“I’ll get them.”
Men at his beck and call, prepared to stake out a country house in winter? A difficult thing to arrange for most, but he didn’t bat an eyelash. Althea stared at him. “There’s a mystery attached to you, Montsimon.”
“I daresay.” He grinned. “Imagine the fun you’ll have attempting to solve it.”
“I doubt I’ll ever learn the entire story. Not from you, at any rate.”
“You’re unnerved. I wish you weren’t involved, believe me.” He leaned forward, a frank expression in his eyes as they searched hers. “I’ll make you a promise. I will tell you all that I can as soon as I am able.”
“That’s a half-promise, and I’m not at all frightened.” With nothing more to say, she sank back against the seat. How did he do that? Disarm her so adroitly while lulling her into a sense of security, right when she hoped to learn more or even prompt an argument to clear the air? There was no sense in attempting to gain the upper hand. She let the matter go, for now. Her brow furrowed as she studied the wintry countryside as it passed. A prolonged silence enveloped the carriage with a sense of things unsaid.
“Althea?”
His voice was soft, gentle. It was as her aunt had said; a diplomat with a honey-tongue would always get what he sought. She kept her gaze on the landscape. “Yes?”
“Was Brookwood good to you?”
Her stomach clenched. “Not particularly.”
“I suspected as much.”
She pushed away from the window and faced him. “You knew Brookwood?”
“Only casually. I’ve heard some distasteful things about him.”
She had the ridiculous urge to defend her husband as if speaking of him now that he was dead was disloyal. “His mother died when he was young, and he was raised by his brutal father. A harsh, punishing man.”
He batted the words away, a tightness in his jaw. “That’s no reason for a man to grow up to be vicious himself.”
Alert, she observed the play of emotions on his face. Raw hurt glittered in his eyes, which had grown so dark to be almost black. She thought she recognized that pain. She had tried to help Brookwood early in their marriage. It quickly proved an impossible task.
“Your father was cruel?” she asked quietly as compassion joined the gamut of perplexing emotions she had begun to feel for this man.
“Not uncommon, I imagine. Many men suffer thus.”
She coiled her fingers in her lap, fighting the need to reach out and comfort him. But if she drew from him the hurts of his sad past, she would have to confess hers. That, she wasn’t prepared to do. But she well understood how he buried his pain behind a wall of denial, adopting the persona of a charming bon-vivant. What a pair they were!
“I have a confession,” she said after searching for a distraction.
His expression softened. “How interesting. Please continue.”
“While we were at the Canterbury Inn, I did leave the bedchamber.”
He folded his arms. “I thought as much.”
“Only for the briefest moment. But while I was in the corridor, a man came out of the parlor.”
He frowned. “Go on.”
“I thought I recognized him, Montsimon, and I’ve since recalled his name. It’s Cecil Hazelton. He’s an acquaintance of Brookwood’s.”
Montsimon’s gaze sharpened. “What can you tell me about this Hazelton?”
“He was an old school friend of Brookwood’s, and they kept in contact through the years. He has a country house somewhere near Owltree. I know this because, while staying at the cottage, Brookwood rode over to visit him. It can’t be far. He was there and back in a matter of a few hours.”
“It’s interesting that he used a false name at the inn. Now why would that be? I’ll need to pay a visit to this Cecil Hazelton.”
“I’m sure someone in Slough will know of him. The inn keeper or a shopkeeper, or perhaps the vicar.”
