The elderly clerk had listened to Wyvern’s somewhat confused tale with great interest; at its conclusion, he had reached into one of his desk drawers and brought out a bulky sheaf of papers.
‘Since we have, as yet, no fully comprehensive register of mining companies,’ he murmured, as he rifled through the bundle and drew out several closely written pages, ‘it would, in the normal way of things, be quite impossible for me to assist you in this matter. However, given that, only just this morning, I received a very similar query from another gentleman in regard to a missing stock certificate, it has occurred to me that it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that the two matters may be linked in some way. The El Serena concession has, after all, been carving out some very worthwhile tonnage of late and production of a valid title deed looks likely to provide its owner with a considerable fortune.’
‘El Serena?’ repeated Wyvern, frowning. ‘I am not familiar with the name—sounds foreign—South American, at a guess?’
Adjusting his spectacles, the man nodded. ‘A small gold-mining settlement near Santiago, in Chile,’ he explained. ‘Your lordship is no doubt aware that, for the past few years, that country has been at war with the Spanish but, now that it is on the brink of achieving independence, those fortunate few who, before the onset of the hostilities, had the foresight to put their money into schemes to harvest its mineral resources are beginning to see vast profits from their investments.’
Peering down at the paper in his hand, he then went on, ‘If my information is correct, the agent representing the El Serena management has been seeking information as to the whereabouts of one of its original shareholders—a Mr John Stavely, it would seem. However, my morning visitor has assured me that, not only has the title deed subsequently changed hands but, more to the point, it appears to have gone missing. Which, as I am sure you will agree, is something of a calamity, especially in view of the fact that considerable sums of money have already been deposited in an account with the Coutts brothers, on behalf of whosoever provides valid ownership of these shares!’
His eyebrows raised, he regarded Wyvern with interest. ‘Do you have reason to believe that your brother might have been in possession of this title deed, your lordship?’ he asked curiously.
‘I wish I knew,’ replied Wyvern, with a rueful smile. ‘If he was, he seems to have gone to considerable trouble to prevent the blessed thing from being discovered!’
The man nodded sympathetically. ‘A great pity,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, should you happen to come across the missing paperwork, you may rest assured that it would be my pleasure and privilege to assist you with any difficulties that might arise in claiming the revenue.’ He stole a quick glance down at his notes. ‘Which, it may interest you to know, currently stands at something in excess of fifty thousand pounds!’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Wyvern, as this somewhat staggering information filtered its way into his brain. ‘If that’s not the spur to a more diligent search, I’ll be jiggered if I can think what might be!’
But then, as another thought came to him, he frowned. ‘Did I hear you say that you have had other enquiries regarding this Chilean mine?’
‘That is correct,’ nodded the clerk. ‘I was visited by another gentleman, only this morning.’ But, immediately perceiving the question in Wyvern’s eyes, he hastened to add, ‘It would be quite out of the question for me to reveal my visitor’s name, however. To do so would place me in breach of all the rules of my profession!’
With a rueful nod, Wyvern rose to his feet and thanked the clerk for his help, then, after assuring the man that he would keep him posted on any progress he might make, he walked out of the dusty office into the late afternoon sunshine. Although he was finding it hard to believe that his search might finally be over, the spring in his step was a good deal lighter than it had been when he had entered the building and he could not help feeling rather more positive about his chances of resolving his problems—particularly in regard to securing Jessica’s hand.
Subsequent to the Berkeley Square teashop rendezvous, the earl’s seemingly endless daytime excursions into the City had, for the most part, prevented his mind from wandering too far in Jessica’s direction. The nights, however, had proved to be a very different matter for, whether sleeping or waking, he had found his thoughts being constantly bombarded with tormenting visions of Jessica in some other man’s arms. To begin with, he had done his utmost to keep away from any social event that he knew that she and her family might attend and, with the support of his two stalwart companions, neither of whom had taken long to fathom the root source of their friend’s discontent, he had, for the most part, been reasonably successful. But, last Friday evening, when the burning ache just to set his eyes upon her lovely face once more had overtaken his common sense, he had presented himself at Lady Henderson’s supper-dance, hoping to claim a dance with Jessica, simply because this was the only way that he could think of where it would be deemed perfectly acceptable to be seen holding her in his arms. Having achieved that goal, however, it had left his emotions on such a knife edge that he had been obliged to quit the room, since the agony of having to watch some other fellow lay his hands on her might well have driven him to conduct himself in a not altogether acceptable manner!
And, if this predicament were not far more than enough with which to contend, he reminded himself gloomily, there was the added problem of his grandmother who, having taken umbrage with him over the Draycott affair, was now refusing to speak to him directly and had resorted to the somewhat farcical strategy of communicating with him by way of the servants!
Nevertheless, despite all of these mounting difficulties and, since his pride would not allow him to approach Jessica’s guardian until he had something rather more tangible to offer her than the heartfelt promise of his own boundless and abiding love, Wyvern was ruefully aware that he had very little option but to continue with his present quest, which, until this afternoon’s encouraging news, had looked to be turning into something of an odyssey!
Leaping up into his waiting curricle, he flicked the reins and headed back through the city towards Grosvenor Square, desperately trying to remember the final phrases in his brother’s scribbled missive. Jessica had been perfectly correct in her assumption that, unless committed to paper, Theo’s words would slip away from him, he thought grimly, knitting his brow in fierce concentration, as he wove his way through the interminable press of vehicles in London’s West End.
What the devil had Theo written after the words mine is yours now? Just more apologies, as he recalled, along with some garbled nonsense about playing together as boys. Suddenly, he stilled and the reins fell slack in his hands, causing Berridge, his tiger, to shout a warning from his seat on the box behind. With an abrupt start, the earl jerked his mind back to the task in hand and, pulling hard on his left-hand rein, only just managed to avoid contact with an oncoming beer dray, the infuriated driver of which shook an angry fist at him, calling him a cork-brained young numb-skull, an epithet that might well have been matched with one of a similar nature had not Wyvern’s mind been more seriously engaged.
‘Close one there, guv,’ offered Berridge, a little shocked at his master’s apparent lack of judgement. ‘Nearly lost a wheel!’
‘Yes, sorry about that, Berry,’ returned the earl somewhat absently, as a wide grin creased his face. Oh, Theo! he exulted silently. You clever old devil! You’ve hidden the damned title deed in one of our childhood haunts!
But then, as the perplexing matter of just which childhood haunt his brother might have lit upon to secrete such an important document filtered its way into his brain, the grin slowly faded, to be replaced by yet another frown, as Wyvern’s mind flashed from one favoured den to another. Until, finally, he was forced to conclude that he still had very little idea of where to look. This, of course, would mean another extended visit to Ashcroft Grange—not to mention another week or so away from Jessica, he thought gloomily, and, since her recent
involvement with Felicity Draycott and her set, who knew what might happen while he was out of town?
Felicity’s taking-up of Jessica into her select clique of upper ton females had come as a nasty shock to the earl for, although he was aware that the group of gentlemen whom the Draycott set favoured as escorts were generally regarded as confirmed bachelors, he found it almost impossible to believe that any man could be in Jessica’s company for very long without eventually succumbing to her delectable charms. And the thought of Jessica going riding in Hyde Park and being squired about the capital by a series of well-to-do men about town was a good deal more troublesome to Wyvern than the sight of her dancing with one of the group of infatuated young bloods who had previously gravitated to her side.
As serious contenders for Jessica’s hand, fellows such as Harry Stevenage and his sort had been dismissed out of hand by the earl, although this had done little to prevent the hot spurts of anger that had inflamed him whenever he had found himself in a position to witness one of them handling her in what he had considered to be a rather too familiar manner. And, even though he was perfectly well aware that highly connected men of Walter Allardyce’s ilk were not the sort to take that kind of liberty with single young females, he was sufficiently astute to realise that, as possible rivals, they were an altogether different kettle of fish from the crass young sprigs with whom Jessica had been wont to associate! With a scowl of vexation, he found himself bound to consider the fact that, until he himself was able to woo her in the correct and proper manner, all of his carefully planned visions of future ecstasy might well be in peril of being prematurely nipped in the bud!
Drawing up his curricle outside the stable block at the rear of Ashcroft House, the earl threw the reins to the waiting Berridge, jumped down and hurried into the house, plagued by the unacceptable thought that one of those highly dashing and sophisticated men might win his beloved’s heart and hand! Determining to seek out his two friends in order to petition them to join him at first light the following morning for a thorough search of the Grange’s extensive grounds, he mounted the stairs to his bedchamber.
Chapter Fourteen
Despite her hasty re-evaluation of Wyvern’s character, Jessica could not prevent her eyes from seeking out his tall, broad-shouldered presence at every venue. Nor, indeed, could she control the highly unsettling images that pervaded her dreams, both day and night. Whilst her new escorts were charming and attentive in every degree, they none of them had Wyvern’s red-blooded vitality, nor did they smile at her in such a way as to instantly curl up her toes and set her pulse racing. It seemed clear to her that Fate had doomed her to a lifetime of falling for rakes and reprobates and other such unsuitable characters.
This, she thought sourly, taking a quick peek at the somewhat self-satisfied look on the face of her current squire, the Honourable Gerald Pevensey, as he tooled his carriage around the Hyde Park circuit, was presumably the penalty she was obliged to pay for having been handed such beauty at birth, beauty that she had lately come to realise had been apt to cause her a good deal more trouble than it was worth. To think that she had once been perfectly content to bask in the admiration of the shallow young men who had constantly paid court to her—and even, to her utter chagrin, had actually considered it her due!
For the bald truth of the matter was that—apart from her half-brother, that is—Wyvern had been the only man in her life who had dared to challenge her actions; the only one who had sufficient confidence in himself to find fault with her behaviour and chastise her for it and, even though his occasional arrogance had infuriated her, it had not taken her long to realise that just one warm glance of approval from those deep grey eyes was worth more than a thousand pretty speeches from any other man.
As thoughts of this nature continued to occupy her mind, her shoulders drooped and her face grew wan, causing her escort to bring his carriage to a swift, albeit impeccable, halt.
‘My dear Miss Beresford?’ he exclaimed anxiously, as he peered down at her pale cheeks. ‘Are you unwell? I trust that my manner of driving has not discomfited you?’
Jessica forced a smile. ‘Hardly, Mr Pevensey—I declare that you are a most exceptional whip! It is merely that I have a slight headache. It was foolish of me to come out without a parasol, for the sun is very bright today, do you not agree?’
Already in the process of turning his equipage around, Pevensey gave a frowning nod, ‘Still, dear lady, we cannot have you feeling poorly. It is clear that I must return you to your cousin without delay!’
Holding back the smile that threatened, Jessica could not help thinking that Pevensey’s haste to return her to Dover Street was rather more to do with his horror of being seen with a sickly companion than with any real concern for her well-being.
That was the trouble with Felicity’s friends and acquaintances, she thought, as she watched the Honourable Gerald skilfully tooling his way back through the press of carriages on the Row. Although her association with them had been relatively brief, it had taken her no time at all to discover that they all cared far more for appearances than for character, which, she supposed wryly, was why they had been happy to take her up. The fact that that she had been voted ‘Belle of the Season’ amongst the more impressionable young men about town had been a point in her favour, especially insofar as Felicity’s group of male escorts was concerned. To be seen with such a beauty on their arms seemed to do a great deal for these gentlemen’s consequences, as a result of which, Jessica’s days this past week had been filled to capacity, with early morning rides in the park, trips to the theatre, boating on the Serpentine, visits to art galleries and more carriage rides than she cared to remember. Added to which were the daily deliveries of so many extravagant bouquets of hothouse flowers that Mrs Simmons, their housekeeper, was having great difficulty in finding enough receptacles to accommodate them all.
Not that the recipient of all this consideration was in the least bit smug about any of it, having learned that it was all part and parcel of the Draycott set’s need to create the right impression, which seemed to be far more important than simply enjoying oneself. Oh, so proper and, oh, so dull, she thought. It was difficult to imagine any one of her new female acquaintances ever having done anything so outrageous as to hop or skip, take the stairs two at a time or, heaven forbid, slide down the banisters, as she had been often wont to do back home in Thornfield!
With an inward grin, she allowed the Honourable Gerald to hand her down from his carriage and escort her to her front door. Politely declining her invitation to step inside for some refreshment, the gentleman raised his hat, executed a swift bow and, after extending his good wishes for her swift recovery, returned to his carriage with as much speed as dignity would allow.
‘You weren’t very long,’ observed her brother, looking up from his broadsheet, as she entered the salon where he was sitting reading. ‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’
‘Just a slight headache, that’s all,’ returned Jessica, removing her bonnet and tossing it to one side. ‘The sun is very bright today. Where is Imogen?’
‘Upstairs resting—and I’d rather you didn’t disturb her, if you don’t mind.’
‘No, of course I won’t!’
Sitting down on the sofa opposite the armchair in which Matt was lounging, she patted her hair and made a play of inspecting her nails. Then, ‘Have you happened to come across Lord Wyvern of late?’ she enquired tentatively.
Matt raised one eyebrow and stared at her. ‘Why the sudden interest in that fellow?’ he asked.
‘No especial reason, really,’ she replied, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘I thought you said that he might call, but he still hasn’t done so.’
‘But that was weeks ago!’
‘True,’ she nodded. ‘But I never did get the chance to thank him properly for helping us that evening.’
Matt shrugged. ‘Dare say the fellow’s forgotten all about it—got more important things on his mind, I hear.’
Such
as the loss of his brother’s note, Jessica supposed, wondering if any mine had actually transpired after her conversation with him. ‘He doesn’t attend many functions,’ she then observed.
Matt, who had returned to his perusal of the recent riots in Manchester, frowned and laid down his newspaper. ‘As it happens, I played a hand of cribbage with him only last week at the Hendersons’ soirée, while you were tripping the light fantastic with one of your many devoted swains. Appears there’s a great deal of work to do on his recently inherited estate—although why that should be of any interest to you I can’t possibly imagine!’
Having been perfectly well aware of Wyvern’s presence on that particular occasion, Jessica thought better of the retort that she had been about to fling at her brother, since it was clear that Imogen had failed to mention the earl’s having solicited her for a dance. ‘I just wondered why it was that he never called,’ she said hurriedly. ‘If only for courtesy’s sake!’
This time her brother raised both eyebrows and burst out laughing. ‘Oh, at last I’m beginning to see the point of this conversation!’ he guffawed. ‘The one that got away! Poor old Jess! Finally come across someone who didn’t immediately succumb to your rather obvious charms!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Matt,’ protested Jessica, getting swiftly to her feet and making for the door before her brother could detect the sudden rise of colour in her cheeks. ‘It isn’t like that at all—I was merely interested.’
Matt’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well, it beats me why you should be so interested in someone you’ve barely spoken to, unless…’ Thrusting his newspaper to one side, he leapt to his feet and, crossing the room in two quick strides, he grabbed her by the arm. ‘I trust that you haven’t been up to your old tricks again, Jess!’ he growled. ‘Imogen will never forgive you if you get into another scrape like the last one!’
An Unconventional Miss Page 16