“No.”
“Then I wish you good evening, Lady Brookwood.”
Montsimon exuded a fierce energy, which might have resulted from anger or frustration, though why he should care she had no idea. She watched him fling himself into the carriage. It was gone around the corner before her butler opened the door.
Althea entered the house, weary to her bones. She was glad Montsimon hadn’t remained to further argue the point. He was exhausting, and she’d felt quite unequal to it. A good night’s sleep was needed. But once in bed, she lay wide-awake as anguish for Churton made her rigid with horror. Despite Montsimon’s assurance that she was not to blame, she wasn’t entirely sure. Would he discover who killed Churton? If he did, would she ever learn the truth?
Montsimon had said Sir Horace was cruel. Of that she had no doubt. She shuddered and pulled up the coverlet.
The next morning after breakfast, the butler entered the drawing room carrying a letter on a silver tray. “A letter has arrived, my lady.”
“Thank you, Butterworth.” At her desk, Althea eagerly slit the missive open with the mother-of-pearl letter opener. Lord Percy Woodruff had responded promptly to her request to see him. Still deeply affected by Lord Churton’s death, she prayed this man could help her. Her husband and Lord Percy had been close. On the few occasions she’d met him, Lord Percy appeared to be harmless enough, a garrulous man with a love of gossip. If he had knowledge of Crowthorne’s plans, it might be easy to coax it from him.
Lord Percy was her last hope. She held her breath as she scanned the page. He admitted he was an acquaintance of Crowthorne’s, but he was on the verge of departing for the country and would be gone for some weeks. He was, however, to hold a card party that evening. Was it possible for her to come to see him tonight at eight o’clock? They could then discuss the matter.
It was a less than perfect solution. To call on a strange gentleman at night, unaccompanied, was both scandalous and possibly perilous. If Lord Percy hadn’t reminded her of some friendly woodland animal, she would have refused immediately. Althea tapped her finger on the polished wooden surface, undecided. Would their discussion be held in private? Might he be able to give her his time when he had guests? She considered taking her maid, but she didn’t wish to involve her staff in this affair.
If she didn’t go, who could she turn to next? Unable to supply an answer, she decided to accept. Surely, taking some form of action was preferable to doing nothing. She trimmed her pen, dipped it into the inkpot, and paused, staring at the blank sheet of vellum. Then she dashed off a reply and rang for the footman to deliver it before she changed her mind.
