Page 42 of The Vagabond Viscount
He took comfort in knowing that without a body, the earl would likely have to wait the full seven years before making an application to the court to have his son declared legally dead. Charles Cadnam, followed by his son Christopher, would become his father’s heir. No matter whether his uncle or cousin eventually inherited the title, the line of Earls of Bramshaw would continue.
The fact that Flynn was not only alive but that he fully intended making it back to England would come as a rather nasty shock to his father. When his not-dead son turned up on the doorstep of Bramshaw House, the earl would find it a terrible inconvenience.
And hopefully you will have to face the consequences of your villainy.
“You didn’t count on the kindness of strangers, did you?” he whispered.
The men on board the boat, who had been paid to smuggle the badly injured Flynn out of England, had decided that they couldn’t bring themselves to toss the wounded viscount into the sea. Instead, they had sewn him up as best they could and eventually dumped him at a monastery near Pisa. Far from home, and far enough away from anyone who might come looking for him. The chances of Flynn making it safely back to England were remote.
But the past weeks had seen a vast improvement in his situation. He now had a warm, safe bed. And he had made a couple of friends. In his pocket were a few coins, enough to make sure that his belly was full by the time he went to sleep most nights.
A local café owner and his wife had taken Flynn under their wing and extended him credit when necessary. And when he was particularly low in funds, they had graciously allowed him to work off his food and wine scrubbing pots and cleaning tables.
As a future earl, it was a long way from where he should be, but if the past year had gifted anything to Flynn, it was a deep sense of gratitude for the smallest of blessings. Despite his father’s best endeavors, he was still alive. He had mostly recovered from his injuries, and his life had taken a turn for the better.
I have hope.
His thoughts drifted to the letter he had written to Augusta, explaining what had happened to him and why he had disappeared. He had caved to his desires and decided it was worth the risk to write to her. In his note, he had instructed Augusta to keep his whereabouts a secret.
And if someone else did discover that he was alive and decide to visit mischief upon him, Flynn was recovered enough from his wounds that he felt ready to face any potential threats which might happen to come his way.
Last week, he had passed the precious missive onto a tourist who was heading back to England. With luck, Augusta would have it within the next month. And if she penned him a quick reply, it could possibly reach him by no later than June.
Who knows, I might be home by then and be able to surprise her in person.
It had been over a year since he had last seen Augusta. His vow to confront his father, then come and claim her, had gone unfulfilled.
Many nights he had lain awake and wondered what was happening in London. What Augusta was doing. What lies his father had told the world.
Had she given up on him and found someone else? Their parting that day in Hyde Park had been one of hurried promises and tenuous hope. Who was to say that long before his letter finally arrived, she had decided to move on? She might well have married someone else.
I couldn’t blame her if she has. I’ve been gone for so long. Me being dead is the obvious answer to the question of my disappearance. I just hope that wherever she is, Augusta is happy.
He didn’t want to consider what his reappearance in England might do to her. He just wanted to see Augusta, even if it was merely as polite friends.
Postage to England was prohibitively expensive for a man struggling to feed himself. It had only been after his arrival at All Saints that Flynn had finally been able to get access to pen, paper, and the all-important means to send an urgent letter home.
Pushing aside the thin cream-colored curtain which separated his small sleeping quarters from the rest of the meeting room, he stepped out into the empty space. The morning sun, which filtered through the upper window, gave the room a little light, but without the warmth of a fireplace, the makeshift chapel was always chilly.
He considered the minor shortcomings of his new accommodation to be a blessing in disguise. It would help him not to get too comfortable. He wanted to follow the letter home, to find Augusta.
“A boat fare home won’t come cheap, but I can’t stay in Rome forever.”
The letter to Augusta had included a polite request for money, but he wasn’t going to pin all his hopes on her being able to send him funds. Michael had been making enquiries about helping Flynn to secure paid employment.
Flynn’s grasp of the Italian language had progressed from a mere smattering of words to being able to conduct a sensible conversation with most people he met. His fluency in English and a decent grasp of French was an added bonus in Rome. He had the perfect set of skills to be able to work as both a guide for visiting tourists as well as a liaison with the locals.
His second, less pleasant reason for wanting to get to London was his father. He was ready to face down the earl, but he wasn’t yet settled on how that encounter might well look. Did he bring criminal charges against his sire? But with it having been over a year since the violent incident at Bramshaw House, the chances of him being able to present enough evidence to secure a guilty verdict were, at best, slim.
Earl Bramshaw had likely greased enough palms in London to ensure that if anyone attempted to press charges against him over the disappearance of his son, they would find it a near impossibility to have the matter brought before the House of Lords. Squabbling noble families were nothing new.
As far as Flynn was concerned, he would much rather that his father paid him handsomely for his silence. A happy life with Augusta far away from the earl was all he desired.
I have to get home.
Picking up his patched-up coat and the scarf which Michael had generously gifted to him, Flynn headed for the front door and down the stairs. Once out in the street, he made his way past the ruins of Emperor Trajan’s Column and the Forum. His destination this morning, Saint Peter’s square and the papal blessing for Easter Sunday.
Easter in Rome was ridiculously busy. All week, people had been bustling to and fro in the crowded city streets. Everyone was making preparations for today. Easter Sunday was a day for church services, followed by large family gatherings. For faith and feasts. Flynn envied his fellow citizens of Rome for their joy and hope.
