The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

by Maggie Andersen

  “Oh, did you Aunt?” Althea breathed in her aunt’s floral fragrance with a sense of unease.

  “Lady Shewsbury told me Montsimon doesn’t have a feather to fly with, my dear. Some improvised Irish estate is all. He won’t do. Won’t do at all. The pair of you would have to live like church mice.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Flynn sat with Barraclough, nursing tankards of ale in a corner of the Witches’ Hat, a tavern in Monmouth Street. It was close to midnight and inky black beyond the window. The establishment was in Seven Dials, the slum where the ton never ventured. Dimly lit, the tavern reeked of stale sweat, tallow, and hops. The patrons came and went, leaving a lingering air of despair. A lone man sat at a table, resting his head in his arms, after his companion disappeared upstairs with the buxom barmaid who had offered them a good time for the meager sum of a shilling.

  Candlelight slanted down from the wooden wheel chandelier, painting deep ridges over Barraclough’s rumpled brow as he sat opposite Flynn, his big hand curled around the pewter tankard.

  “I’m none the wiser, I’m afraid.” The rasp of frustration deepened Flynn’s voice. “Even though I managed to hear a good deal of their conversation.”

  “Might I ask how you managed to do that?” Barraclough asked with grim humor.

  Flynn hunched over his ale. “A healthy crop of ivy grew on the inn’s wall.”

  “Ah.” Barraclough nodded.

  “Goodrich and Wensley were there, and a third man who reserved the parlor under the name of Brownley. Gray-haired, solid build, gentry. Know of him?”

  Barraclough gave an impatient shake of his head.

  “The plotters used a code name and referred to it often. Tricoleur. Apparently, Brookwood had this item in his possession when he was shot.”

  Barraclough’s eyes sharpened. “Papers concerning a French plot against the crown, perhaps?”

  Flynn shook his head. “From what I’ve learned of Brookwood, he was too lazy and filled with self-interest to be involved in any plot against the government. But last night, thieves turned Lady Brookwood’s Mayfair townhouse upside down. I believe they were searching for this… item. I sent my man to question servants in the street. Two men were seen, rough types, dressed as if they’d emerged from the rookery of St. Giles.”

  “Robbers searching for valuables.”

  “I don’t think so. Not considering the degree of effort they went to. And why pick Lady Brookwood’s house when many of her wealthier neighbors were still away in the country, their door knockers removed from the doors? Far easier and richer pickings to be had there. Lady Brookwood’s former abode, Brookwood House, was ransacked as well, just after the new heir took possession.”

  “That is interesting,” Barraclough said. “Although what it means is anyone’s guess.”

  “What has convinced His Majesty there is some plot brewing?” Flynn asked, frustration imbuing his voice. “Might it be possible he knows more than he’s prepared to reveal?”

  “Whatever Churton stumbled on had him killed. We have to hope we can find something to get our teeth into soon.” Barraclough gave a shrug of his solid shoulders.

  “This whole business is smoky. It tends to grow thicker around Carlton House,” Flynn said. “Do we arrest these men and question them?”

  Barraclough shook his head. “We might end up with nothing. Need to give them enough rope to hang themselves. Let’s continue to watch ’em. See what they’re up to. I’ll speak to the king this evening. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  Flynn swigged the last of his ale and slammed the tankard down on the table. “Churton has taken his knowledge to the grave. The answers lie with two dead men. It seems that wherever we turn, Barraclough, death dogs us like a shadow.”

  The next afternoon, Flynn met Barraclough in Hyde Park. The sun had hidden behind low clouds all day and the ice-strewn grass crunched underfoot. His breath fogged the air as Flynn crossed to the big man lounging on a bench overlooking the lake as if in idle contemplation of the few hardy specimens braving a constitutional along the paths. Flynn’s eyes rested on a man throwing a line into the Serpentine. “A waste of his time fishing there.”

  “And if he hooks a mute swan, he’ll be in trouble,” Barraclough said with a chuckle.

  With a quick glance around, Flynn sat down beside him. “You’ve spoken to the king?”

  Barraclough nodded. “The Home Secretary has informed him that there’s no evidence to support a conspiracy. The king’s orders are to discover more about this tricoleur. We are to keep close to these men in the hope they find it.”

  “Did His Majesty have anything to say about Churton?”

  “If the king knows anything more, he didn’t offer it, but he appeared very interested. Very interested indeed.”

  “I’ll leave this in your hands.” Flynn handed Barraclough Althea’s address. “I’m leaving for Slough in the morning. I’m driving Lady Brookwood to her country house. I’ll be gone for a few days. If something should happen which requires me to return sooner, send me a note. While I’m away, there’s something you can do for me.”

  “Anything that helps to unravel this puzzle.”

  “If anything can, Barraclough. I don’t like this business, I have to admit.”

  What in hell’s teeth was he getting himself into? This entire affair made Flynn feel like he was walking across a bog-strewn moor in a thick fog. He leaned toward Barraclough with his request.

  *

  “I do hope you will manage in my absence.” Aunt Catherine put her flowery china teacup in its saucer. She motioned to one of the broad-shouldered, liveried footmen standing motionless on each side of the salon door like a pair of imposing bookends. “Fetch more hot water, Albert.”

  “Of course I shall manage. Please don’t worry,” Althea said.

  “You might come to France with me. You would enjoy Cousin Phillip’s company enormously. He would adore to see you.”

  “If only I could. But I must await my solicitor’s instructions.”

  “I don’t understand any of this, Althea. You say Sir Horace Crowthorne wishes to purchase Owltree Cottage.” She threaded the gold chain on her bodice through her fingers and the fine pink topaz swung and caught the light. “Most odd! What does he want with that insignificant property? Some people are frightfully greedy. He has no class, my dear. No class at all.”

  “I am in full agreement with you, Aunt Catherine.”

  Her aunt frowned. “You say you will stay at Owltree Cottage until your London property has been restored? You are welcome to stay here while I’m in France, but there will only be a few servants in residence.”

  “No thank you, Aunt. Montsimon has promised to drive me to Slough tomorrow.”

  Her aunt’s brilliant blue eyes sharpened. “Don’t get too fond of him, although I’ll wager it will prove to be very difficult.” She let out an audible breath. “There’s barely a handsomer man in London. I declare, honey drips from these diplomats’ tongues. Should they want something from you, they will get it.” She shivered delicately and dabbed her mouth with her napkin.

  “He remains a friend, Aunt. Montsimon has no wish to marry.”

  Aunt Catherine smirked. “A woman’s life does not necessarily revolve around marriage, Althea. Although the ton would have you think it does.”

  “I wonder what you mean by that.” Althea smiled at her outrageous relative.

  “If you don’t know now, girl, there’s no hope for you. Joseph?” She beckoned the remaining footman. “I don’t see cucumber sandwiches here. Has the kitchen staff deserted us?”

  Joseph, despite his big frame, employed speed and grace to carry out her wishes. Her aunt offered Althea a plate of sumptuous cakes and pastries. “I recommend the nougat almond cake. It’s excellent. You’ve hardly eaten enough to fill a sparrow at luncheon.”

  “I don’t wish to spoil my dinner,” Althea said with a smile. “You have such an excellent cook.”

  “Men like a
few curves, Althea. Be careful you don’t lose yours.”

  “I am not interested in what men like,” she said, nibbling on the cucumber sandwich that had been promptly delivered by the footman.

  Aunt Catherine gazed at her thoughtfully. “No, I see you have retreated to an ivory tower.”

  “I’m happy with that.”

  Aunt shook her head. “The only trouble with towers, they are an invitation to lightning.”

  Althea laughed. “Oh Aunt, how imaginative you are. Have you not done the same yourself after your husband passed away?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Aunt!”

  Her vivid eyes turned misty. “I loved my husband and honored his memory for some years after he died. And then I indulged in a brief affair with a very special man.”

  Althea raised her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you continue the affair? Marry the man?”

  “He was considerably younger,” her aunt said, drawing her shawl closer. “I didn’t see a future in it.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “An older woman doesn’t always want a permanent man in her life. They demand too much. I’m happy with my memories.” She eyed Althea. “Don’t waste your young years, my dear. When you reach my age, you may not have any delicious memories to dwell on.”

  Althea shook her head. “I will make no mistakes in the name of loneliness. I began my marriage with high hopes only to have them dashed. I don’t ever want to feel crushed like that again.”

  Aunt Catherine sighed sympathetically. She patted Althea’s arm. “My dear! I pray you’ll change your mind.” She smiled. “Perhaps Montsimon will change it for you.”

  “Aunt, you are a hopeless romantic! I must thank you for sending my maid back to London. The poor girl wishes to stay with her mother. This whole business has shaken us all.”

  “This Crowthorne has a bad reputation, Althea. I have made inquiries about him. Do take care.”

  “I will. Please do not worry, Aunt. Enjoy your stay in France. I shall look forward to your letters.”

  Althea thought of the trip on the morrow and her stomach tightened. She put down the rest of the sandwich, not sure which worried her most, what they might discover at Owltree, or spending more time in Montsimon’s unsettling company.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ominous, heavy rain clouds swept overhead as Montsimon’s carriage set off for Slough. Althea had dressed with care in her dove-colored carriage gown in the Grecian style. The collars and cuffs of her purple redingote were trimmed with ermine, and her hat made of the same fur. She settled against the squabs opposite Montsimon and tucked her purple half-boots out of the way of his long legs. “I hope the roads remain passable.”

  Montsimon crossed one tasseled boot over the other and settled himself against the maroon leather squabs. “No need to worry.” He gave a careless shrug. “If we must, we can put up at a coaching inn for the night.”

  “My reputation may already be in shreds, Montsimon,” she said. “This road is frequented by the ton traveling to and from Bath. If I’m seen staying at an inn in your company without even my maid—”

  “And, as the ton thrives on gossip, and will be delighted to pounce on something improper to discuss at length,” he interrupted, completing her sentence. “What a pity we won’t be making it worth their while.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or might we?”

  Althea looked at her Limeric gloves, smoothing invisible creases. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  In the ensuing silence, she couldn’t resist a peek at him.

  His eyes had turned speculative. “I suspect you didn’t enjoy being married, Althea.”

  Her face heated. Montsimon had not been married off to the highest bidder when just out of the schoolroom. Men had extraordinary freedom to do exactly as they pleased. But after her aunt’s inference that she was naive, and Brookwood’s foul claims, his suggestion hurt. “You think me a prude?”

  “No, I doubt you’ve enjoyed a man’s touch.” He smiled. “The right man can change that.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And the right man, would be…?”

  “I’m available, should you wish it.”

  Suddenly hot, she slipped her redingote from her shoulders. “The air becomes so humid when it rains.”

  Montsimon’s gaze roamed over her figure from her half boots to her bonnet, pausing rather long at her chest, as if he undressed her with his eyes. “You’re very appealing in that ensemble. How wasted your beauty would be if you chose to shut yourself away from life,” he added with a wicked smile.

  The suggestion that she was a prude hurt, but she would bear it if it kept him at a safe distance. She must never forget what he was, a notorious rake who had cut a swathe through many ladies of the ton. In his dark gray greatcoat, tan-colored trousers hugging muscled thighs, he sprawled on the seat opposite, graceful but mercurial and unpredictable. He made her fear he might spring into action at the barest invitation. She was not about to give him one.

  After sharing a bed with him without incident, she had been lulled into a false sense of security. Her heart hammered foolishly. Heavens! She was to spend days in his company. She pulled her redingote back over her shoulders and wrapped it around herself.

  “Don’t put it on. I am enjoying looking at you. You’re a pretty woman, and it’s a wonderful way to eliminate the boredom of such a trip,” he drawled. “Although, I can suggest a better way.”

  She had to fight her own battle of personal restraint as a vision flashed into her mind: her straddling his lap, her arms around his neck, her lips pressed to his tempting mouth. She took a long, steadying breath. “Oh? You’ve brought a pack of cards?” she asked, pleased at how nonchalant she sounded.

  Montsimon chuckled. “No. Did you?”

  “I did not. We might talk.”

  “We can discuss where I am to stay once we reach our destination.”

  “There’s a fine inn in the village.”

  “That’s not very generous of you.”

  It wasn’t. It was ungrateful and ill mannered. “Of course, you may stay at Owltree Manor,” she murmured, visualizing him in the spare bedchamber.

  His eyes glowed with enjoyment. How annoying he was. Was she so transparent?

  She cleared her throat. “Do you wish to search the house?”

  “Any false panels? Hidden rooms?”

  “I haven’t found any.”

  “I’ll take a look. Men will keep watch of the house after we leave.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “You have the men for such an endeavor?”

  “I’ll get them.”

  Men at his beck and call, prepared to stake out a country house in winter? A difficult thing to arrange for most, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. Althea stared at him. “There’s a mystery attached to you, Montsimon.”

  “I daresay.” He grinned. “Imagine the fun you’ll have attempting to solve it.”

  “I doubt I’ll ever learn the entire story. Not from you, at any rate.”

  “You’re unnerved. I wish you weren’t involved, believe me.” He leaned forward, a frank expression in his eyes as they searched hers. “I’ll make you a promise. I will tell you all that I can as soon as I am able.”

  “That’s a half-promise, and I’m not at all frightened.” With nothing more to say, she sank back against the seat. How did he do that? Disarm her so adroitly while lulling her into a sense of security, right when she hoped to learn more or even prompt an argument to clear the air? There was no sense in attempting to gain the upper hand. She let the matter go, for now. Her brow furrowed as she studied the wintry countryside as it passed. A prolonged silence enveloped the carriage with a sense of things unsaid.

  “Althea?”

  His voice was soft, gentle. It was as her aunt had said; a diplomat with a honey-tongue would always get what he sought. She kept her gaze on the landscape. “Yes?”

  “Was Brookwood good to you?”

  Her stomach clenched. “Not particularly.”

&nbs
p; “I suspected as much.”

  She pushed away from the window and faced him. “You knew Brookwood?”

  “Only casually. I’ve heard some distasteful things about him.”

  She had the ridiculous urge to defend her husband as if speaking of him now that he was dead was disloyal. “His mother died when he was young, and he was raised by his brutal father. A harsh, punishing man.”

  He batted the words away, a tightness in his jaw. “That’s no reason for a man to grow up to be vicious himself.”

  Alert, she observed the play of emotions on his face. Raw hurt glittered in his eyes, which had grown so dark to be almost black. She thought she recognized that pain. She had tried to help Brookwood early in their marriage. It quickly proved an impossible task.

  “Your father was cruel?” she asked quietly as compassion joined the gamut of perplexing emotions she had begun to feel for this man.

  “Not uncommon, I imagine. Many men suffer thus.”

  She coiled her fingers in her lap, fighting the need to reach out and comfort him. But if she drew from him the hurts of his sad past, she would have to confess hers. That, she wasn’t prepared to do. But she well understood how he buried his pain behind a wall of denial, adopting the persona of a charming bon-vivant. What a pair they were!

  “I have a confession,” she said after searching for a distraction.

  His expression softened. “How interesting. Please continue.”

  “While we were at the Canterbury Inn, I did leave the bedchamber.”

  He folded his arms. “I thought as much.”

  “Only for the briefest moment. But while I was in the corridor, a man came out of the parlor.”

  He frowned. “Go on.”

  “I thought I recognized him, Montsimon, and I’ve since recalled his name. It’s Cecil Hazelton. He’s an acquaintance of Brookwood’s.”