An Unconventional Miss (3 page)

Choosing to ignore this somewhat sardonic remark, Jessica flounced up the steps and tugged impatiently at the doorbell.

Their rescuer waited until the front door had opened to admit the couple, remaining absolutely motionless until, with a resounding thud, it closed behind them. Then, with an impatient shake of his head, he wheeled his mount around, ready to retrace his steps. Just as he was about to spur his horse into action, however, his attention was caught by a little flash of white on the step of the gig. Curious, he leant down to retrieve the object which, on closer inspection, proved to be Jessica's handkerchief. He deduced that it must have fallen from the pocket of her pelisse during her somewhat ungainly scramble from the gig, the memory of which brought a reluctant smile to his lips.

After staring down at the little scrap of lace for some moments, he gave a little grunt and was just about to toss it back into the carriage when, on a sudden impulse, he held it up to his nose, thoughtfully inhaling its delicate perfume. Then, with a short laugh, he tucked it into the inside pocket of his riding jacket and rode off in the direction of the park, without a backward glance.

 

‘And you are telling me that during all that time, this fellow didn't even give you his name?' demanded Matt Beresford of his sister, after listening to her stumbling recital.

‘Well—he may have,' owned Jessica, edging closer to her cousin Imogen, who was seated beside her on the sofa. ‘There was so much confusion—I was worried that Nicky had hurt himself badly—then
he
—the man, I mean—pushed me out of the way and, by the time we started off again, the opportunity didn't arise!'

‘As a matter of fact,' interrupted Nicholas who, having had his head bathed and attended to by a sympathetic Imogen, was feeling much more the thing, ‘I do seem to recall that he did introduce himself. It was when he was prodding me around feeling for broken bones and such, but I was in such a state that I'm afraid I failed to properly register much of what he was saying.'

He paused, frowning to himself. ‘He did have a most unusual signet ring, though—I noticed it as he was putting his gloves back on—huge green thing it was—had a sort of dragon on it!'

‘You really should have invited the gentleman in, Jessica,' said Imogen, shaking her head. ‘It was very remiss of you. Now, unless he chooses to call to find out if you have recovered from your ordeal, it is most unlikely that we will ever be given the opportunity to thank him for coming to your rescue. If he had not turned up when he did, heaven only knows what might have happened! I do wish you had thought to stay at the inn and sent a messenger on. It would have saved so much trouble!'

‘I'm awfully sorry, Imo,' replied her cousin. ‘I really thought it was for the best. I didn't mean to upset you, I promise.'

‘Just wait until I lay my hands on young Stevenage!' Matt ground out wrathfully. ‘If he thinks for one moment that—'

‘No, really, Matt!' interrupted Jessica in protest. ‘Harry was not to blame—he did try to stop me, but I…' Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped in confusion as Beresford's own swivelled angrily towards her.

‘
You
did just as you always do—which is exactly what suits you! Well, Miss Cleverboots, I'll have you know that I have had quite enough—!'

He stopped as his wife reached out and laid her hand on his jacket sleeve.

‘As long as they are safe, my love, that's really all that matters, isn't it?'

Staring down into her silver-grey eyes, Matt gave a reluctant smile and took her hand in his. ‘I can't have you getting distressed, sweetheart. This sort of thing cannot be at all good for your condition!'

‘Oh, really, Matt,' laughed Imogen, patting his hand. ‘How many times must I tell you that I am not an invalid! I am a perfectly healthy young woman who happens to be expecting a baby!'

Unconvinced, Matt shook his head. ‘I should have packed everything up and returned to Thornfield the minute you told me!' he groaned. ‘Home is always the best place to be at such a time. There, at least, you would not have to put up with this sort of irresponsible upset!'

‘Nonsense, my dear,' chided his wife gently. ‘And miss the Conyghams' ball? It is said to be the event of the Season! Surely, you cannot be thinking of denying me the opportunity to show off that glorious confection of Madame Devy's that has just cost you such an exorbitant amount of money?' Her eyes twinkled up at him. ‘Whilst it still fits, remember!'

With another reluctant grin, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead.

‘Well, so long as you promise to let me know the minute it all starts getting too much for you.'

She gave him a warm smile. ‘You must know that I would never do anything that might harm either this child, or myself, Matt,' she returned quietly. ‘I have already given you my word.'

Matt's lips twisted briefly for one moment then, with a quick nod, he turned away and strode back to his own seat on the other side of the fireplace.

‘I'm really sorry, Matt,' said Jessica, stepping forward and catching hold of his hand just as he was about to sit down. ‘I promise you that I was trying to avoid any upset—I don't want Imo getting distressed any more than you do! It was just meant to be a straightforward ride home!'

He took a deep breath, ‘Very well, Jess. I will say no more about it—apart from giving young Stevenage a piece of my mind, that is! You can hardly expect me to think him the most suitable escort for you if he is unable to control your outrageous behaviour!'

Jessica reddened. She was well aware that Harry Stevenage was as putty in her hands but, having grown rather fond of the young lieutenant, she did not care to think of him being chastised on her account.

‘Please, Matt!' she begged her brother. ‘Harry is not to blame for any of this! Had it not been for the fact that his mind was so distracted with Olivia's injuries, I am sure that he would have taken a much firmer line!' And, seeing Matt's expression soften, she added, encouragingly, ‘He was simply splendid in the way he took charge of everything—quietened down the horses, sent for a doctor and procured rooms for both of the invalids—all in the space of barely an hour!'

‘Well, at any event,' retorted Matt, partly appeased, ‘it would seem that the lad's two years with the military have not been entirely wasted. I dare say it will do no harm to give him the benefit of the doubt—this time!'

Heaving a sigh of relief, Jessica sat down again, but then, noticing a deep frown upon Nicholas's face, she enquired anxiously if his head was still paining him.

‘No, not really,' he muttered absently. ‘I know it's there—somewhere in the back of my mind—almost on the very tip of my tongue.'

Staring at him in astonishment, she asked, ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘That fellow's name,' he replied, still frowning. ‘I almost had it. Dryden or Brydon or—oh, botheration! It's gone again!'

‘Haydn?' chorused Jessica and Imogen in unison, whilst Matt simultaneously offered ‘Lydian or Layburn?' all of which suggestions Nicholas met with a vigorous shake of his head.

Whereupon, the next ten minutes or so were spent plying Nicholas with every conceivable version of any similar-sounding name that the three of them could call to mind until, finally, as the offerings became more and more nonsensical, Imogen and Jessica collapsed against each other in convulsions of laughter and begged their menfolk to desist.

‘How about Reardon or Raven?' chortled Matt who, totally entranced by his wife's infectious gurgle, was loath to bring the unexpected merriment to a close.

Nicholas started to shake his head again, then he stiffened and a faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Raven?' he mused. ‘Ryvern? Great heavens! That's it!' he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.

‘Ryvern?' chimed his audience, in chorus.

‘No, not Ryvern!' was his gleeful reply. ‘Wyvern! The fellow's name is Wyvern—hence the dragon on his ring, I suppose!' he added in triumph.

There was a long pause, then, ‘Wyvern?' said Matt thoughtfully. ‘I seem to remember that there was a Viscount Wyvern in my year at Oxford—Theodore Ashcroft by name—no, hang on—I heard that his father, the earl, had died, so I suppose Theo would have inherited the title. About my age, would you say?'

Uncertain as to the age of the stranger, Nicholas was obliged to admit that he had no idea, but Jessica, who had had greater opportunity to study their rescuer, gave a vehement shake of her head.

‘Several years younger, I should have thought,' she declared. ‘Midtwenties, possibly—and he certainly didn't strike me as aristocratic! Quite the contrary, if you want my opinion!'

‘Nevertheless,' Matt pointed out, ‘at least it gives us something to go on—no harm in making a few discreet enquiries. The least I can do is to thank the fellow for returning my delinquent sister to the bosom of her family!'

He ducked as a velvet cushion sailed over his head. ‘Rotten shot!' he said, as a broad grin formed on his lips. ‘Clearly, all those hours I spent trying to teach you to play cricket were a total waste of time!'

H
aving deposited his hired mount at the nearest livery stables, the subject of their discussion, recently decommissioned Dragoon Major the Honourable Benedict Ashcroft, now Ninth Earl of Wyvern, set off up South Audley Street to walk the short distance to the family's Grosvenor Square mansion.

He had not gone far, however, when he heard himself hailed by a familiar voice.

‘Ashcroft! I say! Over here, old chap!'

On the far side of the road, the driver of a very dashing curricle and pair was waving his whip at him in the most enthusiastic fashion. Instantly recognising his one-time comrade-in-arms, the Honourable Freddy Fitzallan, Wyvern, his face breaking into a broad smile, returned the salute with gusto and nimbly wove his way through the busy traffic to greet his old friend.

‘By all that's wonderful!' grinned Fitzallan, leaning down to grasp Wyvern's outstretched hand. ‘Last person I expected to see! Just got back, have you? Where are you off to? Hop up; I'll give you a lift.'

‘Hardly worth your trouble, Freddy,' said Wyvern with a grin, hoisting himself up beside his friend, nevertheless. ‘But I'm headed for Ashcroft House, if you are of a mind.'

Fitzallan whipped up his horses and, with considerable expertise, threaded his way back into the stream of vehicles.

‘Dreadfully sorry to hear about poor old Theo, Ben,' he said, shooting a fleeting glance at his friend. ‘Hard to believe someone as experienced as your brother could have been that careless with his weapon!' He paused for a moment, then added, with a slightly self-conscious air, ‘S'pose we will all have to get into the habit of calling you Wyvern now!'

‘So it would seem,' returned the new earl morosely. ‘And the very last thing I could have wanted, as you must know!'

Fitzallan gave a sympathetic nod, then, clearing his throat, asked, ‘When did you get back?'

‘Managed to get a passage last night—got into Tilbury early this morning. Had to leave Berridge and Taverner to collect up my things and bring the horses and carriage over as best they could—I hired a hack and rode straight to Brentford. Thought it best to get the full details from the solicitor before I saw my grandmother.'

‘If there's anything I can do to help, old chap, I hope you know that you have only to ask!'

‘Point taken, Freddy,' said Wyvern, forcing a smile. ‘But, unless you happen to have the odd thirty thousand going begging, it would appear that there's not a lot that anyone can do!'

Fitzallan let out a low whistle. ‘Phew!' he gasped ‘As bad as that! I had heard the rumours, of course—difficult to avoid them, as you know—but I hadn't realised…'

He was silent for a moment, then, somewhat apologetically, went on, ‘'Fraid my pockets are to let, as usual. Had to borrow a score from Holt, only yesterday. Maybe he can help—pretty well loaded, dear old Simon, as you know!'

Shaking his head, Wyvern replied, ‘I was joking, dear boy—wouldn't dream of asking either one of you. Apart from which, there would be little point, since I don't have the means to pay back a loan of that magnitude.'

Then, as briefly as possible, he outlined the bones of his earlier meeting with the family solicitor, carefully skating over the less savoury aspects of his deceased older sibling's downfall.

From the limited information that he had managed to cull from Humphreys, who had been the Ashcroft family's solicitor for a good many years, Wyvern had endeavoured to piece together something of his late brother's final days.

It appeared that, during the two years following the carriage accident in which his young wife and baby son had both lost their lives, the late Lord Wyvern had done his best to drown his sorrows in drink. Unfortunately, to the eventual detriment of Ashcroft Grange, the Wyverns' family seat in Middlesex, he had also spent a great many of his waking hours frittering away large sums of money at the gaming tables of one or other of the many gambling dens in the capital. Insofar as his younger brother had been able to establish, it would appear that not one person amongst the late earl's recently acquired circle of friends had felt himself either inclined or able to curtail Theo's reckless proclivities.

To make matters worse—if that were at all possible—Humphreys had then discovered that the late earl, having gambled away the bulk of his own not inconsiderable fortune, had begun to make significant inroads into the estate's ancient assets. In order to fund his spiralling obsession, he had systematically sold off a good many of the cherished silverware collections, along with a quantity of highly prized paintings, irreplaceable tapestries and other such items of value.

Barely able to meet the look of disbelief in his client's eyes, Humphreys had been obliged to steel himself in order to continue his recital of the sorry catalogue of the late earl's excesses, the sad truth of the matter being that, had it not been for the dedication of the small handful of staff who had stayed loyal to their rapidly declining young master, the once carefully husbanded and prosperous estate might well have run to seed. In addition to which, he revealed that Theodore had penned a list containing the names of his creditors, who were collectively owed an amount in excess of thirty thousand pounds—twenty-five thousand of which was in unpaid gambling debts!

As the enormity of his beloved brother's fall from grace had gradually began to force its way into Wyvern's shocked sensibilities, the reasons for Theo finally having elected to put a period to his life had become all too clear to his reluctant successor.

Nevertheless, as he now pointed out to Fitzallan, who had digested his friend's halting narration in a frowning silence, the question still remained as to how the devil he might set about salvaging the situation?

‘If what your man says is correct,' observed Fitzallan, carefully inching his way through the congestion of traffic on Grosvenor Street, ‘it would seem that you have very little option left but to sell up and take what you can get out of the deal.'

‘Oh, not you as well!' exclaimed Wyvern, affronted at his friend's casual dismissal of the estate that had been in the family's possession for nigh on eight generations. ‘That was Humphreys's advice too, but the whole idea is unthinkable! I would sooner die!' But then, as the awful significance of these melodramatic words hit him, he let out a hollow laugh and added, ‘I trust it won't come to that, of course!'

‘Steady on, Ben, old thing!' protested Fitzallan. ‘We have not
quite
reached point-non-plus. If we all put our heads together, we may yet come up with a solution. You might even find that her ladyship has the odd idea or two up her sleeve—she always used to keep her ear pretty close to the ground, as I recall.'

Wyvern attempted a grin. ‘From what Humphreys tells me, Grandmama would seem to be as mettlesome as ever—still haring around the countryside as though she were no more than twenty-five!'

‘Must be close to eighty now, I imagine?'

‘Admits to sixty, I believe,' returned Wyvern, as Fitzallan's curricle swung into Grosvenor Square. ‘You will come in and say “hello”, of course—she always had a soft spot for you.'

Pulling out his timepiece, Fitzallan looked down and shook his head ruefully. ‘Some other time, if you will excuse me. Arranged to meet Holt at Brooks's—half an hour late already. P'raps you'll get the chance to look in on us later this evening?'

Promising that he would see what he could do, Wyvern leapt down from his perch, saluted his friend and mounted the shallow steps up to the front door of the family's Grosvenor Square residence, to which he shortly found himself admitted by his grandmother's elderly retainer.

‘Good to see you back safely, your lordship,' beamed Jesmond, as he ushered Wyvern into the hall and signalled to a waiting footman to relieve him of his outdoor garments. ‘Your luggage arrived this morning. Her ladyship has been expecting you hourly. You will find her in the red salon.'

Still unable to prevent the recoil of distaste that he felt at hearing himself addressed by what had been, until a mere two months previously, his older brother Theodore's title, the new earl strode across the hall to greet his grandmother, who was presently emerging from the doorway of the aforementioned salon.

‘Benedict! My dearest boy—you have arrived at last!'

A tall, white-haired lady, now in her eighty-first year, Lady Lavinia Ashcroft, Dowager Countess of Wyvern, moved gracefully towards her grandson, exhibiting considerable agility for one of her advanced years. Unlike a good many of her peers, she disdained the prevailing fashion for the semi-transparent muslin afternoon dress and was elegantly clad in a simple but expertly cut round gown of black kerseymere, trimmed at the neck with a neat white ruff.

After kissing Wyvern soundly on both cheeks, she held him at arm's length, carefully scrutinising his ruggedly handsome face.

‘You look tired, my boy. I shall have Mrs Winters prepare you a bath—but first, you must join me in a glass of brandy. Jesmond!'

Taking his arm, she allowed her grandson to escort her back into the red salon, so named because of the crimson silk wall hangings and curtains with which it had been furnished many years earlier. Smaller than any of the other reception rooms in the house, it was the Dowager Countess's favourite place to sit in the afternoons, due mainly to the fact that its window overlooked the busy London square, providing her with not only ample advance warning of any impending visitor but, perhaps more significantly, enabling her to keep her eye on her neighbours' comings and goings.

‘You have seen Humphreys?' she enquired, as soon as Wyvern had taken his seat and Jesmond had left the room.

Wyvern nodded. ‘I went to Brentford first thing, as soon as we docked. But it is just as you said in your letter—Theo does appear to have taken his own life.'

‘Humphreys gave me to understand that your brother had left a letter for you. I trust that it contains some sort of explanation for his extraordinary behaviour of late?'

Extracting his brother's missive from his pocket, Wyvern passed it to her. ‘Nothing of any consequence, I fear—apart from his apology. He was clearly very confused when he wrote it.'

Leaning back wearily, he ran his fingers through his crisp dark hair, mentally reviewing the singularly odd tenor of his brother's last words.

Ben, old chap,
the note read,
Can't go on—got myself into an unholy mess—can't seem to sort it out—mine is yours now—too late for me. Save the Grange, I beg you—relying on you—remember where we used to play when we were lads—forgive me, Theo.

His forehead puckered in a frown. ‘I am still finding the whole affair almost impossible to comprehend. I was aware that Theo was pretty cut up after losing Sophia and young Edwin, of course, but I had no idea that he was in such a bad case. A fellow officer did hear a rumour that he was drinking heavily, but to learn that he has frittered away the entire family fortune on gambling and profligate living is unbelievable—especially when you consider that he was the one Father was wont to call “old sobersides”!'

Save for the sonorous ticking of the long-case clock in one corner, the red salon was silent until, suddenly conscious that his grandmother was waiting for him to continue, Wyvern, striving to keep his innermost feelings under control, took a deep breath.

‘Nevertheless,' he managed eventually, ‘it is to his credit that Theo seems to have stopped drinking long enough to recover his senses. But he was clearly not himself when he wrote that note—if everything is as bad as Humphreys has given me to understand, how could Theo possibly have expected me to put it all right?'

‘I trust that you do not intend to fall into an emotional stew over this, my boy!' retorted the countess, eyeing her grandson sharply. ‘Your brother proved himself to be a weakling and, in the end, it appears that he took the coward's way out, so let us have no more repining over the matter!'

‘Hold hard, Grandmama!' protested Wyvern, altogether taken aback at the countess's apparent lack of sympathy towards his late brother. ‘You can hardly expect me to agree with your view that Theo was a weakling. Any man might turn to drink after such a tragedy, especially if he holds himself responsible for the death of his family, as Theo clearly must have done—he was driving the carriage, after all! His suffering must have been very great—'

‘Pish and tush!' interrupted his grandmother dismissively. ‘He is not the first person in the world to have been bereaved and left to get on with life—nor will he be the last! I would remind you, young man, that I myself was left a widow at no more than twenty-two when your grandfather was tossed from his horse and broke his neck. Did
I
fall into a decline and take to drink, I ask you?'

Since this was clearly a rhetorical question, Wyvern shook his head and did not reply, knowing from past experience that to interrupt his grandmother when she was in full flood was a pointless exercise.

‘No, I did not!' she went on. ‘With an estate to run—as well as two young children to raise—I put aside my grief and tears, buckled down and got on with it, so please do not whimper to me about suffering. It is bad enough that your brother gave in to his demons, but to leave you to deal with the problems that he had created and then decided that he could not cope with, is simply the outside of enough!'