The Louise Allen Collection: The Viscount's Betrothal / The Society Catch. Louise Allen
called Charlton Ross, my lord, but you did not know whether he has a title. His wife’s name is Hermione and he has a sister Decima. He has a house somewhere near enough to Whissendine for his sister’s carriage to have reached the point where you met in one morning in poor travelling conditions. Miss Ross said it was in Leicestershire.
‘So I searched the Peerage, the Landed Gentry and even Crockford’s Clerical Directory just in case he was a clergyman. Nothing. Then I tried the various county directories—including Nottinghamshire to be on the safe side. There is not a sign of a Charlton Ross. There are plenty of entries for Ross, and I checked second names where they were given. Nothing that matches. The carriage appears to have been owned by the family as there is no record of it being hired at any livery stable I can find.
‘Then I tried the Norfolk end of things, but I couldn’t find any single ladies or widows by the name of Ross who might match—and, of course, the lady’s cousin might easily be a widow, or a maiden lady of a different surname. The only trace I have is of a party that matched your description taking luncheon at the Rising Sun just outside Wisbech. After that, they vanish. The number of carriages on the post roads that day was considerable, what with people getting themselves back home after being held up by the bad weather. We tried the turnpikes in all directions, but no one recalled them. I am sorry, my lord.’
‘Thank you, Franklin. I’m sure you have been extremely thorough.’ The man bowed himself out, leaving Adam brooding at the desk he had borrowed in his host’s study. He poured himself a large brandy and thought.
Longminster House, the rural seat of the Earl of Minster, Adam’s uncle by marriage, was en fête for the christening of the first of the Minster grandchildren and Adam had resigned himself to a week of baby-worshipping, dancing attendance on numerous relatives and avoiding lectures on his unwed state.
One of the few avenues of escape he had found was in trying to cheer up a distant relative of his Aunt Minster’s, Olivia Channing. He remembered her from her schoolroom days as tiny and shy. Now she was a little beauty—still tiny, but with all the blonde loveliness of a fairy. Add to that the best of good breeding and exquisite manners and one had the perfect eligible, albeit desperately shy, young lady. But Olivia’s problem was that her family was extremely hard up. Adam suspected that if her dowry amounted to a few hundred, that was all it was.
And she was being dragged about, pushed into society by her desperate mama, when she believed all she could expect was to be snubbed, despite her looks and her sweetness. A month ago he would have shrugged and taken no notice of her. Now, with Decima’s bitter words about matchmakers still ringing in his ears, he regarded her with sympathy and tried to make up to her for the fact that she found herself constantly on the outside of things.
She was a funny little thing, he thought. Even now she was used to him and had begun to chat to him with less constraint, he always had the feeling that she was glancing over his shoulder, checking for something.
He refilled his glass, dismissing Olivia as an insoluble problem. The presence of Peregrine Grantham, the son of his father’s late younger brother, was another matter altogether—both the silver lining to the visit and a heartening reminder that lectures on his duty to produce an heir could be met by pointing out young Perry’s numerous admirable qualities. Not that Perry, or his mother, were holding their breath at the thought of him stepping into his cousin’s shoes.
‘I do wish you’d get married, Adam,’ Perry had complained the day before as they trudged across a muddy field, retrievers at their heels and a dozen pigeons hanging from their shot belts. ‘Here I am, wanting to join up, and all I get from my guardians is lectures on how the heir to a viscounty doesn’t go risking his neck in the army.’
Adam had grinned at him and informed him that he had no intention of getting leg-shackled for his sake and he would just have to wait another couple of years until he could do as he chose.
‘The war’ll be over by then,’ Perry had retorted with good humour. ‘No, the answer is to get you married off, Adam.’
That evening, stretching long legs in front of a blazing fire and sipping Minster’s best liqueur brandy, Adam found himself contemplating matrimony seriously for perhaps the first time.
He was not staying single for Perry’s sake; the lad had too much intelligence and ambition to wait around for dead men’s shoes. No, Adam was unwed simply because no lady had ever piqued his interest enough to give up his independence and privacy. Except one.
He had set Franklin on Decima’s trail as soon as he had realised he could not find any mention of her brother in any of his reference books and that the polite note of thanks he had received three days after her departure gave no address. At the time he had not asked himself why he wanted to find her, only that he needed to make sure she was all right. The fact that her note left him in no doubt of that was beside the point.
Now Adam reluctantly faced the fact that he missed her. It was not just that his body ached for her, although it certainly did. He wanted to get to know her better, to hear that rich, wicked chuckle again, to dance a waltz with her and tease her about her cookery. He wanted to make her blush and cajole her out of her sudden fits of shyness. And he wanted to find out whether this unfamiliar ache around his heart was love.
And now, with the paperwork spread out before him detailing false trail after false trail, it seemed she had vanished. The only thing he could think was that she had not given him her true surname and, if that was the case, even setting the Bow Street Runners on her was not likely to be productive. It seemed that she was not as interested in resuming their strange friendship as he was himself.
He roused himself at the sound of the changing gong and made his way upstairs, only to remember that tonight was the occasion of the dance Aunt Minster was throwing to celebrate not only the arrival of her first grandchild, but also the betrothal of her last and youngest daughter, Sylvia.
There would be a family dinner first, then the arrival of guests and the prospect of a long night of dancing and making conversation in an overheated ballroom.
‘What are you about, Greaves?’ His valet was stropping a razor and regarding with some satisfaction his master’s newest and most elegant evening clothes laid out on the bed.
‘I had made sure your lordship would require to shave before dinner.’ He shook out a towel and waited patiently beside the chair, managing to ignore the singular lack of enthusiasm on his employer’s face.
With a sigh Adam cast himself down on the chair and did his best to suppress his bad humour. Greaves did not deserve having his employer’s disappointment and frustration taken out on him, nor was it his fault that Adam was in the worst possible state of mind to appreciate the elegance of the new satin knee breeches or the gloss the valet had achieved on the dancing pumps.
‘I’m not in the mood for a party, Greaves,’ he observed mildly as the man whipped up a lather and began to apply it to his face.
‘No, my lord. I have observed, if I might be so bold, that dances at which most of the partners are in some way related to a gentleman rarely offer him as much entertainment, however select the company.’
Despite himself Adam grinned. No, this was not likely to be the sort of party at which one could entertain oneself with dashing matrons or semi-respectable widows.
He went down to dinner only to realise that more guests had arrived, necessitating the butler to order all the extra leaves to be put in the dining table.
Perry wandered up to him, looking disgruntled. ‘I say, Adam, all the card tables are set out for whist for the old tabbies; we’re going to have to dance all evening.’
‘Well, find yourself some pretty girls to flirt with,’ Adam retorted unsympathetically. Perry was still at an age when girls were at best incomprehensible and at worst frightening. ‘What about Olivia over there? I’m sure she is your type. We’ll go over and you can practise on her.’
Perry, suspecting teasing, shot a hunted look in the direction of Adam’s gaze and relaxed. ‘Oh, Olivia Channing. I’m sure she’ll