He gazed at her imploringly. “You would be just one more thing for me to worry about. Don’t you see? Please don’t make this difficult.”
Her eyes grew shadowed. “As you wish. But I don’t see the necessity. I would prefer not to be stuck in London wondering what’s taking place here in my home. A home I love, Flynn.”
“Then you must trust me to take care of it,” he said.
Sally entered the room. “My lord, the carriage has arrived for her ladyship.”
“Thank you, Sally. Please ask Ben to take Lady Brookwood’s luggage.”
“When did you give instructions to your coachman?” She raised her eyebrows. “Yesterday?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You planned to pack me off and didn’t feel it necessary to tell me?”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Did you think I would cause a fuss? Refuse to go?”
“No,” he said carefully. “I was confident you would see the sense of it. You do, don’t you?”
She sniffed. “No, you didn’t. I find it decidedly sneaky. And I might not forgive you.”
He took her hand in his and kissed her palm. “I hope you will forgive me, Althea.”
She coolly withdrew it. “Mrs. Peebles will accompany me to London. There’s no longer any need for her to travel by stage.” She rose from the table and left the room.
Flynn sipped his coffee thoughtfully. She was angry with him, but it couldn’t be helped. He would deal with that later.
Chapter Nineteen
Althea looked back to where Flynn stood on the driveway raising his hand in farewell. She tamped down her frustration at being bundled off like a bag of washing and waved back.
As the carriage turned onto the road, Mrs. Peebles seated opposite began fussing with her shawl and arranging an odd assortment of parcels around her. Satisfied everything was in place, she sat back and clutched her reticule in her lap. “It’s a sad day, my lady.”
“It’s for the best, Mrs. Peebles. At least until the house is made safe.”
“You did explain that the house was unsound, my lady. But I never saw any evidence of it.”
“It’s in the woodwork, an insect infestation,” Althea flushed. How easily she lied. “His Lordship will have the problem fixed in no time. While it is done, you shall be comfortable in Mayfair.”
“I certainly can’t complain about that, my lady. You are always so very good to the servants.”
Althea wished Jet would stop glowering at her through the rungs of his basket.
The village behind them, they traveled toward London on the toll road. An hour passed. Mrs. Peebles’ eyes closed and her chin sank to her chest. Jet had ceased complaining although his green eyes still watched Althea. She imagined she saw hurt and rage in them and looked away at the drab scene dotted with limestone farmhouses beyond the window. They were held up for a drover to clear his flock of sheep. The roadside was crowded with those on foot, itinerant laborers, tinkers, and a preacher in his black cassock amongst them.
Althea attempted to ease the tension in her neck. It hadn’t been her plan to be thrown into an exciting adventure with a man she became increasingly attracted to. She still wished to be back there facing adversity at his side. It exasperated her that he didn’t trust her. Did he think her bird-witted? She scowled and folded her arms.
The busy road grew quiet when the carriage entered a densely wooded area. Although she leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes, her mind remained on Owltree. What was happening there? Crowthorne’s men planned to seize their chance once the house was empty. And when they met with opposition, it could become perilous. She prayed Flynn wouldn’t be hurt.
Suddenly with a shout, Ben heaved on the reins and the carriage rocked to a standstill, the horses rearing. Mrs. Peebles woke with a snort. “What was that, my lady?”
Althea’s hand flew to her chest. “I’m not sure.” She pulled down the window.
“Here’s the little lady.” Two highwaymen on horseback, the lower half of their faces obscured by mufflers, had stopped the carriage. One man held Ben at gunpoint.
The other rode up to her window. “Get out of the carriage, miss.”
“We’re being robbed,” Mrs. Peebles cried, gathering her parcels around her.
“Nonsense. We have nothing of value.” Althea swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, afraid they would shoot Ben if she didn’t obey.
“Oh, but you do.” The man sniggered. “Your duenna will stay in the coach.”
“Oh, don’t leave me alone with these beasts, my lady,” Mrs. Peebles cried.
“Out!” the man commanded, edging his horse closer.
Althea glared at him. “Put down the steps, then.”
He pulled open the door. “Jump and make it quick.”
She leapt down onto the hard packed earth, jarring her ankle, then backed away from him. In an instant, his horse was beside her, heading her off when she turned to run. She darted the other way, but he was upon her again. He leaned down and scooped her up. As she yelled and kicked, he dragged her across his saddle, her head hanging down along the horse’s flank. Althea screamed. The saddle dug cruelly into her stomach, squeezing the wind from her lungs. She dragged in a harsh breath. “You scoundrel! Put me down at once!”
His horse turned into trees, along a woodland trail. He kicked the horse’s flank and rode at a fast pace. Mrs. Peebles’ shrieks faded into the distance. “If you don’t stop, you’ll be hunted by Bow Street and thrown into Newgate Prison!”
Her words had no effect on him. She considered biting his leg through his trousers, but ingrained dirt and body odor repelled her. She pinched him hard on the leg above his boot.
“Little termagant!” He slapped her so hard on her derriere, her eyes watered. “I’d advise you to be quiet, or I’ll shut you up, permanently.”
Chilled, her words strangled in her throat. As the dank rotting smells of the forest floor stirred up by the horse’s hooves stifled her, she feared she would choke. Bushes brushed against her, a branch knocked off her hat and pulled her hair. He kept up the pace, the animal huffing, taking them deeper into the woods. Apart from the rhythmic pounding of the horse’s hooves and the cries of disturbed birds, it was so quiet she felt cut adrift, desperately alone. The carriage was now far behind them. Althea’s hopes faded with each rocking gait. Where did he take her?
The blood had run to Althea’s head when he slowed the horse to a walk. They left the narrow trail and broke out of the underbrush onto a deserted forest road. A fine carriage stood waiting, the coachman at the horses’ heads.
The man jumped to the ground, unceremoniously dragging her with him. Althea staggered dizzily, trying to pull away from his big hands digging into her waist.
“Devil!” Once she’d gained her balance, outrage vanquished her fear. She turned in his arms, flailing her fisted hands. Her fingers caught in his mask and almost dislodged it, grazing her knuckles on his bristled chin.
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her until her teeth rattled. “Do that again and there’ll be the devil to pay! Why don’t you let me kill her?” he appealed to someone in the carriage. “I can bury her right here. No one will be any the wiser.”
“If you hurt her, you’ll answer to me. Tie her hands and bring her here. Place her in the carriage.”
His sour, unwashed odor stung her nostrils as he twisted her arms painfully behind her. Was that Crowthorne’s voice she heard? Was he in the carriage? She craned her neck as the man applied thick twine to her wrists, so tightly it pinched her skin.
“Ow! You are hurting me, you oaf!” Althea kicked out at him.
“What’ll I do with this hellcat?” He let her go, jerking his legs out of her range. She lost her balance and fell onto the rocky ground, bruising her knees.
“Don’t make such heavy weather of it! Is a small woman too much for you? Tie her feet and put her in here.”
Althea was now convinced it was Cro
wthorne’s oily tones, she heard. Her stomach threatened to heave up her breakfast. She pinched her lips together. If she was to be sick, let it be on him!
The man shoved her backward onto her bottom. With the twine in one hand, he attempted to tie her feet. Hampered, he wrestled with her thrashing legs. When he crouched in front of her, she kicked out at him again, aiming for his groin.
Her half boot caught him in the stomach. Bent double, he yelled and cursed, uttering cuss words that shocked her. She rolled away from him and struggled to her feet, but he grabbed her again. He slapped her face hard, causing bright lights to flood her vision. Her head swam.
“Do that again, and I’ll ignore me orders,” he said, “I’ll cut your damn throat.” His voice was emotionless. Cold, cruel eyes stared at her. “Don’t think I won’t.” Convinced he meant every word, she wilted, and the fight went out of her. She couldn’t best him. She’d have better luck with Crowthorne.
He trussed her up and hefted her like a rolled-up carpet through the open carriage door, onto the seat opposite Crowthorne.
The sight of his fatuous face filled her with such impotent rage she spat at him.
“Vixen!” He drew out a handkerchief and wiped his fancy striped waistcoat. “I like my women fiery.”
“You villain,” she cried. “What have you done with Mrs. Peebles?”
“I don’t believe I have need of your Mrs. Peebles. Was she in the carriage? She will be on her way to London.”
“How can I believe you?”
“You have no choice in the matter. But more importantly where is your friend, Montsimon?”
Althea’s mind raced, fighting to come up with a plausible answer. “He has gone to visit a sick friend and intends to ride back to London.”
Crowthorne looked unconvinced. “Now what friend would that be?”
Montsimon had stayed with a friend the night of Crowthorne’s dinner. He’d mentioned the man’s name. Who was it? It came to her with a flood of hot relief. “Viscount Warren, he has a country house in Biddlesden.”
Crowthorne nodded. “I’ve heard of Viscount Warren.”
“Why have you done this? What good am I to you?” She hated how her anxious voice rasped.
“You can tell me of your husband’s activities in the weeks before he died, my dear.”
“Well, how ridiculous? Why go to these lengths? You might have just asked me.”
He gave a smug smile. “I very much doubt you would have told me.”
“You have wasted your time. I can tell you nothing of Brookwood’s endeavors. He didn’t take me into his confidence.”
Crowthorne’s eyes grew hard. “Perhaps something will come to you… with a little help.”
She fought to suppress a shudder. “I can’t conjure up something that isn’t there.”
“I expect a better answer from you. But we have plenty of time.”
The coachman whipped up the horses, and the carriage jounced over the rutted track. “Where are you taking me?”
He folded his arms. “Never you mind.”
“What…what do you intend to do with me?”
“I haven’t yet decided. Be a good girl, and it may be more pleasure than pain.”
“Pleasure? You deceive yourself. And coming from a man who must resort to kidnapping women.”
His eyes flared. “You are my insurance, my lady. And I’d pray you remain necessary to me if I were you.”
“Insurance?” Althea stilled as ice threaded through her veins. “Against what?”
“Should Lord Montsimon become…difficult.”
She stiffened in outrage. “Montsimon is close to the king, a renowned diplomat. Cross swords with him, and you’ll never live in England again, in the unlikely event you survive.”
“It seems he has impressed you,” he said coolly.
“He is a friend as you said.”
“A friend? A practiced lover I imagine.” He glowered at her. “But he isn’t the only one with such talents.”
“I shouldn’t worry about your prowess, Crowthorne. Unless it’s useful in Newgate.”
“You assume I’ll be accused of a crime.” He leaned back, unruffled. “I will soon have something the king wants very badly. Almost as much as he wishes his wife to die. I believe it to be an excellent bargaining tool.”
Althea’s curiosity got the better of her. “What is it that you value so greatly?”
“If I tell you, you will have to die, my lady.”
“You plan to kill me, anyway.” She raised her chin, aware that it wobbled. “I want to know.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “Once I have it, I shall live a very comfortable life in Paris. My wife won’t be accompanying me, but you are most welcome.”
“How ludicrous!” Althea said. “You’re insane.”
Crowthorne shrugged seemingly unaffected. “I suggest you rest. While you can.”
It was like trying to pummel at the wind. Fear threatened to paralyze her. She must think. Crowthorne would use her to get the better of Flynn. She squeezed her eyes shut and attempted to calm herself. Flynn must be warned, but it was useless to exhaust herself now. An opportunity to escape might come soon.
*
The house was finally empty, the last of the servants gone to their new positions. As dusk fell, Flynn roamed the rooms, checking the windows and doors. He considered leaving a window open but thought better of it. That would be a little too convenient for Crowthorne and make him suspicious. Satisfied, he joined the men hidden in the garden. Flynn had thought it better not to tell Althea of his intention to let Crowthorne break in. Hopefully, there would be minimal damage. He needed to catch the men red-handed with the prize in their hands.
Clouds scudded across the moon, turning the garden into distorted gray shapes. A wintry breeze stirred the leaves of the azalea bush where Flynn hid. Garden smells assailed his nostrils, few of them sweet. With a grimace, he crouched on the dew-drenched grass and sought the best view of the house.
Hours passed, and his legs had grown stiff when the chill from the ground began to invade his bones. Their pre-arranged signal of two owl hoots came from the side of the house where one of his men was stationed. The loaded pistol in his hand, Flynn searched the dark but saw only the pale limestone house where a shard of moonlight sparkled on glass, as if some ghostly presence from the past peeked out.
A flickering light appeared. A man crept around the corner of the building, holding a lantern high. Its glow fell on the two others following him.
Flynn held his ground, hoping his men would do the same.
“Empty,” Crowthorne said. “Bound to find it now that we can make a thorough search unhindered.”
“How do you want us to get in, Sir Horace?”
“Fool! Don’t bandy my name around. Must I tell you everything? Break a window.”
At the sound of shattering glass, Flynn’s men emerged out of the dark like silent specters, clutching flintlocks. “Stay and hold your fire,” he whispered. “We’ll catch them after they enter. I want to see what they find.”
Moments later, the door opened, and another man slipped through. Their lighted lanterns shone through the windows of the salon.
Before one of the men closed the curtains, Flynn saw only two of them roaming the salon. Where was Crowthorne? He cursed. “Go after Crowthorne, one of you,” he said. “Before he gets away.”
A loud crash echoed out from inside the house.
Flynn held his men back.
When further bangs were followed by a startled cry, Flynn jumped to his feet. “Let’s go.”
Flynn ran into the house with Bricks and one of his men at his heels. They burst into the salon to find the two robbers levering paneling off the wall. They swung around, mouths agape.
Flynn sized them up, one a low criminal by his dress, the other a gray-haired man with expensive clothes, obviously gentry. Hazelton. Flynn recognized him from the inn in Canterbury. “Drop your weapons,” Flynn ordered. �
�Legs apart, hands behind your heads.”
The robber’s surly face scowled at him while Hazelton’s chin drooped. They pulled firearms from their pockets and dropped them at his feet. Bricks gathered them up.
“What have you found?” Flynn asked them.
“Not a thing,” The robber muttered. “And I got a splinter in me ’and for me pains.”
Flynn nodded at Bricks. “Search them.”
“Take your coats and boots off,” Bricks ordered.
“What for?” Hazelton asked, affronted. “I am a gentleman.”
“Do it now unless you prefer to be a dead gentleman. Dead gentlemen don’t need coats.” Bricks prodded Hazelton with his gun for emphasis.
Not a man to be denied, Bricks. With a grim sense of satisfaction Flynn watched Hazelton struggle out of his coat.
The two men stood in their stockinged feet, the robber cursing foully.
“This blade is all, my lord.” Bricks held up a cutthroat razor from the robber’s coat.
“Where has your leader gone?” Flynn asked.
“Left us to do ’is dirty work, ’e did,” the robber said bitterly.
They swung around at the sound of boots on the step. Flynn’s man walked in, shoving Crowthorne ahead of him. “We got ’im, skulking off to ’is ’orse.”
“So, Crowthorne,” Flynn said, “Bow Street will be keen to take a good look at what you’ve been up to.”
Crowthorne shrugged. “I advise you to let me go, Montsimon. If you value Lady Brookwood’s life.”
Flynn stiffened. “What do you know of Lady Brookwood?”
“I have her tucked away. In a place where you won’t find her.”
Flynn’s anger became a scalding fury. He grabbed Crowthorne by his immaculate cravat, twisting it until the man’s face went purple. “Tell me where she is. Right now. If you want to live through the night.”
Crowthorne struggled, his hands at his throat. “I have left orders for her to be killed if I don’t send word by morning.”
Flynn stared into the man’s hooded eyes. “You lie!”
“I took her from your coach, Montsimon, on the road to London. She is mine, right enough.”
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 17