She had never accompanied Brookwood to Lord Percy Woodruff’s parties. The few times she had met Woodruff socially, she hadn’t particularly warmed to him, disliking his inquisitive manner. A man who liked to poke his nose into other’s affairs. But that may serve her well.
A footman admitted her. He led her across the black-and-white marble checkerboard floor to the staircase. On the floor above, she was shown into the empty drawing room and told that Lord Percy would not be long. Chilled more with apprehension than cold, she hurried to the fireplace where embers glowed in the grate.
Her reticule in her lap, Althea held her hands encased in white evening gloves closer to the fire while she attempted to compose herself. She had not come across any other guests, for which she was grateful. It seemed that Lord Percy had obeyed her request for their meeting to remain private. She wondered if he would be helpful. He could hardly devote much time to her when he had guests to attend to. She gripped her reticule, ready to abandon the whole idea and swiftly leave if she must.
She cast aside her fears as the plump Lord Percy bustled in, all smiles, his round, childish face like one of Botticelli’s putti, lending him a benevolent air. He selected one of a pair of brocade wing chairs for her. “I guarantee we shall see snow tonight, Lady Brookwood. Might I suggest a sherry to warm you?”
“Thank you, Lord Percy, but no.” Althea wanted to get their interview over with promptly and leave. She perched on the edge of the chair. “In your letter you mentioned that you might know something of Sir Horace which would help me understand why he should want to buy my cottage.” She smiled. “I don’t wish to be unreasonable, but I dislike being railroaded into a sale. The reason he gave me makes little sense. I’m sure a man such as yourself would see that.” She smiled and fingered the pearls at her throat. “Some men can be obtuse. I’m sure it’s in the belief that we females have less understanding of financial matters. But I see you are more respectful. I am confident that you will be entirely honest with me.”
His eyes gleamed. “I am your servant, my lady. I wish to help in any way I can. But first, you must forgive me, for my guests have begun to arrive. I must greet them, bad manners not to, eh? I shall then give your problem my full attention.” He moved to the drinks table and poured wine from a crystal carafe into a glass. “Please enjoy this offering from my cellar. It’s a fine vintage. I’ll be but a moment.”
Aware that it was bad manners to refuse, or to attempt to delay him, Althea accepted his offering. “So kind of you to see me when you have guests tonight.”
“Not at all. I’m happy to help a friend or the pretty wife of a friend,” he said. “And poor Brookwood would appreciate it, I’m sure.”
The door closed behind him. Her shoulders tightened at his reference to her appearance. Her flirtatious manner could only carry her so far without getting her into worst trouble. Flustered, she sipped the wine, vaguely aware of its excellence. Why had she thought this visit acceptable? She should have been more patient, arranged a daytime meeting. But that would have had to wait until he returned to London. And who knew when that would be? And what Sir Horace might do in the interim?
Althea breathed deeply; she was hardly in the depths of St. Giles. Manchester Square was an exceptional address, its square of gardens surrounded by prosperous houses.
Loud conversation erupted in the corridor outside where Lord Percy’s guests chortled and sniggered at some joke as men did when not in the company of ladies. She took another sip of wine. The more she considered it, the more this appeared to be a fool’s errand.
The grandfather clock loudly proclaimed the hour, making her flinch. Lord Percy had been gone for over half an hour. What had detained him? At the high-pitched giggle and sounds of footsteps running on the stairs, Althea banged her glass down, spilling drops over the table, and ran to the door. She opened it a crack and peered through. At the head of the stairs, a woman in a shockingly low-cut gown of crimson satin, lavishly trimmed with gold fringe, clung to Lord Percy’s arm. He was engaged in a heated disagreement with Sir Horace Crowthorne. Sir Horace jerked his head toward the drawing room. “I’ll deal with her, Woodruff.”
Althea carefully closed the door, then spun around. She would not be caught alone with that man. There were no other doors, only the French windows. She threw them open and stepped out onto a narrow balcony enclosed by an iron railing. It overlooked the rear garden but no steps led down. She seized the icy balustrade in both hands.
She peered into the dark as she pictured herself lying with a broken limb on the ground. Even that was preferable to being at Sir Horace’s mercy. Lord Percy should not have invited her to such an affair. She did not trust either of them.
Snowflakes drifted around her, cold on her skin. She began to shiver, and if she didn’t keep moving, she would freeze to death. There was only one avenue open to her. The solid branches of an oak were within reach. It wouldn’t be so difficult to climb down. Was she mad to consider it? She dropped her reticule down into the dark. Then she removed her gloves, tucking them into a pocket, while silently bemoaning the absence of her warm cloak. The tulip sleeves of her gown left her arms bare. With an attempt to ignore the goose bumps, she hitched up her canary yellow silk skirts and petticoats, slipped one foot over the railing, and then gritted her teeth as the cold metal bit into her bare thighs above her stockings. She reached out, endeavoring not to look down and was able to grasp the branch. When confident of her balance, she swung her other leg over the rail, finding another branch below on which to stand. It was less sturdy and bent alarmingly under her weight. With a muffled curse which would have made a sailor blush, she recklessly launched herself onto another more solid branch below it, as her dress caught on a sharp twig with a ripping sound.
The ground was bathed in deep shadows. Too far away to jump. It was difficult to keep her balance as her evening shoes slipped on the damp, frosty bark. “I can do this!” she muttered. She had climbed much taller trees growing up in the country but not in shoes like these. She kicked off her slippers, despairing of her silk stockings. They fell with two soft thuds to the ground.
While she hugged the trunk and searched for a new foothold, a low-pitched, melodic voice addressed her from out of the darkness.
“Lady Brookwood. May I be of assistance?”
Shocked, Althea almost fell. She knew that voice. The branch beside her creaked and bowed, and the whole tree shook unnervingly. A breath tickled her ear while a hand snaked around her waist. She was swung into midair and lowered to the ground.
As she gained her feet, Lord Montsimon dropped down beside her.
Her face burning with embarrassment, Althea swiveled to face him, glad of the shadows. “What on earth are you doing here?” Annoyed by the tiny flip of her heart, her whisper sounded waspish. She busied herself searching around for her reticule and shoes.
“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he said coolly, as he removed her reticule and slippers from the pockets of his great coat. “But we can hardly discuss it here.” He watched as she pushed her damp, chilled feet into her slippers. “I saw no carriage awaiting you in the square. I expect I shall have to see you home.”
She lifted her chin. How ungallant! She was in no mood to deal with the mercurial Lord Montsimon. She reached in her pocket and took out her gloves, pulling them on with a nonchalant shrug. “I plan to hail a hackney.”
“You seem inadequately dressed for such a purpose. May I offer you my coat?”
“No, thank you.” He always seemed to be giving up his coat for her. She was freezing and would have loved to wear it, but she refused to give him the satisfaction.
“As it happens, I have a hackney on hand.” His gloved fingers took a firm hold of her arm.
Althea had to admit she was glad of his support; her footsteps were unsure in the dark. He led her through the garden and out the back gate onto a narrow laneway. “Where are we—”
“Please be quiet.”
“I wasn’t abo
ut to yell, my lord. I’m not so reckless.”
“Really? I doubt you would be able to defend that claim.”
She sucked in a breath. “Well, neither could you!”
Althea tripped and discovered a torn double frill at the hem of her gown. Its cord now trailed behind her like a harvester gathering up gravel. “Could you please slow down,” she hissed. “My evening footwear is not designed for negotiating rough ground.”
He stopped. Wordlessly, he hefted her up into his arms, holding her close against his chest.
“Oh!” She wriggled. “This is ridiculous. Put me down.”
Evidently not suffering a need to respond, he strode with her along the lane.
“Are you deaf? Put me down!” She struggled to free herself.
“Can’t I’m afraid. At your present snail’s pace, my lady, we would be lucky to reach the carriage by breakfast. I advise you to lower your voice, or we shall have interested parties joining us.”
Althea snapped her mouth shut and held onto his shoulder while confirming her first opinion of Lord Montsimon’s physique. Slim but muscular. Definitely. She wasn’t sure why that annoyed her even more. His face was not far above hers, and she discovered a cleft in his chin. At the sight of the hackney coach waiting at the end of the lane, the jarvie at the horse’s head, she struggled in his arms. “I believe it’s safe to put me down now. Please!”
Montsimon unceremoniously dumped her on her feet. She tripped along, aware of her frills unraveling with each step.
On reaching the hackney, Montsimon gave her address to the jarvie and opened the door. When she stepped forward to enter, a loud ripping sound brought them both to a startled halt. Althea looked down.
Without an apology, Montsimon lifted his foot off her gown’s trailing flounce.
“I must have torn my gown coming down the tree,” she said, bunching up her skirts to enter the carriage.
“I find myself unable to continue this fascinating conversation at this time, Lady Brookwood,” he said, as he thrust the torn flounce into the carriage after her. “I shall call on you at home tomorrow at two o’clock. I am all agog to learn what brought about the need for you to climb trees in Manchester Square on a freezing winter evening.”
“And I look forward to learning how you came to be on hand to assist me,” she said crisply.
He slammed the door and barked at the jarvie. Althea looked back through the window as Montsimon stalked down the lane. “Well, how odd,” she murmured. What was he doing in the garden?
As the carriage took her home, she faced the fact that her last hope of assistance had failed her. There was nothing for it, she would have to beg for Montsimon’s help. She was very bad at begging, it made her fear she was giving up her hard won independence. And was he likely to agree? He appeared set on his own course. It was unfortunate that her charms seemed to have deserted her where he was concerned. She sighed. If, by some miracle, he did offer to help her, it would not be with any semblance of diplomacy, of that she was sure.
Chapter Eight
After he sent the beguiling but troublesome Lady Brookwood home, Flynn returned to the garden of No. 4 Manchester Square. Snow dusted the ground in a cloak of white, muffling his footsteps. As the pervasive cold seeped into his bones, he stamped his feet and blew out gusts of steam into the frigid air, considering how he might gain entry to the house unseen. Before he could act, his patience was rewarded when Woodruff and Crowthorne erupted onto the balcony and peered over the rail.
“See! There’s no way down.” Woodruff waved his arm. “Lady Brookwood must have left by the servants’ stairs. I’m not sure how she managed to get by my footmen. I shall deal with them later.”
“Very badly handled indeed,” Crowthorne muttered.
“I’m not to blame!” Woodruff cried. “When the lady fell into our hands like a plump partridge, I adroitly maneuvered her into my drawing room, did I not? If your temper hadn’t got the better of you when you took exception to my lady guest, our plan would’ve worked perfectly.”
“Some lady!” Crowthorne snorted in disgust. “Couldn’t you keep your strumpet under wraps? Locked her in your bedchamber?”
Woodruff huffed. “I planned to, but Lucille can be difficult. She has her talents though. Lady Brookwood left her cape behind. She must have suspected something. I shall call on her with it tomorrow and endeavor to charm her around.”
“I’m not about to rely on your charm to mend fences. Send the cape with a note of apology. Leave the rest to me. For God’s sake, come inside. It’s as cold as a dead man’s arse.”
“It’s all that devil-born Brookwood’s fault, may he rot…,” Lord Percy’s voice faded to silence as doors slammed.
Woodruff’s words set off a new train of thought. Flynn stared up at the balcony for some minutes before emerging from behind the oak’s trunk. He went in search of the hackney which he hoped had returned after taking Lady Brookwood home. He was sorely in need of a hot bath and a brandy.
Perhaps it was the promise of a handsome recompense, for the jarvie waited blowing on his hands. His horse sported a blanket, its nose in a feedbag. “Good man,” Flynn said appreciatively. “Home to Curzon Street as quick as possible. There’s a healthy tip in it for you.”
Flynn considered Woodruff’s final outburst as the hackney bore him home to Mayfair. It seemed his investigation had taken an interesting turn. It was clear that Lady Brookwood’s husband had been involved in something fraudulent before he died. Flynn wondered if she, wittingly or unwittingly, had any knowledge of what that might be.
A note awaited him on the entry hall console with the king’s seal. Flynn levered it open with his thumb. His presence was requested at Carlton House the following afternoon.
Chilled through to the marrow, he grabbed the brandy decanter from the drawing room and ran up to his bedchamber. His valet bustled in after him with a pail of hot water. Flynn stripped by the fire and sponged himself down, foregoing a bath which would necessitate rousing the servants from their hard-earned rest. Scrubbed dry until his skin glowed, he donned a banyan, poured brandy into a tumbler, and settled close to the fire, while his valet gathered up his clothes. “Go to bed, Frome. My clothes won’t run away in the night. Leave them until the morning.”
“Only take a minute, my lord.”
Flynn settled back and let the heat loosen his tense muscles. This business with Lady Brookwood had become urgent. She was obviously trying somewhat unsuccessfully to deal with it herself, which could prove disastrous. It must not be ignored even for the demands of royalty. What were these men up to? He doubted a conspiracy against the crown. But whatever it was, if they were responsible for Churton’s death, they were dangerous.
The brandy slipped down his throat, warming as it went. Lady Brookwood had no idea how much danger she was in. He must swiftly discover the reason, but first remove the stubborn woman to a place of safety. He accepted it would prove a challenge. How irritating that while in her presence his powers of persuasion, which worked so well in matters of diplomacy, seemed to fail him. It wasn’t just her beauty. He’d known many lovely women. A vision of her raising her chin at him and narrowing her eyes came to him. And despite the gravity of the situation, he huffed out a reluctant laugh.
“Pardon, my lord?” Frome hesitated in the doorway.
“Nothing, Frome. I shan’t require you until past noon.”
“Goodnight, my lord.”
*
“Good morning, my lady. It snowed during the night.” The maid placed a cup of hot chocolate on the table beside Althea’s bed and then drew back the fern-green damask curtains.
“So I see, Sarah.” Althea sipped her hot drink as dazzling morning light flooded the room. In the garden beyond the window, the bare branches of elms were sprinkled with snow like white sugar candy.
“My goodness, my lady.” Sarah held up her torn dress. “What has happened to your gown?”
“A man stepped on it on the dance floor, and
then I’m afraid it tripped me up when I climbed out of the carriage.”
“You were lucky not to measure your length.” Sarah tsked. “Some men are so clumsy. Never fear, I’ll fix it in a trice.” She ran the flounce through her fingers. “It’s dreadfully soiled.”
“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….
The Viscount’s Widowed Lady Page 7
