Chapter Twenty-Three
Five days passed,during which Crowthorne remained at large. By the morning of the sixth day, Flynn had to see Althea. The mystery of what Crowthorne sought continued to nag at him, and she’d be the perfect soundboard for the ideas crowding his mind.
He donned his coat and hat, pulled on gloves, and walked out into a crisp, sunny winter’s day. It must have been the weather, for his spirits rose as he strolled along.
It was far too early for a morning call, but this couldn’t wait. When he arrived at her townhouse, her aged butler asked him to be seated in the entry hall while he took up Flynn’s card.
Moments later, Butterworth descended, knees creaking. “Lady Brookwood is in the drawing room, my lord.”
Some attempt had been made to restore the room to its former elegant state. The best one could say was it was comfortable. Althea rose from her chair looking far too pretty in a rose-colored morning gown.
Jet jumped off a chair, meowed a greeting, and wound himself around Flynn’s legs. Flynn bent to stroke the length of the cat’s silky back. “The room looks almost as it was.”
“How kind of you to say so. It’s appalling.” With a warm smile, Althea held out her hand to him. “Good morning, Flynn.” She shrugged. “The landlord is most unhappy. He has asked me to consider finding somewhere else to live.”
“An idle threat. He cannot insist on it. Not if you signed a lease.” He pressed her hand to his lips. “Good morning. You look as fresh as a dewy rose in that gown.”
“How prettily put. Thank you. You’re early. I’ve just breakfasted. May I offer you coffee?”
“No, thank you. I need to discuss this affair before I go before the Royal Presence. I’d like to hear any thoughts that might have occurred to you since we parted.”
“I’ve little to offer, but please sit. That chair is the most comfortable.”
Flynn sat in the blue velvet wing chair, the seat of which was heavily patched. Jet promptly sprang onto his lap. With a sigh, he allowed the cat to settle, pushing aside thoughts of his valet’s despair.
“A question,” he said. “Supposing there is, as Crowthorne said, a cache of valuable jewels. Where would you hide it?”
Althea settled on the sofa and crossed her dainty ankles; her feet clad in black house slippers. “I believe I would give them to someone I trusted.”
He tensed and gripped the arms of the chair, dislodging the cat. “Dear lord! I think you might have hit on it! Your husband would not have hidden them himself. What a wonder you are, Althea! What trusted friend might Brookwood have appealed to?”
“I doubt he had many friends toward the end.”
“Well, he didn’t choose Churton, although he might have confided in him.”
“And most certainly not Percy Woodruff.”
The room fell silent, but for the clunk of the grandfather clock and Jet’s vociferous purring, as the cat stretched out beside Althea.
“I suspect that cat of yours is half-leopard,” Flynn said, breaking the silence.
“I can think of no one else. Brookwood never confided in me,” Althea admitted, a delicate flush warming her cheekbones.
“Because he knew you would disapprove of such skullduggery.”
“He seldom talked to me in those last few months.” She bit her lip. “He had acquired a new mistress.”
“He had a mistress? Who was she?”
“The widow, Emma Grimshaw.”
“Grimshaw? I don’t know her.”
Althea lowered her gaze to her hands in her lap. “You wouldn’t. Brookwood kept her to himself. She is rarely seen in society. I only learned about her because he confessed it when in his cups.”
Flynn wished Brookwood were still alive, so he could have the pleasure of murdering him. “We must speak to her. I wonder if she’s in London.”
“I’ve no idea. We don’t mix in the same circles. And I’ve attended few engagements since we returned to the city.”
