On a sudden whim of fancy, he darted to her side and, to the elderly lady’s utter consternation, placed his hands upon her waist and proceeded to swing her off her feet in a wide circle.
‘Put me down this instance, you foolish boy!’ she gasped indignantly. ‘Have you run quite mad?’
‘Very probably,’ grinned Wyvern, as he lowered her gently to the ground and swept her a deep bow. ‘Allow me to inform you, dearest Grandmama, that our difficulties are at an end—our coffers will soon be overflowing!’ At the dowager’s frown of incomprehension, he paused momentarily then, looking her straight in the eyes and in a much more serious vein, added, ‘Much more to the point, as far as I am concerned, I now find myself free to marry whomsoever I choose!’
Executing another bow, he would have turned to go had not Lady Lavinia reached out a hand to stay him. ‘Explain yourself, Benedict, I beg of you!’ she implored. ‘I really have no idea what you are talking about!’
‘A circumstance that you have brought entirely upon yourself!’ he riposted gently, as he extricated himself from her grasp and held her away from him. ‘Had you not been so eager to have me “sent to Coventry” during the last couple of weeks, you would have been in full possession of all the facts!’
‘Nevertheless—!’ began his grandmother, eager to point out that, in her opinion, her recent conduct towards him had been fully justified in the circumstances.
With a brisk shake of his head, Wyvern held up one hand to silence her. ‘You must forgive me, Grandmama,’ he interjected. ‘I have no time to debate the matter at present—but I promise you that all will be revealed on my return!’
‘But you have only just returned!’ she retorted wrathfully, as she watched him turn back towards his own chambers. ‘Where are you off to now?’
‘Patience, dear lady!’ he called over his shoulder, as he entered his room and closed the door. For some moments, he stood in silent contemplation for, if the truth be told, he was not altogether certain as to his next move. His initial intention, after his afternoon peregrinations, had been to make straight for Vauxhall Gardens, for he could hardly wait to share his good news with Jessica but, having given the matter some thought on his journey back from Middlesex, it had occurred to him that, perhaps, a visit to Dover Street, to petition Matt Beresford for his sister’s hand, might be the more sensible option.
Quickly making up his mind, he rang for Taverner and began divesting himself of his dusty travelling garments and, with that erstwhile gentleman’s assistance, he readied himself for what, as far as he was concerned, looked set to be one of the most important interviews of his life.
Seated at his dressing table stool, clad in his best jacket of dark blue superfine, grey waistcoat and buff-coloured, thigh-hugging pantaloons, he thrust out each leg in turn to allow his valet to ease on the highly polished Hessians that the man had just that minute brought up from the boot-room, then, getting to his feet to survey himself in the looking-glass, he pronounced himself reasonably well satisfied with his appearance.
After a minute adjustment to the already perfect arrangement of his master’s snowy-white neckcloth, Taverner stood back with a contented smile, saying, ‘There you are, sir, and, if you will pardon my saying so, not even the most pernickety female on the planet could find any fault with you this evening, if I am any judge!’
‘Then you will no doubt be relieved to hear, Taverner,’ replied the earl, with a cheerful nod, ‘that the young lady in question is not in the slightest bit pernickety! Unfortunately, however, the whole point of all this extra attention to detail is to impress her guardian, who may well be so inclined!’
Picking up his hat and gloves, he turned to leave but then, as his eyes fell on the twisted tube of oiled paper that still lay on his dressing-table, a slight frown creased his forehead. Having already studied the contents of the package with his two comrades, along with subsequent enquiries on his return to the capital, he had learned that the shares had, in the first instance, been owned by the missing Jack Stavely who had, some five years earlier, transferred his rights to the mine to Digby Hazlett. Scarcely two months before Theo’s death, the viscount had, in his turn, transferred the rights to the then Earl of Wyvern. All of the transfers, including the final one from Theo to himself, had been duly signed and witnessed and seemed, insofar as the three friends were able to judge, to be perfectly valid.
Knowing that it would be impossible to visit the bank until first thing on Monday morning, Wyvern picked up the package, his anxious gaze flying around his bedroom in search of the best place to hide such a valuable object but then, as he recalled all the trouble that Hazlett had gone to in order to try to retrieve the documents, he decided that it might be rather more sensible for him to keep them about his person. But, having already had his pocket picked on one memorable occasion, and realising that this, perhaps, was not the best place to carry them, he opted to tuck the slim tubular package down the outside leg of one of his boots.
Hopping up into the waiting curricle, some time later than he had anticipated, the earl made his way through London’s busy Mayfair and drew up outside Number Twenty-Four Dover Street, feeling rather less confident than his dress and demeanour would seem to indicate.
After being shown into the somewhat surprised Matt’s study and hurriedly explaining the purpose of his visit, he assured Jessica’s brother that, now that his financial difficulties were resolved, he need have no qualms about the suitability of the match.
‘Good Lord!’ gasped Beresford, who was thoroughly taken aback by this unexpected turn of events. ‘Apart from that unfortunate incident last month, I had no idea that you were even acquainted with my half-sister!’
‘I have—er—found it rather difficult to get her out of my mind,’ returned Wyvern uncomfortably. After Jessica’s plea that he should refrain from mentioning the Oxford Street incident, he judged that it might also be as well to desist from drawing attention to their other meetings—especially last evening’s episode out on the Conyngham’s terrace! ‘May I take it that you have no objections to my paying court to her?’
‘Well, no, I suppose not,’ replied Matt, distractedly drumming his fingers on his desk. ‘It’s just that we are due to travel back to our estate in Lincolnshire tomorrow and I cannot, for the life of me, see how you expect to conduct such a courtship. I shall, of course, put your proposal to Jessica as soon as she returns. She is, at this moment, along with several of her friends, enjoying the entertainments at Vauxhall.’
Glancing over at the marble clock on the mantelshelf, which indicated that the time was almost ten o’clock, he shook his head. ‘I don’t expect her home much before midnight—far too late an hour for any serious discussion, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Then, with your permission, sir,’ said Wyvern, getting to his feet, ‘it clearly behoves me to be on my way to the Gardens with all speed—I would prefer to present my case in person, as I am sure you will understand?’
‘Point taken,’ grinned Matt, as he held out his hand. ‘I suppose I ought to wish you luck, old chap!’ And, in taking on that little bundle of mischief, he then thought to himself, as he showed Wyvern to the door, you are certainly going to need it!
Back on the driving seat, Wyvern whipped up his horses and set them into a smooth canter, estimating that it would take him the better part of twenty minutes to make his way across the river into Vauxhall and, having recalled the vast number of supper boxes that bordered the walks around the Rotunda, who knew how long to track down the Draycott party?
Nevertheless, the thought that he would soon, with perfect legitimacy, be once more holding his beloved in his arms, added extra zeal to his determination and, after concentrating his efforts on winding his way through the never-ending streams of traffic, he eventually arrived at Vauxhall Bridge. Checking only very slightly at the toll-bar, in order to toss the required payment at the waiting keeper, he whipped up again and pressed on towards the gardens, now scarcely five minutes away.
>
Flinging the reins to Berridge, he leapt out of the still-moving carriage, leaving his startled groom in charge of the equipage, and made his way through the entrance to the pleasure gardens. Having decided that the Rotunda would be the best place to commence his search, he pushed his way towards the centre of the gardens, cursing the many groups of revellers who were standing about enjoying the closing firework spectacular for which the gardens were famous.
Upon reaching the Rotunda, he was surprised to see a large group of people, each of them nodding and exclaiming to their neighbours in a most animated manner, gathered outside one of the boxes. Craning his head to see what all the excitement was about, his eyes were drawn to a scene that had the effect of stopping his heart in mid-beat.
Stretched out on the top of the buffet table in the booth lay the supine figure of the Honourable Walter Allardyce, blood trickling from a nasty-looking wound at his temple. Grouped around the dead or unconscious man—at this angle it was difficult for Wyvern to ascertain which—he was able to distinguish the faces of Gerald Pevensey, the Lyndhurst siblings, Sir Philip Henderson supporting a weeping Lady Helen Grainger and Felicity Draycott herself. But, of Jessica, there was no sign!
A sudden sense of dread swept over Wyvern and, as icy fingers seemed to clutch hold of his heart, he fought his way through the tightly knit throng of morbidly curious bystanders and leapt up into the supper-box.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Where is Jessica?’
At the sight of the earl, Felicity, her face ashen with shock, flung herself towards him, her unexpected action almost knocking him off his feet.
Steadying himself, and gripping her by the shoulders, he thrust her away from him, his grey eyes dark with anger.
‘Answer me, Felicity!’ he commanded the trembling girl. ‘Where is Jessica?’
‘Oh, Ben!’ she wailed, reverting, in her panic, to the name she had used when the two of them were children. ‘He has taken her and it is all my fault—I am so very sorry!’
Wyvern’s throat tightened. ‘Who has taken her?’ he asked urgently, although it was not as though he did not already know the answer.
‘It has to be Hazlett!’ she replied, with a low moan, as she registered the expression on his face. ‘He insisted that we all take a stroll down one of the dark walks—Sir Philip heard Mr Allardyce cry out, but, when we got to them, Jessica was gone!’ Breaking into a fresh torrent of tears, she indicated the solitary blue satin slipper on a nearby chair. ‘I found it on the ground next to Mr Allardyce! Oh, Ben! What can have happened to her?’
Although he was still confused as to why Felicity should have felt it necessary to follow orders from Hazlett and, more to the point, why any of the gentlemen present had considered it advisable to take a party of gently bred females down one of Vauxhall Gardens’ notorious dark walks, Wyvern knew that, if he meant to save Jessica, he could not afford to waste precious time in questioning the deeply distressed girl as to her involvement in the affair.
Jerking his head towards the motionless figure on the table, he asked, ‘Is he dead?’ knowing that an answer in the affirmative would provide him with all the information that he needed as to exactly what lengths Hazlett might be prepared to go in his underhand machinations to regain the ownership of the Chilean gold mine.
With her hand on her mouth, Felicity gave a little shake of her head. ‘We are waiting for a doctor to attend him,’ she sobbed. ‘His pulse is very weak and he has lost a great deal of blood—Mr Lyndhurst does not believe that he will survive!’
His lips pursed in anger, the earl nodded. ‘I shall need to speak to you later, Felicity,’ he said, turning on his heel. ‘Now, however, is not the moment—I have to find Jessica before that devil does her any harm!’ Then, offering up a fervent prayer that this all too likely possibility had not already taken place, and cursing his own folly at having gone to visit Beresford instead of seeking out Jessica, as had been his original intention, he strode rapidly back to the gardens’ main exit.
Fortunately, Berridge had managed to secure a parking spot quite close to the gates and, within a very few minutes, they were on their way back across the river. If only I had had the sense to ride straight to Vauxhall instead of wasting all that time tricking myself out to try to impress her brother! groaned Wyvern to himself as, almost in despair, he found his curricle boxed in by two slow-moving vehicles.
Cursing at their drivers’ incompetence and ignoring their outraged shouts, he steered his cattle straight up on to the street’s narrow footpath and, ignoring his shocked groom’s yell of protest as the curricle’s wheels bounced with a jarring crunch as they hit the kerbstones, he brought his equipage back on to the road’s gravelled surface, some distance in front of the now-infuriated dawdlers.
Slamming his vehicle to a screeching halt outside the front door of Hazlett’s mansion in Half Moon Street, the earl leapt out of the driving seat and, dashing up the steps, was all too ready to kick down the door had it not, all of a sudden, occurred to him that, dressed as he was, in all his finery, he did not even have a weapon at his disposal!
Hurrying back down to his waiting groom, he instructed him to go directly to Sir Simon Holt’s chambers at Albany, inform the baronet that Miss Beresford had been abducted and that both his and Mr Fitzallan’s immediate assistance was urgently required at this address.
In the meantime, Wyvern decided to make his way round to the mews at the back of the property, hoping to find an unopened window or some other means of access into the house but, to his utter frustration, all such entrances appeared to be securely barred and bolted.
Returning to the front street, he peered down into the basement area, wondering whether the viscount’s servants—as had often been the case in his own household, until the recent attempts at a break-in—might not always take the precaution of locking the kitchen door behind them. He sidled down the stone steps and was just about to test the door’s latch when, to his astonishment, the door was flung open and the unmistakable figure of the elderly lady of the teashop incident appeared before him. Clad in her outdoor garments and carrying a large and cumbersome wicker hamper, it was clear that something had occurred to put her in a considerable fret.
‘Why, Mrs—er—!’ exclaimed the earl, who could not, for the life of him, recall the woman’s name. ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’
‘Oh, sir!’ she gabbled breathlessly, having recognised him on the instant. ‘You have come at last, thank the Lord! I promise you that I did my best for your poor little lady, but the master must have caught hold of her again on his way back home—he has locked her in the library and is hollerin’ at those two bully boys of his something dreadful. I thought it best to pack up and leave before he finds out that it was me what helped her get away before!’
Relieved to hear that Jessica was still, for the moment at least, relatively unharmed, Wyvern reached into his pocket, withdrew a sovereign and, handing it to the bemused housekeeper, instructed her to find a hack and make her way to Ashcroft House where, if she explained that Lord Wyvern had sent her, she would be made comfortable until his return.
‘You may leave your heavy valise,’ he advised her, crossing his fingers as he did so. ‘I shall have it sent over as soon as my business with Lord Hazlett is completed.’
No sooner was he inside the kitchen than he did a quick search for some sort of weapon with which he might arm himself but, short of the usual array of saucepans and rolling pins and the like, the only item that seemed likely to be of any use to him in any sort of confrontation—apart from the poker, which he dismissed as ineffectual—looked to be one of a collection of evil-looking knives. Not his favourite weapon of choice, he thought distastefully, as visions of his frequent night-time sorties into the enemy’s camp during his years in the Peninsula sprang into his mind. Nonetheless, and praying that he would have no need to resort to such blood-curdling tactics, he picked up what appeared to be the sharpest of the set and, wrapping th
e tip carefully in his handkerchief, slid the weapon up inside his coat sleeve.
Chapter Twenty
Back in the library once more, the much-subdued Jessica soon realised that, now that Lord Hazlett had returned, any further attempts at escape would serve no useful purpose. From the man’s patent disregard of her protestations that his servants had committed a grievous error, she had, reluctantly and rather fearfully, been obliged to admit to herself that it would seem that they had not. Clearly, she was Hazlett’s intended victim and she was no longer so green and so foolish as to fail to recognise what his intentions were likely to be! An icy dread washed over her as her mind replayed the terrifying gamut of events that encompassed the whole sorry escapade of the previous year. Surely she was not destined to relive the nightmare! With a shiver of apprehension, she realised that on this occasion, there was no possible chance of her half-brother racing to her rescue and, since Wyvern had not turned up at the Gardens, he would not even know that she had gone missing.
She drew a deep breath and, whilst recognising that any action she took was likely to prove to be a mere delaying tactic, she vowed that she would, just as on that previous occasion, make every effort to fight her abductor tooth and nail and, should she lose her life in the process, then it would, at the very least, be a merciful release from a far worse fate!
Endeavouring to consolidate her thoughts to that end, she looked around the room to find some object with which to arm herself. Books aplenty, of course, but those that might do any damage to a person were far too heavy for her to lift, let alone throw at her attacker. Her eyes flew to a large oak desk in an alcove between the library’s two rear windows but, on investigation, she discovered that its drawers were locked and that the only objects on its green leather surface were a blotting pad, a small wooden tray holding several freshly trimmed quill pens and a glass inkstand, with two of its three pear-shaped inkpots filled with ink. And, whilst she was heavily conscious of the fact that any plan to make use of these items, along with the various other ornaments that she had noticed dotted around the room, would merely put off the inevitable, taking note of their positions for future use might give her a much-needed breathing space.
An Unconventional Miss Page 22