Chapter Thirteen
“Althea?”
Flynn leaned forward and gently shook Althea’s arm where she lay sleeping, tucked up in a sheepskin rug. She had slept almost the whole way to London, only waking briefly for a hot drink while they changed horses. He suffered another twinge of guilt. She had been exhausted. But at least she was safe. For now.
She opened her eyes and gazed at him groggily from her corner of the carriage. “Have we reached the city?”
“We’re in Mayfair.”
Althea gazed out the window at the passing street lamps. “So I see.” She fiddled with her hair, then smoothed her crumpled gown with a moue of distaste. “I shall be glad of a change of clothes and my own bed tonight.”
He’d found her rumpled appearance rather appealing. “Are you still angry because I took you with me to Canterbury?”
“Abducted is a better description. It appears you meant well, but an overreaction on your part, perhaps.” Her slight smile held defiance. “I am neither aggrieved nor harmed by the experience, but I now must face my servants who will be worried.”
The carriage turned into her street. Minutes later, it stopped outside her townhouse, ablaze with candlelight. As Flynn assisted her onto the pavement, Althea’s elderly butler scrambled down the steps, his usual dignity deserting him.
“I’m sorry to have worried you, Butterworth….” she began.
“My lady!” Butterworth’s voice throbbed in distress. “Something dreadful has happened!”
Althea stared at him. “My goodness, what’s occurred?”
“We’ve been robbed!”
She gasped. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“When did it happen?” Flynn clenched his jaw and followed them inside.
“Sometime during the night, my lord,” Butterworth said raggedly. “They broke in through a downstairs window. A constable has come.”
Althea pressed her hands to her face in shocked silence while Flynn stalked grimly around the once elegant drawing room. It had been ripped asunder, even the furniture slashed by some maniac’s hand.
“Do you know what they’ve taken, Butterworth?” Althea asked, finding her voice.
“Not as yet, my lady. It’s difficult…” He waved his arm. “The way things are.”
“Is this the only room ransacked?” Flynn asked the old man.
“No, my lord.” Butterworth’s mouth drooped. He gazed anxiously at Althea. “I’m afraid your bedchamber has been badly damaged, too, my lady.”
Flynn scowled. “Show us, Butterworth.”
“Eh, my lord?” Butterworth put a hand to his ear.
“Take me to see Lady Brookwood’s chamber,” Flynn repeated, raising his voice.
Althea’s bedchamber and the adjoining room were an even worse mess, with drawers emptied onto the floor, her jewelry box forced open, clothes and books scattered about, wallpaper stripped, and the carpets pulled up. Althea gave a distressed gasp. Flynn wanted to hold her but remained where he was, curling his hands into fists as anger coiled through him. This was beyond anything a common thief might do. What were they looking for? “They would have created quite a racket. Did the servants hear anything?”
“None of us did, my lord,” Butterworth said. “Not even Cook, who doesn’t sleep well, but she confessed to a nip of sherry before retiring.”
Althea clutched her hands together. “What about the rest of the house?”
“Most rooms suffered some damage, my lady.” Butterworth’s voice quivered. “Except for the attic rooms and below stairs. They weren’t touched.”
“An inventory must be taken of everything stolen,” Althea said. “Then we can set about organizing the repairs.”
