Chapter Five
Seated in a corner of Boodle’s in Pall Mall, Flynn leaned forward in the leather chair as he and Lord Barraclough, talked quietly together. They shared a bottle of brandy while chatter and laughter filled the smoking room.
“I appreciate the wisdom of the Home Office to send you,” Flynn said. “We worked well together in that matter of the French Navy. Although this seems an entirely different kettle of fish.”
“That matter with the Navy was cut and dried. It’s entirely unclear what we’re dealing with here.” Barraclough related what he knew in a low voice. “Word has reached the king’s ear that radicals are plotting in secret.”
Flynn nodded. It was entirely feasible. Many were critical of the state of the country. Especially after what happened in St. Peter’s Field in Manchester last August, when the cavalry charged into a crowd of some eighty thousand people gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation. Public anger had grown to fever pitch after Liverpool’s government panicked and rushed through the Six Acts, introducing a raft of unpopular measures.
“I attended Sir Horace Crowthorne’s dinner, but had not expected to find possible suspects amongst the guests. And neither did I. If such a plot existed, it was well concealed. We can’t arrest everyone burning to change the whole system of government.” Flynn shrugged. “It would be half the country. Like finding a needle in a hay bale.”
“It’s not the radical journalists like Bentham, or Cobbett’s writings in the Weekly Political Register, who are dangerous. But those who keep their opinions quiet and prefer to remain unobserved.” Barraclough puffed out a cloud of smoke from his cheroot.
“The only two I found worth investigation were Goodrich and Wensley. I overheard them arrange a meeting in Crowthorne’s library. Their conversation ceased abruptly when I entered,” Flynn said, “which peaked my curiosity.”
“Don’t know them. Do you?”
“Only in passing. I thought it odd that they arranged this meeting somewhere out of Town.”
“They might be organizing a hunt or a private house party.”
“Unlikely. It’s the Old Gate Inn in Canterbury. Heard of it?”
“Can’t say I have. Could be something entirely innocent though. When is this meeting to take place?”
Flynn shook his head. “Couldn’t discover it. They regarded me with suspicion and clammed up.”
“You are known to be close to the king,” Barraclough said dryly. He took a sip of brandy. “That can make people wary.”
Flynn frowned in exasperation. “I’m surprised the king wants me involved. This is a matter for the Home Office or Bow Street, surely.” He swallowed the last sip of brandy in the snifter which left a faint tinge of bitter sweetness on his tongue. “I’d gladly hand this matter over to someone else. Baron Forth for example. He may not be the best investigator around, but the king approves of him. He’s the consummate dissembler.”
Barraclough’s chuckle sent another cloud of exhaled smoke into the room. “You are the king’s private investigator. He has come to rely on you. Due to your work on the Continent dealing with Princess Caroline, he believes you to be infallible.”
“No one is infallible. Least of all, I. But His Majesty grows more determined by the day. Caroline shall not attend his coronation as his consort. Ministers are anxious to avoid a divorce, for as much mud will stick to the king as it will to her.” He gestured to the bottle. “Another?”
Barraclough shook his head. “I must be off.” He took his watch out of his waistcoat pocket.
“Sidmouth will arrange for his spies to follow these men,” Flynn said. “When you learn the time of their meeting, let me know. If it proves to be of interest, I’ll take it from there.”
Barraclough nodded. “It will be done.” The leather chair creaked as he moved his bulk to mash his cheroot into the ashtray. “Unfortunately, the little season works against us. Not a lot on the social calendar. There’s the Gossards’ soiree. I daresay you have an invitation?”
“I do.”
Barraclough climbed to his feet. “With so little entertainment to be had, you might find them there. Meanwhile, I’ll get working on it.”
*
Althea picked up the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and rapped on the Churtons glossy black door. Their butler opened it. With a discreet look of surprise to find her calling at such an hour, he offered her a chair in the entry hall and asked her to wait. Moments later, he returned to direct her upstairs to the drawing room. Relieved to find Churton at home, she crossed the blue Aubusson carpet in the elegantly furnished room which at present stood empty. Lady Churton had excellent taste. Althea only hoped her coming here did not anger the lady. She could not hope to meet Churton at a social event for London was still thin of company.
Althea sought to find a discreet way in which to frame her request to Churton. She sat on a brocade upholstered chair, her fingers gripping her reticule, and decided not to mince her words.
Lord Churton strode through the door with a smile which almost hid his astonishment. “Dear Lady Brookwood. But how delightful to see you.”
Althea rose quickly and crossed the room to him. “Forgive me, Lord Churton for calling in this fashion.”
“Not at all. Please do sit, Lady Brookwood.” He directed her to a chair.
His color, if anything, was more florid than when she had seen him last. “Lady Margery will be sorry to have missed you. She is attending to last minute shopping before we depart for Wiltshire.” He chuckled. “There are some things my wife refuses to live without while rusticating in the country. Please, won’t you sit? May I offer you tea, a glass of sherry?”
“No, thank you, Lord Churton.” Althea sank down again. She took a deep breath. “I find myself in need of your help.”
“In what way may I be of assistance?”
“Do you know Sir Horace Crowthorne, by any chance?”
He paused in the act of lowering himself into the chair opposite, eyebrows raised. “I do. He’s a member of my club. A fellow who makes his mark on the ton, does he not?”
Althea explained Sir Horace’s wish to buy Owltree, omitting the more distasteful aspects.
His blue eyes widened as he listened. “The deed to the property has been found to be genuine?”
“It is. My lord, my property is but ten acres. A watercourse runs through it. It would be so much simpler for Sir Horace to make improvements to the village road.”
“An odd business.” His shrewd eyes studied her. “I suspect there is more to it.”
Althea sighed. Churton was too canny. she would have to tell the whole story. “He uses it as a bargaining tool. He wishes me to become his mistress.”
Churton grunted. “Ah, now I see. He holds this threat over your head to sway you to agree to his baser desires. I feel I must apologize for my sex, Lady Brookwood. Men can behave very badly at times, especially where an attractive lady is involved. One who is unprotected.”
Althea tilted her head and smiled. “Not all men, my lord.”
He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “What would you have me do?”
A flare of hope warmed her breast. “I doubt it is desire that prompted him to make such a demand. I hoped you might speak to him, to learn what he plans for Owltree Cottage.”
“Ah. I understand. That I am happy to do.” He sat back and crossed his arms. “It is an odd business, no doubt about it.”
“I would be most grateful, my lord.”
He rubbed his chin. “A letter won’t do. I’ll need to speak to Sir Horace in person. I’ll look for him at my club. The perfect place for a quiet word. I believe I saw him there a night or two ago. I hope to find him there sometime this week. Unfortunately, Lady Margery and I are to depart for the country on Saturday.”
He must have read the disappointment in her face, for he leaned forward and took both her hands in his. “How upset you must be, losing Brookwood and now this. I hope I can be of some he
lp to you.”
The door opened and Lady Margery swept into the room. At the sight of her husband holding Althea’s hands, she froze and her brows snapped together. She bustled forward, patting her soft brown hair. “Lady Brookwood, how pleasant to see you,” she said in a cool tone.
Lord Churton rose smoothly and went to greet her. “You have finished buying out Regent Street, my dear?” He kissed her cheek. “Lady Brookwood has come to us with a problem.”
“Oh?” Lady Margery still frowned, unconvinced.
Althea gained her feet and executed a curtsey. “You must forgive me calling without an invitation, Lady Margery. An unforeseen circumstance has brought me low. I find I cannot manage to deal with it without assistance. I immediately thought of your husband, who is greatly respected and, as you know, a former associate of my husband. He has kindly promised to speak on my behalf.”
“Please do sit, Lady Brookwood. You appear quite rattled.” The wary expression remained in Lady Margery’s eyes, but she bustled forward. “Have you ordered tea, Churton?”
Not wishing to overstay her welcome, Althea shook her head. “Thank you, Lady Margery, but I shan’t trouble you a moment longer. Lord Churton, I’ll leave the matter in your hands with my heartfelt thanks. Whatever the outcome, I shall be eternally grateful for your assistance.”
“It appears you are in difficulty, my dear. I hope Churton can assist you.” Lady Margery’s sympathetic smile was most welcome. “Shall we see you at Lord and Lady Gossards’ soiree?”
“Yes, how very fortunate.” The fear of running into Sir Horace had quite put her off the idea of going, but the Churtons’ attending changed everything. How very nice they were. Lady Margery appeared to warm to her and, in time, might become a good friend.
If Churton dealt with Sir Horace before he appeared at the Gossard’s, she would enjoy witnessing his discomfiture when the ton cut him. A foolish dream, but one she clung to.
A little more confident, Althea walked the few streets from the Churton’s palatial home in Grosvenor Square to her modest townhouse. A cup of tea served in her boudoir made her feel considerably better. The respect in which Churton was held might work to ferret out Crowthorne’s intentions. Once she gained that knowledge, she could put it to good use. Sir Horace was not as well born as Churton, but at heart was a dreadful snob. She narrowed her eyes. How apposite to use blackmail against a blackmailer. He would not wish for any of his nefarious dealings to become known. Dare she hope this would be quickly solved, and she could return to live in peace?
Thinking it through, she was quite pleased that she had managed to deal with the situation herself, and would have no need to cast herself on Montsimon’s broad chest and beg his help. She only wished his gray eyes, framed by thick, dark lashes, didn’t appear in her mind’s eye.
Two days later, Althea attended the Gossard’s soiree. Guests crammed into the white and gold reception rooms of their palatial home while others went to the library to smoke. Unfortunately, as soon as Althea arrived, she encountered Sir Horace in the drawing room.
“I received your note, Lady Brookwood.” He stared hard at her. “I don’t intend to let this matter drag on unnecessarily.”
“Neither do I, Sir Horace.” Althea stepped around him. Might Lord Churton have spoken to him? She hoped to learn something from his lordship with which to turn this situation in her favor.
Crowthorne’s derisive laugh followed her as she moved away.
As she looked for Lord Churton and Lady Margery, Althea threaded her way through the perfumed, chattering crowd. Ladies called to her from chairs along the walls, gentlemen, drinks in hand, stood deep in conversation near the fireplaces at each end of the room. There was no sign of the Churton’s. The Ormolu clock on the mantel showed ten. Still early. Her mind only half engaged, Althea paused to talk to acquaintances but kept an eye on the guests filing through the door.
Montsimon entered, wearing a fitted marine blue coat adorned with gold buttons, which molded to his broad shoulders and trim waist. Gold fobs decorated his gray silk waistcoat, his long legs encased in powder gray trousers. No man should look that good, she thought, as every woman in the room turned to observe him. When he headed toward her, she stiffened and grappled with a way to avoid him, but her mind had deserted her.
She came to her senses when Mrs. Montgomery repeated her question a good deal louder, while her mother, Mrs. Pinkerton, studied Althea with a shrewd expression. Althea murmured a nonsensical reply. She offered what she hoped was a charming smile. Montsimon would draw every eye to them should he approach her. He would be a distraction when she must find Churton, so she could retire for the evening with the knowledge that Sir Horace would trouble her no more.
Althea spun around searching the crowd. Where were the Churtons? Might she have overlooked them in one of the other reception rooms? “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Montgomery,” she said, interrupting the lady in mid-sentence. “I’ve just seen someone I simply must speak to who appears to be about to leave.”
With a swish of her ice-blue net gown worn over white satin, she hurried away, leaving Mrs. Pinkerton peering through her lorgnette after her. It was an appalling lack of manners and Althea was sure her ears were burning.
A moment later, she’d forgotten the ladies entirely, for Montsimon, a determined expression in his gray eyes, made his way steadily through the guests.
She could not talk to him now. Heart thudding, she searched around for anyone free to engage in conversation, but those close to her were deep in discussion and it would be rude to interrupt.
“Lady Brookwood.” Montsimon had reached her. He bowed before her.
There was nothing for it. “Lord Montsimon.” She curtsied. It was extraordinary. Simply because she’d considered a possible affair with him albeit briefly, it had become difficult to meet his eyes, made bluer tonight by the coat he wore.
“I didn’t expect to find you in London,” he said in his pleasant tenor voice. “Wasn’t it your intention to remain in the country until spring?”
“It was.” She nodded. “But an important matter has brought me back to Town.”
A waiter approached. Montsimon took two flutes of champagne from his tray and offered her one. Althea accepted it with a nod of thanks. She sipped the cold fizzy wine, relieved when it lubricated her tight throat.
“It’s dreadfully crowded tonight,” Montsimon said, bending his head closer to hers.
“The Gossards’ affairs are always so. Does your dog wait for you at home tonight?”
“No, he’s guarding my carriage,” Montsimon said, a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Is he a good guard dog?” Her gaze swept the room, searching for Lord Churton again without success.
“Spot is very thorough. Even my friends are barred from the vehicle.” Montsimon frowned. “But something disturbs you tonight, Lady Brookwood. May I be of help?”
“You must pardon me, my lord.” She took a step away. “There’s someone I must speak to, but I can’t seem to locate them in this crowd.”
He followed, bringing them close again. “Who might that be?”
“Lord Churton. Have you seen him?”
The expression in Montsimon’s eyes sharpened. Without explanation, he removed her glass, which was still half-full of champagne from her nerveless fingers.
Conscious of those around them, she murmured a surprised protest. He placed her glass with his on a console table. “Shall we take a stroll on the terrace?” He slipped her arm through his.
“I beg your pardon?” Althea shook free, but he firmly tucked her gloved fingers back into the crook of his arm and moved forward, propelling her along, while apologizing right and left to those forced to make way for them. One man had the effrontery to wink at him! She gasped. He was manhandling her right under the gaze of the ton.
“I must speak to you where I can make myself heard without getting a crick in my neck,” he said in a low voice.
Hardly a satisfactory exp
lanation! Astonished, Althea huffed out a breath while helplessly caught up in the momentum caused by his long stride. “I must say I’m surprised, my lord,” she muttered, afraid of creating a scene. “You can’t just drag me off….”
A footman opened the French doors, and Montsimon swept her through them.
At a click of the door behind them, silence fell. The brazier’s glow did nothing to warm the frigid air. The terrace was deserted, for no other guest braved the outdoors during a winter’s night. And certainly not without many layers of warm clothing, which she lacked. Goose pimples sprung up along her arms and she shivered violently.
Montsimon drew her farther away into the shadows as the cold breeze slapped like a hand across her face and décolletage. She mourned the absence of her fur-lined cloak. Her teeth chattered. “This had better be important, my lord,” she stuttered through cold lips.
With a muffled curse, Montsimon shrugged out of his tight coat, not without difficulty she was pleased to see. He held it up for her. She slipped her arms into the coat and her hands became lost somewhere inside the long sleeves. Too cold to fight for her dignity, she stood still as he did up the buttons. She almost sighed, his body had made it wonderfully warm, and it smelled of his soap. As his fingers swept outrageously across her bosom, Althea averted her gaze and attempted to ignore his proximity. She wasn’t about to complain. Needs must.
Her instinct was to stalk indignantly inside again, but that would mean removing his coat, which seemed a terrible bother since he’d gone to the trouble to roll up the sleeves for her. Most particularly, her curiosity was roused. At least her trembling had eased. “You have a few minutes to explain before I—”
“What is your business with Lord Churton?” His voice sounded strangely steely, his normally lilting Irish brogue gone.
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 5