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.
“That’s none of your concern, Lord Montsimon. I must say—”
“I need to know.” A muscle flicked at his jaw and he folded his arms, stretching his waistcoat across his broad chest.
Althea stared into his observant gray eyes. Had she not made herself clear? “I’m sorry? It’s a personal matter, which does not concern you.”
“I’m afraid it does. Lord Churton is dead.”
Althea’s mouth fell open. Had she heard him correctly? “Lord Churton… has… passed away?”
“I’m afraid so.” He did not elaborate but looked her hard in the eyes.
“An apoplexy? He was very flushed when I last saw him.”
Montsimon’s dark eyebrows drew together. “When and where did you last see him?”
“Two days ago at his home.” Her lips trembled. “Why? Why do you ask me this?”
“Earlier this evening, Lord Churton was found murdered in an alley behind St. James’s.”
Murdered! “No,” Althea whispered. She shuddered and pulled his coat tighter around herself, finding Montsimon’s manly smell oddly soothing. She resisted the urge to bury her nose in his collar as she battled to make sense of his words when the horror of what had befallen Lord Churton washed over her. Oh, poor Lady Margery! Althea’s knees shook. She badly needed to sit down.
Montsimon placed his hands on her shoulders which should have steadied her, but didn’t help at all. “Now, before we both go home with a chest cold,” he said, bending slightly to peer in her eyes, “explain, if you please, the reason you visited Churton’s home and why you needed to see him.”
Althea’s head whirled with horrifying thoughts. Had Lord Churton questioned Sir Horace on her behalf, only to be struck down? She swallowed hard. “Oh my heaven, I do hope I’m not to blame.”
In the moonlight, Montsimon’s face was a mask of stone. “Why would you be?”
She had no idea why people called him charming. Althea took a breath and poured out the whole sorry tale.
Chapter Six
Flynn reclaimed his coat and escorted the shocked and trembling Lady Brookwood indoors after reassuring her that she was not the cause of Churton’s death. He did not like her mixed up in this business. He did not like it at all. As she was, he must learn the extent of her involvement but so far there was little she could tell him.
“You need brandy. I’ll go in search of some.” He guided her to a vacant chair, aware he’d been blunt, but he needed to be. He found a crystal carafe and poured out a half-full glass of amber fluid then handed it to her.
She took a big swallow and choked.
“Take it easy, spirits are strong. Just sip it.”
She gazed up at him with enormous, imploring violet eyes, which affected him more than he liked to admit. Deuce it. “Did you come alone tonight, Lady Brookwood?”
“I did, yes.”
“I’ll take you home, if I may. We can talk further.”
She nodded and took another sip.
“Wait for me. I have business to attend to.” He bowed and left her. While they had been on the terrace, news of Churton’s death had spread like fire through dried grass. He heard it spoken of in shocked tones as he made his way through the reception rooms searching for Barraclough.
He found him. With a nod, Barraclough joined Flynn in the empty library. Flynn closed the door.
“Nasty business,” Barraclough observed.
“I liked the man.” Anger spread like a fever along Flynn’s shoulders and back. “Have you any idea who did it?”
Barraclough shook his head. “None.”
“I can’t see a link to the matter we’re investigating. Can you?”
“No. But one might emerge. We must remain alert.”
Neither Lord Goodrich nor Robert Wensley had put in an appearance tonight. Something might turn up with Sidmouth’s spies watching their movements.
“It appears that Lady Althea Brookwood might have become caught up in it.”
“Oh? How?”
As Flynn explained, his determination to find Churton’s murderer tightened his chest. They could not take it lightly, for Churton spied for the crown, as did Flynn.
*
The crowd had thinned, the last of the guests waiting at the door for their carriages, when Montsimon finally reappeared. He had been gone for most of the evening. Edgy and annoyed, and in no mood to discuss the latest fashions, theatrical performances, or poetical achievements, Althea had spent the time in a distressed fog, mystified as to why she allowed Montsimon to take her home. The shock of poor Lord Churton’s death following so closely on her request for help, had completely rattled her.
“I was about to order a hackney,” Althea said. “I’d begun to fear you’d gone without me.”
“Oh no, my lady. We must talk,” Montsimon said, thoroughly unnerving her.
“And I have a few questions for you, too, my lord,” she countered crisply.
She wrapped her warm cape around her and climbed into his carriage while considering the questions she wished to put to him.
Spot sat up, shook himself, and barked a greeting. At any other time, she would have laughed. This was hardly what one would expect of a distinguished diplomat. If indeed, that was all that he was. She eyed Montsimon, settling opposite her in his dark evening cloak.
“Sit, Spot!” Montsimon ordered. Surprisingly, the crossbreed obeyed him, turning around twice on his special pillow in one corner.
“He likes you,” Montsimon said, a smile turning up the corners of his handsome mouth. “You should be flattered. Spot’s approval is rarely given.”
“Animals can distinguish friend from foe.”
Might Montsimon help her? She reached across and patted the dog’s silky head. “I must offer my condolences to Lady Margery. I didn’t know either of them at all well, but I found them most agreeable.”
“Did you,” Montsimon said noncommittally. A probing query entered his eyes. He folded his arms. “So you say you asked Churton to question Sir Horace on your behalf?”
“Yes.” Althea fiddled with her reticule. “Do you think Lord Churton might have spoken to Sir Horace before…” She gasped and fell silent.
“It hardly matters now.”
“Well, it might not to you, my lord,” she snapped, her nerves raw. Sir Horace had been his arrogant and overbearing self tonight. She curled her fingers into her palm, recall
ing how she’d wanted to slap his smirk away.
Montsimon leaned forward and took her gloved hand in his, smoothing her fingers against his large palm. “Of course you’re shaken by what has happened. I advise you to leave town.” He gazed down at her hand, almost lost in his. “Spend some time in the country as you planned.”
“Why?” She almost squeaked finding his touch as unsettling as his controlling manner. She withdrew her hand.
“Wait for Sir Horace to tire of his game.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“From what I know of the man, I believe he will. Something else of more importance will claim his interest. It’s best not to cross him. Why distress yourself unnecessarily?”
She scowled at him. “I’m not about to collapse into the vapors. I can’t allow the man to beat me down. I intend to stand up for my rights.”
He frowned. “He has a reputation for being… cruel.”
She sighed, as her hopes faded. Montsimon was not about to help her. “He’s not a friend of yours then.”
His eyes searched hers, warming her despite the cold evening. “Merely an acquaintance.”
She shifted nervously on the seat but persisted. “Do you know someone who might have his ear?”
“Not off hand.”
She waited, still clinging to the hope he might do something for her. It didn’t come. The best he could do it seemed was to advise her to leave London. Well, that would solve nothing. She wasn’t about to abandon her plan to discover something about Crowthorne to use against him. She must find some associate of his. It stood to reason a man like that had made enemies.
Althea played with the fringe on her reticule. She had no idea what Montsimon was thinking. There was more to him than she’d first thought. Not just a charming rake, it seemed, for there was certainly nothing seductive in his manner. How come he knew about Churton’s murder before the news reached the rest of the ton? There wasn’t so much as a murmur until well after he told her about it. She was out of her depth and unnerved by his cool façade. A man of secrets, she suspected. Gaining any knowledge of this business would be like trying to chip away at granite. And the notion of an attempt at seduction to employ his help was laughable. Rattled, she rubbed her arms.
He quirked his eyebrow questioningly. “You’ve suffered a shock. Are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right, thank you.” Her voice sounded sharper than she had meant it to. She sought to build a wall between them for her peace of mind. A seduction would never have occurred to her. She blamed her aunt for it entirely.
The carriage drew to a stop outside her townhouse. Montsimon escorted her to the door. He bent over her hand. “Please seriously consider leaving London. Don’t try to best Sir Horace Crowthorne. You’ll find him too powerful an opponent.”
“I’m aware of that. But David’s fight with Goliath worked well for David, did it not?”
“Don’t forget your catapult then,” he said with a supercilious lift of his eyebrow.
“I don’t mean to sound flippant,” she said, raising her chin. “It’s just that I am unable to give up on this matter. It means too much to me.”
Perhaps it did to Montsimon, too. He clearly had an interest in Churton’s death although he wasn’t prepared to share it with her.
“More than your life?”
“That seems overly dramatic, my lord. Are you trying to scare me?”
“If it will serve.”
Masterful persuasion seemed to be his style, and she didn’t respond well to that. She took two steps up to her front door and turned to look directly into his eyes. They seemed to have turned a darker gray although it might be the lamp light. She must make herself clear. “I have no plans to return to the country, my lord.”
She was right, his eyes had turned flinty. “No?”
“No.”
“Then I wish you good evening, Lady Brookwood.”
Montsimon exuded a fierce energy, which might have resulted from anger or frustration, though why he should care she had no idea. She watched him fling himself into the carriage. It was gone around the corner before her butler opened the door.
Althea entered the house, weary to her bones. She was glad Montsimon hadn’t remained to further argue the point. He was exhausting, and she’d felt quite unequal to it. A good night’s sleep was needed. But once in bed, she lay wide-awake as anguish for Churton made her rigid with horror. Despite Montsimon’s assurance that she was not to blame, she wasn’t entirely sure. Would he discover who killed Churton? If he did, would she ever learn the truth?
Montsimon had said Sir Horace was cruel. Of that she had no doubt. She shuddered and pulled up the coverlet.
The next morning after breakfast, the butler entered the drawing room carrying a letter on a silver tray. “A letter has arrived, my lady.”
“Thank you, Butterworth.” At her desk, Althea eagerly slit the missive open with the mother-of-pearl letter opener. Lord Percy Woodruff had responded promptly to her request to see him. Still deeply affected by Lord Churton’s death, she prayed this man could help her. Her husband and Lord Percy had been close. On the few occasions she’d met him, Lord Percy appeared to be harmless enough, a garrulous man with a love of gossip. If he had knowledge of Crowthorne’s plans, it might be easy to coax it from him.
Lord Percy was her last hope. She held her breath as she scanned the page. He admitted he was an acquaintance of Crowthorne’s, but he was on the verge of departing for the country and would be gone for some weeks. He was, however, to hold a card party that evening. Was it possible for her to come to see him tonight at eight o’clock? They could then discuss the matter.
It was a less than perfect solution. To call on a strange gentleman at night, unaccompanied, was both scandalous and possibly perilous. If Lord Percy hadn’t reminded her of some friendly woodland animal, she would have refused immediately. Althea tapped her finger on the polished wooden surface, undecided. Would their discussion be held in private? Might he be able to give her his time when he had guests? She considered taking her maid, but she didn’t wish to involve her staff in this affair.
If she didn’t go, who could she turn to next? Unable to supply an answer, she decided to accept. Surely, taking some form of action was preferable to doing nothing. She trimmed her pen, dipped it into the inkpot, and paused, staring at the blank sheet of vellum. Then she dashed off a reply and rang for the footman to deliver it before she changed her mind.
Chapter Seven
Flynn met with Barraclough again. Churton had sent a note to the Home Office the day before he was killed which hinted at something of great interest to the crown, but he had not elaborated on it, instead intended to call in at Whitehall and discuss it. But that meeting never took place. It was left to Flynn and Barraclough to uncover what it was that Churton referred to.
In search of information, Flynn moved through White’s Club that evening, pausing to chat to those he knew. Many members expressed outrage at Churton’s murder. Unthinkable that he’d been struck down a mere few blocks from there. Some suggested footpads, but none had anything of value to offer.
Lord Deighton sat alone by the fire in the club’s library, an empty wine glass beside him. “Another glass of wine, sir?” Flynn took the chair beside him and gestured to the hovering waiter. A good source of information was Deighton, a regular who made it his business to learn everyone else’s.
“Thank you, Lord Montsimon. Good of you.”
When the waiter returned with two glasses of claret, Flynn raised his glass to Deighton and took a deep sip. “Bad business about Lord Churton. I wish I’d seen him that evening. I planned to visit the club but was detained.”
Lord Deighton’s faded blue eyes peered at him from over the rim of his glass. “I believe I was the last to speak to him. Wished him a good evening.”
Flynn nodded with a sad smile. “Pleasant man, Churton. Always good for a joke or an on-dit or two.”
“One could often learn so
mething interesting from Churton, but not that night. He wasn’t here above an hour.” Deighton hunched over in his chair. “Brushed me off when I tried to engage him in conversation. I assumed he had an appointment.”
“That was unlike him,” Flynn said sympathetically. “Perturbed about something, do you think?”
“He might have been.” Deighton moistened his lips with a nervous flick of his tongue. He dropped his voice. “Knew his killer, d’you think?”
“I doubt it. More likely robbed by a footpad.” He raised his eyebrows. “Unless he said something to suggest otherwise?” No sense in mentioning Churton still had his money, fobs, and gold watch when found.
“No. I believe you’re right, Montsimon, probably ran afoul of a footpad, though why he should wander into a darkened lane alone… No sense at all. Asking for trouble, I would have thought.” Deighton took another thoughtful sip of wine. “He barely spoke to Lord Frank, some political matter it was, and… who else? Oh yes, he had a brief word with Sir Horace Crowthorne.”
“Parliamentary business I imagine.”
“They stepped away from me.” Deighton gave a heavy sigh. “I didn’t catch what was said.”
“And then the poor chap left to meet his doom,” Flynn added.
Deighton nodded vigorously. “Right afterward. Off he went, to meet his Maker as you say.” He shuddered. “Gutted like a fish, it’s said, poor fellow.”
At this moment, Sir Horace himself walked past them with a purposeful stride. Flynn excused himself from Deighton and followed. He was deciding whether to question him when Crowthorne waylaid Lord Goodrich, one of the men on Flynn’s list of possible conspirators, and engaged him in conversation.
The two men entered the card room, their conversation lost in the bursts of laughter, which erupted when a member made an amusing entry in the betting book. A slight acquaintance cornered Flynn and launched into an effusive description of the prime bit of blood he’d bought at Tattersall’s that he was certain would make his fortune at the races. He was on the lookout for investors. Flynn politely declined while he kept an eye on Crowthorne and Goodrich who continued to talk in low voices under the pretext of following the action at the tables.
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