“I’m sure you will make it like new, Sarah,” Althea said.
The alarming events of the previous evening at Lord Percy’s and the ensuing embarrassing debacle with Montsimon, returned in full force. Her face burned. She threw back the covers and slipped into the dressing gown her maid held out for her. What had Sir Horace intended? She tightened the belt in a huff of fury. Was it a ploy to scandalize her and weaken her defenses? Or, worse, had he planned to ravish her? Her mind skittered away, refusing to grasp the horror of such a possibility. Perhaps he was acting out of pure spite because she had rejected his advances. Some men were like that.
Lord Percy had betrayed her to Sir Horace. But why would he assist Sir Horace in such a scheme? It made no sense. Bewildered, she took up her brush in front of the mirror.
“My goodness, my lady.” Sarah took the brush from her hand. “You’ll have none left if you continue to treat your lovely hair like that.”
As the maid expertly applied the brush to her long tresses, Althea studied her frowning visage reflected back at her from the mirror. Lord Montsimon would arrive at two o’clock to question her. He’d been quite critical of her, but his behavior was equally suspicious. Once dressed, she descended the stairs, steeling herself for the day ahead. She had much to ask of the viscount although she wasn’t at all sure she’d get the answers she sought.
Althea sat in the breakfast room eating toast and marmalade when a further letter arrived from Woodruff. As she read it, the bread in her mouth began to taste like ashes. She hastily washed the crumbs down with a sip of tea.
Lord Percy’s extravagant scrawl ranged across the page:
Dear Lady Brookwood, I deeply regret what happened last evening. I cannot rest until I advise you of the truth of the matter. I had no knowledge Sir Horace intended to call, or the frightful woman who somehow managed to slip by my butler. A thousand apologies! I can imagine how insulted you must have felt. Once I dealt with the problem, I hurriedly returned to the drawing room to explain the situation and to reassure you, only to find you had left! Your cloak accompanies this letter as you will surely have need of it in such cold weather! I can only pray you returned home safely and were not overly beset or made ill by the experience. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I remain your humble servant….
It had been a completely wasted evening. Althea threw the letter down on the table. She did not believe a word of it.
Montsimon was announced punctually at two o’clock. Butterworth showed him into the drawing room where Althea waited, fidgeting with the fringe on a cushion. She drew in a steadying breath and rose to greet him.
He bowed his sleek, dark head over her hand.
“Will you partake of some wine, Lord Montsimon?” she asked, annoyed at how faint she sounded.
“No, thank you.”
Althea gestured to a chair. “Please do sit.” Sinking back down, she arranged her skirts over her legs.
His gray coat, dark trousers, and silver-and-black striped waistcoat served to emphasize the intense expression in his eyes. The aggravating man was so elegant he made her feel like a frump, although she’d done her best to deal with the ravages of a few hours’ sleep, resorting to the flattering tones of lilac crepe. When she questioned the trouble she’d taken, searching for matching ribbons for her hair, she concluded that she wished to look her best to face what would be tantamount to an interrogation. And she intended to give him as much as she got.
He chose a different chair to the one she had offered. She watched him warily as he sat, facing her. It was now impossible to avoid his gaze, which seemed to take in every bit of her. His presence was so male, so bracing, she straightened her back, unsettled.
“My lady, I must apologize. My behavior last night was inexcusable,” he said in his lyrical brogue.
She had not expected appeasement. It quite threw her off. “I don’t see that you have anything to apologize for,” she replied. “You saved me from having to search for a hackney and with the snow….” She paused, for he had held up a hand to silence her.
“Please, let us not waste time playing word games,” he said in the same conciliatory tone.
She bit her lip. Damn the man, it was like attempting to catch hold of a slippery fish. “Games, my lord?”
“You had a reason for climbing down that tree. I assume it wasn’t merely an agreeable pastime in which you indulge.” He crossed his legs, reminding her of their pleasing length and shape, and folded his arms. “I trust you don’t intend to leave me in the dark?”
“I understand how intrigued you must be. As I confess to being about your motives for wandering Woodruff’s garden at that hour.”
Exasperatingly, he merely nodded and offered no explanation.
After another awkward pause, she was forced to speak. She fought to gain the upper hand. “My reason for being there is perfectly simple. I wished to employ Lord Percy’s help in persuading Sir Horace to cease legal proceedings, as he intends to remove my house from my ownership. But when Sir Horace arrived, I preferred not to see him.”
“I hardly find that to be a good strategy. Sir Horace is a man not easily swayed, not by a fop like Lord Percy at any rate.”
Her face heated. He was right, of course. It had not been wise of her. Sensing her composure was under subtle attack, she raised her chin. “It was all I had on offer, my lord, especially as those I asked to help me in the past have failed me.”
“You can hardly blame poor Lord Churton for that.”
“I was not thinking of Churton!” she cried outraged. “I was referring to you, my lord. After all, I had sought your help. I ask it again of you now.” She attempted a smile, but doubted its success as it seemed to freeze on her stiff cheeks.
Montsimon grasped the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “You must listen to me.”
She fought the desire to look away and stirred uneasily in her chair, caught by his compelling, magnetic eyes. “You have my attention.”
“Leave London. But do not go to Owltree Cottage.”
Not that again! “It doesn’t suit my plans to leave London, as I believe I have already said.”
Montsimon lifted his eyebrows. “There must be somewhere you can stay for the rest of the season,” he continued smoothly as if she hadn’t spoken “A good distance from the metropolis.”
She frowned. “No.”
“Your brother, I believe, is in Dorset?”
“What?” she spluttered, bristling with indignation. “How do you know about Freddie?”
“You are on good terms with… Freddie?”
“Yes, but I don’t…”
“Then you should go to him as soon as possible. Today would be best.”
The effrontery! Aware her mouth had dropped open, she tightened her lips. Should she merely agree just to placate him? No! She’d done enough of that in her life. She gathered what remained of her dignity and glared at him. “Are you ordering me?”
Montsimon sighed. “I am not,” he said in the mild tone she had come to distrust. “You are free to do whatever you wish, of course. But I am advising you to leave, for a very good reason.”
“Oh? What reason is that?”
“You seem to have something Crowthorne and Woodruff want.”
She shrugged, bewildered. “But I don’t. I’m sure I don’t.”
“It is to do with Brookwood.”
“I have nothing of my husband’s. Everything was left to his heir, including his debts. Let them ask Aubrey if he has whatever it is at Brookwood Park.”
“They seem to believe you have it.”
She folded her arms. “Let them ask me then. I shall be only too pleased to answer their questions, and as I’m in London, they know where to find me.” She stiffened as Montsimon’s gaze took the measure of her. What was he thinking?
“You don’t seem to realize how much danger you are in,” he said after a long pause.
She scowled at him. “I’m in danger of losing my reputation
and of losing the house I love. But I shall deal with it and not place myself in such an invidious position again. I grant you that last night was foolish. I don’t usually make mistakes on that grand a scale.”
“I’m not concerned with your reputation.” The force behind his raised voice made her start. “I am talking about your life.”
A cold shiver rushed down her spine. Althea licked her lower lip. “Isn’t that a little melodramatic my lord? Tell me why.”
“You’ll have to trust me. Until I learn more.”
She was not the trusting sort. “Then explain this, if you please. Why were you in the garden at Manchester Square?”
“I am interested in Crowthorne myself, but for a different reason.”
“What reason?” She leaned forward. “Would it help me to learn of it? I might use it to persuade Crowthorne to give up his quest.”
He shook his head. “It’s none of your concern.”
Althea had had enough. “And neither is my life, and what I choose to do with it, concern you, my lord.” She stood. “I bid you good day.”
Forced to rise with her, Montsimon towered over her. A faint glint of humor lit his eyes and a corner of his mouth quirked. “I expected as much from you, Lady Brookwood.”
“Then you’ve not been disappointed.”
She found it difficult to dismiss his boldly intimating presence as she pulled the bell cord. “Lord Montsimon is leaving,” she said when Butterworth entered.
Montsimon bowed. “Good day, Lady Brookwood. Please think seriously about what I told you. I do not say it lightly.” He glanced at the butler. “I’m sorry I can offer no clearer explanation at this time.”
She watched him follow Butterworth from the room, his long strides carrying him out the door with speed. She felt little satisfaction that he had meekly obeyed her without further argument. Not for one moment did she believe that she had won this round.
She roamed the room, straightening the matching Delft urns at each side of the mantelpiece and plumping the cushions on the sofa. She caught her expression in the gilt mirror and blanched. Her eyes looked like a deer’s facing the hunter. Although she’d die rather than admit it, she had taken in Montsimon’s warning. But even if her life was in danger, she could not abandon her fight to keep her home. For to do so would sink her into total despair.
Chapter Nine
As Flynn walked down the steps from Lady Brookwood’s house, he noticed a shabbily dressed fellow over the road. He lounged against a garden wall with his hat pulled down to obscure his face. Flynn didn’t like the look of him. He didn’t strike him as a workman and was clearly no Mayfair inhabitant.
When Flynn crossed the road, the man turned and hurried away around the corner. Flynn broke into a run but, on reaching the next street, found no sign of him. He might have taken several paths, and Flynn didn’t have time to engage in a pursuit even if he could pick up his trail. Was the fellow watching Lady Brookwood’s home? If so, for what purpose? His furtive behavior nagged at Flynn as he went in search of a hackney.
As he was driven to Carlton House, Flynn considered possible methods of removing Lady Brookwood from London. Over his shoulder in the dead of night? He recalled how shapely her body felt in his arms. He would welcome a chance to discover more of her charms, but right now he was more concerned with the threat to her life. If only there was somewhere he might persuade her to go. At least until he removed the danger, which she refused to take seriously.
He shelved his thoughts when he found the monarch out of sorts at Carlton House. A plot to murder the Cabinet had been exposed, which was labeled the Cato Street Conspiracy. The king then launched into a diatribe against the queen. Caroline had been angered by the Milan investigation’s attempt to discredit her through her association with her butler, Bartolemeo Pergami. She declared her intention to return to England and challenge her husband.
The king wanted her stopped at all costs.
“When her chief legal adviser, Henry Brougham, failed to meet her in Lyon, she fled back to Pesaro.” The king shook his head. “But it won’t deter the woman. She’s a shrew and tough as shoe leather. I want you to ensure that Castlereagh’s instructions are carried out. Caroline is not to be given any special attention while traveling in France. Find a way to prevent her crossing the channel, use the French police.”
“I doubt that’s possible, Your Majesty.” Alarmed, Flynn imagined what a furor that would cause.
“Caroline will be barred from my coronation.” George pointed to his green bag stuffed with papers. “I’ve collected damaging documents from witnesses in Milan for my ministers to use against her. Those Italians, they are as fond of gossip as an old woman, and her relationship with Pergami provides us with enough fuel to draw Caroline into an imbroglio.”
“I fear rumor will rebound on you, Your Majesty.”
His eyes narrowed. “I am the king. Lord Liverpool is studying the law and talks of an old parliamentary maneuver, a Bill of Pains and Penalties. Ha! Let her defend her Italian at trial. Explain why she bought him an estate in Sicily–made him a baron.”
Patently aware of Queen Caroline’s actions, Flynn tactfully refrained from referring to the king’s own indiscretions, which, amongst other extravagances, made many of the people disapprove of him. “Nevertheless, the queen remains a popular figure in England.”
King George glowered at him as the footman refilled their glasses.
Flynn expected gossip to return like a swarm of bluebottles to settle on His Majesty, and like his ministers, he feared the monarchy would suffer. He sorely wished to wipe his hands of the whole affair. “You plan to delay the coronation?”
“Yes, until next year.” The king rubbed his plump hands together. “It’s going to be a splendid affair, and I won’t have it spoiled by that harpy.”
Flynn tamped down a sigh of relief. “Excellent. I need time to come to grips with this new development.”
“What development?” King George asked idly, poking the green bag.
“You wished me to investigate the possible plot against the crown, Your Majesty.”
King George looked up, his gaze suddenly clear and sharp. “You’ve learned something?”
Flynn told him the precious little he had, making no mention of Lady Brookwood. “This investigation may take me away from London for a time.” He surprised himself. There seemed little likelihood of it, apart from his visit to Canterbury; but he supposed he was testing the waters. To be free to leave town should he need to. In the back of his mind, Lady Brookwood’s plight returned.
King George scowled. “It might be prudent, at some stage, for you to go to France and bring back evidence of my wife’s infidelity.”
Flynn swallowed on a sigh. “If it should prove necessary, Your Majesty. In the meantime, I’ll arrange for the French police to investigate Pergami.”
King George’s restless eyes settled on a painting on the wall, Turner’s The Rise of the Carthaginian Empire. “Have I informed you of the latest plans for the redevelopment of the Queen’s House?”
Flynn tamped down a sigh and adopted an expression of interest. “It goes well, Your Majesty?”
Two hours later, Flynn rode his horse along Rotten Row. There was a crisp bite to the air but no snow on the horizon, only sludge piled up in the shadows. The park was almost deserted, a shade early for the ton to appear, which suited their purpose perfectly.
Barraclough approached, ungainly atop a small roan gelding. He reined his mount in alongside Flynn’s horse.
Flynn grinned at him as they trotted together down the Row.
The big man grimaced. “Yes, I know. Little to choose from at the stables.”
“What news?”
“It could well be that Goodrich and Wensley are leading us on a wild goose chase,” Barraclough said. “They meet at the Old Gate Inn in Canterbury, noon tomorrow.”
“Why Canterbury, any idea?”
Barraclough shrugged. “Goodrich has a property ne
ar there.”
“Why not meet at his house?”
“Perhaps they wish to keep the meeting secret. Interesting.”
“Indeed. I’ll be there.” Flynn wasn’t happy to leave Lady Brookwood unprotected. Such distractions could kill a man. Annoyed at allowing the lady to fill his thoughts when they should be focused elsewhere, he nudged his horse’s flanks and broke into a canter.
Flynn slowed his horse to allow Barraclough to catch up with him. Barraclough raised an inquiring eyebrow.
Flynn winced. “I have a problem.”
“You may confide in me if you wish to.”
Flynn promptly told him about Sir Horace’s treatment of Lady Brookwood.
“Crowthorne is a nasty piece of work by all accounts,” Barraclough said. “And has his nose in this business, too.”
“Why would a wealthy businessman involve himself in such a scheme? Unless it’s to his advantage,” Flynn said. “And this business with Lady Brookwood puzzles me.”
“You think Lady Brookwood has got in his way?”
“She stands against him. But it’s more to do with her husband.”
They trotted along in silence.
“Pity you can’t take Lady Brookwood with you to Canterbury,” Barraclough said finally.
Flynn huffed out a laugh. “She’d never agree. She wouldn’t like it if the ton got wind of it.”
“Don’t see why. What you two get up to would hardly cause a ripple. Not with the latest gossip doing the rounds,” Barraclough said. “The queen has made the king look a fool from Lake Como to Jericho. It is on everyone’s lips.” He lowered his eyebrows. “You appear to be involved with this lady whether you wish it or not. If something happens to her, you might regret it.”
“The lady is stubborn and doesn’t wish for my help.”
“And you are still keen to aid her? Shall we see you fall into the parson’s mousetrap?”
“Good lord, no.”
Flynn didn’t know much about love, but he was sure he wasn’t motivated by that emotion. Lady Brookwood merely stirred his protective instincts. Odd that. He parted company with lovers on the best of terms and never suffered from a desire to protect any of them. Moreover, Lady Brookwood was not his lover, nor ever likely to be, for she had looked at him with intense dislike and ordered him from her drawing room. She was like a beautiful swan. Try to pet her and be pecked for your pains.
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