An Unconventional Miss (8 page)

‘Well, your sister is not entirely alone there,' said Wyvern dryly, as he swung the curricle round the corner into St Giles Circus and pulled up with a flourish. ‘And, if I may be permitted to say so, she is perfectly entitled to hold whatever opinion she wishes on the subject. Not everyone agrees with Elgin's decision to remove them from Greece! As a matter of fact, I, too, along with several of my friends, have been inclined to have reservations on the subject.' Pausing, he gestured to the opposite side of the street where, as they could see, the Beresford carriage was only just in the process of drawing to a halt. ‘Excellent! Couldn't have timed it better. Five o'clock exactly!'

Then, leaping down from the perch, he lifted his arms and, placing his hands around Jessica's waist, swung her swiftly to the ground.

The shock of his unexpected action left her gasping for breath and, when he did not immediately remove his hands, a violent trembling started within her.

For a moment, as they stood staring into one another's eyes, time seemed to hang on a thread then, with an abrupt start, Wyvern released his hold and, stepping away from her, proclaimed, in his best theatrical manner, ‘Your carriage awaits, my lady!'

‘It was exceedingly kind of your lordship to go to so much trouble,' stammered Jessica. She was so distracted by the violent thumping of her heart that she was scarcely aware of Nicholas's insistent tugging at her sleeve, urgently begging her to make haste.

‘No trouble at all, Miss Beresford,' replied Wyvern, with another of his devastating smiles and then, to add to her confusion, he took hold of her hand and lifting her fingertips to his lips, murmured softly, ‘I assure you that it was an absolute pleasure.'

At this somewhat flamboyant gesture, the merest hint of doubt began to worm its way into Jessica's mind and, suddenly convinced that Wyvern was again bent on amusing himself at her expense, she made ready to snatch her fingers away from his grasp. But no sooner had her eyes flown up to challenge him, than she realised that, far from laughing at her, Wyvern's expression was full of warmth and—to her growing bewilderment—some other sentiment that she could not readily identify, but which seemed to be causing her heart to behave in the most unruly manner.

Reluctantly withdrawing her hand from his, she bent her knee in a swift curtsy, before bidding him a final farewell. Then, without a backward glance, she tucked her hand into her brother's arm and allowed him to escort her across the busy road and into the waiting carriage.

‘Damn! Damn! and thrice damn!' cursed Wyvern, as he watched the Beresfords' carriage disappear into the distance.

‘Problem, guv?' chirped his tiger, hopping up on to his perch, as Wyvern edged his vehicle back into the stream of traffic.

‘Problem, indeed, Berry,' replied Wyvern, with a heavy sigh.
And not as though I didn't already have more than my fair share of those!
he thought ruefully.
Although, I suppose if I had a grain of sense, I could steer clear of this one, without too much trouble!

Flicking his reins, he retraced his journey back down Oxford Street and thence to St James Street, which was to have been his intended destination, had he not allowed himself to be sidetracked by a pair of emerald-green eyes! And all without so much as the batting of a single eyelash, he was obliged to concede. Indeed, if this afternoon's events were anything to go by, it was beginning to look as if he had done the fair Miss Beresford something of an injustice. Selfishness was hardly an epithet that one could apply to such exceptional behaviour—stubborn, yes, and wilful, without a doubt! He shook his head, taking no pleasure in recalling that his original opinion of the girl had been based upon mere hearsay and, even less to his credit, upon the disgruntled words of a slightly intoxicated would-be suitor!

Nevertheless, as he swiftly reminded himself, to further the acquaintanceship in any way would be deucedly unwise of him—given the extraordinary and somewhat disquieting sensations that had played havoc with his usual casual urbanity. His lips twisted in a wry smile. Only a year ago, he might have had little hesitation in throwing his cap into Jessica Beresford's ring! After all, in those far-off, pleasure-filled days, he had been what society was wont to call ‘a good catch' and, had he been of a mind to do so, could have taken his pick of any one of the never-ending parade of hopeful young débutantes being brought forward for his attention. All to no avail, however, for despite all of his grandmother's words of wisdom, Wyvern had always been of the opinion that some sort of meaningful relationship was the cornerstone to a successful marriage. And, no matter that the Polite World might regard Felicity Draycott as a model of perfection, it had not taken him long to realise that even a single night spent in the bed of that remote, unresponsive female was likely to be more than enough to cool any man's ardour, let alone that of a truly red-blooded male such as he! He was beginning to suspect that the begetting of the necessary heir to his estate might prove to be a great deal more of an ordeal than a pleasure!

Wyvern had always been a man of strong passions, full of vigour and determination: a bruising rider, an excellent marksman, his swordsmanship second to none although, as some of his army comrades had often been wont to remark, he was sometimes inclined to be a little on the hot-headed side!

Nevertheless, his innate good sense was more than enough to counsel him that, since, apart from his earldom, he had nothing but a crumbling old mansion and a mountain of debt to offer any prospective bride, marriage to Felicity Draycott looked to be his only escape from the dreadful coil that his brother had bequeathed to him! And, no matter how distasteful the idea might be, the sooner he could bring himself to start paying serious court to her, the sooner his problems would be solved—those of a financial nature, at any rate, he amended grimly.

‘A
nd no further attempts at any break-ins, while you were there?' asked Sir Simon, as soon as Wyvern had rounded off his brief account of his visit to the family estate.

‘Not at the Grange,' replied the earl with a brisk shake of his head. ‘But, oddly enough, the minute I got back to Ashcroft House, I was informed by the butler that, only last night, one of the footmen had chased off a pair of would-be intruders! Trouble is,' he added, tossing back his drink, ‘I haven't the faintest idea what these villains—whoever they may be—are after!'

He and Holt, along with Fitzallan, had ensconced themselves in a secluded corner of the smoking room at White's, currently their preferred choice of venue.

‘Must have known that you were away,' observed Fitzallan, as he signalled to the barman to bring another bottle. ‘They certainly seem pretty determined to get their hands on this mysterious document!'

‘Document?' frowned Wyvern. ‘What makes you think it's a document they're after?'

‘Should have thought that it was blindingly obvious, old chap!' responded Fitzallan, with a pained expression on his chubby face. ‘Ain't as if you'd be likely to find much else stuffed inside the frame of a painting, now is it?'

‘I would be inclined to agree with you,' said Sir Simon, nodding thoughtfully. ‘Had it not been for the fact that Ben has been through every bit of Theo's paperwork.'

‘With the proverbial fine-tooth comb!' put in Wyvern, gloomily.

‘And he didn't leave you with so much as a hint of what these fellows might be searching for?'

Shaking his head, Wyvern reached into his inside pocket and drew out his notecase. ‘Apart from a pile of unpaid bills and dunning letters, this is all he left me,' he said, as he extracted the piece of paper containing his brother's final message. ‘See for yourselves. It's just a load of disconnected foolishness. It's clear that he was at his wit's end!'

Unfolding the missive, he laid in on the table, evening out the creases with the tips of his fingers.

His two friends stared down at the letter in silence, then Sir Simon, picking it up carefully between his thumb and forefinger, held it up to the light, turned it over to check the back then finally, to both his companions' utter bewilderment, he lifted the paper up to his nose and carefully sniffed at it.

‘Just checking,' he retorted, having registered their incredulous expressions. ‘Lemon juice, you know—invisible ink—just needed to be sure!'

Replacing the letter on to the table, he leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ‘I'm afraid I'm as stumped as you are, Ben, old chap!' he admitted.

‘Well, well, well!' came a voice from the doorway of the room. ‘If it ain't the new earl himself! Your servant, Wyvern! May we join you?'

Wyvern froze. Scooping up his brother's note and thrusting it back into his notecase, he settled himself more comfortably in his chair before saying, ‘If you're after your money, Hazlett, you'll just have to wait your turn!'

The newcomer, one Viscount Digby Hazlett, was a tall, slim-built man in his mid-thirties, with pale blue eyes and lanky brown hair. An ugly scar, running from his left cheekbone down to his chin, marred his once-handsome features. Rumour had it that Hazlett had received this injury in a sword duel some five years previously but, since all trace of the other combatant—who was reputed to have been the younger son of Lord Aylsham—had inexplicably vanished into thin air, the mystery remained unsolved. The general consensus was that the fight had occurred as a result of young Jack Stavely having taken violent exception to some remark or other that Hazlett was supposed to have made concerning the reputation of a certain young lady whom Stavely had held in high regard. Given Stavely's sudden disappearance, however, nothing of this legend had ever been confirmed. It had always been supposed that the young man, wrongly under the impression that he had killed his opponent, had fled the country, the gallows currently being the punishment for such a heinous crime. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was an indisputable fact that, since that fateful night, not a single attempt to contact his family had ever been made by, or on behalf of, the young renegade. And, although society had been very careful not to point the finger of suspicion at Hazlett, his name had quickly been removed from a significant number of calling-card lists.

Ignoring the undercurrent of scorn in Wyvern's tone, the viscount merely raised his eyebrows and affected a pained expression. ‘My dear Wyvern!' he drawled. ‘Who mentioned money? Far be it from me to kick a man when he's down! As I understand it, you're about as strapped for cash as old Theo was before he stuck his spoon in the wall!'

‘Steady on, Hazlett!' protested Fitzallan, eyeing the silent Wyvern anxiously.

Knowing the earl's temperament as well as he did, it would have come as no surprise to him to see Wyvern suddenly leap to his feet and plant his fist right in the middle of Hazlett's mocking countenance. ‘It's damned bad form to make remarks like that! You have Ben's word that you will get your money—can't you just leave it at that?'

‘No problem, old bean,' murmured the viscount, settling himself into a chair at a nearby table and signalling to his podgy-faced companion, Viscount Cedric Stockwell, to do likewise. ‘I'm in no hurry, I assure you. Just wanted to express my sorrow at your loss and to wish you all the best in your endeavours.'

Wyvern's eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘What endeavours might those be, then?' he enquired as he reached for his glass.

He had been too long acquainted with the notorious viscount to be taken in by the man's dubious attestations of good will. Besides which, since he was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that Hazlett held a good many of Theo's promissory notes and could, if he so desired, demand restitution at any time, he had decided that it would probably do no harm to humour him.

Having signalled the barman to bring a bottle, Hazlett waited until the man had departed then, after pouring both his companion and himself generous servings, he quaffed back a good half of the contents of his glass before announcing, ‘Well, from what I've heard, you're hoping that Draycott's fortune's going to solve your problems!' And, pulling a large lace-edged handkerchief out of his pocket, he proceeded to dab the drops of moisture at the corners of his lips. ‘Won't work, you know. Been tried before!'

Despite the barely concealed snort of laughter from Stockwell, followed by Fitzallan's muttered expletive, Wyvern's face remained impassive.

‘Care to place a wager on that?' interposed Sir Simon casually, as he reached across the table for the brandy bottle and proceeded to fill his glass. ‘I'll lay you a pony that Wyvern clears all of his brother's debts long before the Season comes to a close!'

Hazlett stiffened and his eyes narrowed. ‘How's that, then?' he enquired, shooting a piercing look at his quarry. ‘Come into an unexpected fortune, have you?'

His eyes flashing from one to the other, the frowning Hazlett studied the three men at the table but then, his face clearing, he threw back his head and laughed outright.

‘By Jove!' he guffawed. ‘Then it's true! You
are
thinking of setting your cap at the fair Felicity—fat chance
you'll
have! She's not in the market for a husband!'

‘Come off it, Hazlett!' retorted Fitzallan, his grin widening. ‘Touch of the old “sour grapes” there, if I am not mistaken! Doubt if there are many folk around who ain't acquainted with the fact that Miss Draycott turned you down flat!'

Hazlett flinched. ‘That might well be so,' he ground out, a deep flush covering his face. ‘But I'll have you know that I fared no worse than a good many others before me! Your precious friend here is in for something of a shock if he is basing his hopes of survival in that quarter!'

With this, he tossed off the remainder of his drink, rose to his feet and, after executing a cursory bow, strode off in the direction of the exit, with his loyal henchman hard on his heels.

‘There's someone who won't be happy until he sees me in the Fleet,' sighed Wyvern, reaching for his glass and taking a reflective sip of its contents. ‘How Theo ever stood the man's company, I shall never understand!'

The three men were silent for some minutes, each of them involved in his own thoughts until Fitzallan, with a sudden frown, looked across at Sir Simon and said, ‘You seem pretty sure that Miss Draycott is going to accept Ben's offer—how come?'

‘No such thing, I swear!' laughed his friend. ‘Just thought it wouldn't do any harm to get the rumour going—Ceddy Stockwell's not known for keeping choice bits of gossip to himself. Might help to keep the brokers from the door for a little while longer and give Ben a bit of a breathing space.'

Much moved by his friends' show of solidarity, it was a minute or two before Wyvern could trust himself to voice his gratitude. ‘You are the best of fellows,' he said heavily. ‘And I am indebted to you both for such a vote of confidence—despite the fact that I still cannot quite bring myself up to the mark!'

‘You surely don't suppose that the lady is going to turn you down?' asked Sir Simon, eying his friend keenly.

‘Apparently not—if I'm to believe my grandmother,' replied Wyvern with a short laugh. He was finding that he did not altogether care to discuss such an unpalatable matter, even with such close friends. ‘It's simply that I cannot quite get my head around the idea of marrying someone just to get my hands on her father's fortune! I'm ashamed to admit that I've always had a rather poor opinion of the sort of chap who is prepared to take such a course. In fact, the very thought of actually joining those ranks is a pretty bitter pill for me to swallow!'

‘Amen to that!' chimed in Fitzallan, in total agreement with the earl's sentiments.

Sir Simon, however, was slowly shaking his head.

‘There is absolutely no reason for you to feel that way, Ben!' he expostulated. ‘It surely can't have escaped your notice that people of our sort seldom marry for anything other than money—or land—or some equally power-driven urge! I would say that you have found yourself an entirely suitable match! The Draycotts have the money and the Ashcrofts have the land
plus
the all-important title! Provided that you don't actually dislike the girl, of course, I dare say that the two of you will rub along together quite happily!'

‘I had always rather hoped to do slightly better than simply “rub along” with any wife I chose!' returned Wyvern, with a grimace. ‘Nevertheless, Simon, I do take your point and it is quite clear that I will just have to learn to swallow my pride and “screw my courage to the sticking place”, as the old saying goes!'

‘That's the spirit, old chap!' acknowledged Sir Simon, clapping him on the back. ‘You've never been one for letting the side down and, since it would seem that the lady is yours for the asking, the sooner you get on with it, the better you will feel.'

‘Tomorrow might be as good a time as any, I suppose,' returned Wyvern with a self-conscious shrug. ‘It would certainly add the icing to my grandmother's cake if I were to announce my engagement in the middle of her festivities tomorrow evening.' He raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘I take it that you
will
both be attending? Usual faces and pretty tame stuff, I know, but I would appreciate your support, if you've nothing else on hand.'

‘Cut line, Ben, old chap!' protested Sir Simon, in astonishment. ‘Haven't the three of us always gone into battle together? Where else would we be at such a time?'

 

Showing every sign of being hailed an absolute triumph, the Dowager's soirée was in full swing. Thanks to her ladyship's wide circle of illustrious acquaintances, it appeared that everyone who was anyone was desirous of attending, if only to have his or her presence marked. Wyvern had lost count of the number of luminaries who had elected to call in and extend their good wishes. He had been delighted to welcome his former commander, the great Duke of Wellington who, along with a number of high-ranking officers, had spent several minutes in conversation with both himself and his grandmother. Even the ageing Prince Regent, accompanied by his current set of sycophantic hangers-on, had condescended to put in a brief but, nevertheless, very visible appearance. All in all, Lady Lavinia was well satisfied with the results of her endeavours to bring the Ashcroft family back into the limelight and, had not Wyvern been in such a fierce struggle with his conscience over the impending marriage proposal, he might also have declared the evening a success.

As it was, any pleasure that he might have garnered from the occasion was heavily marred by his friends' frequent and unwelcome reminders of his earlier undertaking.

‘My advice is to strike while the iron's hot!' urged Fitzallan. ‘The more you stop to think about it, the more difficult it will be!'

‘In the normal way, I would have been inclined to agree with you,' Sir Simon muttered, as he pressed himself up against a pillar to allow a rather large matron to edge her way past the group. ‘Sadly, it would appear that the chances of Ben getting the lady to one side in this almighty crush might prove nigh on impossible!'