An Unconventional Miss (11 page)

‘J
ess seems rather quiet lately,' murmured Imogen as she held up her needle to the light the more easily to thread it. She was contentedly involved in the happy pursuit of making matinée jackets for her unborn child. ‘Have you noticed anything odd about her, Matt?'

‘Odd?' Frowning, her husband lowered his newspaper. ‘What devilry has the little imp been up to now?'

Imogen shook her head. ‘Nothing I can put my finger on. It's just that she always seems…sort of…
preoccupied…
is the best way I can describe it.'

Matt raised an eyebrow. ‘She was perfectly happy at the Ilchesters last evening—danced every dance, at any rate.'

‘True,' nodded Imogen, laying down the tiny garment on which she had been working. ‘It just struck me that she seems somehow
less
than her usual ebullient self of late. I did wonder whether we were accepting too many invitations, but she herself has assured me that this is not so.'

‘Just so long as
you
are not accepting too many invitations, my love,' grimaced Matt, as he leant towards her and clasped her hand. ‘Conyngham's ball or no, I won't have you tiring yourself out just to suit young Jessica's moods!'

Blowing him a kiss, his smiling wife pressed his fingers. ‘If that's some sort of roundabout way you have of insinuating that I am starting to look hagged…' Her words tailed off as Matt leapt on to the sofa beside her and threw his arms around her.

‘Mind the needle!' she cautioned laughingly, as he tossed aside her sewing and pulled her towards him.

‘A fig for the blessed needle!' he growled, bending his lips to her brow. ‘You are more beautiful now than you have ever been—and that's saying a great deal!'

This very pleasant interlude might well have continued had not the click of the door latch alerted the two of them to their senses. Groaning softly, Matt withdrew his arm from her shoulder and edged himself a respectable distance away from his blushing wife as she bent down to retrieve her discarded handiwork.

‘Pardon me for interrupting you turtle doves,' came Nicholas's soft chuckle as he crossed the room towards them. ‘Just thought I'd mention that Mrs Clover has finished my packing and I am off to Hatchard's to pick up a couple of books that I ordered. Is there anything I can get you while I'm out?'

‘Oh, yes, please, Nicky!' exclaimed Imogen, rummaging in her workbox. ‘I do need some more of this satin trimming—if you would be so good?'

‘Oh, lor'!' Nicholas's face fell. ‘I suppose that means a haberdasher's—I'd rather not, if you don't mind—that sort of thing is more Jess's territory than mine.' He hesitated. ‘I'll go and ask her if she fancies a stroll—she's only mooning around in the drawing room.'

‘It's really of no consequence,' protested his cousin with a laugh, but Nicholas had already departed in search of his sister.

Jessica, having spent most of the morning trying to find some occupation that would prevent her thoughts from straying to the previous evening's débâcle, was more than happy to agree to accompany her brother on his shopping spree.

She had slept barely a wink after getting home from the Ilchesters' party, the entire event having impinged upon her conscious scarcely at all. She was aware that she must have danced, but could not have said with whom, since the faces of her partners had passed before her in a complete blur, her mind having been fully occupied in trying to make some sense of her own rather outrageous behaviour concerning Lord Wyvern.

Although she had, for the most part, recovered from the shock of Wentworth's attempted seduction and had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the non-stop merry-go-round of her long-awaited London Season, she had been very careful not to allow her natural flirtatiousness to overcome her better judgement. In addition, she had gone out of her way to make sure that not one of her numerous admirers should gain the impression that she might favour him above his peers. In point of fact and, contrary to what might have been supposed, she had not come to London to capture a husband.

The failed abduction of the previous autumn had taught her, amongst other things, to be far less free with her favours, especially after Matt and Imogen had taken her to visit another of Wentworth's many victims—pretty little Rosie Juggins, the fourteen-year-old daughter of the local innkeeper. Having met and spoken to Rosie a good many times in the past, the sight of the girl's swollen belly had thoroughly shaken Jessica, so much so that she had taken it upon herself to make regular visits to the girl, bearing such gifts as boxes of crystallised fruit or chocolates, in the vain hope that one or other of these delicacies might tempt Rosie's almost non-existent appetite. In the event, Rosie's baby had not survived what had turned out to be a particularly harrowing birth, causing its formerly happy-go-lucky mother to sink into a deep depression, the outcome of which had left her caring neither for her own appearance nor the opinions of others.

The rapidity of Rosie's downward spiral into squalor and misery had, more than anything else, convinced the once devil-may-care Jessica that it was necessary for young women to be constantly on guard against finding themselves in situations where their virtue might be compromised. How galling, then, to have to admit to herself that not only had she failed to guard against such a circumstance occurring, but, to her eternal shame, she had actually thrown herself head first into what might easily be described as a lion's den!

Fortunately for Jessica's peace of mind, since the most persistent and vivid recollections of the events that had followed her precipitate action the previous evening were having the effect of making her head ache rather badly, her brother's suggestion of a breath of fresh air could not, from her point of view, have come at a more auspicious time.

No sooner had the pair of them arrived at the draper's shop on Berkeley Street, however, than it became abundantly clear that, given the large press of customers striving to attract the attention of one of the assistants, it would be quite some time before they might expect to be served.

‘Look here, Jess,' ventured Nicholas, in some exasperation, having been obliged to step out of yet another matron's impatient prowess towards the rear of the store, ‘how about if I nip down to Piccadilly while you're waiting? I can't see you getting served for a good half-hour—I can be there and back in half that time!'

‘I dare say you're right.' His sister sighed, her mind still occupied with her current problem. ‘You get off to Hatchard's and I'll carry on here.'

‘Right you are, then!' agreed Nicholas, deftly elbowing his way back towards the door. ‘Don't you leave without me—I shan't be more than two ticks!'

As luck would have it, Jessica's blonde loveliness had already caught the eye of one of the store's harassed assistants and, ignoring the protests and objections from the many other customers who had prior claims to his aid, he beckoned her forwards and asked her how he might be of service.

Thus it was that, barely five minutes after Nicholas had departed on his own errand, Jessica found herself back at the store's threshold with five yards of satin trimmings tucked safely inside her reticule. Knowing that there must be at least twenty-five minutes or so still to go until her brother returned to escort her home, she was somewhat uncertain as to whether she should stand alone in the street waiting for him or attempt to walk the short distance back to Dover Street on her own—well aware that either action would be frowned upon in certain sections of society.

 

Having crossed over from Berkeley Square Gardens, Wyvern was still heavily engrossed in contemplating the various ways in which he might go about securing one or two private moments with Jessica. He was just in the process of passing the haberdasher's when the very subject of his reverie stepped out of the shop's doorway, looking heart-stoppingly alluring in her pale green muslin gown and matching straw bonnet and, from his point of view, far prettier than any picture he had ever had the good fortune to lay his eyes upon!

‘Your lordship!' she stammered, stepping hurriedly to one side in order to avoid the inevitable collision.

‘A thousand apologies, Miss Beresford!' declared the delighted earl, his eyes gleaming with pleasure as he swept off his beaver with one hand while reaching out the other to steady her. ‘My head was in the clouds, I fear—too many late nights, one must suppose!'

A becoming flush covered Jessica's cheeks as he raised her unresisting fingers to his lips. ‘I hear that her ladyship's gathering was a great success,' was all she was able to manage in the circumstances. ‘I—we—were obliged to take our leave a little earlier than expected. Er—I trust that you were able to extricate yourself without further difficulty?'

‘All thanks to your good offices,' he replied with a wide grin. ‘Although, I have to confess that it was some little time before I found myself able to stand totally upright! I must make a point of…
Hey, you there!
Steady on, I say!'

This last exclamation was hurled at the backs of two coarse-looking ruffians who, caring nothing for the comfort of the other pedestrians on the sidewalk, had rudely thrust their way through the crowd, cannoned into several bystanders, including Wyvern himself, and made off across the road before anyone was able to apprehend them.

‘Ill-mannered oafs!'

Shaking his fist at the disappearing pair, the earl turned back to Jessica, only to discover, to his dismay, that she was in the process of helping an ageing matron to her feet—clearly another victim of the two jackanapes' discourtesy.

Never one to scorn an opportunity when it was staring him in the face, Wyvern scooped up the packages that the lady had dropped and, indicating the tearooms situated a little further up the street, declared, ‘The poor thing is as white as a sheet—probably could do with a cup of tea—I'll go on ahead and find us a table.'

And, before Jessica had the wits to summon up a reply, he had strode off and disappeared into Gunter's tearooms. Although her natural instinct rebelled at the high-handed manner in which he had bade her follow his instructions, her better self was quick to realise that the casualty, whoever she was, was in no state to be abandoned.

Placing her hand under the older woman's elbow, she shepherded her through the entrance to the tearooms and, discovering that Wyvern had already secured a table next to a window seat, she carefully settled the somewhat confused female on to its cushioned bench, alongside her salvaged collection of packages. Gentle probing by both Jessica and the earl soon ascertained that the only real damage that had befallen the well-padded matron seemed to be the unpardonable insult to her dignity. However, after several moments spent in giving considerable vent to her ruffled feelings, the lady managed to collect herself sufficiently to inform her hosts that her name was Mrs Barrowman and that she kept house for a ‘young gentleman' just around the corner in Half Moon Street.

Further attempts at polite conversation by both Jessica and the earl soon elicited the fact that their unexpected guest was extremely hard of hearing, the circumstance of which Wyvern was not slow to realise could be very much to his advantage. Quickly summoning a waiter, he murmured his requirements, which were met with a nod and a respectful bow. The tea things were no sooner on the table when, to Mrs Barrowman's delight and astonishment, a cake-stand containing a plentiful selection of the establishment's most mouth-watering delicacies was set before her, along with Wyvern's smiling recommendation that she should ‘try to put the whole unfortunate incident out of her mind'.

‘A cup of strong, sweet tea will soon buck you up,' he said cheerfully, as he pulled out a chair for Jessica. ‘And I dare say one or two of Mr Gunter's famous pastries might not come amiss?'

‘I really shouldn't be here,' began Jessica, casting a nervous look at the clock on the wall, as she set about pouring the tea. ‘I promised Nicky that I would wait for him in the haberdasher's—he was obliged to go to Hatchard's to pick up some books.'

‘No need to worry,' persuaded Wyvern, inching the cake-stand even closer to their guest with a smiling nod. ‘We should be able to see him quite clearly through the window when he passes.' He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘As a matter of fact, I was hoping for a chance to speak with you. I was actually on my way to call—I have something for you.'

At Jessica's questioning look, he delved into his coat pocket and surreptitiously drew out the packet he had been carrying. He slid it across the table. ‘It's as near a match as I could find,' he said, with a diffident smile.

Her curiosity getting the better of her, Jessica undid the paper wrapping and opened the slim box. ‘But I cannot possibly accept this!' she gasped, staring in amazement at the delicate ivory fan nestling within its wrappings—an almost exact replica of the one she had damaged on the previous evening!

‘But of course you can accept it,' Wyvern assured her firmly. ‘It is not a gift, merely a replacement.'

‘But where did you find it?' Jessica wanted to know. ‘
Vernis Martin
fans are incredibly hard to come by—and how on earth did you know what to look for?'