Chapter Six
Flynn reclaimed hiscoat and escorted the shocked and trembling Lady Brookwood indoors after reassuring her that she was not the cause of Churton’s death. He did not like her mixed up in this business. He did not like it at all. As she was, he must learn the extent of her involvement but so far there was little she could tell him.
“You need brandy. I’ll go in search of some.” He guided her to a vacant chair, aware he’d been blunt, but he needed to be. He found a crystal carafe and poured out a half-full glass of amber fluid then handed it to her.
She took a big swallow and choked.
“Take it easy, spirits are strong. Just sip it.”
She gazed up at him with enormous, imploring violet eyes, which affected him more than he liked to admit.Deuce it. “Did you come alone tonight, Lady Brookwood?”
“I did, yes.”
“I’ll take you home, if I may. We can talk further.”
She nodded and took another sip.
“Wait for me. I have business to attend to.” He bowed and left her. While they had been on the terrace, news of Churton’s death had spread like fire through dried grass. He heard it spoken of in shocked tones as he made his way through the reception rooms searching for Barraclough.
He found him. With a nod, Barraclough joined Flynn in the empty library. Flynn closed the door.
“Nasty business,” Barraclough observed.
“I liked the man.” Anger spread like a fever along Flynn’s shoulders and back. “Have you any idea who did it?”
Barraclough shook his head. “None.”
“I can’t see a link to the matter we’re investigating. Can you?”
“No. But one might emerge. We must remain alert.”
Neither Lord Goodrich nor Robert Wensley had put in an appearance tonight. Something might turn up with Sidmouth’s spies watching their movements.
“It appears that Lady Althea Brookwood might have become caught up in it.”
“Oh? How?”
As Flynn explained, his determination to find Churton’s murderer tightened his chest. They could not take it lightly, for Churton spied for the crown, as did Flynn.
*
The crowd hadthinned, the last of the guests waiting at the door for their carriages, when Montsimon finally reappeared. He had been gone for most of the evening. Edgy and annoyed, and in no mood to discuss the latest fashions, theatrical performances, or poetical achievements, Althea had spent the time in a distressed fog, mystified as to why she allowed Montsimon to take her home. The shock of poor Lord Churton’s death following so closely on her request for help, had completely rattled her.
“I was about to order a hackney,” Althea said. “I’d begun to fear you’d gone without me.”
“Oh no, my lady. We must talk,” Montsimon said, thoroughly unnerving her.
“And I have a few questions for you, too, my lord,” she countered crisply.
She wrapped her warm cape around her and climbed into his carriage while considering the questions she wished to put to him.
Spot sat up, shook himself, and barked a greeting. At any other time, she would have laughed. This was hardly what one would expect of a distinguished diplomat. If indeed, that was all that he was. She eyed Montsimon, settling opposite her in his dark evening cloak.
“Sit, Spot!” Montsimon ordered. Surprisingly, the crossbreed obeyed him, turning around twice on his special pillow in one corner.
“He likes you,” Montsimon said, a smile turning up the corners of his handsome mouth. “You should be flattered. Spot’s approval is rarely given.”
“Animals can distinguish friend from foe.”
