Flynn was sure the king’s mistress, the shrewd Lady Conyngham, would approve of the jewel.
The king replaced the gem in its box and closed the lid with a decisive snap, he then put it in a drawer and locked it. He leaned back and observed Flynn while tapping the gilt arms of his chair with plump fingers. The matter was at an end. “The assassination of the Duc de Berry and the Spanish Revolution has unhappy consequences for all of France as well as England,” he said with a frown.
“It has certainly destroyed the political balance kept by the royalists,” Flynn agreed.
“Castlereagh and the Foreign Office were effusive in their praise of you over that business with the French navy.”
With a sense of unease, Flynn bowed his head in acknowledgement. Did the king wish him to return to the Continent?
A footman entered. “Lord Barraclough has arrived, Your Majesty.”
“Show him in.”
King George questioned Barraclough while they enjoyed Château Lafite Rothschild, a superb vintage from France. “You bring us news of Crowthorne?”
“He has been seen in London with Percy Woodruff. Woodruff has since been interrogated by Bow Street but gave us no information about Crowthorne’s present whereabouts. It appears the baronet has slipped through our net, Your Majesty. His two cohorts, Goodrich and Wensley, however, were found dead with their throats cut at Goodrich’s house in Kent.”
“So Crowthorne did dispatch them,” Flynn said. It chilled him to realize how far Crowthorne would go.
Barraclough nodded. “They’d been dead for some weeks.”
“I’ve a fair idea who killed them. The cutthroat at Hazelton’s house.” Flynn leaned back, savoring the wine. “Crowthorne said he feared they’d lost their nerve. He was afraid they’d panic–give the game away.”
“Crowthorne never intended to share the proceeds from the sale of the diamond,” Barraclough said. “He always meant to sell it on the Continent, possibly after having a jeweler carve it up into smaller stones. If he sold the jewel in England and split the money, he would not have enough to settle his debts. Plus the sale would be traced back to him. We’ve learned that he’d set up a network of thieves in London, to steal from the ton, but failed when he came up against a rival east London gang. All his hopes then centered on the diamond.”
“No honor amongst thieves,” Flynn observed.
King George raised his glass with a jovial smile. “To you both, gentlemen. Your efforts shall be handsomely rewarded. Let Bow Street get the runners onto it. We must move on to matters of more importance.” He stood. “My chef has planned a superb dinner for us.”
Flynn left Carlton House later that evening decidedly uneasy. Crowthorne had proved to be more corrupt than any of them had guessed. It was quite possible he was hidden away somewhere in St. Giles with the last of his loyal band, where it was almost impossible to find him. And now that the king had the diamond, he was intent to let the matter drop.
Taking a hackney, Flynn tensed as disquieting thoughts raced through his mind. Barraclough’s network of spies had been called off. Crowthorne could still be in London. As the matter was to be hushed up, he wouldn’t discover the king possessed the diamond. He was like a rat trapped in a sewer and would be growing more desperate by the minute. Fear forced men to take terrible risks. To Crowthorne’s thinking, Althea must still represent his best chance of getting his hands on the diamond, as her husband had it in his possession when he died. A shiver went down Flynn’s spine. While Crowthorne continued to evade the runners, she was in danger.
Flynn needed to take Althea somewhere safe. But where?
By the time he reached home, he knew what he would do.
*
When Mrs. Grimshaw left, Althea sat pensively stroking Jet. She had intended to reproach her but changed her mind when she discovered Brookwood’s lover to be a sad, lonely woman, who despite everything, stirred Althea’s compassion. While she couldn’t like her or approve of her, the lady was remarkably honest. She’d expressed deep regret at not sending Althea the diamond. She certainly would not have kept it had she known.
“I’m sure you hate me, Lady Brookwood,” she said, straightening her narrow shoulders. “I’ve given you every reason to.”
“I don’t, Mrs. Grimshaw.” Hate was too strong a word for what Althea felt. If not her, than some other woman would have warmed her husband’s bed. And at least, he left her alone most of the time. “It’s all in the past now.”
Mrs. Grimshaw stood. “I shan’t overstay my visit. I’m retiring to the country to live with my sister in a few days. London has become too expensive.”
Althea stood. “I quite agree.”
As she walked to the door, Mrs. Grimshaw turned. “Your memories of Brookwood will be sad ones. Perhaps it might help if I tell you what your husband confided in me. He felt unworthy of you.”
Surprised by this woman’s boldness, Althea listened with bewilderment. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said, wishing the woman gone. “Perhaps you misunderstood him.”
“You are a desirable woman, Lady Brookwood,” Mrs. Grimshaw said. “You drew attention from other men wherever you went. Brookwood found that…difficult.”
“Thank you for telling me,” Althea said, hot with resentment and humiliation. Brookwood had always said he’d bought her from her father and she’d been a poor purchase.
“You’ve been more gracious than I expected or deserved.”
Althea held out her hand. “Enjoy your new home. Good day.”
When the door closed, Althea sank into a chair and broke into wild sobbing. The force of her emotions shocked her until it occurred to her that she’d cried little since the worst time of her life. When she’d lost the baby. If Brookwood’s heir had lived, would things have been different?
The cat jumped into her lap and tapped her face with its paw. She sniffed and blotted her tears with her handkerchief, giving a watery smile. “It’s all right, Jet. We’re all right now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next afternoon, Althea sat with Flynn in her drawing room. He had just made the most preposterous suggestion as if it was an invitation to take a walk in the park.
She clattered her teacup into the saucer and stared at him. “You want me to go to Ireland?” She found his calm manner quite exasperating.
Flynn stirred his coffee. “Regrettably, I must come straight back to England. As Crowthorne must be stopped.”
Unnerved, she plucked at her napkin. For goodness’ sake, was she to be dragged off on some wild goose chase? And with a man who’d made plain his scandalous intentions toward her? “Flynn, I think you’re overreacting. Crowthorne wouldn’t dare come after me again.”
“He’s desperate and on the run. He doesn’t know the king has the diamond. That fact will not be made public. The jewel represents Crowthorne’s only chance to disappear to the Continent and live free from English justice.”
“But Flynn….”
He folded his arms, not prepared to listen. She recognized that look of determination in his gray eyes. “I can’t just uproot myself and go to Ireland.” She crumpled her napkin and placed it beside her plate. “What about my staff?”
Flynn seemed confident he could rearrange her life at his whim as he invariably had in the past. She glanced at the stubborn set of his jaw, unsure whether to waste a good deal of her energy arguing or to give in. Well, she wasn’t giving in. Not this time.
She took another fortifying sip of tea, stretching out the moment while she considered her words carefully. “I’m sure there’s another alternative. I simply can’t see the sense of rushing off to Ireland.”
He arched his brow. “You did say your lease here is coming to an end. Owltree Cottage remains uninhabitable. Where else can you go? To your brother then, in Dorset.”
“No, no,” she said hastily. She wasn’t ready to resign her fate to a small country town as a permanent guest of her brother. “Perhaps to my aunt who is in
Paris at present,” she said, her voice hoarse with frustration. She knew as soon as she said it that he would find fault with the idea.
“How long does Lady Bellingham intend to stay in France?” His melodic voice was pure honey, but she wasn’t fooled. There was a good deal of steel beneath.
“I received a letter from her a few days ago. She was about to embark on a trip to Italy.”
He leaned back and crossed his arms. “Italy? That makes it difficult, doesn’t it? I only ask you to remain in Ireland until Crowthorne is no longer a threat.”
“How long might that be? I can make arrangements to join Aunt Catherine in Rome.” She accepted it would be a huge expense and most impractical. The urge to fight him ebbed away. Might a tiny piece of her want to embrace this new adventure? The thought surprised her. She had changed since she’d met Flynn. He had changed her.
“My house in County Wicklow is a far better option,” he urged, sensing her hesitation.
She sighed and shook her head. “When you look so determined, I feel I might as well agree, otherwise you’ll remove me by force.”
A corner of his mouth quirked up, and he did not attempt to deny it. “Please be packed and ready to leave tomorrow. Bring your abigail if you wish. You will have need of her.”
She tried one last time. “What makes you so sure this is necessary?”
“Crowthorne has been seen recently, here in town with Percy Woodruff.”
“Oh.” Just thinking of that brute and his sly companion vanquished her last shreds of confidence. She had not recovered from that awful episode. The thought of falling foul of that man again made her stomach clench. “Very well, I’ll be packed and ready.” She looked at Jet lying by the fire. “I’ll have to leave my cat.”
“Only for a short time.”
“Will it be, though?”
“If it worries you, I’ll have Jet sent over to Ireland.”
She smiled. “You would do that for me?”
His passionate glance heated her from head to toe. “I’ll do anything you ask of me.”
“Thank you, Flynn,” she murmured. She was so moved by his declaration that her vow to never become involved with another man crumbled. Could it be possible that what she felt for him was love?
“I’ll arrange for someone to watch the house tonight.” He stood. “My home will provide a safe retreat, and I hope it will be a comfortable one. Quinn, my butler-cum-footman, will take excellent care of you.”
“It seems I am to be forever in your debt,” Althea said.
“We shall discuss that later,” he said ambiguously, raising warm gray eyes to hers while kissing her hand.
When Flynn left, she rushed from the room, her hand against her hot cheek. There was much to do. Having made up her mind, she was nervous, impatient, and excited to embark on this journey. She had never been to Ireland.
Three days later, she and Flynn set sail from Liverpool. It was a rough crossing. Clouds skipped across the leaden sky, driven by fierce winds and slanting rain. Fortunately, the wind came from the right direction to drive them fast toward land. The ship rolled as it ploughed through the white-tipped waves, canvas sails stretched by the surging squall. Crowded onto the deck, passengers struggled to remain upright against the pitching surface.
Never before having been at sea, Althea enjoyed the journey, although her poor maid, Sarah, had not inherited her brother’s love of sailing. She was sick over the side. Althea held her shoulders. “We’re all going to end up in Davy Jones’ locker,” the maid wailed.
Flynn offered his handkerchief. “Allow me to assist you ladies below, out of the wind.”
In the late afternoon, they docked at Dublin Port and disembarked along with the rest of the windswept travelers. Althea’s land legs almost deserted her. The ground still seemed to rise and fall, and she gripped Flynn’s arm to cross the wet, slippery cobbles to the carriage that was to take them into Dublin town.
At the Gresham Hotel in Sackville Street, they ate a welcome hot stew, which Flynn washed down with a dark brew called Guinness. After their meal, he hired a carriage to take them south, and they began the final leg of their journey to Greystones Manor.
They left Dublin, following a road that hugged the coast, winding past hills covered in heath with a view of the gray Irish Sea. The salty breeze blew in through the window and washed away Althea’s fatigue. She sat up alert, excited at the prospect of seeing his home.
As they traveled along narrow lanes, which became tunnels of greenery, Flynn appeared very much at ease. He regaled them with tales of tiny leprechauns with hidden pots of gold and how the patron saint, Patrick, rid the island of snakes. Then the carriage turned inland, past fields of black-and-white cows, black-faced sheep, and whitewashed farmhouses.
The sun began to set, painting the horizon in rose pink and sapphire hues as the carriage rattled along past tall hedges and then slowed to enter through towering iron gates flanked by yew trees and stately Greek statues. “My goodness,” Althea murmured. She’d never expected anything so grand.
“The family employed a French gardener in the sixteen hundreds who introduced the French baroque style to Ireland,” Flynn said. “You’ll find some of it still remains, in the avenue of limes, ornamental beech hedges, and the fountain.”
The carriage left the wood, and the road wound through green fields dotted with graceful oaks. They reached the formal gardens and approached the mansion’s bulky dark shape, rimmed in gold by the setting sun.
Althea took in the twin round towers and crenellated roof and gasped.
“Welcome to Greystones.” Flynn’s voice sounded flat. There were sad memories here. She felt a stab of guilt knowing he’d come here for her.
“You failed to mention it was a castle,” she said, as the carriage stopped. The building towered above them, water dripping from gargoyle spouts.
“It was converted to a manor house a hundred years ago,” Flynn said. “Some land was sold off, but a thousand acres remains.” Was there a note of reluctant pride in his voice?
“Why do they call it Greystones? The stone is a lovely honey color.”
“Only when the sun shines,” he said with a smile as he helped them both from the carriage.
An aged groom hurried from the stables. Althea stretched her legs as a small man burst out of a pair of studded timber doors with a big smile. “Welcome, milord.”
“This is Lady Brookwood, Quinn. She will remain here in my absence,” Flynn said, removing his gloves. “I know you will serve her well. I trust the house has been made ready for us?”
“Milady.” Bandy-legged Quinn made an awkward bow. “As much as possible, milord. Mrs. Shannon has had O’Mainnin throwin’ coal into the stove all the long day while she cooked enough food for the rest of winter and spring besides. We have a new housemaid, Brigit, as well as Maeve. They’ve done their best to set things to rights.”
“I’m sure they’ve done a splendid job.” Flynn took Althea’s arm and led her inside. “The house is understaffed, rather like yours.”
“You’d need an army of servants here.” She gazed around as Flynn helped her out of her cape. They stood in a breathtaking, wood-paneled great hall which had a minstrel’s gallery. The family crest decorated the wall above the mammoth stone fireplace. More of the riotous gargoyles peeped from corners and trailed up the oak staircase.
Flynn handed Quinn their coats and hats. “Sarah is Lady Brookwood’s personal maid.”
“I’ll take Sarah down to the kitchen to meet the staff, milord. There’s a fire in the drawing room.”
“Lady Brookwood will have tea. A whisky for me.” Flynn turned to Althea, his hand at her elbow. “Allow me to show you the upstairs.”
The musty house seemed as though it had slumbered untouched for years. The drawing room furniture was heavy and the furnishings faded. They did not do justice to the fine proportions of the room.
Flynn drew a damask-covered chair closer to the fireplace for her, where
a peat fire smoldered and spat. “I hope you’re not too disappointed.” He chose a scarred brown leather wing chair.
“No! Why on earth would I be?”
“The house is not at its best. Too long unoccupied. I haven’t been able to find a tenant.”
“I shall be very cozy here.” She removed her gloves and held out her cold hands to the warmth.
Quinn brought in a tray and placed it on a fine carved oak console table Althea did approve of. He moved the table nearer to her elbow, poured Flynn a whisky, stoked the fire, lit several silver candelabra placed on tables around the room, bowed, and withdrew.
“I suspect Quinn is a treasure,” she said. On the wall hung the portrait of a beautiful, fair lady dressed in a buttercup yellow gown fashionable in the last century. Althea had not noticed a portrait of this woman with those of the family in the grand hall. She was tempted to ask Flynn why but kept it for another time. She poured the tea into a delicate, floral Spode teacup from a matching teapot.
“Bread?” She offered him the plate of buttered bread, thick with raisins and sultanas.
He shook his head with a smile. “We call it barmbrack.”
She took a bite. “It’s delicious.”
Flynn ran an appreciative eye over her as she sipped her tea. “You do wonders for my drawing room.”
Althea suddenly had the urge to talk. She told him about her life with Brookwood, certain things she’d never intended to reveal to anyone. “When Mrs. Grimshaw came to see me, she told me Brookwood feared I would cuckold him.”
“I very much doubt you would have, Althea.”
“No, but he was a jealous man.”
Flynn frowned. “Fool. So, your marriage was ruined because of his immaturity?”
“There were many things.” It was as if a dam had been breached, the words flooding out like water. Althea spoke of losing her baby, the pain still surprisingly raw. “It was late, well after midnight when we left the card party. Brookwood became angry in the carriage and by the time we arrived home, his bad temper had worsened. He accused me of flirting with Lord Moore who’d remained at my side longer than Brookwood thought appropriate. Lord Moore’s heir had been born earlier that week, you see, and with my baby due in five months, I wished to know how the mother and baby fared. I couldn’t make Brookwood understand. He struck me on the stairs and I fell. Things went even more badly awry after that.” Dismayed at having said so much, she took a large swallow of tea before any more unpleasant revelations spilled from her lips.
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 21