Georgiana felt a strange tremor ripple through her, and raised her eyes to discover a tall gentleman standing in the doorway leading to the larger salon.
Dressed in the impeccable style advocated by George Brummell himself, and with black hair cropped short and artistically arranged in the windswept look, he seemed to make nearly all the other gentlemen present appear slightly ill-groomed in comparison.
So striking was the change in appearance that Georgiana didn’t immediately appreciate precisely who it was. Only when stark recognition on his own part replaced affectation, and those unforgettable dark eyes stared fixedly in her direction, did she know for sure. Then she very nearly forgot the movements of the dance, almost disgraced herself by missing a step, when heavy lids lowered and a look of such contempt took possession of those rugged features, a moment before he swung round on his heels and walked away …
About the Author
ANNE ASHLEY was born and educated in Leicester. She lived for a time in Scotland, but now makes her home in the West Country, with two cats, her two sons, and a husband who has a wonderful and very necessary sense of humour. When not pounding away at the keys of her computer, she likes to relax in her garden, which she has opened to the public on more than one occasion in aid of the village church funds.
MISS IN A
MAN’S WORLD
Anne Ashley
Prologue
The firelight flickered across the Dowager’s face, making her appear more intimidating than usual. Even her staunchest supporters, her closest friends, would never have called her a beauty; not even five decades before, when she had surprised so many by her betrothal to the sixth Earl of Grenville, thereby achieving a truly splendid alliance. Nonetheless, not even her severest critics, and there had been numerous of those during her lifetime, would ever have stigmatised her as the least light-minded, or as a woman who had failed in her obligations. On the contrary, she had been renowned throughout her adult life for putting duty first, even if this had meant going against inclination. She had always been steadfast in her resolve, a veritable pillar of strength to all those who had come to rely on her support and good sense down the years.
Yet today, finally, after seeing the last of her six children placed in the family vault, much of that zest for life, that spark of determination, had faded from her eyes. Much, it was true, but not quite all, as the only other occupant of the comfortable parlour discovered when the Dowager finally ceased her silent contemplation of the glowing fire in the hearth and raised her head.
‘I do not make this request of you lightly,’ she revealed at last. ‘I appreciate there is a very real possibility that you might be putting your own life in danger by agreeing to my request, should the person responsible for my son’s death discover your quest. But the truth of the matter is there is no one I trust so implicitly.’ The Dowager gave vent to a wheezy half-chuckle. ‘A sad admission for someone of my advanced age, whose acquaintance over the years has been extensive, and yet, it is true. Should you accede to my request, I know you will do your utmost to discover just what my son meant.’
‘And you are sure, ma’am, that he said, “No, not a stranger … It could only have been … one of the five. One of them must have been involved"?’
‘Quite sure. It is something I am unlikely ever to forget, as they were among the last words he ever spoke to me. But, just what he meant by them, I have no notion. My son’s acquaintance was vast, much larger than mine. He might have been referring to any number of different people—peers of the realm, members of the government, high-ranking officers in the army or navy. Or maybe even a secret society. Who knows? But when I do know for certain, that will be the moment to take matters further. Until such time, it would be best if the world continues to believe my son died at the hands of unknown assailants. Which, of course, is most definitely the case. But the one I am determined to bring to justice is the person who organised the attack.’
The silence that followed was broken only by the ticking of the mantel-clock, and the crackling of logs in the hearth, until the Dowager’s companion finally said, ‘It is still your intention to remove to Bath in a few weeks, is it not? That will give me time to ponder on how best to discover what we both dearly wish to know. Delay writing to your good friend Lady Pickering in London. Involving her might not be the ideal solution. A better way might yet occur to me, my lady.’
Chapter One
Spring 1802
‘Why don’t you change your mind, Finch, and spend a week or two with Louise and me? You know how very fond of you she is. Why, she has come to look upon you as a brother! She will adore having you to stay.’
Viscount Fincham regarded his companion from behind half-closed lids. Anyone studying him might have been forgiven for supposing he had been on the verge of sleep during the past few minutes, for he had not uttered a single word since seating himself by the window in the crowded hostelry. Nor had he attempted to sample the tankard of ale the landlord had placed before him. None knew better, however, than the gentleman seated opposite that behind that languid air of blissful unconcern lurked a razor-sharp intellect, an astuteness that was frighteningly keen and occasionally quite disturbing.
An expanse of fine lace fell over one long-fingered hand as the Viscount reached for his tankard and finally sampled its contents. ‘You are in error, my dear Charles. Being heartily bored with life at present, I should make sad company for Louise. Or anyone else, come to that. Besides which, your darling wife has enough to contend with. She would not choose to put up with my megrims so close to her confinement.’
Knowing better than to attempt to persuade his friend to change his mind and accept the invitation, Charles Gingham merely said, ‘What you need, old fellow, is what I’ve been blessed to have these past years—the love of a good woman.’
White, even teeth showed behind a wickedly flashing smile. ‘Evidently you forget I have one already. Caroline is, without doubt, the most skilful I’ve ever had.’
Charles gave vent to a derisive snort. ‘I’m not talking about your birds of paradise, Ben. Good Lord! You’ve had enough of those down the years. And not one of ‘em has meant so much as a groat to you, if I’m any judge. No, what you need is a wife, a lady you will love and cherish, someone who will give your life a new direction, some purpose.’
This time the Viscount’s smile was decidedly twisted, revealing more than just a hint of cynicism. ‘I hardly think that is ever likely to happen, my dear friend. No, perhaps in a year or two I shall marry, if only to beget an heir. After all, a fellow in my position is never short of candidates for a wife. I have the hopeful little darlings parading before me with tiresome regularity every Season in the Marriage Mart. I’m sure if, and when, I take a serious look I shall find at least one female who will meet my exacting standards—divinely fair, impeccably mannered and dutifully biddable.’
Charles Gingham stared across the table, a hint of sadness in his expression. ‘Do you still ponder over what might have been? I know I do. If I hadn’t dragged you across to France with me all those years ago, you might now be a blissfully contented married man.’
‘Do not do offence to your feelings on my account, Charles,’ the Viscount urged him, once again sounding distinctly bored with the topic of conversation. ‘Your sympathy is quite