The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

by Maggie Andersen

  Fear stabbed into Flynn’s chest like a hot poker. He loosened his hand around Crowthorne’s neck before he gave in to the urge to kill him. “Where is she, Crowthorne?”

  “Surely you don’t expect me to tell you? Lady Brookwood is my insurance until I leave England. She’s a pretty piece. I may even take her with me.”

  Flynn viewed the smug man through a swirl of red mist. He was barely aware of his fist crunching into Crowthorne’s jaw. His knuckles ached at the solid left hook but felt good, so he followed it with a right to the man’s soft stomach.

  “Oomph.” Crowthorne fell to his knees.

  “Get up!” Flynn snarled, kicking out at him.

  Crowthorne staggered to his feet and swiped at his cut lip with a finger. He was breathing heavily. “This will get you nowhere, Montsimon.” He coughed, fighting for breath. “We are wasting what is left of the night.”

  “You haven’t found anything. And you’re not going to,” Flynn said.

  Rage distorted Crowthorne’s features, reminding Flynn of the gargoyles decorating his Irish staircase. “I advise you to leave me to find it. It’s that or your lady’s life.”

  Desperation tightened his chest. Flynn realized he would not make Crowthorne talk with the use of force. He held an ace. Althea. “What is this damnable thing you seek?”

  “Jewels, Montsimon,” Crowthorne said, his eyes alight. “The likes of which you have never seen. You can share in the spoils if you agree to turn your back. Brookwood hid them here. Allow my men to continue their search and I’ll hand over Lady Brookwood.”

  He didn’t believe that for a second. “How did Brookwood come by these jewels?”

  “We’re jewel thieves. And bloody good at it,” the robber said.

  “Shut up you fool!” Crowthorne snarled.

  “You got us into this,” the thief yelled. “Said it was foolproof, you did!” He stepped toward Crowthorne, only to be pushed back by Bricks. “It was all ’is doing.” He said to Flynn. “’e gave us the names and addresses of the rich toffs and told us when they’d be away in the country. We robbed a lot of ’em last year. Sir ’arold ’ad great plans, ’e did, to make our fortunes.”

  “I might be agreeable to an arrangement,” Flynn said as a gasp of surprise came from Bricks. There had been a spate of jewel robberies from members of the ton in London about that time. But a few jewels, no matter how fine, would hardly cause Crowthorne to take such risks. “Get on with it. Then you will take me to Althea.”

  Crowthorne turned to Hazelton. “You heard what Lord Montsimon said. Get moving.”

  Flynn edged closer to Bricks as the men busied themselves banging on the paneling. “I want Crowthorne to escape,” he said in the man’s ear.

  Bricks nodded.

  Flynn folded his arms and tried to ignore the destruction as fine oak wainscoting, which had been in place for hundreds of years, was jimmied from the walls. Althea would be heartbroken. He hoped to have it restored before…. He drew in lungfuls of air, despairing. Had he been careless not to have protected her? His blood ran cold at the thought of her held captive by these brutes. Was she hurt? Had Crowthorne touched her? He would kill him if he had. Where had they taken her?

  He steeled himself. Let Crowthorne think he has the upper hand. To outwit this man, he had to play him at his own game. With the hope he would lead Flynn to Althea, Flynn fought his impatience and waited for the perfect moment to cause a disturbance which would allow Crowthorne to escape.

  Chapter Twenty

  Althea had no idea where she was. They had blindfolded her before they brought her here. Glad they’d at least removed the scarf from her eyes, she slowed her breathing, frightened that the panic she’d experienced as a child would return. Her fear of being restrained and locked in small places had never left her since her brother, Freddie, had shut her in an airtight cupboard. She’d been almost senseless when they’d found her.

  Surrounded by racks of wine, she was tied fast to a wooden chair. The cellar was carved out of rock, the air dank. She stared around in the dim light, dry-eyed, the back of her throat aching from unshed tears. Was she in a tavern? No sounds of revelry penetrated the heavy door at the top of the stairs. It was utterly silent. Her exhausted mind wouldn’t stop wrestling with fearful questions. Had Ben and Mrs. Peebles been allowed to go free? Would Crowthorne fall for the trap, and Flynn learn the truth from him? Was Jet safe in Mayfair, or cast out on the road?

  Crowthorne had left the man with cold eyes to watch her. He came in to check on her every hour. The way he looked at her made her want to be sick. He reeked of ale and his hands grew less steady each time he leaned over her to check her bonds.

  Next time he came, she would beg him to let her go to the privy. Once out of this cellar, she might find a way to escape.

  A huge rat scuttled across the stone floor toward her. Althea stiffened in horror. It sniffed at one of her feet and she froze, a scream trapped in her throat. It stopped to stare at her before disappearing behind the racks. She took a deep breath and yelled.

  The door opened, and the man came down the steps, an evil-looking knife tucked into a scabbard at his waist. “I told you to be quiet.”

  “There’s a rat here!”

  “More than one I imagine.” He laughed. “You have bigger things to worry about than vermin.”

  “I need to go to the privy.”

  “Am I supposed to care?”

  “You will if Crowthorne learns of it. Because you won’t get paid.”

  He pulled the scarf from his pocket and blindfolded her again. She held her breath as his fingers worked at the ropes around her ankles.

  He dragged her to her feet, his strong hands rough and careless. She sagged and almost fell. When she steadied herself, she shrugged out of his grasp. “Untie my hands.”

  “Can’t have that. You might get it into your head to give me trouble.”

  “And how would I do that? Overpower you? I can’t manage if you don’t.”

  He cursed and fumbled at the tight knots. She winced as his impatient fingers hurt her sore wrists. “If you try anything, I’ll hurt you.”

  She stroked the delicate skin rubbed raw. “Crowthorne said you weren’t to touch me.”

  “I can hurt you where it doesn’t show.” He pushed her. “Walk. Up the stairs.”

  Althea stumbled blindly up the steps with him prodding her from behind. When his hand touched her derriere, she froze. “Take your hands off me, or Crowthorne will learn of it.”

  He shoved her again, this time a finger between her shoulder blades. “I find better company in a tavern wench. He’s welcome to you.”

  He reached in and she heard him take the key from the lock, before he pushed her into the privy. “Replace the blindfold when you come out.” The door shut behind her. She eased the scarf away and blinked. The privy was too clean for a tavern. The narrow, high window useless. Her spirits sank to her boots. Escape was impossible. He would kill her if she tried. He appeared to fear nothing. And there was nothing decent in his nature that she could appeal to. She could only hope that the promise of Crowthorne’s money would keep her alive.

  A jug and a bowl of water sat on a console. She drank from it then washed her sore wrists and face. Then she replaced the blindfold and called out to him. He opened the door. She’d tied the scarf loosely. As she shuffled forward, she looked down at an expensive Turkey carpet on the floor. She passed by a fine rosewood table. Definitely not a tavern; a gentleman’s house, but surely not Crowthorne’s. He wouldn’t risk taking her there.

  “Can’t you put me in another room upstairs? It’s too cold in that cellar,” she pleaded as he retied the scarf making it tighter. “You know I can’t escape.”

  Without answering her, he led her by the elbow, back down the stairs. He pushed her onto the hard seat and secured her hands again, her arms aching from the strain.

  His footsteps moved away from her. “You’ve forgotten the blindfold,” she yelled, fearing she wou
ld fall into hysterics.

  “It stays on this time.”

  “No! Please.” The door slammed shut behind him as sobs racked her dry throat.

  *

  Gray morning light filtered into the room. Crowthorne’s men worked with devastating effectiveness. All the oak paneling had been stripped from the walls, revealing nothing behind them but lath and horsehair plaster.

  Crowthorne bounced up and down. “There’s a loose floorboard here. Roll up the rug!”

  The floorboards were bared, and the loose board levered up with a crowbar.

  The ruffian stuck his arm down and felt around. “Nothing ’ere.”

  “It was never here!” Hazelton said, his voice shaking. “A complete waste of time. I’ve had enough. We must leave, Crowthorne. It’s almost dawn. I live here in Slough. People look up to me, damn it. I’m a respected member of this village.”

  “Will you calm down?” Crowthorne roared. “I have dispatched Goodrich and Wensley for disagreeing with my methods. I’ll happily send you both to join them in Hades.” He glared at the frightened man. “Don’t just stand there like a wax effigy, Hazelton. Think!”

  “You had Goodrich and Wensley killed?” Hazelton’s eyes grew round with fear. He took a hurried step backward and stumbled over the rolled-up carpet. Falling heavily, he tried to right himself, grabbing the table where a lamp and a branch of candles stood. The table gave way, and they tumbled to the floor. The lamp broke, spilling kerosene. Before anyone could move, flames raced across the carpet and climbed the curtains.

  Flynn grabbed a cushion and began to beat out the flames. He pulled the curtains down and stamped on the embers, cursing as the sofa began to smolder.

  “They’re getting away!” Bricks shouted.

  Flynn whirled around as a barrage of deafening shots filled the room.

  Hazelton and his cohort lay spread-eagled on the floor halfway out the door. “Bloody hell! I didn’t want them killed!” Flynn leapt after Crowthorne.

  “Sorry, my lord,” Bricks said, running behind him. “My men were spooked.”

  Out on the road, Crowthorne’s horse broke the silence as it galloped away.

  “Go back and put out that fire!” Flynn yelled at Bricks, while running for a horse tethered to the fence.

  Flynn leapt onto the horse. “Go!” He nudged its flanks, and swearing vociferously, galloped after Crowthorne, while his hope that the scoundrel would lead him to Althea evaporated. The man was already out of sight.

  Flynn rode to Crowthorne’s house. The gates were bolted and the mansion stood in darkness. He considered breaking in but doubted Crowthorne had come back there. He couldn’t afford to waste valuable time. The thought of Crowthorne putting his hands on Althea made him yell out in frustration as his horse sidled nervously.

  Flynn steadied his mount and rode back along the road, driven by the desperate hope that he might know where Althea was kept prisoner.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Althea clamped her lips on a whimper. For some hours she’d been painfully loosening the bonds restricting her wrists. She was a hair’s breadth from freeing herself when the squeak of door hinges made her stop. Footsteps descended the stairs. Her jailer’s foul smell gave him away. His hands tangled spitefully in her hair. He whipped off the blindfold pulling out strands in the process. She blinked into the bleak light filtering down the stairwell through the open door. The night had been endless. She was weak with exhaustion, her stomach growling with hunger. If only she could gain a little time. She was so close.

  “Can I have something to eat?”

  His face twisted into an ugly scowl. “Crowthorne should have been back by now.”

  The sudden chill of realization made her breathless. He had removed his disguise, his cruel face exposed, a web of scars crisscrossing his cheek. She sagged in the chair. He planned to kill her.

  “If he doesn’t turn up soon, I’m off.” He tilted his head to see what effect this would have on her, reminding her of a cat toying with a bird. “Now, what shall I do with you?”

  “Let me go. I won’t cause you any trouble,” she whispered.

  “Can’t do that. Maybe if you hadn’t pulled off my disguise back there in the woods. I did warn you, didn’t I.” His pale almost colorless eyes flicked over her. “If you’d made it worth my while, I might have considered letting you go, but you’re an unfriendly wench.”

  He was lying. He would never have let her go. How odd that she was freezing and hot at the same time and dreadfully thirsty. “I can hear someone coming up the carriageway,” she said, in the hope of distracting him.

  “Eh?” He spun around. “It had better be Crowthorne!”

  He ran up the steps. Althea frantically twisted her hands, every movement sending bursts of pain along her muscles and scalding her tender, raw skin. Her breath came in loud bursts. She had only minutes to free herself.

  Her urgent thrashing tipped the chair over. Althea fell heavily on her hip on the icy stone floor. She clamped her mouth shut and fought against crying out while she tried not to think about rats. Being on her side lessened the load on her arms. She wriggled her wrists back and forth sending sharp pains up her arms.

  Suddenly, she dragged a hand free.

  She tamped down the urge to give a whoop of joy and worked hard to free the other. Her hands shook and she was weak from lack of water and nourishment. At last, her hand came free, and she stretched down to tug at the ropes binding her ankles.

  Minutes seemed like hours. When at last they fell away, she staggered to her feet, the blood rushing painfully into her legs. She was about to run up the steps when the door at the top opened. With a gasp, she turned and scuttled to the back of the cellar and crouched behind the tall shelves filled with bottles of wine and champagne. She drew down a bottle of champagne from the shelf above her.

  Her abductor thundered down the stairs filling the air with his foul curses. “Where’ve you got to, wench? You’ve made it worse for yourself. When I get my hands on you, I’ll make you suffer. And I’ll take my time.” He chuckled as he roamed the racks, making a game of searching for her.

  She caught a movement between the stacked wines. He was one rack away from finding her. Althea could hear his breathing; surely, he could hear hers?

  With an effort, she raised the heavy bottle above her head.

  *

  Flynn galloped along the driveway sending gravel flying. Ahead, Hazelton’s mansion stood shrouded by trees. Crowthorne wasn’t aware that Flynn had been there, so he might think it a good place to hide Althea. There was no carriage in the drive and no sign of Crowthorne’s horse. Praying he had guessed right, Flynn jumped down, leaving the reins trailing, and ran to the house. No sound came from within. Had Hazelton sent his servants away? If Crowthorne wasn’t here, where had he gone? He might be on his way there, only moments behind Flynn.

  The French doors were locked. Aware every minute could count, Flynn abandoned any idea of stealth. Let them know he was coming. Smoke them out. He picked up a small garden statue from the terrace and threw it at the door. The glass exploded. Flynn aimed his boot at the last shards of glass, then stepped through the gap. “Althea!”

  No one answered. He yelled again, expecting someone to rush to investigate, but the house appeared empty. Disappointment twisted in his belly. Had he been wrong? He ran the length of the corridor, checking each room. Where would they have hidden her? Upstairs? He paused with a hand on the banister, and tried to listen, while the loud pounding of his heart deafened him. He almost doubted the sound. A faint cry from somewhere deep inside the house.

  “Althea?” he roared.

  He heard her again and made for the servants’ stairs, racing down yelling her name over and over.

  In the kitchen, the cellar door burst open. Althea stood wobbling on her feet, the neck of a broken champagne bottle in her hand.

  “Althea!” Hot with relief, Flynn took the bottle from her, tossed it down, and drew her into his arms.<
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  She buried her face in his shoulder and shuddered. “My jailer is in the cellar. I think I’ve killed him.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Flynn led her to a chair. He eased her down onto it and ran an anxious gaze over her. “Did they hurt you?”

  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.”