An Unconventional Miss

by Dorothy Elbury

  Chapter Seventeen

  Having arrived back at Ashcroft Grange shortly after ten o’clock the following morning, Wyvern and his two friends were sitting at the kitchen table tucking into the hearty breakfast of steak and eggs that Mrs Hayward, the elderly housekeeper, had insisted in preparing for them.

  The earl was finding himself obliged to endure a considerable amount of good-natured chaffing at the hands of his companions, as a result of the obligatory waltz of the previous evening, followed by his extended absence from the room—Jessica’s subsequent disappearance having, also, been duly noted.

  ‘I swear that you were gone a full fifteen minutes,’ chuckled Fitzallan, as he reached over to help himself to his third slice of Mrs Hayward’s succulent beefsteak. ‘More than enough time to get any female out of your system, in my humble opinion.’

  ‘Then allow me to assure you that, in this case, even fifteen years would not even begin to bring about that eventuality,’ growled Wyvern, shooting his ex-comrade a glowering look. ‘And I would be much obliged if you could bring yourself to desist from making offensive remarks about my future wife!’

  ‘Your future wife?’ chorused his friends, in wide-eyed astonishment.

  ‘Are we to understand that you actually got as far as proposing to Miss Beresford?’ asked Sir Simon, quite taken aback at his friend’s unseemly haste to become leg-shackled. ‘Whilst I realise that you are thoroughly smitten, dear boy, surely it is customary to involve oneself in a few weeks of dedicated courtship before one takes such an irreversible step?’

  ‘Seeing that Beresford is set on returning his family to Lincolnshire in the morning,’ returned the earl, with a wry smile, ‘it would appear that time is a luxury I can ill afford. And, knowing that it might well be several weeks before I got another chance to speak to Jessica alone, I deemed it necessary to, er—stake my claim—if you will pardon the vulgarity!’

  ‘All of which appears to have given us even more reason to get on with the business of searching for this blessed certificate!’ observed Holt, quaffing back the remains of his porter and rising to his feet. ‘Which reminds me…’ He paused momentarily, considering his next words. ‘I dare say that you were too distracted last evening to pay much attention to what was going on around you. I, however, did happen to notice Digby Hazlett emerging from the Conynghams’ library shortly before you returned to the ballroom. It has subsequently occurred to me that he might well have been in a position to observe you dallying with Miss Beresford, since you say that you were out on the terrace.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ replied Wyvern, with a swift shake of his head. ‘I, myself, spent quite some time in the library before returning to the ballroom and I can assure you that Hazlett was, most certainly, not present on that occasion!’

  ‘Just a thought, old friend,’ returned Sir Simon. ‘It’s as well to remember what a cunningly devious swine Hazlett is. It wouldn’t do to give him anything to use against you. He would happily blacken not only your name, but Miss Beresford’s too, just for the sheer hell of it!’

  ‘Point taken, Simon,’ nodded the earl. ‘I promise to be extra-vigilant.’

  Having debated the next best course of action, the three friends made their way to the stables and saddled up their horses, it having been decided that Fitzallan would investigate the hollows of certain trees that Wyvern had described to him, while Holt was directed to search between the crevices of the boulders in a small, rocky inlet that lay within a sharp bend in the Brent, the river that ran through the Ashcroft estate. The earl himself had elected to head for the Grange’s dilapidated boathouse, which was situated on the banks of the Brent itself. After agreeing that a shot would be fired into the air should any of them happen to be successful in his search, the three men parted.

  Wyvern made his way down to the riverside, directing his mount through the estate’s badly overgrown copses. Such a lot of work to be done, he conjectured, dismally, shaking his head at the wilful neglect he could see all around him. If he could just get his hands on all that prime blunt that was lying so idly in Mr Coutts vault, he would not only be able to return his family home to its previous prosperity, but he might also invest in some of these new farming methods that he had been hearing about. If he was going to set himself up as a gentleman farmer, he decided, a wry grin creasing his face, then he might just as well do the thing properly. Other fellows were happy enough to spend their lives in some rural backwater—Matt Beresford, for one, it seemed, could hardly wait to get back to his farm and dirty his hands again. However, although he was more than keen to bring the Ashford estate back up to scratch, Wyvern was not entirely certain that he would care to be that closely involved in its day-to-day activities—that sort of thing had been much more in Theo’s line.

  As his thoughts flew once more to the tragedy of his brother’s death, a puzzled frown crossed his brow. Why, he wondered, if Theo had been aware of the vast amount of money waiting to be claimed, had he not simply produced the deeds and collected it? Sadly, the answer to this question was not difficult to fathom. Having already gambled away his own fortune, in addition to a hefty portion of the estate’s assets, Theo, in one of his saner moments, had been unable to trust himself not to flush away this final resource down the same sewer. Unable to contemplate a future without his beloved Sophie and having realised their potential value, he had managed to stay sober long enough to hide the documents, before taking his own life, in the certain expectation of his younger brother taking up the reins in his stead.

  Whilst Wyvern could, by no means, condone his brother’s actions, now that he found himself suffering from a similar affliction—a condition somewhat akin to madness, he reminded himself ruefully—it was easier for him to begin to understand Theo’s state of mind during that painful period. And, as the wholly unacceptable thought that he might never find the deeds, thereby losing his only chance to claim Jessica for his own, filtered its way into his brain, a comparable sense of hopelessness threatened to overcome him.

  Steeling himself, he drew in a deep breath, knowing that, if he meant to win Jessica’s hand, he had no option but to continue his search and, whipping up his horse, he set him into a fast canter along the riverbank towards the boathouse.

  This building, when he reached it, turned out to be even more dilapidated than he had recalled, missing several of its roof timbers and open to the elements. There were, as he quickly realised, very few places within its damp and mouldy shell where a valuable document could be secreted. After searching every possible nook and cranny, including those within the rotting boat itself, he was almost ready to admit defeat.

  Straightening up, in an attempt to ease the ache in his back, his eyes let upon the tiny ait situated in the middle of the river. Little more than a clump of willow trees set on a small grassy hump that rose above the placid waters of the Brent, it had provided the two brothers with many a happy hour of adventuring during their growing years.

  With a doubtful frown, Wyvern gazed down at the vessel, somewhat uncertain as to its seaworthiness. And yet, he reasoned, as he looked over at the islet, calculating its distance from the shore, if Theo had chosen to secrete the missing deeds somewhere over there, the boat would have been his brother’s only means of transport.

  With a weary sigh, for he realised that he had no choice but to investigate the ait’s possibilities, the earl stripped off his jacket and, rolling up his sleeves, climbed carefully into the leaky craft and untied the painter that secured it to its mooring post.

  Mentally keeping his fingers crossed that the boat would prove to be far more reliable than it looked, Wyvern took hold of the oars and, his heart in his mouth—since he had no fancy for an unsolicited dip in the river—began to row the hundred yards or so that made up the distance to the islet. To his unbounded relief, in spite of the fact that there did seem to be a fair amount of water seeping through the aged timbers, the short voyage was eventually achieved without the expected disaster.

  As he
tied up the vessel to one of the many twisted roots that protruded from the trunks of the three or four willow trees that grew on the grassy hump, a swift smile of recollection creased his lips. Having reached the ait, memories quickly flooded back of the many wild adventures of beleaguered knights or marauding pirates that he and Theo, along with several of their school friends, had played on this tiny scrap of land, scarcely twenty feet across in either direction. However, in picking his way through the overhanging fronds of the willows, in an impatient search for some sign that his brother might have left for him, it soon became clear to him that there was nowhere on this little islet that anyone could possibly hide anything, let alone vital pieces of paper!

  Deeply dispirited, he returned to the boat and, with a rusty tin that he had happened upon during his search of the islet, set about baling out the water that had collected in the boat’s bottom, in readiness for his row back to the opposite riverbank. As he was doing so, his attention was caught by a gentle clinking noise, which seemed to be coming from somewhere further along the bank. With a puzzled frown, he climbed out of the boat and, by clinging on to the trees’ overhanging branches in order to steady himself, the earl was able to make his way across the gnarled root system towards the source of the sound.

  When, at last, he reached the spot, a wry smile twisted his lips for, tied to one of the ancient willow tree roots and bobbing about in the gentle movement of the water, was nothing more than an old wine bottle. Judging by its grimed and algae-encrusted exterior, it must have been there for years, he thought, recalling with perfect clarity how he and his friends had often provisioned their trips to the ait with pockets full of apples and sweetmeats, along with bottles of cook’s homemade fizzy ginger drink that they would submerge in the river to keep cool. With a disappointed shake of his head, he bent down and undid the knot that secured the bottle to the root, lifted it out of the water and, pulling out the cork, gave it a quick shake, curious to see if its contents still gave off that satisfying froth of bubbles he remembered so well. To his surprise, the contents of the bottle merely rattled. His senses suddenly alert and scarcely able to contemplate the outcome, he tentatively tipped the contents of the bottle into his hand. A shower of pebbles cascaded forth, slowly followed by the tip of a twist of oiled paper. Hardly daring to breathe, Wyvern took hold of the end of the paper and withdrew a slim, tubular-shaped package. Although he was almost overcome with a mixture of relief and excitement at having finally found the lost documents, he wisely decided that there was no immediate need for him to unwrap the package, concluding that its contents were far too valuable to be lost to a sudden gust of wind or a destructive drenching in the river. Tucking the tube securely down into the waistband of his riding breeches, he felt for his pistol, which he had stowed into his pocket and, quickly priming the weapon, raised his arm and fired a single shot into the air.

  Under the watchful and keenly interested gaze of Hazlett’s paid minion, who had been hiding in the bushes beside the riverbank throughout his sojourn, the earl climbed back into the boat and, with the exultant grin on his face now clearly visible, proceeded to row back to the shore.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lady Helen’s supper party at the Vauxhall Gardens was in full swing—if such an epithet could be applied to the tightly controlled behaviour and restrained laughter of the somewhat supercilious group of individuals now assembled within her hired box! And, although Jessica’s mind was, more or less, fully occupied with the tantalising question of when or whether Wyvern might choose to put in an appearance, she could not help wondering why Felicity Draycott and her friends ever bothered to attend such a cosmopolitan gathering, if all they intended to do was to mock or criticise the passers-by. They had refrained from joining in the choruses of the songs, as she had quickly discovered to her cost, her own short burst of enthusiasm having bought deprecating frowns from both of her female neighbours. Added to which, not one of them had made the slightest attempt to join the dancers around the Rotunda, openly averring that such over-boisterous performances were both unseemly and vulgar.

  The earlier part of the day had gone so slowly that it had been difficult for Jessica to keep her simmering excitement under control. Luckily, her brother Matt had been far too involved with the tedious business of organising the packing up of the household belongings to bother much with his young sister. Short of asking her how she had enjoyed herself at the Conynghams’ ball, he had paid her very little attention.

  Imogen, however, had required a far more detailed recital of the previous evening’s events and it had taken all of Jessica’s descriptive powers to satisfy her cousin’s eager questioning. Thankfully, there was no necessity for her to resort to untruths, since her vivid descriptions of the ballroom’s exotic decorations, the spectacular lighting in the garden and the lavish choice of delicacies in the supper room were more than enough to bring a wistful smile to Imogen’s face. And, if Jessica’s eyes did seem a little overbright and her demeanour rather more agitated than of late, her cousin simply assumed it to be as a result of the excitement of the previous evening’s entertainment.

  Having already visited the highly popular pleasure gardens earlier in the Season, none of its attractions was of especial interest to Jessica, particularly since she, once again, found herself being squired by the Honourable Walter Allardyce who, in her opinion, had to be one of the greatest bores she had met during the whole of her time in London. If he mentioned the new gas lighting once more, she was quite certain that she would scream out loud! As for the music! To her dispassionate ears, the musicians in the Rotunda, striving to make themselves heard above the cacophony of shrill chatter that emanated from the diverse bevy of humanity passing by, seemed to be exhibiting far less proficiency than she recalled from her previous visit. The only advantage of being in a supper box, as far as she could see, was that it gave her a clearer view of the populace than if the group had chosen to join the confused jumble below.

  Provided they could afford the price of the three-shilling entry ticket, the gardens were open to every single class of person imaginable, from the lowest costermonger to the highest duke in the land, not to mention a goodly smattering of the showy Birds of Paradise who plied their trade in the more dimly lit dark walks. Even the Prince Regent himself was said to be greatly enamoured of the place!

  Politely declining yet another offering of the thinly sliced ham for which the Gardens were famed, Jessica’s eyes travelled eagerly across the shifting countenances of the swarming masses below, desperately seeking out that one beloved face that had come to mean so much to her. But, alas, to no avail! Inexorably, the hands on the clock above the Rotunda crept onwards and still no sign of the earl. Finally, when the Master of Ceremonies announced that the firework spectacular that rounded off the evening’s entertainment would commence in fifteen or so minutes, she was obliged to resign herself to the fact that, for whatever reason, Wyvern had found it impossible to join her, as he had promised he would endeavour to do. Now she would have to go back to Thornfield without any clear idea of when she might see him again. It was possible that he might write to her, she supposed glumly but, with Matt and Imogen overseeing the house’s letters, she doubted whether, in view of his present lack of funds, that would be a very wise thing for him to attempt. Inwardly cursing the wretched Theo for having made his brother’s task so difficult, she prayed that Wyvern would soon lay his hands on the hidden documents.

  Deeply intent upon trying to think of some way to solve her difficulties, she was shaken back to reality by the angry voices of the four gentlemen who were tonight’s escorts.

  ‘Clear off, Hazlett!’ Gerald Pevensey was saying. ‘Leave Miss Draycott alone! You and your sort are not welcome here!’

  Craning her neck, Jessica caught sight of a tall, scar-faced individual backing away from the box. His manner of dress seemed to indicate that he belonged to the upper classes but, when he turned to face her and gave her what could only be described as a knowing wink
, she was immediately assured that he most certainly did not! Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, she bent her head towards Felicity, who was seated next to her, intending to enquire as to the stranger’s purpose in coming to their box. To her consternation, her friend’s face had turned a deathly white and she looked as though she were about to faint.

  Reaching out her hands, in order to prevent the swaying girl from falling out of her seat, Jessica called out, ‘Some water, quickly, please, gentlemen!’

  Unfortunately, since water was not a commodity that was readily available in the supper boxes, a choice of arrack punch or champagne was the best that any of their escorts were able to offer her.

  Opting for the lesser intoxicating wine, Jessica dipped her handkerchief in the proffered glass and dabbed it against Felicity’s lips, noting, with considerable relief, that the other girl’s cheeks were starting to regain their colour and that she seemed to be recovering from whatever had caused her distress.

  ‘It was that swine Hazlett,’ sniffed Sir Philip Henderson indignantly, as he leant forward and, somewhat feebly, patted Felicity on her shoulder. ‘The sight of his evil face is enough to frighten even the strongest of stomachs!’

  Summoning up every vestige of her former self-control, Felicity inclined her head. ‘He did give me something of a shock,’ she conceded then, getting to her feet, she added, ‘What say we all take a little stroll about the gardens before the firework display begins? We have been sitting here so long that I am sure the exercise would do us a world of good, do you not agree?’

  ‘Are you sure that you are up to it, Felicity?’ questioned Jessica, rather taken aback at her friend’s sudden bout of energy.

  She was more than a little hurt when Felicity, instead of answering Jessica’s well-intentioned query as to her well being, averted her eyes and, laying her hand on Mr Pevensey’s proffered arm, stepped down from the supper box, leaving Jessica in a ferment of doubt and indignation. Surely, it cannot be out of bounds to enquire after someone’s health, she thought, shaking her head in amazement. Had it not been for her painful disappointment at Wyvern’s non-appearance, she was beginning to feel not at all sorry about returning to Thornfield on the morrow, for at least this would mean that she would be done with always having to defer to the complicated vagaries of Felicity Draycott and her wearisome set of friends!