‘Buck up, Jess,’ came Nicholas’s bracing tones. ‘If you walk any slower we won’t get home until dinner time!’
Jessica gave a startled jolt, having been quite unaware that her deep introspection had had the effect of reducing her steps almost to a standstill. Hurriedly increasing her pace, she abandoned her deliberations and endeavoured to concentrate her mind on her brother’s highly improbable descriptions of his school friend’s sporting skills.
Upon their arrival back at Dover Street, they were greeted with the news that they had only just missed a most crestfallen Harry Stevenage. The young lieutenant, so Imogen informed them, had called round to bid the family a sad farewell, owing to the fact that both he and his unit were about to be dispatched to Newcastle, in the far north of the country, making it doubtful that he would return to London before the close of the Season.
‘He did say that he will, almost certainly, be paying his usual visit to his godfather in the autumn and commissioned me to tell you,’ added Imogen, with a smiling nod in Jessica’s direction, ‘that he would be most obliged if you could find it in your heart to drop him the occasional line.’
‘Yes, of course,’ was Jessica’s somewhat disconsolate reply, it very quickly having occurred to her that, with both of her ‘respectable’ escorts off on their travels, the relative freedom that she had enjoyed for the past few weeks looked to have reached its conclusion. In the light of last year’s unsavoury incident, she was well aware that Matt was hardly likely to be in favour of his young sister wandering around the capital on her own and, as for allowing her to go off with any gentlemen escorts, other than those whom he had himself personally and thoroughly vetted, she knew that this was equally out of the question!
She groaned inwardly, visualising the coming days filled with circumspect shopping trips with either Clara, her maid, at her side or, worse still, one of the footmen at her heels!
Chapter Eleven
‘Well, old chap,’ said Sir Simon, leaning back in his armchair. ‘I cannot honestly say that I’m surprised—it was clear that your heart wasn’t really in it!’
‘Took some courage, though,’ interjected Fitzallan, shooting an admiring glance at his friend. ‘Wouldn’t have cared to be in your shoes if old Draycott had turned nasty!’
‘As a matter of fact,’ cut in Wyvern hastily, ‘since his lordship finally resorted to trying to appeal to my baser nature, I cannot help but feel that both he and his good lady would welcome me back with open arms, should I be prepared to resume my attentions to their daughter. Which, in the circumstances, would be pretty shabby of me, as I am sure you will agree.’ Pausing, he heaved a deep sigh, then added, somewhat shamefacedly, ‘Nevertheless—should push come to shove…!’
The three comrades were ensconced in the comfortable sitting room of Holt’s set of chambers in Albany, whither a much-deflated Wyvern had fled some hours earlier, still smarting from Lady Lavinia’s reproachful lambasting. His friends, whilst equally disconcerted at the earl’s unexpected volte-face, had continued to be, just as he had expected, rather more supportive than his grandparent, having elected to hear him out without undue criticism.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong, dear boy,’ murmured Sir Simon, as he leant forward to replenish their glasses, ‘but, since I was actually under the impression that “push” had already come to “shove”, I am beginning to get the feeling that there must be something that you are not telling us. Cough up, there’s a good chap!’
‘Well, there is something,’ returned Wyvern hesitantly. ‘The trouble is that I have not yet managed to convince myself that—even if what I surmise does turn out to be the case—there is any likelihood of it making any real difference!’
A frowning Fitzallan put down his glass and stared at Holt in dismay, exclaiming, ‘What the devil is the dear fellow rambling on about? Damned if I could make either head or tail of that, how about you? Seems to me that this whole rotten business is beginning to affect the boy’s brain!’
But Sir Simon, who had been studying Wyvern’s expression, held up his finger and shook his head. ‘Cut line, Freddie!’ he protested. ‘I’m sure Ben is doing his best!’
Shooting his older friend a grateful grin, Wyvern took a deep breath. ‘The thing is,’ he continued, ‘I found out—at least,’ he then emended hurriedly, a slight flush rising in his cheeks, ‘I had it pointed out to me—that the use of the word “mine” in Theo’s note did not necessarily mean “possession”—it might possibly refer to an actual mine—as in coal or tin or whatever!’
There was a moment’s silence as his two companions digested his words.
Then, ‘By crikey, he’s right!’ Fitzallan let out a low whistle. ‘P’raps old Theo owned a coal mine somewhere or other—decent revenue from that would certainly go some way towards solving your problem, Ben, old chap!’
‘Perhaps I might take another quick look at Theo’s note?’ said Sir Simon, glancing at the earl in some curiosity, since he had not failed to register his friend’s unexpected moment of confusion. ‘I cannot quite recall the actual phrase.’
‘Gone for good, I’m sorry to say,’ returned Wyvern bitterly. ‘A couple of ruffians barged into me this morning and filched my notecase. But the wording is still perfectly clear in my mind—“mine is yours now”—that’s what he wrote. When I first read it, it made no sense but now, well…’ his brow wrinkled ‘…now I’m almost convinced that he was trying to tell me something—something that he didn’t want anyone else to get wise to!’
‘I have to admit that that does sound quite plausible,’ said Sir Simon, nodding in agreement but then, as something else occurred to him, he paused for a moment before asking, somewhat apologetically, ‘Not that it is really any of my business, of course, but would you mind telling me whether you have discussed the contents of your brother’s note with persons other than Lady Lavinia and your solicitor?’
‘Apart from Freddie and yourself, you mean?’ responded Wyvern, taken aback. ‘No! Certainly not—why would you ask that?’
‘It was simply that you mentioned that “someone” had pointed out the possibility that the word “mine” meant something other than we had all supposed,’ countered Sir Simon gently. ‘Which led me to wonder…?’ He stopped, waiting for Wyvern’s response.
The earl stared at him for a moment, then, with a rueful grin, he grunted, ‘Hoist by my own petard, by God—it would appear that you two fellows know me better than my own mother!’
And then, being careful to omit all but the most salient points of his meeting with Jessica, he described how it was she, in fact, who had led him to his present conclusion.
‘Tea with the Beresford chit, by Jove!’ gasped Fitzallan, eyeing Wyvern in awe. ‘You lucky beggar! They say that brother of hers keeps her on a pretty tight leash—I have it on good authority that he has refused permission for her to go driving with at least three different fellows that he didn’t like the look of!’
‘Clearly not as tight a leash as he possibly imagines, if what Ben tells us is anything to go by!’ laughed Holt, but, on glancing over to the earl and registering his friend’s somewhat bellicose expression, his smile disappeared and a startled look came into his eyes. Tentatively sipping his cognac, he mused on the matter and could only hope that he had drawn the wrong conclusion from his observations.
Having no desire to enter into enter any sort of ribald discussion examining Jessica’s obvious attributes, Wyvern sought to steer his friends back to the original topic.
‘How would one go about establishing the existence of such a mine—let alone its ownership—I wonder?’ he interjected slowly. ‘Like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, it seems to me!’
Returning his thoughts to the subject in hand, Sir Simon gave a quick nod. ‘It would help if we knew what sort of mine we were looking for,’ he said. ‘Pity about Theo’s letter—if we had been able to study it more thoroughly we might have come up with a few more clues.’
‘Damned b
ad luck, that going missing!’ mused Fitzallan. ‘Couldn’t have anything to do with the other business, I suppose?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Wyvern, perplexed.
‘Well, you know,’ returned Fitzallan, with an embarrassed shrug. ‘People searching for documents and so on—bit of a coincidence you having your pocket picked, if you ask me!’
‘You mean you think the whole affair was done intentionally, then?’ said the earl, in astonishment. ‘But who would possibly know where I kept Theo’s letter—apart from ourselves, that is?’
There were several moments’ silence, as the three friends deliberated this point then, to his two companions’ amazement, Sir Simon suddenly leapt to his feet and, punching the air in exultation, exclaimed, ‘By all that’s holy! I believe I have it!’
‘Well, spit it out, for God’s sake!’ begged Wyvern, his eyes alight in expectation. ‘The suspense is killing us!’
Taking a deep breath, Sir Simon regained his seat and, leaning forward, said, ‘Who else knew the whereabouts of your brother’s note, you asked? Well, I’ll tell you! Both Digby Hazlett and Cedric Stockwell knew—because they were watching when you tucked it back into your notecase yesterday afternoon!’
‘But they weren’t to know what the paper was,’ demurred Fitzallan, with a puzzled frown. ‘And, it could hardly have been either of them who picked Ben’s pocket, ’cos he would have recognised them!’
‘Yes, I realise that, Flannelhead!’ retorted Holt. ‘They would hardly have set about burgling either the Grange or Ashcroft House themselves either, would they? My guess is that one or other of them—my money is on Hazlett—paid a couple of young ruffians to do the dirty work!’
‘Hazlett!’ frowned Wyvern. ‘Why on earth would he…?’
‘Well, it’s clear that he is up to something,’ declared his now highly animated comrade. ‘You said so yourself! Theo owed him a great deal of money, yet he has made no attempt to dun you for any of it—made a point of saying so, in fact! And why, I ask you?’ He paused, studying his colleagues’ expectant expressions. ‘Because, in my opinion, the fellow is after far more valuable pickings!’ he finished exultantly.
‘Like Theo’s mine, you mean?’ cried Fitzallan, now party to Sir Simon’s excitement. ‘P’raps it’s a diamond mine!’ His eyes glowed. ‘Now that really would be something!’
‘Now just hang on a minute, the pair of you!’ protested Wyvern, who was still trying to make sense of Holt’s words. ‘Hazlett didn’t actually read the letter—how would he know about any mine—even suppose the thing actually exists?’
‘That’s the whole point, dear boy!’ returned Sir Simon patiently. ‘It’s my belief that he already knows of its existence but, like ourselves, he either has no idea of its whereabouts or—and this is far more likely—he needs some sort of document of ownership to get his hands on it—hence the break-ins and the pocket-picking!’
‘He thinks that I have this document?’
‘Well, he possibly did,’ Sir Simon was bound to concede. ‘But, if, as I suspect, he now has Theo’s note, he has probably realised that you are just as much in the dark as he is and is marking time until you make your next move!’
‘My next move?’ said the earl, shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘And what might that be, oh great and wondrous oracle?’
‘Well, I might just have a suggestion there,’ put in Fitzallan warily, with an indignant scowl at Sir Simon. ‘Cousin of mine has connections at Lloyds—they keep some sort of register of ships and all manner of other things—he might be able to point us in the right direction—worth a try, at least, don’t you think?’
‘Good man!’ nodded Wyvern, rising to his feet. ‘Let’s go visit this cousin of yours. Nothing like striking while the iron’s hot, as the saying goes!’
‘Well, I dare say we can try,’ replied Fitzallan, reluctantly vacating his comfortable chair. ‘But who knows where dear old Charlie will be at this time of day—probably tucked up nicely in the arms of his light o’ love, if he has any sense!’ Then, reaching for his hat and gloves, he added, ‘But we can look in at Boodle’s, if you’ve a mind—that’s his usual haunt!’
Several hours and gentlemen’s clubs later, however, the three comrades were still no nearer to tracking down Fitzallan’s elusive cousin and, after another fruitless search in yet another tavern, Wyvern voted that they called it a halt for the night. After some deliberation, it was decided that it might be more sensible to allow Fitzallan to seek out his cousin independently, after which he could acquaint his friends with any useful information that he might be able to procure.
Although Wyvern’s once-acute powers of observation were not quite as sharp as they had been back in his days of military service, they were still sufficiently well honed to have rendered him with the distinct feeling that, for some little time now, someone had been dogging their footsteps. After mulling over the matter for a few moments, it soon occurred to him that the three of them sticking so closely together made for an excellent target, should any sort of attack be imminent. Gently nudging Sir Simon in the ribs, he jerked his head to the party’s rear.
‘Picked him out half an hour ago,’ murmured the grinning Holt. ‘Better split up, don’t you think?’
In unspoken agreement, the trio crossed over St James Street and made its way into Piccadilly, where the comrades said their farewells and went their separate ways: Holt to his set of chambers in Vigo Street, Fitzallan to his family mansion on the corner of Clarges Street and Wyvern walking the further distance back to Grosvenor Square.
The shadow, as the earl was very soon to apprehend, had chosen to ignore his two erstwhile companions and follow him, which, in the light of Sir Simon’s earlier deductions, seemed to make perfect sense. Just to check that he was correct in his assumptions, Wyvern, deciding to give the insolent devil a bit of a run for his money, devised the most circuitous route that it was possible to take to get to Ashcroft House, changing direction at practically every junction and even, on at least two occasions, retracing his steps completely.
At this early hour of the morning, it being Sunday, the streets were relatively quiet and, apart from having to sidestep the occasional inebriated reveller, Wyvern found himself with more than enough time to indulge in several flights of fancy.
At the time, Fitzallan’s comment regarding diamond mines had brought a disbelieving smile to his face but now, as he let his imagination run wild, it was perfectly simple to conjure up a vision of pots—nay, buckets—full of the sparkling stones and, in his mind’s eye, he could almost feel them trickling through his fingers as he plunged his hands into their midst. What could he not do with such largesse, he ruminated, his mind already building castles in the air! Pay off all Theo’s outstanding debts, without question—especially that despicable cad Hazlett’s—and, rather more to the point, it would enable him to present himself at Number Twenty-Four Dover Street in the fairly certain knowledge that, however tight a leash Matt Beresford chose to keep his sister on, his suit would be received with open arms. Mere earls might come two-a-penny these days, he grinned to himself, but abundantly wealthy earls on the look out for a bride were very thin on the ground!
During the previous eight of his twenty-six years, Wyvern had grown sufficiently confident of his own masculinity to consider himself well up to scratch in the art of interpretation, when it came to the various signs and signals given off by members of the female species. Nevertheless, nothing in his past dealings with the fairer sex had prepared him for the thunderbolt that had hit him when confronted with the delectable Jessica Beresford in full warpaint, this having proved to be an entirely new sensation to him, shaking him to the very core of his being. Even so, he was not insensible to the fact that, if the acquaintanceship were to prosper—in the face of her tender years and undoubted innocence—he would need to proceed with caution. He doubted that she had even the vaguest idea of the effect that her loveliness had upon the male of the species. Nonetheless, from the few
tantalising signals that he had received, it was but a short step to convincing himself that Jessica would welcome his courtship. A courtship that, he promised himself with an optimistic grin, would be a very short one—conducted with all the usual due deference and regard, of course—at least until the joining of hands was over. He then allowed his imagination to run riot, in a somewhat premature anticipation of the many pleasurable activities that might follow the ceremony—vivid images of which were soon to send rippling shudders of exhilaration running through his body.
An Unconventional Miss Page 13