The Viscount’s Widowed Lady
Page 1
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady
Dangerous Lords Book Three
By
Maggi Andersen
Copyright © 2018 by Maggi Andersen
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Dangerous Lords Series by Maggi Andersen
The Baron’s Betrothal
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady
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Isolated Hearts
Sentinel
The Lost Lords Series by Chasity Bowlin
The Lost Lord of Castle Black
The Vanishing of Lord Vale
The Missing Marquess of Althorn
By Elizabeth Ellen Carter
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The Widow
A widow in straightened circumstances, Lady Althea Brookwood fights to hang on to the one thing left to her, Owltree Cottage. When faced with a ruthless enemy, she must turn to a man for help. But her former life with her cruel husband has made her distrust men.
When a gentleman she seeks assistance from is murdered, she is caught up in a conspiracy and must turn to the last man on earth she would trust with her virtue.
Leaving behind his sad past in Ireland, Keiran Flynn, Viscount Montsimon, has become a renowned diplomat and close confidant of King George IV. A handsome rake many women of the ton wish to take to their beds, Flynn treats women lightly. Until he meets a lady who resists his charm.
When the king sends Flynn on a secret mission, he finds Lady Brookwood is in some way involved. He is determined to protect her even though the stubborn lady resists him at every turn.
Althea and Flynn find themselves thrust into a dangerous intrigue while fighting an attraction which could cause them to lose focus and possibly their lives.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
About the Book
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Prologue
London, Mayfair, Late November 1819
Lady Althea Brookwood stood beside her brother, Frederick Purkins and his wife, Elizabeth, as they watched Althea’s Mayfair townhouse emptied of its contents. Her belongings were to be moved to a rented property in a less attractive part of Town.
“I must say my poor opinion of Brookwood has been justified,” Freddie said gloomily. “And Brookwood’s heir seems no better. Has he offered you the dower house?”
“No. But he did allow me to remain here until he sold his other property. But now he has need of it himself.” She saw no point in telling Freddie that Brookwood’s heir had taken a set against her and charged her rent. Freddie was a farmer. He didn’t understand the ways of the ton. It would only worry him.
“But will his lordship not help you further?” Lizzie asked, her eyes filling with tears.
Althea hugged her sister-in-law. “You two must not worry. I shall manage. I look forward to it.” Althea tried to make it sound as if she embarked on a new adventure. In a way it was true, to shed herself of any connection to Brookwood was a great relief.
“You must come and live with us,” Elizabeth stated.
Although Althea loved to visit their farm in Dorset and their brood of children, she would never consider living with them. The children would be pushed out of their bedroom to make way for her, and the small village would buzz with gossip. No. She had lived the life of a lady, despite the awful manner in which Brookwood had treated her, and she had no desire to return to the country.
“You are sweet to offer, Lizzie, and I greatly appreciate it. But I still own Owltree Cottage.”
“But for how long?” Freddie asked, his mouth turning down at the corners. “I’m not sure a woman should live alone in London. It’s a den of
iniquity. The ton can behave very badly if Brookwood is any example.”
“Brookwood died two years ago, Freddie. I have managed.”
“Yes, but your finances are dwindling. And now you’ve lost your home. How will you manage?”
“I didn’t lose it,” she said with a smile. “Brookwood’s heir inherited the property. I’ve no need of such a grand house. I shall manage perfectly well on my stipend. Growing up a farmer’s daughter, I learned how to be frugal. And if I must, I’ll leave London and live fulltime at Owltree.” She frowned. “The cottage was bequeathed to me. It never belonged to Brookwood. They can’t take that. They’ll have to kill me first!”
“You might marry again,” Lizzie said hopefully. “You’re awfully pretty, Althea, and still young.”
The prospect turned Althea’s blood cold. “I don’t wish to, Lizzie. But if worst comes to worst, I’ll become a companion to Aunt Catherine.”
“Oh yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Freddie said with obvious relief. “You will live in comfort and be safe.”
“Aunt Catherine has invited me to stay for Christmas.” Althea had no intention of moving in permanently with her strong-minded aunt, but it served to stop her brother worrying about her.
She held out her arms. “Let us go and wait for the furniture to arrive. My servants will be there. I shall turn this new house into a home in no time.”
Chapter One
County Wicklow, Ireland, January 1820
Kieran Flynn, 4th Viscount Montsimon, reined in his horse and stared ahead at Greystones Manor. His father was dead, the malevolent force of his nature gone from the house. Perhaps now, a loving family would fill the empty rooms. He eased his stiff shoulders. Some other family, not his. Let the cursed Montsimon name die out with him.
In the depths of winter, heavy clouds hung low over the house, a blunted dark shape stark against the sky, like a blemish on the beautiful land it occupied.
With a sigh which was half exhaustion, Flynn nudged the flank of his bay. He rode up to the house and dismounted. Blackened stone glistened wet in the misty air, the mullioned windows blank eyes gazing inward to shadowy corridors and empty rooms.
A grizzled-headed groom hurried from the stables.
Flynn nodded. “Gaffney, isn’t it?”
“You be the young master, Lord Montsimon. I remember ye,” Gaffney said and led the horse away.
Flynn crossed the south lawn to the shallow set of stone steps leading to a pair of solid brass-studded doors. The family crest sat above it, gold and green, a knight’s helmet, a stag, and a boar. From the top step, he turned to view the meadows stretching away to the east, where cliffs descended to the sea. Despite the lack of a breeze to carry the salty spray, he tasted it on his tongue. Memories came uninvited of his boyhood, climbing those cliffs above the thrashing waves in search of birds’ eggs.
He had quit this place and his father as soon as he was old enough to make his way in England. Flynn had believed he’d turned his back on his Irish roots, but found they ran deep to his very marrow. Almost against his will, his pulse quickened at the sight of the fertile land. Now all this was his, every brown trout in the stream, every deer in the forest, and every square of stone rising above him.
Annoyed by his unforeseen emotion, he reminded himself that his future lay in England where he would return as soon as he settled matters, long overdue. He’d raked up enough blunt to have repairs done and would seek a good tenant.
The door flew open. A wizened male servant dressed all in black with a smudge of dirt on his cheek stood beaming at him. “Welcome home, milord.”
“Thank you.” Flynn didn’t know the fellow from Adam. Their butler had died of old age some years ago.
He stepped inside the oak-paneled great hall and caught his breath at the memory of it decked out with flowers for a ball when he was a lad. The buzz of excitement in the air that not even his father’s vicious temper failed to dispel. Flynn had watched from the stairs as his mother danced with Timothy Keneally, a ringlet of violets in her fair hair matching her gown. A month later, she was gone.
He returned swiftly to the present, faced with the grayed and dusty timbers, the odor of damp pervading the air. “What is your name? You weren’t here when I came last.”
“Quinn, my lord. Your father engaged me just a few months before he died.”
Flynn handed him his hat, gloves, and greatcoat. The small man was younger and sprier than he had first thought. “You might tell me what servants I have here.” Clammy and stiff from riding all the way from Dublin, he was in need of a hot bath if one might be had.
The man’s narrow face split into a goblin’s smile. “You might call me the general dogsbody. There’s O’Mainnin, who helps about the place, out chopping wood while the rain holds off he is. And Gaffney, you would have met at the stables. The cook is Mrs. Shannon. We have only one maid at present and that’s Maeve.”
“One maid?” Flynn paused in the act of unbuttoning his expensive riding coat lovingly stitched by a Bond Street tailor while envisioning the state of the bedchamber he was to sleep in.
“We weren’t sure when you would arrive, to be sure, milord,” Quinn said. “But I’ve set Maeve to work upstairs for ye. I’ve given the drawing room a good set to. There’s whisky and a fire’s been lit.”
“Most welcome.” Flynn smiled. “I suspect you of having the An Da Shealladh.”
Quinn nodded, his eyes serious. “I believe I have been gifted with second sight, milord.”
The oak staircase with its grotesque masks carved in the banister had given Flynn nightmares when he was small. Halfway up it, he paused. “Send the groom with a note for the estate manager, will you?” he called down. “I wish to go over the books with him in the morning. The gamekeeper, too.”
“It will be done, milord.”
His mother’s portrait hung on the wall in the drawing room. Flynn wondered why his father had placed it here where she might reproach him every day of his life. Perhaps to spite her and ban her from her place amongst their ancestors in the great hall.
The room was sadly depleted of furniture. The most valuable items had evidently been sold before his father died. He supposed the massive, heavily carved pieces that remained were unfashionable. Shabby damask covered the bank of windows, hiding a splendid vista of the sea. He crossed quickly and pulled them open, sending a cloud of dust mites to ride the air, only to find the view obscured by dirty panes and fading light. Disappointed and chilled to his bones, he went to stand closer to the inglenook stone fireplace and placed his booted foot on the fender. The fire was well ablaze, a welcome circle of light and warmth in an otherwise depressing room.
Quinn came in and piled more peat on the fire, which burned steadily with a dull glow. “Mrs. Shannon has one of her tasty stews on the stove. Goes down a treat with a mug of Guinness, if you don’t mind me sayin’, milord.”
“I’ll have that whisky now, Quinn.” Flynn sat in the shabby brown leather wing chair by the fire—his father’s. With a grimace, he ran his fingers over the holes in the arms caused by his father’s cigars. His father had probably been drunk more often than not and tormented by the past. It was surprising that the whole pile hadn’t gone up in smoke. He stretched his legs toward the warmth. Well, he knew coming home would be difficult.
The next morning, a messenger rode up to the door to deliver a missive.
Flynn read it over his coffee in the unappealing breakfast room, its only redeeming feature, the view through the window. He threw it down and stood. “I must return to England in a few days, Quinn.”
“Yes, milord?”
“King George has died.”
Quinn bowed his head. “Ah. So, England has a new king, milord.”
“The Prince of Wales is to be crowned King George IV,” Flynn said soberly, rubbing the back of his neck. He expected King George to make outlandish demands. And Flynn to be the likely recipient. He must not forget that one harsh word from the king could
destroy his career and send him back to this lonely place filled with bitter memories.
*
London, February
Mrs. Maxwell’s ball, despite being held so early in the season, was crammed with guests who all appeared to be talking at once. Althea Brookwood sat with Aunt Catherine while the musicians enjoyed a break.
“Two years have passed since Brookwood died.” Her aunt compressed her lips.
“I am aware of it, Aunt.” How could she not be?
“You should consider marrying again.” Neither Aunt Catherine’s conversation nor her purpose had changed from the last time they met.
Althea’s answer remained the same as well. “I have no wish to.”
Her aunt’s violet-blue eyes regarded her. “I know Brookwood was a devil. I heard the rumors. I thought it was good riddance when he died in that duel.”
Aunt Catherine didn’t know the half of it. Brookwood’s obvious dissatisfaction with her had been a torment from the very beginning. Now she was free and determined to stay that way. No man would ever hold sway over her again, bending her to his will. She patted her aunt’s gloved hand. “I know you care, Aunt, and I’m most grateful.”
“Did Brookwood leave you well provided for?”
“My dower allows me to live quite comfortably.” If she was careful. She’d learned that skill as it had been necessary to economize with a tightfisted husband.
Aunt Catherine frowned, and she touched the brilliants at her throat. “I lost some of my finest jewels in that spate of robberies two years back. When your uncle died, the bulk of the estates was lost to entail, but you will inherit all that I have. I’d like to know to whom I’m leaving my money before I die. Not another bounder like Brookwood.”
Althea kissed her aunt’s soft cheek. “Have no fear. I shan’t make that mistake. I had no say in my marriage to Brookwood. Father arranged it.” The possibility of being at the mercy of another like him made her stomach flip over.
“Lord Ingleby has recently been widowed. He’s shown a considerable interest in you, and he’s plump in the pocket. Won’t be after my money.”
“I shouldn’t think anyone would be so foolish, Aunt Catherine. You are in excellent health and will be with us for many years to come.”