The Viscount's Scandalous Return. ANNE ASHLEY
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to all those who might importune his lordship. And this young woman, he strongly suspected, was more than capable of doing precisely that!
Consequently, he was on the point of demanding to know the caller’s name and business, when a high-pitched squeal from behind captured his attention, and he turned to see his master’s elder ward bounding down the main staircase.
The boy knew well enough that he was only ever supposed to use the back stairs, unless instructed to do otherwise, and Tredwell was on the point of reminding him of this fact, when he was almost thrust rudely aside by Josh in his enthusiasm to reach the caller.
‘Miss Isabel! Miss Isabel!’ he cried joyfully, almost launching himself into her outstretched arms. ‘You’ve come to see us at last! Why has it taken you so long? Have you come to take me fishing?’
Josh’s enthusiastic greeting and subsequent barrage of questions had contrasting effects on the two adults: a look of enlightenment immediately flickered over the high-ranking servant’s long, thin face, for he was very well aware that the children’s surrogate guardian during past months had been none other than a Miss Isabel Mortimer; whereas the lady herself, after a brief glowing smile down at Josh, cast a look of comical dismay above the boy’s head in the general direction of the butler.
‘The truth of the matter is, Josh, I’m here to see his lordship. There’s something I need to discuss with him urgently. But I haven’t forgotten my promise,’ she assured him. ‘I will take you fishing. But we’ll need to seek his lordship’s permission first, and wait for warmer weather, of course.’
Out of consideration for the servants, Isabel first removed her boots, which not surprisingly had become caked with mud after her brisk hike across the sodden park land, before accepting the butler’s invitation to step inside the hall, and leaving her trusty hound to await her return in the shelter of the roomy, stone-built entrance-porch.
‘Why are you not at your lessons, Josh?’ she asked him, thinking it most strange that he should be wandering about the house by himself at this time of day.
‘Oh, I just happened to leave my book in the kitchen,’ he answered, raising wide, innocent eyes, which didn’t fool Isabel for a second. ‘I often do, you know.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ she responded, favouring him with a quizzical look. ‘And what prompts these lapses in memory—plum cake or apple tart?’
He chuckled impishly. ‘Plum cake. But it isn’t as good as yours.’
‘Artful little demon!’ she admonished lovingly. ‘You’d best run along then, and have your mid-morning treat, before Miss Pentecost wonders what’s become of you … although I expect she’s a pretty shrewd notion already of why you’re so forgetful.’
This touching exchange was witnessed by more than one person, as Isabel quickly discovered, when the butler requested her to take a seat whilst he discovered whether his lordship was available to see her.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Tredwell. I’m quite at leisure,’ a smooth voice assured him, and Isabel swung round to see the master of the fine Restoration building leaning against a door jamb, his arms folded across his manly chest.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Mortimer,’ he declared, after moving to one side in order that she might precede him into the room. He then looked at her intently, studying her from head to toe, and paying particular attention to the wild and shining windswept locks, the glowing colour in her cheeks and her unshod feet, whilst all the time she took stock of her surroundings, in blissful ignorance of his scrutiny.
‘Had I not happened to witness that touching little reunion between you and Josh, I might have been forgiven for imagining some personal calamity had befallen you. I shall take leave to inform you, young woman, you look a positive fright! In fact, little better than any ill-groomed labouring wench!’
‘And so would you, if you’d traipsed across the park in this wind,’ she defended abruptly, clearly nettled by the criticism, though she did whip off the red ribbon that had earlier confined her locks at the nape of her neck and retied it as best she could without the aid of a mirror.
Secretly he had thought she looked stunningly attractive with her rich chestnut locks framing the healthy glow in her face. She was so different from so many of those high-born society ladies who made full use of any artificial aid to beauty. Miss Isabel Mortimer might never be considered by some to be a gem of loveliness, a pearl beyond price. But she was certainly out of the common way, he decided, and quite refreshingly natural.
‘Do sit yourself down, Miss Mortimer, and tell me how I may serve you,’ he invited, while pouring out two glasses of wine. ‘Here, drink it,’ he added, when she attempted to refuse the Madeira. ‘It will calm your nerves.’
‘There’s absolutely nothing wrong with my nerves,’ she assured him, reluctantly accepting the glass. ‘I’m merely damnably annoyed.’
‘About what, may I ask?’ he enquired, not wholly approving the unladylike language, which was strange, considering that he never objected to plain speaking as a rule.
‘For the past six years, my lord, the ditch on the western boundary of your property has repeatedly overflowed on to my land, after any prolonged spells of rain, to the detriment of my vegetable crops. Time and again I approached the last steward, Guy Fensham, to do something about it, but to no avail. Why your family ever employed such a lazy—’ Isabel pulled herself up abruptly, realising suddenly that she was going beyond what was pleasing by voicing opinions on matters that were absolutely none of her concern.
Taking a moment to fortify herself from the contents of her glass, she peered up at him through her lashes. He didn’t seem in the least annoyed by her outburst. But then it was sometimes very difficult to judge what was passing through the mind of this enigmatic aristocrat, she reminded herself. ‘But you do not need me to tell you how he neglected his duties during your time away, sir.’
Without uttering a word, his lordship went over to his desk and proceeded to write a brief note. The silence in the room was punctuated by the scratching of the quill across the sheet of paper, the steady ticking of the mantel-clock and a distant low and eerie howling. Which Isabel did her best to ignore whilst taking further stock of her surroundings.
It really was a very masculine room, with its dark wooden furnishings, and heavy leather-bound tomes lining two of its walls. The claret-coloured curtains at the window matched almost perfectly the shade of the leather upholstery on the heavy chairs. Only the fine painting of the woman and the boy above the fireplace might have been considered by some to be out of keeping with the rest of the room. Yet the more Isabel peered up at the portrait of the striking dark-haired woman, with her arm lovingly placed round the shoulders of a handsome boy, the more she considered it provided a necessary relief to the library’s ambience of rigid masculinity.
As his lordship rejoined her by the hearth, and Isabel watched him reach for the bell-pull, her eyes automatically returned to the portrait above his head. Then stark reality hit her like a physical blow, almost making her gasp.
‘Good Lord! That’s you, sir!’
He raised his eyes briefly to the likeness of himself as a boy. ‘Yes, handsome young rogue, wasn’t I?’
‘Indeed you were,’ she acknowledged. ‘And that woman is your mother, I assume? You certainly favour her in looks … Well,’ she amended, ‘at least you did. I believe, like myself, you lost your mother when you were quite young?’
Just for an instant his eyes betrayed a flicker of sorrow before he tossed the contents of his glass down his throat, and placed the empty vessel on the mantelshelf behind him.
‘Yes, I was fourteen, and away at school when I learned of her death from typhus. She had been visiting one of the families on the estate, and contracted the infection there.’ He released his breath in an audible sigh. ‘The house was never the same after she’d gone. I grew to hate the place.’
Isabel felt saddened to hear him say this. ‘That’s