Montsimon’s gaze sharpened. “What can you tell me about this Hazelton?”
“He was an old school friend of Brookwood’s, and they kept in contact through the years. He has a country house somewhere near Owltree. I know this because, while staying at the cottage, Brookwood rode over to visit him. It can’t be far. He was there and back in a matter of a few hours.”
“It’s interesting that he used a false name at the inn. Now why would that be? I’ll need to pay a visit to this Cecil Hazelton.”
“I’m sure someone in Slough will know of him. The inn keeper or a shopkeeper, or perhaps the vicar.”
“I’ll leave it to you to ask. They’ll be more forthcoming with someone from the area.” Montsimon leaned forward and grasped her hands. “I’m grateful you chose to tell me. This might be important.”
She was inordinately pleased but withdrew her hands. No sense in encouraging him.
“But at the same time, it is worrying,” Montsimon said. “If Hazelton saw you, they may suspect you’re onto them.”
“I don’t see how—”
“From now on, my lady, I shall have to be your shadow.”
“My shadow?” She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean by that?”
“Best for us to appear to have married,” he said bluntly.
“That’s impossible.” She pretended not to understand him. “How does one appear to be married?”
“It’s self-explanatory. I’m proposing we behave as a couple.”
“To deceive who exactly? My poor servants?” She narrowed her eyes. Was this another of his tricks? What lengths would a rake go to?
“Don’t look at me like that, Althea. It is only for a short time. And I won’t insist on my conjugal rights.”
Ignoring the overheated atmosphere, she shot him a withering glance. “You most certainly won’t! You have no such rights.”
“Very well. If you prefer to keep this on a business footing, so be it. But we will have to put up a show.”
She didn’t like that confident glint in his eye. Men could be so casual about affairs where women could not. “What about my servants!”
“We shall tell them we married in London.”
“No, Montsimon. I won’t lie to them.”
“Think it through, Althea.” He removed his hat and put up a hand to smooth his dark brown locks. “Surely you trust me after what we’ve been through together?”
He had nice hair. She tugged at her gloves. “I am grateful for your help, but it would be naïve of me to trust you to that extent, Montsimon. And I am not naïve,” she said defensively.
“I don’t seek your gratitude, Althea. I just want to keep you safe.”
He sounded sincere. She met his gaze as her aunt’s warning came back to her. The appeal in his clear gray eyes was almost irresistible. But she would resist. She must guard her battered and bruised heart from further hurt.
*
As luck would have it, the rain eased, and a pale winter sun shimmered through the branches of the evergreens adding little warmth. The carriage continued toward Slough, jouncing through ruts, and sending up a spray from water-filled potholes. Althea had praised Flynn’s coachman. He had to agree, Ben skillfully handled his thoroughbreds. Flynn’s finances were often stretched, because his lifestyle demanded a better income than he had at present, and he refused to economize on well-bred cattle and well-sprung vehicles.
Althea had grown quiet. She had not yet agreed with his idea. Nor had he attempted to persuade her. He left her to consider it, trusting that her commonsense would bring her round. He sat back, content to look at her, admiring how her pale-blonde hair curled about her neat ears beneath her fur hat and her dimpled chin, which she thrust out at him rather too often.
“Very well, I agree,” she said, breaking into his thoughts.
“To what?” She caught him off guard; his thoughts had moved on to how appealing she’d looked rumpled and sleepy from sharing his bed, while embracing the possibility of a more successful outcome next time.
“To pretending we are married, or have you dismissed the idea?”
“Of course not” he said hastily. “I allowed you to take your time. You’re obviously a woman who is very careful with making up her mind.” He shrugged and tried not to appear too pleased. “I knew you would come to see the sense of it.”
She raised her eyebrows, a smile lurking in her eyes. “Oh, you did, did you?”
“How else can I remain close enough to protect you?”
Her eyes widened. “I-I’m grateful that you wish to defend me, Montsimon,” she said in a broken whisper. “More than I can say.”
“There’s no need for that,” he blustered. After all, he had his own reasons for traveling to Slough. A dimple peeped from her cheek. The deuce! She toyed with him, giving back some of his own.
He chuckled. “You are a minx, madam.”
Her expression sobered. “Let me make it perfectly plain. No matter how hard you try to persuade me, I will not agree to us sharing a bedchamber.” She frowned. “So there will be no arguments. I intend to sleep alone.”
He shrugged. “No matter. I shall lie on a pallet outside your door.”
A smile lifted her lovely mouth. “I don’t believe that is necessary. I have a spare bedchamber. You must realize…if a woman loses her reputation and society cuts her, life can become extremely difficult.”
“Why would they?” He gave a dismissive shrug. “You’re a widow and your reputation is of no interest to anyone but you and a few gossipmongers.”
“Oh? You mean those who speak at length about your exploits?”
He smiled, she had a point there.
“And my servants—”
“—shall think we are married.”
“Montsimon, my servants are decent people, and unlike some members of the ton, do not countenance liaisons outside of marriage.”
“When our reasons can be explained, they will understand.”
“I do hope so.”
“Then it’s decided,” he said with a decisive nod.
A faint blush warmed her cheeks. “Please remember that this arrangement does not permit over-familiarity on your part.”
“I have shared a bed with you before, madam. Did you not emerge unscathed?”
She smiled wryly. “I doubt you have the self-control to continue in that vein.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps you don’t trust yourself?”
“Oh.” The blush on her cheeks deepened. “I don’t wish to seem coy, Montsimon. It’s just that I know of what men are capable. And how women can suffer because of it.”
He hid a surprising stab of guilt behind a hurt expression. “I do hope you’re not comparing me to Brookwood.”
“You are nothing like Brookwood.” She looked out the window, shadows were gathering. It was only a few hours until nightfall. “We are on the outskirts of Slough,” she said, relief in her voice. “We’ll reach Owltree Cottage shortly.”
“You have nothing to fear from me, my lady,” he said with an affronted frown. “You’ve succeeded in crushing any ardor on my part.”
She glanced at him, her eyes contemplative. “Good.”
It never occurred to him that any lover of his might suffer hurt after their relationship ended. The women he’d known always seemed so confident, with an eye to their next beau. But it was a damnably alarming thought.
Chapter Sixteen
The carriage pulled into the driveway at Owltree Cottage where Sally waited on the porch. Montsimon assisted Althea down while Ben brought in the luggage.
“This is Lord Montsimon, Sally.”
The maid curtseyed. “How do you do, my lord.”
Montsimon smiled. “Good afternoon, Sally.”
“Please tell Mrs. Peebles we’ve arrived,” Althea said.
“She is shopping in the village, my lady.”
“Mrs. Peebles is my housekeeper,” Althea explained to Montsimon while Sally assisted her out of her redingote a
nd hat, and Montsimon divested himself of his greatcoat.
Althea led the way into the salon. “Sally, please tell Cook to prepare tea, sandwiches, and cake, if there’s any.”
“Yes, my lady. She’s been at the oven since your message arrived. There’s gingerbread and seed cake, and for dinner, pease-soup, fricasseed pigeon, with chocolate pudding for dessert.”
“Sounds very tasty,” Montsimon said with an appreciative smile.
Althea was suddenly aware of the how big he was wandering about her small salon. “I trust she’s made enough for a gentleman’s appetite. I shall go and speak to her shortly.”
“The roof is leaking again, my lady.”
“Where is the leak this time, Sally?
“The smaller bedchamber, right over the bed. I had it moved, and I’m airing the mattress.
Unfortunately, it looks like it will rain again tonight.”
“The thatch will need to be repaired.”
“Yes, my lady. I sent the stable boy to fetch Tom to fix it, but he’s hurt his leg, so it will have to wait awhile.”
“Poor Tom. I trust it isn’t serious.” Althea narrowed her eyes at Montsimon who nodded sympathetically.
“And we found Jet wandering the gardens again this morning.” The maid shrugged. “I checked the windows before I retired. The one overlooking the rose garden was open again. I don’t know how that cat manages it.”
“Nor do I.” Althea drew in an uneasy breath.
“Was anything disturbed or damaged, Sally?” Montsimon asked.
The maid’s eyes widened. “No, my lord.”
The culprit under discussion stalked into the room. With a loud purr, he rubbed against Althea’s legs. “Naughty puss.” She swept him up, his fur soft against her cheek as her eyes scanned the room. All seemed in perfect order.
“So this is Jet.” The cat’s purr deepened as Montsimon stroked him. “He’s quite a size.”
“He’s too fat,” Althea said. “I fear he dines on all manner of wildlife.”
“He prefers mice,” Sally said. “Brings them into the house and places them at my feet.”
“Sally, you are the first here to learn of my marriage to Lord Montsimon.” As her body tensed at the lie, Jet leapt from her arms.
“Oh, my felicitations, my lady!” Sally cried. “And to you, my lord. That’s just grand, that is.”
“Thank you, Sally,” Montsimon said. He sat in a wing chair, spreading out his long legs.
“I’d like something stronger than tea, my love. Do you keep spirits here?”
“There’s a bottle of brandy Cook uses for the mince pies. Sally?”
The maid rushed from the room.
Montsimon cast his eye around at the wainscoting. “Brookwood could have secreted something away behind a panel.”
“He wasn’t familiar with the house. He so seldom came here.”
“Mmm.” Montsimon rose and began tapping the panels. The inquisitive cat followed along behind him.
Althea laughed at them. “I wonder what you got up to as a child.”
“The usual things, fishing, hunting. I enjoyed climbing trees searching for birds’ nests.”
He turned and grinned at her. “I recall you are an accomplished tree-climber yourself.”
“We were talking about you,” she said firmly while imagining him as a boy, all gangly limbs and floppy dark hair. It appeared his childhood hadn’t been a happy one.
“You make a far better subject for discussion.” He returned to the wall. “These old houses are notorious for secret panels, tunnels, and hidden rooms. We have one at Greystones Manor.”
“Old mansions are intriguing. There was a priest’s hole at Brookwood Park. But not here.
This is a humble cottage.”
“Your ancestor might have wished somewhere safe to hide his valuables.”
“He wouldn’t have been a man of great wealth.”
“All the more reason, in those uncertain times, to safeguard what you had.” Montsimon continued tapping. He finished one wall and moved along to the next. The cat, deciding it was a game, danced around his legs.
Althea opened the window that had been Jet’s method of escape. “Come and look at this, Montsimon.”
He leaned out and ran his finger along the wooden frame. “Deep gouges around the catch. It’s been forced.”
Althea shivered. “I’ll have the gardener nail it up.”
Montsimon’s arm came around her shoulders. “There’s no evidence of them being inside.
Though you might check the other rooms. “Perhaps they’ve already found whatever it is they sought.”
“You don’t believe that.” She couldn’t resist leaning into the taut smoothness of his shoulder. Ridiculous, how his familiar manly smell seemed to ease the knot of tension in her stomach.
“We won’t stay any longer than we need to.”
“Then I have much to do.” Althea moved out of the circle of his comforting arm as Sally entered with a tray. “Ah, here’s the tea, and we do have brandy. How fortunate.”
When the maid left the room, Montsimon raised his glass in a mock salute. “You should call me something more intimate. After all, we are married.”
“I don’t see the necessity of it. Married ladies often call their husbands by their title.”
“Don’t care for it. You might address me as Kieran, or use my surname, Flynn.”
Flynn suited him. But she couldn’t call him Kieran. It seemed far too intimate.
“Flynn, then.” She wondered why it mattered to him.
He drank the last of the brandy. Nibbling a macaroon, he continued examining the walls. Althea sipped her tea and admired his manly grace. She hadn’t realized how lonely she was. But she mustn’t grow used to him filling the void. At the sound of voices, she rose. “My housekeeper, Mrs. Peebles, has arrived back. I’d best introduce you to the rest of my staff.”
“How many servants here?”
“Five, counting the gardener and the stable boy.”
He shook his head. “This house is also understaffed. Did Brookwood not leave you well provided for?”
She stiffened, assailed by the undeniable and embarrassing truth. “Brookwood’s gambling debts.” She shrugged. “There was little left of my dowry.”
“I am sorry, Althea.” He gave a sympathetic smile and offered her his arm. “Let us make our announcement. Then we can don our coats and you can show me more of Owltree’s garden before it grows dark.”
“The property covers a mere ten acres, and in winter, it’s rather uninspiring.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to take a look around,” he said.
He was more interested in searching for any disturbance, but she found she wanted to know more about him. “It can hardly compare with your Irish estate.”
“Nothing compares with the beauty of Ireland.” His Irish lilt became more evident and a proud gleam warmed his eyes.
Intrigued, she walked with him from the room. “Don’t you miss it?”
“I didn’t,” he confessed. “But now it’s mine, I do feel somewhat differently. If I had the money to improve it, I might go back. But as matters stand…” He shrugged.
She glanced at him as they descended the stairs to the servants’ quarters. It seemed they both had impossible dreams.
*
After dinner, Althea excused herself to prepare the bedchamber. When she returned to the salon, Flynn sat reading an old newspaper by candlelight, sipping brandy, while Sally bustled about seeing to the fire.
He yawned behind his hand. “The trip was fatiguing. I’m for bed.” He rose from the chair and stretched out his long arms. “Show me where we are to sleep, my love.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Yes, of course.”
In the upper corridor, he followed her to the bedchamber. Flynn stopped short of entering. “What is this?” he asked.
Althea had made up the chaise longue with pillows and a blanket in the alcove formed by the
bay window. “Don’t fuss,” she said. “I plan to take the chaise. You are much too tall for it.”
He chuckled as he leaned back against the doorframe. “You had no need of this, as I intend to sleep downstairs once the servants have retired.”
“Oh! Well, you might have said.” She had struggled with that heavy chaise alone as she could hardly ask Sally to assist her. More disappointed than she cared to admit, she nodded. “That’s wise. Take a pillow and blanket with you.”
He smiled. “There’s an open invitation for you to join me.”
“The salon has only one sofa.”
His eyes drank her up. “We shall manage.”
She spun away to draw the curtains. “Not when I have a comfortable bed to sleep in, but thank you.”
Flynn tugged at his cravat. “Best I undress here.”
She swallowed. “I see no need. The servants will soon retire, and you will have the salon to yourself.”
“I’ll wait awhile to make sure. I don’t want to cause embarrassment. Do you need my expertise with your buttons?” He shrugged out of his coat.
“Not this time.”
She would manage her clothes herself. Montsimon was so devious, she considered it best to send Sally to bed. At least this dress did up in front. She smoothed the blanket on the chaise. At a creak from the bed, she turned. Flynn lay under the covers, and what she could see of him from the waist up was bare.
“You can’t go about the house like that! Don’t you have a nightshirt?”
He tucked his arms beneath his head. “Don’t use ’em.”
“You might have made an exception,” she said crossly, inspecting his wide muscular chest. He had very nice skin.
“Now it’s your turn,” he invited with a lazy, seductive grin.
She put her hands on her hips. “You are not going to watch me.”
“I rather thought I would. There’s a dearth of entertainment in the country. Even the newspapers are old.”
Althea gathered up her nightgown, slippers, and robe, grabbed a candle, and went to the door. She would undress in the spare bedchamber.
“You are an incurable wet blanket, Althea,” Flynn called after her.
She couldn’t prevent a giggle from escaping her lips. But for the seriousness of the situation, it would be amusing. But it was extremely worrying. Would robbers come during the night? Her mouth went dry at the thought. Would Flynn be at risk? She almost turned and advised him to remain in her bed. Almost, but not quite.
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 14