An Unconventional Miss (5 page)

As the gas lamps in the auditorium were slowly lowered for the start of the second act, an introspective gleam came into his eyes and his lips curved in amusement as he contemplated the possibilities. That softly rounded figure—he could well imagine how that would feel in his arms! And those eyes! He would swear that a man might drown in those glorious pools and be only too glad to do so! A sudden clash of cymbals from the orchestra pit jolted him out of this agreeable reverie and thrust him rudely back to his senses. A deep frown puckered his brow. What, in the name of thunder, had got into him? As if he didn't have more than enough complications in his life already!

Having spent the past few days investigating the true state of affairs at Ashcroft Grange, he had discovered that, to his considerable relief, the situation was not nearly as hopeless as the solicitor, Humphreys, had led him to believe. Many valuable artefacts had disappeared, it was true, but Wyvern was soon to learn that the handful of dedicated servants still in residence had been more than anxious to restore the property to its former glory and had worked very hard to repair the damage that had been caused by his brother's in-continent associates.

Brigham, the elderly land agent, had informed his new master that there was still sufficient revenue coming in from the four tenant farmers to keep the estate ticking over for several months, given that nothing out of the way occurred in the meantime. This being so, Wyvern was reasonably confident that, for the moment, at any rate, the interest from what was left of his own small capital would just about cover the servants' wages and his own day-to-day expenses.

And, even though he had never felt the slightest inclination to involve himself in the running of the rambling estate, the intricate workings of which were still something of a mystery to him, these findings were of some comfort to him. Even more so to his grandmother, perhaps, who had spent the entire period of Wyvern's absence in a continual fret as to what news he would impart to her on his return from Brentford.

There still remained, however, the formidable dilemma of how to lay his hands on the prodigious amount of money needed to satisfy the late earl's creditors who, as soon as the news of Wyvern's arrival back in the capital had reached their ears, were already starting to clamour for satisfaction.

It was entirely as a result of his deep concern regarding this seemingly insurmountable problem that he had finally agreed to accompany his grandmother on a pre-arranged call to Draycott House that very morning.

His dark eyes slid over to the young lady who was seated at his right. With her hands folded primly into her lap, her whole attention appeared to be focussed on the stage below. Having spent the entire obligatory half-hour of the morning visit attempting to engage her in some sort of conversation, it had not taken him very long to realise that, since she had failed to express a single opinion on any of the many topics he had raised, Miss Draycott was apparently still quite incapable of forming one! In addition, she seemed to have developed the most disconcerting habit of demurely lowering her eyes and glancing to one side whenever she spoke, thus avoiding any direct confrontation. And, whilst any other man might find this coy mannerism rather appealing, to Wyvern it was starting to be a distinct irritation.

As a soft sigh escaped his lips, he felt the countess's hand on his arm. Turning to face her, he gave a rueful shake of his head, having decided that, despite all of the Draycotts' obvious wealth and background, he might well be forced to look elsewhere for his family's salvation.

Across the auditorium, the entire second half of the performance passed completely over Jessica's head, so stunned was she at Wyvern's rebuff. Had he walked into the box and slapped her across the face she could hardly have been more mortified. She bit hard on her lip to prevent the tears from forming. To think that she had been prepared—even eager, as she recalled in embarrassment—to put that first unfortunate encounter with Wyvern behind her and begin anew. After all, she reasoned, how could she possibly have known that the man who had come to their aid was an earl? He had not introduced himself properly and he certainly had not behaved as one might have expected a member of the aristocracy to behave. In fact, as she recalled, having failed to dismount in order to assist her from the carriage, the man had been singularly discourteous!

Straightening her shoulders, she furtively wiped away the single tear that had managed to find its way on to her cheek and vowed to put the beastly man out of her mind. It was hardly as though she was short of beaux, she reminded herself crossly. She could name more than a dozen hopefuls who would happily cut off their right arms just for one dance with her! But then, as a sudden vision of that rather unpleasant spectacle presented itself to her, she gave a little shudder and, conscious of Stevenage's anxious eyes upon her, she turned and bestowed such a sweet smile upon the young lieutenant that he was totally overcome.

W
earily tossing aside yet another demand for immediate reimbursement of one of the many outstanding debts incurred by his brother, Wyvern leaned back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair, endeavouring to make some sense of the seemingly hopeless mess that had been bequeathed to him.

Although he was reasonably confident in the knowledge that Brigham, the Grange's highly competent manager, was doing his best to return the estate to something of its former excellence, the hiring of the extra labour required had made considerable inroads into what was left of Wyvern's available funds. Added to which, the lavish affair that his grandmother had insisted upon throwing the following Friday looked set to deplete them even further. More than once this week already, a highly embarrassed Jesmond had been obliged to draw the earl's attention to the disturbing fact that several of the family's long-standing suppliers had taken to requesting cash payments for the innumerable items that Lady Lavinia had ordered to mark the family's re-entry into society. She, however, had been loftily unrepentant, having pointed out that it would hardly do to give their guests even the slightest hint that the family might be in some sort of financial difficulty.

With a resigned sigh, Wyvern rose to his feet and began to pace about the room, racking his brains to find some solution to the problem. No matter how offensive the idea was to him, it was becoming abundantly clear that he would have to apply for a loan of some sort—but to whom could he turn? He had not failed to register Humphreys's caution that Theo had outrun the patience of all the major banking facilities, so he was fairly sure that, even were he to approach them ‘cap in hand', so to speak, it was highly improbable that any petition from himself would be likely to find favour amongst that closely-knit brotherhood either.

He was not unmindful of the fact that, should he care to request their assistance, he was extremely fortunate in that he had a great many acquaintances who would not hesitate to come to his rescue. Indeed, every day for the past week, his dearest friend, Sir Simon Holt, had been urgently pressing him to accept loans of quite ridiculous sums of money with no conditions attached. To add grist to his mill and, despite the earl's protests to the contrary, Holt had not hesitated to point out to his friend that, had it not been for Wyvern's quick action in the field at Waterloo, he himself would not have survived the battle.

Nevertheless, Wyvern was loath to avail himself of his friend's generous offer. Having seen other close friendships founder under similar well-meant circumstances and knowing that, as things stood at present, he had absolutely no hope of ever being able to repay such a loan, he could not bring himself to opt for a course that, in the end, could well jeopardise his long-term friendship with his ex-comrade-in-arms.

All of which led him to the only available alternative, highly distasteful though it might be! In the absence of any other salvation and since it was clear that the situation was beginning to grow somewhat desperate, it would seem that coupling his name with one or other of the heiresses on Lady Lavinia's list looked to be the only option left to him!

In spite of his long absence from town, he was sufficiently versed in the ways of its inhabitants to know that any received impression that a gentleman might soon be about to benefit from a sudden increase in his fortune, either through inheritance or by marriage, was enough to hold his creditors at bay. Indeed, given that a debtor's future prospects were deemed to be more or less cut and dried and of sufficiently generous proportions, a great many of those creditors were often inclined to press their client into borrowing even more money from them.

Several days had passed since the visit to the opera, during which time he had not only paid two morning visits to Felicity, but had also accompanied her to a musical evening given by one of her mother's acquaintances. Having cast his eyes over the few remaining names on his grandmother's list, he had been obliged to conclude that, despite her obvious drawbacks, it was clear that Sir Jonathan Draycott's daughter was the best of a very dismal bunch!

He had seldom allowed thoughts of marriage to intrude on his carefree bachelor life, particularly after Theo and Sophie had secured the Ashcroft lineage by obligingly producing a son. But he was finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that he, who, scarcely six months previously, might have had the pick of the Season's tastiest offerings, now appeared to be considerably restricted as to choice!

As he cast his mind back over his not-unimpressive string of past conquests, he could not help but heave a deep sigh of regret. He then had to take himself severely to task, reminding himself that marrying for love, amongst persons of his rank and status, was hardly an option. Marriage, as far as members of the aristocracy were concerned, was simply a convenient method of increasing land assets whilst, at the same time, preserving the quality of long-established pedigrees. In this sense, Felicity Draycott, despite her lack of any discernible charisma, was perfectly acceptable and, in the general way, all that a countess needed to be. Added to which, since the lady—according to his grandmother—seemed to hold him in a certain amount of esteem and, it appeared, had turned down more than one prospective suitor during his prolonged absence, it was not unreasonable to assume that she would be willing to accept his proposal—if he could just bring himself to make the offer!

Nonetheless, the thought of having to spend the rest of his days—not to mention the nights, as he reminded himself with a wry grimace!—in such uninspiring company filled him with despair. The idea of finding himself part of that sad little company of disillusioned husbands who, with increasing regularity, chose to spend most of their lives in one club or another, or in the clandestine company of a series of other females, was too sickening to contemplate.

On returning to his desk, his attention was caught by a glint from the green glass paperweight in front of him. All at once, the recurring memory of a pair of sparkling green eyes invaded his thoughts. Now
there
was a girl who had no difficulty in expressing an opinion, he reflected, as his lips curved in a whimsical smile. Had he been a gambling man, he would have been prepared to lay odds that Jessica Beresford was the sort who would always give as good as she got! He suspected that life with that little spitfire would be anything but boring!

Sadly, however, any further contemplation of Miss Beresford's attributes was forestalled by a light tap on the door and the butler's subsequent entry, it having transpired that the late earl's manservant had just arrived in the house and was requesting an immediate audience with his new master.

‘Cranwell?' frowned Wyvern, returning abruptly to his senses. ‘Show him in at once, Jesmond! Whatever it is must be pretty important to have brought him all this way!'

As well as having served as valet to both Wyvern's father and brother, Cranwell was also the unfortunate servant who, having carried out the late earl's order to deliver that very puzzling letter into the hands of the solicitor, had returned to Ashcroft Grange to discover his young master's dead body slumped across the library desk. However, due to the man's unswerving loyalty to the family over the years—not to mention his advancing years—Wyvern had not yet had the heart to tell the elderly valet that his services were no longer needed. Instead, he had left Cranwell with instructions to put whatever remained of the late Lord Wyvern's personal effects into some sort of order. This being so, and given that it was barely three days since he himself had returned from Ashcroft, he was at a loss to understand what possible difficulty Cranwell could have encountered that had necessitated him undertaking such a wearisome journey to the capital.

Resuming his seat at the desk, he waited for Jesmond to return with the unexpected visitor. Then, casting an intent look at the elderly manservant, he enquired, kindly, ‘Well, now, Cranwell! What great emergency has brought you all this way—even you cannot possibly have finished sorting out his late lordship's gear in such a short time, surely?'

A brief smile crossed the man's face and he shook his head. He had been with the family long enough to recognise when he was being roasted.

‘I'm afraid not, your lordship,' he replied, in his usual staid accents. ‘I still have plenty to occupy me in that respect. I am here on a rather more pressing matter—Mr Brigham was of the opinion that it needed to be brought to your notice immediately.'

His attention caught, Wyvern leaned forward. ‘Well, out with it, man! What is so pressing that a letter would not have served?'

‘We—ah…um—That is, Mr Brigham and Mr Kirmington and myself, sir—We felt that it would be more advisable to inform you directly, sir. The fact is, your lordship,' he burst out hurriedly, having perceived the growing impatience on Wyvern's face, ‘we have reason to believe that the Grange has been broken into!'

‘Broken into!' returned Wyvern, astounded. ‘Burgled, do you mean?'

‘Well, no, sir, not exactly,' came the man's hesitant reply. ‘Things have been moved around—drawers tipped up and so on, but, as far as we can ascertain, nothing has been removed.' He paused, then added, almost apologetically, ‘As you are aware, my lord, there is very little of value left to be taken and that, sir, is the reason I am here. We do believe, sir—ah…um—Mr Kirm—'

‘Yes, yes, I know!' cut in Wyvern sharply. ‘You and Brigham and the butler—for pity's sake, man—what the devil is it that you all believe?'

‘We are all of the opinion that he—They—Whoever—Must have been searching for something, my lord. And, my lord, I would venture a guess that it must be something rather important. As far as we are able to establish, there seem to have been three separate attempts so far, in spite of all our efforts to secure the property!'

Wyvern was mystified. ‘But all the doors and windows are kept locked at night, surely?'

‘Of course, sir,' affirmed Cranwell. ‘However, we now believe that entry must have been made by way of the pantry window, which, as you may recall, sir, is less than a foot square and has no lock. It was not until Cook complained to Mr Kirmington this very morning that a butter crock had been knocked off the windowsill and several items of food had gone missing, that Mr Kirmington, upon investigation, noticed that the window latch had been forced, leading us to the conclusion that this had been the means of entry.'

Pausing briefly in order to determine whether the frowning earl was still following his argument, he then ventured, ‘Mr Brigham has subsequently repaired the damage to the window, your lordship, and has taken the precaution of fitting a padlock to the latch.'

Wyvern pursed his lips. ‘And you say that these—break-ins, as you call them—have occurred on three separate occasions?'

Cranwell inclined his head. ‘On each night since your departure, sir. On Monday, the library was ransacked—books pulled from the shelves and thrown about the place. On Tuesday, every single drawer and cupboard was emptied and the contents rummaged through and, last night, those few pictures that we still have left were lifted from the walls and their backings removed! Mr Brigham was of the opinion that, even though he is certain that he has foiled any further attempts to gain access, the matter should be brought to your attention without delay.' Shooting a questioning glance at his master, he added, ‘Clearly someone in search of something, as I am sure your lordship would agree?'

‘So it would seem,' acknowledged Wyvern, his brow puckering. Having spent the best part of his three-day sojourn at the Grange collecting every available scrap of paperwork he could lay his hands on, he was reasonably confident that nothing of moment could have been left behind. ‘However, what does rather puzzle me is how all of this somewhat destructive activity could have occurred without any of you servants being aware of it!'

‘Begging your lordship's pardon, sir,' returned Cranwell, nervously shifting his stance, ‘but, in view of the fact that the house staff has been reduced to a mere half-dozen or so—not to mention the fact that male and female staff are housed in separate attic wings…' He flushed uncomfortably and his voice petered out.

‘Point taken, Cranwell,' replied Wyvern heavily, as he called to mind the complicated warren of rooms, stairways and corridors that comprised the Grange, which was situated at the foot of a shallow escarpment, on the ridge of which could still be seen the ruins of what had once been the Cistercian monastery of Wyvern Abbey. Following his Act of Dissolution, Henry VIII had gifted the abbey, along with its considerable acreage of land, to Sir Cedric Ashcroft, in reward for his support during the previous year's rebellions. Sir Cedric, created First Earl of Wyvern, had plundered the buff-coloured limestone from the decaying monastery to make extensive alterations to what had been, originally, the Abbey's farmhouse. The present dwelling, due to successive earls having continued to alter, reshape and impose their own ideas on the original property, was now an impressive house, some four storeys high, winged on either side of its magnificent frontage by two lofty extensions.

Unfortunately, the building had grown into a structure of such rambling proportions that Wyvern was bound to concede that the idea of anyone situated in one of its attic rooms being able to hear intruders in another part of the house was, to say the least, somewhat unreasonable.