Lady Gwendolen Investigates. Anne Ashley

even the briefest of notes awaiting her, especially as she herself had made a point, the instant she had arrived back in the country, of apprising her dearest friend of precisely when she expected to be taking up residence in her late husband’s home.

      As was her wont, Gwen wasn’t slow to act once she had come to a decision, and asked Annie to send Martha Gillingham to her immediately and then instruct Manders to have the one and only horse-drawn vehicle the late Sir Percival Warrender had ever possessed brought round to the door.

      The journey to Bridge House was blessedly of short duration. None the less, it was with a feeling of intense relief that Gwen alighted from the antiquated conveyance that afforded no more comfort than a farm cart, vowing as she did so to decrease her bank balance in order to acquire a new carriage at the earliest opportunity.

      She then turned her full attention on the early Georgian dwelling before her. Set in a garden that was both extensive and well maintained, Bridge House was, as Jane had once described in one of her letters, a very handsome building indeed. Clearly it was a residence belonging to a gentleman of substantial means. Furthermore, if the property was a reflection of his character, he was a person of elegance and good taste.

      Apart from one or two details she had discovered from both her late husband and Jane, and those few interesting snippets she had gleaned from Annie in recent days, Gwen knew next to nothing about the owner of the delightful property, save that he was closely connected to several aristocratic families, he could also boast a fine residence in the capital, and he remained a bachelor.

      ‘Which in one way is a great pity, Gillie,’ she declared, after mulling over the few facts she did know about him. ‘Had he been married, it would have spared you suffering this atrocious journey. I could then have asked to see Mrs Northbridge. As things stand, I have no choice but to drag you along. I might be a respectable widow, but I still cannot go calling on single gentlemen without giving rise to a deal of gossip.’

      ‘That you can’t, Miss Gwennie,’ Martha agreed. ‘Might be different if you had a few more years in your dish and a face like a horse’s rear. But the fact is you haven’t.’

      ‘No, and I suppose I should consider myself most fortunate for that, too,’ Gwen responded a little unsteadily, as she reached the impressive colonnaded front entrance. ‘Let’s hope Lady Luck continues to favour me and we should discover Mr Northbridge away from home. I can then ask to see Jane without fear of causing offence.’

      ‘You could have written again during the past days, telling Miss Jane of your safe arrival down here,’ Martha pointed out, reaching for the highly polished door-knocker before her young mistress could do so.

      ‘Yes, I know I could have done,’ Gwen agreed. ‘But until I know for certain that Jane’s willing to share my home, I don’t want to make things awkward for her. I know her too well. At the very least she’ll insist on working her notice, or remaining until Mr Northbridge has managed to engage another governess. Furthermore, letters have a habit of going astray or falling into the wrong hands. I had no intention of advertising my close association with Jane, at least not until I’ve discussed things with her first.’ Gwen lowered her eyes, thereby concealing the look of bitter regret. ‘I was once guilty of assuming too much where she is concerned. I have no intention of repeating that gross error of judgement.’

      The summons was answered promptly by an elderly male servant who, on discovering her identity, betrayed no reluctance whatsoever in admitting Gwen, or revealing that his master was in residence.

      ‘If you’d care to wait in here, madam,’ he said, leading the way into a most charmingly decorated and comfortable front parlour, ‘I shall enquire if the master is able to see you.’

      Given that her late husband had always maintained he had remained upon the best of terms with this particular neighbour, Gwen didn’t suppose for a moment that Mr Northbridge would refuse to see her, unless of course other matters required his urgent attention. What she didn’t expect, a moment after she had detected the click of the door, was the clearly astonished voice declaring,

      ‘Good gad! I’d heard Warrender, the old rogue, had married someone years his junior, but I never supposed for a moment she’d turn out to be a chit not long out of the schoolroom!’

      Chapter Two

      It was more the oddly familiar rich tone than the blunt exclamation of surprise that induced Gwen to abandon her contemplation of the neat flower-bed just beyond the window and to swing round to face the new arrival squarely. Then it was as much as she could do not to reciprocate with an expression of shocked dismay of her own.

      If nothing else, a quarter of a century of life had taught her never to be complacent, or take things for granted. Although considering herself more favourably circumstanced than most, she had not hitherto lived a completely cocooned existence, protected from every cruel knock. She knew well enough that life was littered with pitfalls, ready to entrap the unwary. But never until that moment had she supposed that fickle Fate could be quite so mischievously vindictive.

      Briefly she raised her eyes heavenwards, as though hoping to prompt some divine intervention, or at the very least discover the answer to that one burning question torturing her mind—why, oh, why must Jocelyn Northbridge, a gentleman whom she couldn’t possibly hope to avoid in the future, if she wished to resume her former very close friendship with Jane Robbins without delay, turn out to be none other than the thoroughly obnoxious individual she had encountered, albeit briefly, in that Bristol posting-house a mere ten days or so ago?

      Gwen suppressed the shout of hysterical laughter rising in her throat as effectively as she controlled the sudden desire to flee from his presence like an overwhelmed child. She then quickly took heart from the fact his expression betrayed no sign of recognition whatsoever, and in those moments that followed, while he continued to study her with a look that could best be described as amused disbelief, a germ of steely determination that never again would she allow him to dismiss her as yet another light-minded female, not worthy of at least token civility, seeded itself deep within.

      A close association over a period of very many months with certain members of a noble Italian family proved invaluable. Gwen raised her pointed little chin in faint hauteur, in much the same way as she had witnessed her good friend the Contessa di Canolini doing on numerous occasions when dealing with any bumptious fellow.

      ‘You appear somewhat stunned, sir,’ she said, aping, too, the darling Contessa’s bored tone to a nicety. ‘If your failure to observe the social niceties in asking me to sit down stems from the fact that I’ve called at an inconvenient time, I can only apologise and assure you that you’ll not be importuned for longer than necessary. If, however, you doubt my authenticity, I’m in a position to prove I am indeed the widow of Sir Percival Warrender.’

      Had it ever been Gwen’s overriding ambition to set him at a disadvantage, her satisfaction would have been short-lived indeed. Only for the briefest of moments did he betray a flicker of something that could well have been attributed to mild discomfiture at being reminded of basic civilities. Then he merely strolled forward in that infuriatingly relaxed way of his that she well remembered, and stared down at her, unblinking, from his superior height, while gesturing towards one of the chairs placed before the welcoming hearth.

      ‘I require no proof of your identity, Lady Warrender. I shall unmask you soon enough, should you prove to be an impostor,’ he told her, sounding infuriatingly confident. ‘And as for my reaction—I’m sure you must be well used to it by now. If the truth be known, I expect you were taken, more often than not, for old Warrender’s daughter, not his wife.’

      Gwen didn’t attempt to deny it. ‘There was a vast disparity in our ages, it is true,’ she agreed, before a certain twinkle, which Martha Gillingham would have recognised in a trice, began to flicker in her eyes a moment before she added, ‘And I suppose I must be generous and make allowances. Anyone having attained middle age might consider someone in her mid-twenties a mere child.’

      The unkind and altogether inaccurate barb undoubtedly hit its mark. Consequently she experienced a degree of satisfaction