She shook her head. “He was going to kill me. I managed to escape. But I had to hit him.”
“Rightly so. How very clever. Stay here. I’ll go and see.”
“Be careful, Flynn. He’s dangerous.” Her blue eyes beseeched him. “He said he’d cut my throat. And he would’ve, too.”
Pistol drawn, Flynn crept down into the dank cellar where loud groans emanated from amongst the wine racks. Not dead then. He’d reached the bottom step when a knife whistled past his cheek before it hit the wall behind him. It clattered to the floor. As Flynn dropped into a crouch, he spotted movement among the racks and fired. The rack rocked, almost toppling. Bottles fell and splintered, and a flood of frothy crimson spread over the floor.
Flynn snatched up the attacker’s knife and crept along the row. He peered into the next aisle. Althea’s kidnapper lay crumpled on the floor. Blood seeped from his wound and blended with the spilt wine. Flynn turned him over. His shot had hit the man in the left side of his chest right where his heart would be if he’d had one. His face was covered with blood which had run into his eyes from the head wound.
Flynn sat back on his heels, breathing more easily. Luck had been on his side. The blow Althea delivered the cutthroat had partially blinded him and affected his aim. Otherwise, Flynn could be the one lying dead.
He ran up the stairs. On her feet, Althea waited with her hands on her pale cheeks. “Flynn!” She launched herself into his arms.
Flynn caught and held her. She appeared close to fainting as he swept her up and carried her through the house and outside into the air. He set her down on a garden seat. “Has Crowthorne been here?”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Not since yesterday.”
He wrapped his arms around her to try to quell her shivering. “We have just one horse,” he said, attempting to inject some humor into the grim proceedings. Once she saw Owltree Cottage, she’d likely never speak to him again.
“Oh, Flynn.” She gave a weak chuckle.
On the lookout for Crowthorne, Flynn explained what had taken place at the cottage, as he trotted the horse back along the road with Althea perched in front.
“And we still don’t know what they were after. Crowthorne said it was a cache of jewels, but it’s more than possible he lied. We’ll learn the truth when he’s captured. The Bow Street runners will go after him.” A rush of bitterness filled him, his dreams crushed. “I’m afraid His Majesty will be outraged. And it doesn’t do to anger the king.”
“That is hardly fair,” Althea said, leaning back against him.
With a sigh, he breathed in her hair’s flowery scent. “He doesn’t have to be fair. He’s the king.”
“I suppose that’s true. I am so sorry.”
“There’s something else, Althea.” He felt her tense against him. “There was a fire at Owltree, one of Crowthorne’s men knocked over an oil lamp. The cottage has been damaged, I’m afraid.”
She twisted to look at him, her eyes dark. “How bad is it?”
The house might be in smoking ruins for all he knew. “I’m afraid I have no idea. I had to leave my men to put out the flames while I came to find you.”
She signed and leaned back against him again. “I’m very grateful you did come, Flynn.”
At Owltree Cottage, Flynn’s carriage stood in the drive. Althea’s gasp echoed his own thoughts. The house still stood.
As they dismounted, Ben rushed to greet them. Flynn’s relief was palpable to find him unhurt.
“I’m glad you’re safe, Lady Brookwood. I feared the worst with that bad lot.” Ben took the reins from Flynn. “Good to see you, milord.”
Flynn patted his young groom on the shoulder. “I’m relieved to find you still in one piece after all the excitement.”
“I hope that Mrs. Peebles reached my townhouse unhurt,” Althea said.
“She did, my lady, but I confess I’ve never witnessed such distress.”
“Oh, poor Mrs. Peebles. And my cat?”
“The animal is safe and sound, my lady.”
Wondering what they would find, Flynn took her arm. “Let’s go and find out how bad it is.”
Barraclough’s men had vanished, taking the bodies with them. The house reeked of smoke. The fire was no more than smoldering ashes but hadn’t spread from the salon. That room however, was a smoking ruin. He swung around to gaze at Althea. She stood like a statue in the doorway. The furnishings, chairs, and sofa were reduced to burnt rags, the walls gaping open.
Althea hiccupped. Tears ran tracks down her dirty cheeks. She clutched her stained pelisse in whitened fingers.
Flynn’s heart squeezed in his chest. She’d asked him to safeguard her home, and he’d failed. “It does look bad, but the rest of the house is untouched.” He put an arm around her. “It can be put to rights.”
“We are alive, Flynn.” She sniffed into a handkerchief and blew her nose. “And it’s only a house. It can be repaired.”
“We’ll get it restored,” he said, his voice tight.
She replaced her handkerchief in her reticule and pulled the strings tight. “No, Flynn. My house is not your concern. I shall deal with it.”
He knew that tone. The fiercely independent Althea of old had returned, and there was nothing he could offer her to change her mind.
“I doubt there’s much to eat, but I’ll go down to the kitchen and see what I can find after I change my clothes,” she said in a brisk tone. “Then we must return to London.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
While Althea was upstairs, Flynn raked through the ashes. Hazelton had been right. There was no cache of jewels. He doubted there ever had been. If documents were what they sought, they were gone in the fire. But somehow, he doubted it was that either. While he surveyed the damage, he gave a slow shake of his head. Enough men had perished already on this wild goose chase. Had Crowthorne killed his partners, Goodrich and Wensley, as he’d said? Or was it a mere threat? If those two men remained above ground, then Crowthorne could be with them now. He must ensure their homes were searched.
As they traveled back to London, Althea informed Flynn dispassionately of her intention to pick up the threads of her old life. She would convey to her staff that they were not married but instead on a secret mission, which required great secrecy.
“No doubt my housekeeper has kept them entertained with her own experience of being held up by a highwayman,” Althea said.
“Which might serve to make them even more nervous,” Flynn said. “You can always come and stay at my home. I will, as I have promised, stay at my club.”
“Thank you, Flynn. But I have no intention of turning you out of your home. Servants witness all sorts of things, and from my experience, always love an intrigue,” she said, gazing at him in a challenging manner.
He raised his brow, wondering again about her marriage. “What sort of intrigue have they witnessed while in your employ?”
Her lashes hid her expression. “Nothing untoward.”
“Really? Maybe you’ll tell me one day.”
She frowned. “I doubt we’ll see much of each other now that Crowthorne has absconded.”
“Perhaps.” He wanted to grab her and kiss her and persuade her otherwise, but he resisted because she appeared so brittle. So he folded his arms, nodded, and kept silent. For what could he offer her? An uncertain life in some heathen country far away from England where a furious King George would no doubt send him as a penance for failing this commission.
She raised her eyes to his. Flynn gazed into the dark sapphire depths attempting to read her expression. “Have you ever been in love, Flynn?”
He hadn’t expected that. She’d put him on the defensive. “I might have imagined myself in love once. But it was calf love.”
“Oh? I wonder why no lady has stirred your heart? You would make a very nice husband for someone.”
Right at this moment, he didn’t want to examine too closely the state of his heart. “You seem to hav
e changed your opinion of me, Althea. I can only be grateful. I have turned from a rake into a dull dog.”
She laughed. “Never a dull dog.” She sobered. “I don’t see that anything further can be done, do you? Surely things will settle down?”
“I wish I could say that for sure, Althea. You must be careful. Don’t go about at night on your own.”
“No,” she said dryly. “I learned that lesson from you, did I not? I might end up back in Canterbury.”
He smiled and shook his head. Still, he would employ someone to watch Althea’s house. He didn’t trust Crowthorne to disappear. The man was like a dog with a bone, he had lost too much to give up now. Flynn judged Crowthorne would evade the law as long as he could while still trying to locate whatever valuable thing he sought. Once he had it, he would disappear onto the Continent.
As the carriage drew up outside her townhouse, Althea turned to him. “Flynn, I am indebted to you. You saved my life. And my cottage is now safe from Crowthorne who will soon be in prison.”
“I would prefer the matter to be at an end. But at least Owltree is no longer in danger.” Flynn thought it prudent not to question her confident assertion. She had enough to deal with, with two damaged properties and not a great amount of capital by the look of it. This business was not at an end, but any chance he might have had with Althea certainly might be.
“I intend to employ workman to repair Owltree,” he said as he stood with her at her door.
“That’s really not necessary, Flynn.”
“But it is.”
“We shall discuss it at a later time.” She nodded to him as Butterworth opened the door. “Goodbye.”
He returned to his carriage, shocked by how wretched he felt, as if he’d lost a part of himself. On reaching home, a pile of invitations awaited him on the console table in the entry, but he walked past them, silencing his butler with a shake of his head.
The next day, Flynn visited Bow Street, where he employed two of their most talented runners, one to go after Crowthorne, the other to find Goodrich and Wensley.
Flynn was relieved to learn King George was inspecting the new works at the Brighton Pavilion, and would not return to London until the end of the week. A breather of sorts, but impossible to turn things to his advantage within a few days.
He and Barraclough met to discuss the outcome of the business at Slough. Barraclough agreed with him that Crowthorne, his cronies, and a cutthroat gang wouldn’t go to such lengths for a few stolen jewels. They would’ve divided them up and sold most of them before Brookwood was killed.
Barraclough had learned, however, that Crowthorne was on the brink of bankruptcy, having lost a good deal of money on a business venture. He’d suffered a further blow to his finances after one of his ships went down in a storm off the African coast. And as he had made his fortune initially in the slave market, without the ability to raise more capital, he had to find a new way to replenish the coffers.
Flynn didn’t miss the sympathetic look Barraclough cast him. He prayed more facts would emerge before he must address the king. This business, clouded in mystery, had been a nightmare from the first. Crowthorne and the king were both intent on finding something they considered of great value. But as the king hadn’t seen fit to enlighten him as to what that was, Flynn was hamstrung. His past successes would not protect him from a royal roasting. He returned home in a very bad mood and walked the length of his library carpet, a brandy snifter in his grip. The liquor did nothing to improve his disposition. He was unsympathetic when his valet complained about the state of Flynn’s clothes. “It will take all my resources to remove the smell of smoke out of them, my lord,” Frome moaned.
At dinner, Flynn found the soup too salty and the fish too pink, apparently reducing his cook to floods of tears. He was then forced to placate her or risk either going hungry when she packed up and left or eat burnt food for a week until she forgave him. His temperamental French cook was too good to replace.
The next day, he woke with a pounding head, having imbibed more brandy than was his habit. He sat in the breakfast room with The Times propped up before him, perusing the article about those about to hang over the Cato Street affair. They’d been arrested after taking a government spy into their midst. This matter had thus far captured the king’s interest. Now His Majesty would give his undivided attention to this business with Crowthorne.
Flynn dissected a kipper. The room’s northern aspect and the view from the window of a brick wall ensured it was always as gloomy as a tomb. The townhouse had never been home to him, serving as somewhere to lay his head when in London. He’d been here too seldom to notice. The house was unusually silent. Where were the servants’ footsteps as they moved about? They were now going about on tiptoe in case he barked at them. He shook his head, bemused. Such ill temper was most unlike him.
*
Althea found her townhouse depressing. A sterling effort had been made by her staff to clean it up, but it was far from restored to its former elegance. She praised them all but had the sense that most now wished to seek a better position. For that she really couldn’t blame them. She suffered a sense of impermanence here herself. And when she thought about Owltree she was cast into the doldrums from which she struggled to rise. All she needed now was for her brother Freddie to arrive and demand she come to live in Dorset. And she found she missed Flynn. She’d grown accustomed to having him near. To look up and see him watching her with that smile of approval which turned to concern after things went so terribly wrong. His mannerisms, the lilt of his voice, and even his scent. She signed. She would just have to deal with life as it now was.
She was embroidering a chair cover when her butler announced Lady Fortescue and Lady Strathairn.
“I’ll see them, Butterworth. Have tea brought.”
Althea cast her embroidery aside, stood and smoothed her hair before the cracked mirror over the mantel, as yet to be replaced. She turned as her dear friends, Hetty and Sibella, walked in.
“What happened here?” Sibella scanned the room. “Are you all right?” she asked, kissing Althea’s cheek.
“Yes, although a little shaken having come home from the country to find the house in a shocking state and the poor servants utterly terrified.” Althea ran a hand along the darned patch on her chair arm. “While I was away, thieves robbed the house.”
“Good heavens!” Hetty’s brown eyes widened. “Didn’t the servants hear them?”
Althea shook her head, fighting tears. They both looked so sympathetic she wanted to tell them the whole story, but suspected Flynn wouldn’t approve. It must wait until the matter was at an end. If it ever was.
Hetty looked around and uttered a moan. “How horrid and distressing for you.”
“Your brother resides in the country, does he not? Is there someone here who can assist you?” Sibella asked. “John would be happy to help.”
“As would Guy,” Hetty said. “Did they steal your jewels?”
“I had my most valuable jewels with me. Brookwood’s heir has the diamonds.” Althea took a deep breath. “Fortunately, little was taken.”
Butterworth entered with the maid carrying the tea tray. She placed it on the occasional table at Althea’s elbow. Cook had sent up a nice array of cakes and tartlets. Althea added hot water to the teapot. “You are both so kind, but someone has been most supportive.”
“Oh, I am relieved,” Hetty said. “Might I ask who?”
“Lord Montsimon.”
“Montsimon?” Hetty glanced at Sibella. They both smiled. “How fortunate.”
“Yes, it was kind of him,” Althea said. She knew as soon as she mentioned his name, her friends would read more into it. Her efforts to diffuse the situation only seemed to make it worse.
Hetty chuckled. “The perfect knight errant, I must say.”
Sibella’s emerald green eyes sparkled as she stirred her tea. “Not a whisper has reached the ton about you, and shall not until you wish it to.”
“As long as we are invited to the wedding,” Hetty said with an impish smile.
“No, no there will be no wedding,” Althea said quickly, wishing she didn’t suffer a strange kind of yearning. “Montsimon isn’t the marrying sort, and neither am I. He is just a friend.”
“Of course,” Sibella said. “You are getting ahead of yourself, Hetty.”
Hetty shrugged, a smile on her lips. “An unfortunate habit of mine. It’s my poetical nature. Please forgive me.”
Althea laughed and shook her head. “You are forgiven.”
She felt considerably better to have her friends there, even though they were laboring under a misapprehension and would be disappointed to learn that not only was there no romance between her and Flynn, it was unlikely she’d see much more of him. The thought almost made her gasp. Had she come to rely on him too much?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Five days passed, during which Crowthorne remained at large. By the morning of the sixth day, Flynn had to see Althea. The mystery of what Crowthorne sought continued to nag at him, and she’d be the perfect soundboard for the ideas crowding his mind.
He donned his coat and hat, pulled on gloves, and walked out into a crisp, sunny winter’s day. It must have been the weather, for his spirits rose as he strolled along.
It was far too early for a morning call, but this couldn’t wait. When he arrived at her townhouse, her aged butler asked him to be seated in the entry hall while he took up Flynn’s card.
Moments later, Butterworth descended, knees creaking. “Lady Brookwood is in the drawing room, my lord.”
Some attempt had been made to restore the room to its former elegant state. The best one could say was it was comfortable. Althea rose from her chair looking far too pretty in a rose-colored morning gown.
Jet jumped off a chair, meowed a greeting, and wound himself around Flynn’s legs. Flynn bent to stroke the length of the cat’s silky back. “The room looks almost as it was.”
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