“I expect I’ll lose you soon.” Removing her fur hat, Althea patted her hair as she entered the front door.
“We plan to wed when Ned leaves the Navy next year. He hopes to one day become the landlord of the Red Cow.”
“A fine goal. What an asset you will be to him. I wish you both well and will help in any way I can.”
“Thank you, milady. We’ll be ever so grateful.”
After Sally assisted her out of her olive pelisse and took her things upstairs, Althea entered the snug salon where leaded windows gave a view of the garden. The leaves of the magnificent old oak hung like curled dusty fists on the branches, and beyond, the trees in the wood were still skeletal, waiting to be painted in fresh green leaf. Althea gazed about her, pleased to see that, as usual, every surface was polished, and every rug soundly beaten. This house, humble though it was, had kept her sane through the bad times.
Althea needed no urging to come home. It was here in this small, quiet corner of England that she had escaped her husband’s company when he was busy with his own pursuits, and had no need for her to act as hostess at his country seat, Brookwood Park. Her husband’s nephew, Aubrey, had inherited the estate, along with the other entailed properties, but she didn’t miss the draughty old mansion. She had no need of grand establishments.
The delicious aroma of fresh bread and biscuits wafted in the air. Althea’s stomach rumbled. “Cook has been baking?”
“All morning, milady,” Sally said.
“I have barely eaten today and shall indulge with a cup of tea, as soon as I’ve changed out of my traveling gown.” A sleepy black tomcat woke and stretched on the window seat. He jumped down with a meow of welcome and stalked over to rub against her legs.
Althea reached down and picked him up. “Have you missed me, Jet?” She stroked his sleek vibrating body and walked to the window to run a critical eye over her rose garden, picturing how delightful it would be in a month or so.
“It happened again, my lady,” Sally said. “I came downstairs and found Jet in the garden. Somehow, he managed to open the window.”
Althea put down the cat. Her body ached and she longed for a hot bath after the uncomfortable carriage ride with its inferior springs on rutted roads. “How very odd,” she said with a moment of disquiet. “He’s a clever cat, but that window latch isn’t loose.” She beckoned to her maid. “Come upstairs, Sally, I require a bath and a change of clothes. Then you must spend what’s left of the day with your Ned.”
The next morning, Althea woke with a luxurious stretch. She slept like the dead here. How pleasant to wake to the sparrow’s chirrup on the roof instead of the noise of traffic and shouts of early tradesmen and hawkers in the streets. After drinking a refreshing cup of coffee and nibbling a sweet roll at breakfast, she donned a shawl and wandered out to better inspect the garden. It was a treat not to be in London and have to be one’s well-turned out best from morning till night. A crisp breeze toyed with her hair, which Sally had yet to dress, as she was busy unpacking Althea’s trunk.
A volley of gunshot carried on the breeze from deep in the Crowthorne Woods. She stared at the pale sky now filled with fluttering birds. More shots followed. Sir Horace’s weekend guests, no doubt.
The crunch of heavy footsteps on the gravel made her turn.
“Lady Brookwood? Your maid said I might find you here.” Sir Horace strode toward her, his gray head bare, hat in hand. She stiffened. Sally would not have directed him here. How dare he come unannounced into her garden?
She nodded. “Sir Horace.”
He tucked a thumb into his crimson waistcoat, which strained over his stomach, and smiled unabashed. “I heard you had arrived yesterday. Nothing remains a secret for long in Slough. I called to welcome you home.”
“How kind. I expected you to be out with your party.”
“And so I was.”
“Have you left your guests?” Aware of her hair loose over her shoulders, she smoothed it back while the baronet, a man of some fifty years, stared at her with hooded, hawkish eyes.
“They shan’t miss me when their blood is up. I’ll return to them shortly. Lady Crowthorne has asked me to extend a dinner invitation to you for this evening.”
Althea very much doubted it. His second wife, Lady Crowthorne, had not been at all welcoming in the past. A widow such as herself young enough to tempt a husband, made her unpopular with some married women. “How good of her to think of me. But I must decline. I came here to rest after a demanding Christmas season.”
He cocked his head. “Surely someone so young and full of life prefers bright company to her own?”
The chill breeze whooshed through the poplars and lifted the hair from her neck, blowing strands across her face. She tucked it back while suppressing a shiver. “Please consider me for the next occasion. I shall have to decline, I’m afraid I’m exhausted.” Annoyed by his boorish behavior, she picked up the skirts of her morning gown and crossed the damp grass to the house. “You must excuse me. I must dress. You have caught meen dishabille.”
“I shan’t complain about that. You look as fresh as a dewy morning.” He strode after her. “My guests will be greatly disappointed. I believe you know many of them.” He rattled off some familiar names. “I promise to return you to your home before midnight, so it needn’t tax your strength.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to halt. Althea’s hackles rose at his effrontery, but she held her tongue. Unwise to foster bad relations with a neighbor, especially a wealthy, powerful man such as he.
He held out his hands, palm upward. “How can you say no to music, dancing, and the superb food prepared by my excellent French chef?” Hard brown eyes assessed her as he crossed his arms. “I won’t leave until you agree.” It infuriated her. Another man who was used to getting what he wanted.
Under his steady gaze, she sought for a polite excuse. “I keep no carriage here.”
“No problem. I’ll send mine to get you.”
He was intractable. She forced a smile and decided to agree if only to get rid of him. “Then I can hardly refuse such a promising evening’s entertainment.” She dipped a curtsey and continued to walk to the house, refusing to escort him to the door. Let him exit the way he came.
“Six o’clock,” he called after her.
