How to Train a Viscount (Wedding Trouble, #4)

by Blythe, Bianca

  This man was large and dangerous.

  He was a killer.

  She gritted her teeth. It doesn’t matter. She was holding a candle, though she’d prefer a larger weapon.

  She darted her gaze about the room. In France, she’d always had a weapon. She’d not brought one to the ball.

  Her eyes fell on a heavy candlestick in a corner of the room, but when she raised her gaze, she found the magistrate’s gaze also on it.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The ball shouldn’t have been intimidating.

  These were the same people he’d seen before, but now they were attired in their finest gowns. Jewels gleamed from the necks and wrists of women. Women had exchanged cotton afternoon dresses and straw bonnets for pastel-colored gowns and turbans.

  His gaze darted from the silver platters topped with jewel-colored cocktails that didn’t resemble the ale he was accustomed to drinking in the least, to the magnificence of the ballroom itself. The glossy tiles glimmered below the light of tall candles that flickered from their perches in elaborate sconces and chandeliers. Paintings hung from the walls, and outside, topiary were visible.

  Isla had disappeared. Good. She wouldn’t spot him ascending the staircase. He rushed up the stairs, toward his room and toward the ring he had stored there. He was going to propose.

  Not publicly, of course. He didn’t want her to make that choice in front of people.

  But he would propose all the same. Fortunately, Tremont House was well-equipped with balconies filled with floral scents that wafted from the gardens, and now elegant music would also drift through the windows.

  He beamed.

  Only a few minutes more, and then hopefully, Isla would make him the happiest man in the world.

  He marched up the grand stairs. Isla had told him once he might be overly enthusiastic, but the solicitor had approved him, and his subsequent confirmation from Parliament had been quick. He was a viscount, and that was that.

  He strode through the hallway, toward his room.

  And then he heard a voice. A faint voice, but definitely a voice. It seemed to be coming from Isla’s bedroom. No doubt she was talking to her lady’s maid or Miss Grant. Miss Grant had volunteered to watch Thabisa and Dido, after making some derogatory remarks about balls.

  “No,” Isla shouted.

  Adam frowned.

  Isla could be direct, but he couldn’t imagine what could cause her to say that with such passion.

  He knocked on the door. “Isla? Are you well?”

  There was a pause, and then he heard her again. “Go away!”

  He blinked.

  Scuffling sounded. It sounded almost like a struggle was happening inside.

  Fear shot through his spine, and he yanked the door open.

  Some man was on top of her. He had his grubby hands on her.

  Adam’s mouth tasted sour.

  “Go!” she shouted at Adam, and her face seemed filled with fury...at him.

  Some man was attacking her, and she was ordering Adam to leave. Was this common in Britain?

  But then he saw a candlestick in Isla’s hand. She was attempting to hit the man with it. She was attempting to rescue herself.

  There was no way he would allow her to rescue herself. He was here for her.

  He rushed toward Isla. He was going to strangle the man.

  Isla was supposed to spend this time being proposed to. She wasn’t supposed to spend this time being assaulted.

  This was Adam’s house, and he hadn’t been able to protect her. Adam flung himself onto the bed, ignoring Isla’s pleas he leave. He rolled the stranger over, despite the man’s size, and he raised his fist to punch him.

  And then he stopped.

  His spine turned to ice, and his hand trembled.

  The man smirked.

  It was the magistrate. Mr. Ware.

  What on earth is he doing here?

  “Why hello,” Mr. Ware said. “You’re wearing awfully nice clothes for a farmhand.”

  Mr. Randall’s assistant, Adam wanted to say.

  But that wasn’t important.

  “You were touching Lady Isla,” Adam growled.

  Mr. Ware grinned. “Jealous?”

  Isla shot Adam a warning look.

  Mr. Ware leaned closer. “Or perhaps you’ve already had your way with her? It’s odd, nobody mentioned a viscountess here. I suppose she ain’t married.”

  Isla flushed.

  “Did you...follow me?” Adam asked, even though the thought seemed absurd. He’d been on an entirely different ship. If the man had known he was getting on a ship, he would have boarded it when it had still been docked in Cape Town. Or perhaps he’d tracked down the person who’d sold Adam the ticket?

  “It was a coincidence,” Mr. Ware said. “I was coming here to get my money.”

  Mr. Ware glanced at Isla, and his lips curled. “Seems to me people here are mighty generous. I just got paid extra.”

  Adam swung his gaze at Isla. “You gave him money?”

  “A whole lot too,” Mr. Ware said. “One thousand pounds. I’ve made my fortune.”

  Adam’s jaw dropped. His arms must have loosened, for Mr. Ware struggled away and whipped out a pistol.

  “Now I’m going to leave,” he said. “And if you come closer, I’m going to shoot.”

  “Don’t!” Adam protested.

  “Quiet,” Mr. Ware said. “Else I might decide to shoot you right now. You’re lucky I like money. I might come back for more. I’ll let you worry.”

  Adam swallowed hard.

  Everything was ruined.

  Mr. Ware laughed and chuckled as he left the corridor.

  “I have to go after him.” Adam rose from the bed. “I-I let him get away.”

  Isla clutched his hand. “He has a pistol. And he’s expecting you to follow him. Don’t go.”

  Adam hesitated.

  Isla looked at him pleadingly, and he smoothed her hair. Her immaculate chignon was destroyed. Loose curls cascaded past her shoulders, and her dress was creased where Ware had tried to pull it down.

  His heart tightened and ached, as if Ware had shot his pistol straight through it. “He was hurting you.”

  “I was handling it,” Isla said.

  “I could have lost you.”

  “You haven’t.” Isla met his lips for a kiss.

  Adam wanted to succumb to her touch. He wanted to lose himself in the rhythm of the kiss. He wanted everything to be like before the ball.

  But it wasn’t.

  The magistrate knew he was alive.

  He was still out there.

  “It’s fine now,” Isla said, but her voice trembled, and he knew she was lying.

  She’d given vast sums of money to protect him.

  He didn’t want to think what might have happened, had he not come to the room when he had.

  “I-I should go,” he said.

  Confusion was on Isla’s face, and then she nodded. “Of course. You need to be at the ball. I’ll join you.”

  He’d failed her.

  He’d wanted to marry her.

  He’d wanted to tie his life with hers for eternity. But he’d known her for less than a month, and in that time, he’d almost caused her to be assaulted. Perhaps Ware would have even murdered her.

  Adam certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

  His legs felt unsteady, and his mouth tasted sour.

  She glanced in the mirror. “I should fix my hair.”

  “I’ll wait with you.”

  “I’ll be fine up here.”

  “You weren’t before.”

  She flushed, and hastily repinned her hair. They strode down the steps together, but he didn’t linger with her or make small talk.

  That had been in the past, when he hadn’t realized how much his very presence harmed her.

  He would do things differently now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Isla stirred in her bed. Footsteps sounded beside her, and then
the curtains rustled. She opened her eyes.

  Miss Grant strode toward her. “Good morning. Did you have a nice ball?”

  The ball.

  It had been nice.

  “It was lovely,” she said.

  There just were other parts that had been distinctly unlovely. She didn’t want to dwell on those. She didn’t want to think that someone who despised Adam, someone who could take away everything, knew his precise location.

  “You retired early.” Miss Grant sniffed slightly, as if she suspected Isla and Adam had spent the night in bed.

  That had not been the case.

  Isla had hoped Adam would enter her room at night and clasp her in his arms, but the door had remained closed. She hadn’t slept well during the night. Carriages had continued to leave very late. It was a testament to the success of the ball, though no doubt it was also the cause for her unusually late sleep now.

  Miss Grant didn’t often wake her, and Isla narrowed her eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Midday.”

  Isla scrambled from her bed. She needed to speak with Adam. It hadn’t been appropriate when he’d had hundreds of guests waiting for him in the ballroom, but they were gone now.

  “Did you see Lord Tremont?” she asked.

  “I do not cavort with men,” Miss Grant said stiffly. “I am a respectable woman.”

  There was a slight emphasis on respectable Isla didn’t like. Never mind.

  “I merely thought you may have happened upon him in the breakfast room,” she said.

  “No,” Miss Grant admitted. Her eyes narrowed. “He’s probably prone to similar improper sleeping habits as you.”

  Isla found herself smiling and turned away rapidly. “Perhaps.”

  “The earl and countess already went on a walk,” Miss Grant said. “They know the values of exercise.”

  Normally Isla was fond of walks. She suspected her brother and his wife had slept far better than she had last night.

  “Can you send the maid in?” Isla asked. “I would like to get dressed.”

  “Now that is a reasonable desire,” Miss Grant said and left the room.

  Soon Isla found herself striding down the steps, clothed in her nicest morning dress. Adam had said he liked green on her.

  She entered the breakfast room. Tea and edible delights were spread on the table. She gazed out of the large windows at fluffy white sheep.

  Wiltshire was beautiful.

  She settled down in a chair and helped herself to some tea. The room was empty, but footsteps sounded, and her heart leapt.

  Miss Grant stepped into the room, and Isla forced the smile on her face to remain. She did appreciate company, even if it was Adam’s company she was most eager for.

  A footman appeared. It was Henry from last night. “I have a letter for you, Lady Isla.”

  Isla widened her eyes, and Miss Grant sniffed.

  “People should know this is not your address,” Miss Grant said. “It is most improper for an unmarried lady to be receiving mail at a gentleman’s house.”

  Isla smiled. Perhaps one day this would be her home too. It was something she hoped for. A life with Adam would be happy.

  “It’s a letter from Lord Tremont,” the footman said.

  Isla frowned slightly and stretched out her hand. A faint trickle of nervousness thrummed through her, but she pushed it away.

  Why shouldn’t he write her a letter? It was even romantic. She hadn’t thought to teach him during their etiquette lessons that love letters tended to be passed more surreptitiously.

  “Thank you, Henry.” She took the paper from him and gave him a confident smile, avoiding Miss Grant’s gaze.

  She unfolded the letter.

  My lovely Isla,

  Isla found herself smiling at the endearment.

  Please forgive me.

  Isla’s heart thudded. Nothing good could come from that sentence. And where was he? Why had a servant delivered a note?

  Perhaps it’s nothing.

  Perhaps he went to London. Or Brighton.

  Yes, that was probably it.

  But her heart still beat quickly, because there was a chance something else, something more dreadful, may have happened. She scanned the rest of the letter.

  I am leaving England. I am not a viscount, and I cannot pretend to be one. Last night’s episode clarified that for me. I will treasure the memories of our time together for the rest of my life. I wish you every single happiness.

  She swallowed hard.

  He expressed his love and affection again.

  There was no signature.

  He was going to leave England itself.

  I’ll never see him again.

  “Lady Isla?” Miss Grant’s voice was less certain than her norm. “Are you well?”

  Isla opened her mouth. The process seemed...difficult. Her head felt heavy. Dark spots marched over her vision.

  “Lady Isla?” Miss Grant stepped toward her, and an unfamiliar expression, one that resembled...concern, was on her face. “Lady Isla?”

  And then there was darkness.

  “Lady Isla! Lady Isla! Lady Isla!”

  Miss Grant’s voice seemed to have multiplied and, somehow, changed. Isla opened her eyes.

  Miss Grant sat on the floor, even though Isla was certain if Isla had suggested Miss Grant would do that, her companion would have grown upset.

  Miss Grant was also holding her hand, another strange activity.

  “She’s awake. Splendid,” a deep voice said. “Smelling salts, it always works.”

  Isla turned her head. Henry sat on her other side.

  And then Isla remembered.

  Adam is gone.

  She raised her torso. She had to get him. She had to stop him.

  Adam thought he was acting nobly, but instead he was destroying everything they might have together.

  “Don’t move,” Miss Grant said hurriedly. “You fell down.”

  “Fainted,” the footman said.

  “Oh, dear,” Isla said.

  She didn’t have a habit of fainting. She’d never fainted before, even though she had an affinity for wearing her corsets tight.

  Isla scrambled up, ignoring both Miss Grant’s and the footman’s pleas.

  Her throat was dry, and she still felt unsteady.

  Never mind.

  She turned to the footman. “When did Lord Tremont give you this?”

  “Last night,” the footman said.

  “And why did you wait until now?” she asked. “It’s past midday.”

  “Those were Lord Tremont’s express instructions,” the footman said.

  “Where is he now?”

  The footman gave an awkward smile. “I’m—er—afraid...”

  “He left last night, didn’t he?” she asked.

  The footman nodded. “I’m sorry, My Lady.”

  “I am too.”

  There was silence, and the footman looked at Miss Grant.

  Obviously, they were unaccustomed to her new state as a distraught woman.

  She was uncomfortable with it as well.

  Love wasn’t something she’d supposed she’d ever find. She’d known since she was a child that she was betrothed to Callum, and Callum had never resembled the knight-in-shining-armor she read about. He’d been the naughty next-door neighbor, and then the less naughty child in their nursery whom her father scolded with great frequency.

  No, he’d never featured in her dreams.

  Perhaps if she’d been less confident she knew the identity of her future husband, he would have been bestowed with more qualities of splendidness in her imagination.

  She’d always curled her lips slightly, when other women gushed about certain men, pondering whether they might receive proposals. She knew the identity of her future husband, and though his features were symmetrical, his skin smooth, and his height tall, her heart had never fluttered in his presence. Love had seemed a concoction designed by older generations in order to i
nspire their children to marry.

  But then she’d met Adam.

  And though she hadn’t loved him at once, she loved him now.

  She’d never met a man so kind, so generous, and evidently, so thoroughly misguided.

  “I have to go after him,” she said. “I-I have to find him.”

  The footman looked down quickly.

  “You know something,” she said.

  “Nonsense,” he squeaked.

  Miss Grant glared at him, and he added a quick “My Lady” and apologetic tone.

  “Lord Tremont does not intend to return,” Isla said sternly. “And I will be the person who will see whether or not to recommend to the solicitor that you keep your position for whatever happens to this estate next.”

  “Oh.” The footman gazed at her suspiciously, but Isla’s shoulders felt less tense. The fact he was gazing at her at all had to be an improvement over him directing his attention at the floor, even though Isla was not entirely impartial to the Oriental rug splayed over the floorboards.

  “Just tell her,” Miss Grant said. “She’ll be ever so relieved.”

  The footman shifted his legs.

  “And you don’t want me to faint again, do you?” she asked.

  “O-of course not, My Lady.” The footman inhaled deeply. “The viscount mentioned going to Brighton.”

  “Brighton?”

  Perhaps he wanted to see someone there? Perhaps he wasn’t going far after all?

  “I mean, he didn’t mention it to me, but he told the driver, and the groom mentioned it to me today.”

  She blinked. “Do you know if he packed all his attire?”

  “Everything.” The footman’s face darkened, and his voice trembled somewhat. “That’s odd, isn’t it?”

  “I bet he’s going to join Captain Fergus,” Isla murmured.

  “Who is that?” Miss Grant asked.

  “A captain in Brighton. You probably wouldn’t like him,” she said. Miss Grant might not have a title, but she certainly seemed to espouse the values of snobbishness.

  Adam though wouldn’t care.

  Adam liked all people.

  “Why would he be joining this captain?” Miss Grant asked.

  “Because he knows him, and because Captain Fergus is planning to leave Brighton on the 26th.”

  “That’s tomorrow,” the footman said.