Dangerous Lords Boxed Set

by Andersen, Maggi

  Flynn clutched the arms of his chair. “Bloody hell! Did you get him?”

  “No, milord. Set sail ’ours before I got there.”

  Flynn raked his fingers through his hair. “Where was the boat bound for? France? America?” Might that be the last of Crowthorne? He wished he could be sure of that.

  “Dublin Port.”

  “What!” Flynn leapt to his feet. “Why didn’t you send me word?”

  “I sent a note before I left Liverpool, milord.”

  “Dash it all. It’s yet to arrive,” Flynn cried.

  Wrightsbridge scrubbed his face with his hands. “I’ve been on the road for days, milord, but as Crowthorne ’as left the country, I didn’t see the urgency.”

  Flynn eyed the exhausted man. “Are you up to following him to Ireland?”

  “I don’t work out of England, milord. Can’t speak for other runners, but it will take you precious time to find someone prepared to go.”

  “You’re right, it will. I shall have to go myself.”

  Wrightsbridge’s chin dropped. “Sorry, milord. I would have liked to deal with the excrement, snuff ’im out like a candle. If it’s any ’elp, ’e was easy to follow. Left a trail of destruction behind ’im.”

  “Like what?”

  “Abused ostlers and unpaid inn keepers, exhausted ’orses, ’im, and some rutterkin with ’im, said to be mean enough to rob God. Given a wide berth. Scared of ’im everyone was.”

  When the man had left, Flynn sat at his desk. He penned two hasty letters to John and Guy, sanded them and sealed them with wax. Then he rang for his butler.

  Bellamy came in holding a silver salver.

  “Send a footman to deliver these immediately. Direct my valet to pack me a portmanteau. I shall be returning to Ireland directly.”

  “Yes, my lord. Your mail.”

  “Thank you. I rely on you and the housekeeper to keep the home fires burning. I’m not sure when I shall return. Have my valet throw those letters into the bag. I’ll attend to them later.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  Bellamy left with nary a question. He was used to Flynn taking off for parts unknown, sometimes for half a year or more.

  Flynn leaned back and stroked his jaw where a muscle jumped. Had Crowthorne run to Ireland to avoid Bow Street? He would face the rope for Churton’s death and the murder of his colleagues. Was it possible that he’d somehow learned that Althea was at Greystones? Flynn went cold at the thought.

  *

  After a successful trip to Dublin where Althea engaged several more staff, she was kept busy, working with Mrs. O’Riordan, the new housekeeper. Together, they organized the maids. Cobwebs were removed from ceilings, carpets taken up and beaten, furniture polished, floors scrubbed, and windows washed. A strong, heavy-set fellow, O’Mainnin, continued to carry everything she wished to employ in the house down from the attic, while Quinn and Cook set the new additions to the staff at their tasks.

  Every morning, Althea looked for word from Flynn. When none came, she began to lie awake at night, her mind too busy for sleep. Tired and frustrated, she wandered in the gardens and took to walking through the fields to the cliffs. The salty breeze greeted her as she stared out over the pounding waves toward the coast and England. If only he’d write and tell her what he’d discovered. Even if it was nothing, just to hear from him, to know he was alive.

  “We are still in need of a footman,” Althea told Quinn. “The fetching and carrying can’t all be done by you and the maids, and O’Mainnin is at his best in the outdoors. I shall have to return to Dublin again tomorrow.”

  After breakfast the following morning, Gaffney drove her and Sarah to town. The wind swirled around them and sent the clouds scudding across a sleet gray sky as they traveled through the lanes. They made excellent time, the roads having dried out after days of rain, but here in Ireland it rained even more than at home. Two hours later, she had engaged an experienced footman whose employer had recently died. He would join them in the following week.

  Pleased that things had gone nicely to plan, she lunched with her maid in the hotel dining room where she and Flynn had enjoyed a meal on her first day in Ireland. As she gazed around at the people chatting at the tables, she realized how much she had changed. When she first arrived, she’d been very aware of how dissimilar the country and its people were to England, their accents foreign and the Gaelic one heard everywhere, indecipherable. But in a surprisingly short time, she felt at home here and would be content to remain for the rest of her days. She refused to dwell on that possibility, for Flynn had never shown the slightest desire to live here himself. Nor had he asked her to marry him.

  It continually nagged at her that he had not. Surely the tenderness he’d shown her, the passion he had for her was love? Or wasn’t what he felt for her a strong enough emotion to change his mind about remaining single? He might just wish to return to the London season and become entranced by some other woman. It was like a stab to her heart to think it. But he had a reputation with the ladies. Was it possible he’d changed? How disloyal of her to question him. What was wrong with her? She didn’t just love him. She liked him, and her respect for him knew no bounds. Her worry for his safety nagged at her again. If only he’d send word. She put a hand to her stomach.

  “Are you well, my lady?” Sarah’s eyes appraised her.

  It was difficult to keep such a thing from one’s personal maid. It might be because she wasn’t sleeping, but Althea had missed her monthly courses, which came as regular as clockwork. It was too early to tell for sure. And even if she was enceinte, with her history, who knew if the babe would survive? If by the grace of God it did, and Flynn did not wish to marry her, she would raise it herself at Owltree. Despite her fears, she greeted the possibility with joy, impatient for Flynn’s return.

  She sipped her coffee in the warm, aromatic dining room while she watched the crowded Dublin street beyond the window. A man paused in conversation with another. Even though his back was turned, he was obviously a gentleman, and the man who bent his head as if taking orders, was likely a servant. She was about to look away when the gentleman turned his gray head in her direction. Althea stiffened. Her hand shook and she put down her cup. Coffee spilled into the saucer.

  Sarah looked at her anxiously. “My lady?”

  “It’s all right, Sarah. I thought I saw someone I know.”

  The man walked on out of sight around the corner. Might it have been Horace Crowthorne? Or was fear making her fanciful? Why Dublin, when his intention was to go to France? Cold logic didn’t prevent the chill threading through her veins and causing her to shiver. Might he have discovered she stayed at Greystones Manor? Entirely possible for it was difficult to keep such a thing secret if he made it his business to discover where she was. Would he come here after the diamond? Surely, he could not still believe she had it. “We must return home. Now, Sarah.” She rose to pay the bill.

  Shielding her face with her parasol, Althea hurried with her maid to the landau. “Put up the hood, Gaffney, please, and take us straight home.”

  As they left the town, Althea craned her neck to stare behind them. No one followed. She scolded herself for being foolish, but her trembling still hadn’t abated when they reached Greystones.

  She scurried into the house, fear coiling like a serpent in her belly. “Quinn, if a man comes calling, I am not in residence. Sir Horace Crowthorne may go by another name. He is of middle years, gray-haired, heavily built, and has a hawkish nose and hooded eyes.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “He might send someone else in his place, a shorter man, dressed like a servant.”

  Quinn’s eyes grew wide and he stared at her askance. “You look so pale, milady. You’ve not been taken ill?”

  “No, it’s just that…this man is dangerous. He wants something from me. Something I don’t have.”

  Quinn drew himself up and his chest swelled. “I shall turn him away, milady, never fear.”

  She di
d not want the fierce little man hurt. “You are not to oppose him. Let’s plan what’s best to do should he come here. You are to tell him I’ve returned to England with Lord Montsimon. If he refuses to believe you, invite him to search the house. We shall set up a lookout in the wood. O’Mainnin can fire off a gun. Crowthorne will expect him to be the gamekeeper. That will give me time to hide. But where?”

  “He would not find you in the oubliette.”

  She gazed at him, her heart thumping against her ribs. She couldn’t go down into that awful place. “Isn’t there anywhere else?”

  Quinn shook his head. “The oubliette is by far the safest, milady.”

  Althea slowly nodded. “Very well, the oubliette it is.”

  “A wise decision,” Quinn said with relief. “I’ll be letting you out, milady, just as soon as I can.”

  “But perhaps he won’t come.” Another horrifying thought turned her veins to ice. If Crowthorne was here in Ireland, where was Flynn?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As good as their word, John and Guy responded immediately. With Flynn, they were on the road in Strathairn’s well-sprung carriage at first light the next day, his thoroughbreds making light of the distance.

  They grabbed a quick meal at the coaching-inns on route when they stopped to change to the horses that John had sent ahead with a groom. Then they traveled through the night, armed against possible highwaymen, and napping in shifts. Fortunately, despite a mist sweeping over the landscape, the rain held off and the dirt-track roads remained passable. Three days later, they boarded a boat and were crossing the Irish Sea. They had made excellent time.

  Flynn had barely drawn breath since their journey began. He grasped the rail, staring ahead as the deck slid and jerked beneath his feet. John, his greatcoat flapping in the bitter wind, came to stand beside him. “We’ll get him, Flynn.”

  Flynn set his teeth. “Please God we aren’t too late.”

  John shook his head. “Crowthorne won’t harm Althea. He wants the diamond.”

  Flynn looked down at his white-knuckled fingers. “I’m afraid he’ll kidnap her again.”

  “If he does, he won’t get far.”

  Flynn met Strathairn’s steady blue-gray gaze. The big man had a way of putting him at ease. His calm, confident manner was born of years of experience in the field of espionage. Unquestionably, Flynn would trust him with his life. “I am indeed fortunate to have you and Guy with me, my friend.”

  Strathairn winked. “If you think I wish to be anywhere else, you’re wrong. Although I’d like it to be for any other cause than this, I’m relishing being back in the game.”

  “I can see that,” Flynn said with a faint smile.

  Tense, controlled power coiled in John’s body, evident in his tight shoulders and the set of his jaw. He was spoiling for a fight. Flynn hoped he’d have his chance.

  “We’ll need to get you out of Dublin unseen,” John said. “Crowthorne might have planted someone to watch the port.”

  Guy made his unsteady way toward them, his long legs barely holding him upright in the severe swell. “I’ll be glad to get off this ship.” He pulled the scarf around his neck tighter. “I have no desire to develop sea legs.”

  “Nor me,” John said. “Guy, I shall have to take that handsome scarf from you shortly.”

  Guy laughed. “Do you plan to send me home to Hetty frozen solid?”

  “Only for a short time when we reach Ireland. Flynn needs a disguise in case we encounter Crowthorne or one of his men.”

  Guy grabbed his hat, before it could sail away in the wind. He ran his hand through his ruffled black hair. “An excellent notion.”

  Strathairn pointed to where the misty haze softened the dark line of Irish coast. “We’ll be landing in Dublin Port in under an hour.”

  “So tell me,” Flynn said, indulging in a little levity. “What did you two do to pacify your spouses, apart from the obvious?”

  John chuckled. “I promised Sibella a trip to Ireland.”

  Guy turned to him with a laugh. “I did the very same!”

  Despite his anxiety, Flynn joined in their laughter. He allowed himself to dream a little. All of them together at Greystones Manor to witness he and Althea tying the knot.

  Althea! A chill went through him. Was she safe? Would he arrive to find her completely unaware that Crowthorne was in Ireland? He prayed it would be so. He almost groaned aloud as bitter disappointment poisoned his thoughts. It looked increasingly likely that he’d have to cast himself on his knee before the king, expressing regret for his hasty decision. Would Althea wait for him if he was sent to Spain? Heaven knew how long he’d be gone. But how else was he to keep Greystones from crumbling into the ground? He tightened his jaw. All his plans were in disarray.

  *

  Althea instructed Sarah to pack away all signs of her presence before she and Quinn descended to the dungeons. When Flynn had taken her there, the dark space seemed so oppressive she’d shivered and hurried away. He’d chuckled at her fears and assured her she would never have a reason to enter it. But now, it looked like she might, and without his reassuring presence. The prospect of going down into that dank place chilled her to her bones.

  Quinn raised the trapdoor, and she stared into the narrow stone well through the grill, then shuddered and took a jerky step back, her hand to her mouth. It wasn’t just the chill, an ominous presence rose from the stone enclosure to embrace her, like pleading ghosts from the past beckoning her to join them.

  Quinn eyed her anxiously. “I’ll have a warm blanket and a chair taken down there, milady, just in case.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured. Please God she’d have no use for them.

  She hurried away, feeling sick with nerves, while praying she was wrong, that seeing Crowthorne on that Dublin street was a flight of fancy on her part.

  Several hours later, Althea had almost succeeded in banishing the worry from her mind. She busied herself supervising the cleaning of the gilt-framed portraits in the great hall. When a shot sounded, she stopped mid-sentence, holding her body still while she listened. Soon after, O’Mainnin’s second shot echoed across the fields. With a strangled moan, Althea spun and met Quinn’s worried gaze. Were her worst fears to be realized?

  “Maeve, go down to the kitchen and stay there,” Althea ordered the maid as Quinn rushed off. He returned with her warm, wool redingote and helped Althea into it. “It might be anyone, milady,” he said soothingly. “The priest likes to call in for a cup of tea. O’Mainnin is a good fellow, but not the sharpest, would argue with a signpost, would O’Mainnin.”

  She firmed her lips, knowing the staff looked for her to be in charge. “The servants are to remain in the servants’ quarters. Don’t forget what I said, Quinn. Do not try to be brave.”

  “Don’t worry, milady,” he said. “I will do as you wish.”

  Althea wasn’t entirely sure he meant it.

  At the entrance to the oubliette, he handed the lantern to Althea and unlocked the door. Once inside, he raised the trapdoor and removed the grill. Heart thudding against her ribs, Althea turned and climbed onto the ladder. She forced herself to negotiate the rungs and took two steps into the stale, bitterly cold air. Quinn leaned down and handed her the pistol he’d fetched from the gunroom. He’d instructed her how to remove the safety catch but she was familiar with guns—she was a farmer’s daughter—although she doubted she could shoot a person.

  Finally, her feet touched the damp stone floor, which felt like a frozen lake beneath her shoes. The clang of the grill closing reverberated around her abnormally loud. “I wish you’d taken the lantern, milady.” Quinn’s voice floated down.

  “No, a light might be seen.”

  “As soon as I get rid of them, I’ll return.”

  “Quinn?” The trapdoor banged shut. He had gone.

  Her breath whooshed out of her lungs. The lantern gone, she could barely see her hand. The narrow window opening was a mere slit high up in the w
all and did little to provide fresh air or lighten the gloom. The shadows took on menacing shapes. She dragged fusty air into her lungs, and sank onto the chair and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, seeking warmth and a protective covering. Tormented souls had suffered here, and some had died. Concentrating on her breath, she fought to slow the frantic beating of her heart and prayed Quinn wouldn’t do anything rash.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Flynn’s carriage passed through the tall gates of Greystones Manor, John took his fine pair of Manton’s pistols out of their case and checked them. He handed a gun to Guy. The men searched the dense woodland bordering the road, alert for any sign of trouble as their carriage trundled on.

  When they rounded a bend, a giant carrying a shotgun lurched from the trees onto the road. The horses were pulled to a stop, plunging and rearing. “It’s my man. O’Mainnin!” Flynn yelled. He threw open the door and leaped onto the road.

  The big man loped up to Flynn. “A carriage passed through ’ere a short time ago with two men inside, milord.” He scowled, drawing in great gasps of air. “We was expecting them, ’cause her ladyship spied the blighter in Dublin. I got off two warning shots. I’m on my way to the ’ouse.”

  “Jump aboard, O’Mainnin.” Flynn climbed back inside. “Crowthorne has found his way here, but Althea was expecting him! Let’s hope that gives us more time.”

  O’Mainnin scrambled onto the box, and the coachman urged the horses on with a crack of his whip. They careered along the rutted forest road. The sky lightened as they emerged from the trees into parkland. Moments later, the wall bordering the formal gardens came into view.

  “Let’s turn this to our advantage and surprise them,” John said. “How far to the house?”

  “We’ll be within sight after the next bend,” Flynn said. “We’d best stop here.” He banged on the roof, and they filed out of the carriage before it came to a stop. “Go to the stables, O’Mainnin. Warn Gaffney. Both of you keep away from the house.”