An Unconventional Miss. Dorothy Elbury

interrupted Jessica in protest. ‘Harry was not to blame—he did try to stop me, but I…’ Her voice faltered and her eyes dropped in confusion as Beresford’s own swivelled angrily towards her.

      ‘You did just as you always do—which is exactly what suits you! Well, Miss Cleverboots, I’ll have you know that I have had quite enough—!’

      He stopped as his wife reached out and laid her hand on his jacket sleeve.

      ‘As long as they are safe, my love, that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?’

      Staring down into her silver-grey eyes, Matt gave a reluctant smile and took her hand in his. ‘I can’t have you getting distressed, sweetheart. This sort of thing cannot be at all good for your condition!’

      ‘Oh, really, Matt,’ laughed Imogen, patting his hand. ‘How many times must I tell you that I am not an invalid! I am a perfectly healthy young woman who happens to be expecting a baby!’

      Unconvinced, Matt shook his head. ‘I should have packed everything up and returned to Thornfield the minute you told me!’ he groaned. ‘Home is always the best place to be at such a time. There, at least, you would not have to put up with this sort of irresponsible upset!’

      ‘Nonsense, my dear,’ chided his wife gently. ‘And miss the Conyghams’ ball? It is said to be the event of the Season! Surely, you cannot be thinking of denying me the opportunity to show off that glorious confection of Madame Devy’s that has just cost you such an exorbitant amount of money?’ Her eyes twinkled up at him. ‘Whilst it still fits, remember!’

      With another reluctant grin, he bent his head and pressed his lips to her forehead.

      ‘Well, so long as you promise to let me know the minute it all starts getting too much for you.’

      She gave him a warm smile. ‘You must know that I would never do anything that might harm either this child, or myself, Matt,’ she returned quietly. ‘I have already given you my word.’

      Matt’s lips twisted briefly for one moment then, with a quick nod, he turned away and strode back to his own seat on the other side of the fireplace.

      ‘I’m really sorry, Matt,’ said Jessica, stepping forward and catching hold of his hand just as he was about to sit down. ‘I promise you that I was trying to avoid any upset—I don’t want Imo getting distressed any more than you do! It was just meant to be a straightforward ride home!’

      He took a deep breath, ‘Very well, Jess. I will say no more about it—apart from giving young Stevenage a piece of my mind, that is! You can hardly expect me to think him the most suitable escort for you if he is unable to control your outrageous behaviour!’

      Jessica reddened. She was well aware that Harry Stevenage was as putty in her hands but, having grown rather fond of the young lieutenant, she did not care to think of him being chastised on her account.

      ‘Please, Matt!’ she begged her brother. ‘Harry is not to blame for any of this! Had it not been for the fact that his mind was so distracted with Olivia’s injuries, I am sure that he would have taken a much firmer line!’ And, seeing Matt’s expression soften, she added, encouragingly, ‘He was simply splendid in the way he took charge of everything—quietened down the horses, sent for a doctor and procured rooms for both of the invalids—all in the space of barely an hour!’

      ‘Well, at any event,’ retorted Matt, partly appeased, ‘it would seem that the lad’s two years with the military have not been entirely wasted. I dare say it will do no harm to give him the benefit of the doubt—this time!’

      Heaving a sigh of relief, Jessica sat down again, but then, noticing a deep frown upon Nicholas’s face, she enquired anxiously if his head was still paining him.

      ‘No, not really,’ he muttered absently. ‘I know it’s there—somewhere in the back of my mind—almost on the very tip of my tongue.’

      Staring at him in astonishment, she asked, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

      ‘That fellow’s name,’ he replied, still frowning. ‘I almost had it. Dryden or Brydon or—oh, botheration! It’s gone again!’

      ‘Haydn?’ chorused Jessica and Imogen in unison, whilst Matt simultaneously offered ‘Lydian or Layburn?’ all of which suggestions Nicholas met with a vigorous shake of his head.

      Whereupon, the next ten minutes or so were spent plying Nicholas with every conceivable version of any similar-sounding name that the three of them could call to mind until, finally, as the offerings became more and more nonsensical, Imogen and Jessica collapsed against each other in convulsions of laughter and begged their menfolk to desist.

      ‘How about Reardon or Raven?’ chortled Matt who, totally entranced by his wife’s infectious gurgle, was loath to bring the unexpected merriment to a close.

      Nicholas started to shake his head again, then he stiffened and a faraway look came into his eyes. ‘Raven?’ he mused. ‘Ryvern? Great heavens! That’s it!’ he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright.

      ‘Ryvern?’ chimed his audience, in chorus.

      ‘No, not Ryvern!’ was his gleeful reply. ‘Wyvern! The fellow’s name is Wyvern—hence the dragon on his ring, I suppose!’ he added in triumph.

      There was a long pause, then, ‘Wyvern?’ said Matt thoughtfully. ‘I seem to remember that there was a Viscount Wyvern in my year at Oxford—Theodore Ashcroft by name—no, hang on—I heard that his father, the earl, had died, so I suppose Theo would have inherited the title. About my age, would you say?’

      Uncertain as to the age of the stranger, Nicholas was obliged to admit that he had no idea, but Jessica, who had had greater opportunity to study their rescuer, gave a vehement shake of her head.

      ‘Several years younger, I should have thought,’ she declared. ‘Midtwenties, possibly—and he certainly didn’t strike me as aristocratic! Quite the contrary, if you want my opinion!’

      ‘Nevertheless,’ Matt pointed out, ‘at least it gives us something to go on—no harm in making a few discreet enquiries. The least I can do is to thank the fellow for returning my delinquent sister to the bosom of her family!’

      He ducked as a velvet cushion sailed over his head. ‘Rotten shot!’ he said, as a broad grin formed on his lips. ‘Clearly, all those hours I spent trying to teach you to play cricket were a total waste of time!’

      Chapter Three

      Having deposited his hired mount at the nearest livery stables, the subject of their discussion, recently decommissioned Dragoon Major the Honourable Benedict Ashcroft, now Ninth Earl of Wyvern, set off up South Audley Street to walk the short distance to the family’s Grosvenor Square mansion.

      He had not gone far, however, when he heard himself hailed by a familiar voice.

      ‘Ashcroft! I say! Over here, old chap!’

      On the far side of the road, the driver of a very dashing curricle and pair was waving his whip at him in the most enthusiastic fashion. Instantly recognising his one-time comrade-in-arms, the Honourable Freddy Fitzallan, Wyvern, his face breaking into a broad smile, returned the salute with gusto and nimbly wove his way through the busy traffic to greet his old friend.

      ‘By all that’s wonderful!’ grinned Fitzallan, leaning down to grasp Wyvern’s outstretched hand. ‘Last person I expected to see! Just got back, have you? Where are you off to? Hop up; I’ll give you a lift.’

      ‘Hardly worth your trouble, Freddy,’ said Wyvern with a grin, hoisting himself up beside his friend, nevertheless. ‘But I’m headed for Ashcroft House, if you are of a mind.’

      Fitzallan whipped up his horses and, with considerable expertise, threaded his way back into the stream of vehicles.

      ‘Dreadfully sorry to hear about poor old Theo, Ben,’ he said, shooting