“Indeed. County Wicklow.”
“Do you not intend to return there to live?”
“Settle down to domestic life? It doesn’t appeal.”
His life in England and the Continent working for the foreign office would be far too exciting to exchange for a country estate in Ireland, she supposed. She had never been there and was suddenly curious. “Is it a pretty place?”
He huffed out a short laugh. “No one would call the house pretty, but it’s beautiful country. And not far from the sea.”
They approached her house where lamplight in the downstairs windows flickered a welcome. Montsimon drove into the carriageway and pulled up the horses. He leaped to the ground and held out his arms to assist her down. Althea placed her hands on his shoulders and leaned into him, held for a moment against his hard body before he politely released her. She stepped back, suffering the urge to throw herself upon his chest again and sob out her sorry tale. The notion was so ridiculous she almost laughed.Out of the frying pan, into the fire.She was very grateful that he’d come along when he had. “Thank you, my lord. You have saved me from a long, wet walk.”
“I should not have liked to learn you became ill from an inflammation of the lungs.” He replaced his hat and leapt back into the phaeton, his long legs making the action appear easy.
“You are driving all the way back to London tonight?” she asked, wishing to extend the conversation. “In this vehicle?”
“Not likely.” He grinned. “I plan to stay with a friend, Viscount Warren. He has a country house in Biddlesden, Aylesbury Vale.”
The heavens opened with a deluge. Althea hurried to shelter on the porch as he drove away, carriage lights fading into the mist. She remained staring into the dark, her worries returning in full force. What was she to do? Her heart lurched when she remembered Sir Horace’s hard stare. He had the upper hand or he would never have spoken. Even if the deed she held was sound, it would not be beneath him to get what he wanted by skullduggery. She could not lose Owltree. She would not. Her next step would be to appeal to her solicitor, but she feared he’d be of little help. She rented her London townhouse, and with her meager stipend from Brookwood, it was always a squeeze to make ends meet, even with stringent economic measures and few staff.
When Brookwood’s nephew, Aubrey, had returned from the West Indies to claim Brookwood’s title, he had been scathing about the lack of children in her marriage, rudely intimated that her family came from further down the social scale, and that she had married his uncle for his money while refusing him her bed. Hardly her fault that her husband was usually too drunk to visit her bed. Aubrey made no offer to help her. The dower house stood empty. That didn’t bother her, apart from the unfairness of his insinuations. She would choose to live in a hovel before she became beholden to him, a younger version of her husband. He was driven more by greed than misplaced moral outrage, she suspected. In truth, the only man she trusted was her brother. But if driven from her home, she wouldn’t return to Dorset. Freddie and his wife, and their six children, filled every corner of their small farmhouse.
She had to think. If only this headache would fade. She entered the house where Sally waited up for her.
“I have a dreadful megrim, Sally.”
“You go on up, my lady. I’ll bring some feverfew in a trice.”
After Sally’s kind ministrations, Althea retired to bed and lay silently as hour after hour passed. Eventually, the tincture did its work, and her headache ebbed away. She might go to her aunt. But Catherine couldn’t help her hold on to Owltree. No, she must turn to one of the men who had shown an interest in her. A man with considerable influence who could uncover Sir Horace’s secrets.
Why did the baronet really want Owltree Manor? If she learned more about his intentions, perhaps they might be used to fight him. But this powerful gentleman whose help she sought, what might she offer him? It would not be marriage. She gasped with a shiver of panic and fought to calm herself. No, that was impossible, and yet, what else did she have to offer but her body? An affair?
She believed Brookwood had broken something inside her. Remembrance caused a hollow vacuum of loss to well up and flood her with sadness. She turned over in bed, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof and hoped Montsimon had reached his destination safely.
