montsimon drove into the carriageway and pulled up the horses. He leaped to the ground and held out his arms to assist her down. Althea placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, held for a moment against his hard body before he politely released her. She stepped back, suffering the urge to throw herself upon his chest again and sob out her sorry tale. The notion was so ridiculous she almost laughed. Out of the frying pan, into the fire. She was very grateful that he’d come along when he had. “Thank you, my lord. You have saved me from a long, wet walk.”
“I should not have liked to learn you became ill from an inflammation of the lungs.” He replaced his hat and leapt back into the phaeton, his long legs making the action appear easy.
“You are driving all the way back to London tonight?” she asked, wishing to extend the conversation. “In this vehicle?”
“Not likely.” He grinned. “I plan to stay with a friend, Viscount Warren. He has a country house in Biddlesden, Aylesbury Vale.”
The heavens opened with a deluge. Althea hurried to shelter on the porch as he drove away, carriage lights fading into the mist. She remained staring into the dark, her worries returning in full force. What was she to do? Her heart lurched when she remembered Sir Horace’s hard stare. He had the upper hand or he would never have spoken. Eve
n if the deed she held was sound, it would not be beneath him to get what he wanted by skullduggery. She could not lose Owltree. She would not. Her next step would be to appeal to her solicitor, but she feared he’d be of little help. She rented her London townhouse, and with her meager stipend from Brookwood, it was always a squeeze to make ends meet, even with stringent economic measures and few staff.
When Brookwood’s nephew, Aubrey, had returned from the West Indies to claim Brookwood’s title, he had been scathing about the lack of children in her marriage, rudely intimated that her family came from further down the social scale, and that she had married his uncle for his money while refusing him her bed. Hardly her fault that her husband was usually too drunk to visit her bed. Aubrey made no offer to help her. The dower house stood empty. That didn’t bother her, apart from the unfairness of his insinuations. She would choose to live in a hovel before she became beholden to him, a younger version of her husband. He was driven more by greed than misplaced moral outrage, she suspected. In truth, the only man she trusted was her brother. But if driven from her home, she wouldn’t return to Dorset. Freddie and his wife, and their six children, filled every corner of their small farmhouse.
She had to think. If only this headache would fade. She entered the house where Sally waited up for her.
“I have a dreadful megrim, Sally.”
“You go on up, my lady. I’ll bring some feverfew in a trice.”
After Sally’s kind ministrations, Althea retired to bed and lay silently as hour after hour passed. Eventually, the tincture did its work, and her headache ebbed away. She might go to her aunt. But Catherine couldn’t help her hold on to Owltree. No, she must turn to one of the men who had shown an interest in her. A man with considerable influence who could uncover Sir Horace’s secrets.
Why did the baronet really want Owltree Manor? If she learned more about his intentions, perhaps they might be used to fight him. But this powerful gentleman whose help she sought, what might she offer him? It would not be marriage. She gasped with a shiver of panic and fought to calm herself. No, that was impossible, and yet, what else did she have to offer but her body? An affair?
She believed Brookwood had broken something inside her. Remembrance caused a hollow vacuum of loss to well up and flood her with sadness. She turned over in bed, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof and hoped Montsimon had reached his destination safely.
Chapter Four
As Flynn peered ahead through the rain, Spot jumped over onto the seat beside him. Flynn cast the dog a stern look. “I don’t believe I gave you permission.”
Spot gave a yelp of approval.
“Oh, very well then. But sit and be quiet.”
The dog surprised him by doing precisely that. Flynn loved driving the phaeton, and bad weather didn’t bother him. He wasn’t about to put himself in the way of highwaymen, however, by driving all the way to London. And not when good company awaited him a half-hour away.
Something was amiss with Lady Brookwood. Odd that she had left Crowthorne’s in that fashion. She wasn’t about to tell him of it though, so he didn’t ask. He would not be the only one to have pursued her after her husband died. Had someone at the dinner made unwelcome advances? Herbert Frankston had an eye out for a mistress, but with his wife present, Flynn doubted the man would approach Althea. She was a lovely woman, with violet eyes, pale gold hair, and bosomy figure. He’d been bored more than once by a beautiful face, when the woman had no intellect or humor to enliven it, but Althea was anything but dull.
Althea, such a pretty name. She had a way of looking at him that made him suspect she could see through any attempts he made to charm her. Surprising, when he was lauded for his diplomatic skills. Surprising, too, that he rather appreciated their repartee. He looked forward to an enjoyable dalliance with her if he made her see the sense of it. She had a lovely laugh, and he wanted to hear more of it. To find humor lurking in those remarkable eyes of hers. But tonight… he frowned and suffered a prickle of guilt. She’d looked small and woebegone.
Why did she live in such a modest manner? Surely, as Brookwood’s widow, she was well provided for. He shrugged off these thoughts, which threatened his resolve to seduce her, and hurried the horses along as lightning lit up the sky. Thunder made the animals nervous. He glanced at Spot. The storm had no such effect on the dog. It had fallen asleep.
His mind turned to what little knowledge he had gained tonight that he must relay to the king, whose request for information on a certain matter had surprised him. Listening at key holes was not a diplomat’s job. He left that to the Home Office.
*
Althea sat up and punched her pillows as dreary dawn light crept around the curtains. “Montsimon,” she said aloud. He was obviously not a violent man if the way he treated that disreputable dog was anything to go by. He would have the connections to deal with Sir Horace Crowthorne. Perhaps, she would have to embark on the scheme her aunt suggested. Although the idea terrified her, she felt some relief for at least having a plan. She lay down again and closed her eyes.
Considerably better after a few more hours of sleep, Althea ate breakfast, then she sat at her desk and penned a letter to the family solicitor. Once she had blotted and sealed it, she called Sally. “Please pack my trunk. I shall have to hire a carriage. I’m returning to London.”
Sally’s mouth dropped open and dismay showed in her eyes. “But, my lady, weren’t you to remain with us until spring?”
“A matter has called me back to town, Sally,” Althea said, her voice hoarse with frustration. “Believe me, I don’t wish to go.”
As the carriage carried her toward London, Althea explored the possible idea of seducing Lord Montsimon into helping her. She touched her hot cheeks with gloved fingers. Any move on her part would certainly surprise him. She was tempted to ask her aunt how one might go about it. She clasped her hands tightly together. Such a request seemed lame and embarrassing. Aunt Catherine’s comment that she needed lessons in the art of flirtation, although amusing, had stung a little. She admitted to herself that she feared intimacy.
Brought to the marriage bed as a green girl of seventeen, she had wanted to love her husband and to please him. That had proved impossible. Brookwood’s lovemaking had done little to educate her. On the morning after their wedding, she had lain stunned and sickened. Nor had he grown more tender through the years of their marriage. A suffocating sensation tightened her throat as she remembered that which she had tried hard to forget.
Even supposing she could seduce Montsimon into helping her save Owltree, it was inherently dishonest. It cast her as low as Crowthorne. Sourness settled in the pit of her stomach. She hated the unscrupulousness of such an endeavor and was determined to first investigate other avenues.
In her London townhouse a week later, Althea received a reply from her solicitor, Mr. Manners. She hurried to his office in Lincoln’s Inn Fields.
At the death of her husband, Mr. Manners had expressed concern for her welfare, and she hoped he would keep it in mind when sending her his bill. The gangly, thin-faced gentleman greeted her soberly, confessing that, although the deed appeared sound, he had sent his clerk off with a letter to Sir Horace, requesting proof of his claim to the property.
He gestured to a letter on his desk with an embossed letterhead. “I’ve received a reply to that letter from Sir Horace’s solicitor and an opinion from a king’s counsel, Lord Coltart, a most eminent man.” Mr. Manners’ worried hazel eyes peered at her through his spectacles. “Although it’s not claimed outright that the deed is forged, he is confident it can be proved that your property is still part of Sir Horace’s estate. I feel I must advise you, Lady Brookwood, that Sir Horace is an affluent man. He has employed the best of the legal profession and could drag this matter through the courts, which would cost you a not inconsiderable amount of money with a doubtful outcome.”
Mr. Manners’ warning sent Althea into a spiral of despair. It was possible she would lose th
e estate to legal costs. But she was not prepared to give in to Sir Horace Crowthorne without a fight. Troubled by the news, she rushed home to Mayfair. She could not hold off Sir Horace for long. She entered her townhouse, a modest dwelling by Mayfair standards, where Butterworth greeted her, sober faced. No doubt, her kind and loyal butler feared for his job.
Her heart was heavy as she walked into the drawing room. With the legal costs, she would need to economize further, and that meant losing another member of her staff. Her nerves throbbed, and she huffed out a breath in despair, hating the prospect of parting with her loyal servants who had been with her for some years.
At her desk, after wasting several pieces of expensive bond, she was finally satisfied with her note to Sir Horace explaining that she was giving his proposition serious consideration. He would learn of her decision soon. She chewed on her lower lip, praying her words would cause him to postpone any rash action.
What she must do gnawed away at her confidence. Because of this man, she must humble herself before one of Brookwood’s associates and beg for his assistance. There weren’t a great many of her husband’s friends to choose from. Toward the end of his life, many had deserted him. As his gambling losses reduced his circumstances, he began to drink heavily and grew more reckless, often taking out his violent moods on her. Then some weeks before he died, his mood suddenly elevated. He refused to tell her the cause, sending her from the room while discussing a matter with the few friends that remained.
Althea chose Lord Churton although he had not been part of those discussions. She considered him to be the best of Brookwood’s friends. No more than a casual acquaintance toward the end of her husband’s life, Churton was a cut above the rest. His intelligent blue eyes were set in a broad face with a high color. A married man with children, he always greeted her warmly and was a respected member of parliament. She was optimistic he could do something to help her if he agreed.
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 4