Louise Allen - A Most Unconventional Courtship

Chance grimaced. If they would only settle down, he could risk tackling these stairs and make his escape.

‘I will just run and get my reticule, Mama.’ That sounded uncomfortably like a young, unmarried daughter to Chance. He was already having to exercise considerable caution in dealing with the Misses Trevick. They were delighted to have an eligible, single, gentleman staying and Chance had no intention of being lured on to balconies after dinner or finding himself in compromising tête-à-têtes. Marriage was the last thing in his plans just now. When he returned to England he would look for a wife, a nice conventional, well-trained young lady who would understand her duties and who would please his mama.

‘Very well, Frances.’ There was the sound of chairs being moved and the creaking of wickerwork as the ladies sat. Hurrying feet scuffed lightly along the flagstones and Chance flattened himself back into the shadows of the archway at the foot of the steps.

‘Oh!’ The young woman who whirled round the corner collided with Chance, took a hasty step backwards and fluttered her eyelashes. ‘I am so sorry, sir.’

Chance closed his mouth, which was hanging open unflatteringly, and found his voice. ‘Ma’am. The fault was entirely mine. I was catching my breath before tackling these stairs.’

Big green eyes gazed back at him from under winged dark brows. He flattened his palm against the comforting solidity of the wall and made himself focus. It was not Alessa, of course. This young woman was perhaps nineteen, her hair was brown and she was shorter, and rather plumper, than Alessa. But the eyes, the shape of her chin, those eyebrows—she could have been her sister.

‘You must be Lord Blakeney,’ the girl said, dimpling at him. ‘May I help you? Lady Trevick said you have had an accident.’

‘Frances?’ The woman who swept into the now-crowded lobby could only be this girl’s mother—or Alessa’s. And the resemblance to Alessa was even more pronounced than with the younger girl. Chance shook his head to clear it, but he was not hallucinating. Lady Blackstone was tall and elegant. Her black hair, with sweeps of white at the temples, was dressed simply and did nothing to detract from the winged black eyebrows slanting over deep green eyes.

‘This is Lord Blakeney, Mama,’ Frances said, before he could speak.

‘Ma’am. I am Benedict Chancellor.’ Chance got his face under control and managed a reasonable sketch of a bow. ‘Am I addressing Lady Blackstone?’

‘You are, my lord.’ The cool look swept down past his open-necked shirt and loose trousers to his bare feet. Chance decided that convoluted explanations were pointless—if she decided he was a dangerous eccentric, not to be allowed near her daughter, so much the better in his current mood. Her ladyship deigned to smile. ‘I understand you are convalescing, Lord Blakeney. Perhaps we will see you at dinner. Come along, Frances.’

Left alone, Chance negotiated the stone stairs with gritted teeth, but his mind was only vaguely aware of the pain. It was surely impossible that Lady Blackstone was not related to Alessa. Which left one glaring question—what was she doing on Corfu? Could her presence there possibly be coincidence?

He found his room. Alfred, the valet put at his disposal by Sir Thomas, was folding away something in the chest of drawers. ‘Your clothing has been returned by Kyria Alessa, my lord.’

‘Let me see.’ He lifted the neckcloth off the top of the pile. It smelt of rosemary and some herb he could not identify. The valet waited patiently for it to be returned. Reluctantly Chance laid it back with the stockings. ‘Will you ask Sir Thomas’s secretary if he could lend me a Peerage, Alfred?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ The man shut the drawer and hurried out. Chance opened it again and lifted out the neckcloth, letting the soft fabric drape over the back of his hand. Soft, like her skin. Fragrant. Somehow he imagined her hair would smell like this, of sunshine and herbs and the sea air.

Alessa had been snatched out of her rightful place by a father who, however courageous, seemed to have been unconventional to a fault, and now she was being kept there by her own stubbornness. He could not believe that her English relatives would not want her. There must have been some falling-out over the French wife and Alessa was refining too much on the stories her father would have told her of that.

He folded the neckcloth and was standing holding it, deep in thought, when Alfred came back into the room. Hastily, Chance stuffed it into his pocket. Carrying a lady’s handkerchief around was one thing, one’s own neckcloth quite another.

‘The Peerage, my lord.’ Alfred laid it on the desk. ‘Dinner is at eight. Shall I have your bath fetched at seven?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Chance was already thumbing through the thick, red book. He found Henry, Lord Blackstone. The name rang a faint bell: someone in the diplomatic service possibly. He ran his finger down the entry: Married to Honoria Louisa Emily Meredith, only daughter of the late Charles Meredith, 3rd Earl Hambledon and his wife the late…

Impatient, he flicked forward to the entry for Hambledon. Edward Charles Meredith was the fourth Earl, married and with a large family. His father had been less prolific: one daughter—Lady Blackstone, his heir Edward and one other son.

‘The Honourable Alexander William Langley Meredith,’ Chance read out loud. ‘Alexander.’ And Alessa had said that her real name was Alexandra. He studied the entry, but it showed no marriage, no date of death. It was as though the Honourable Alexander had vanished into thin air. ‘Or into the Ionian islands with his scandalous French wife and his daughter.’

Chance dressed for dinner with care. He had not got off to the best of starts with Lady Blackstone and now much depended on the degree of diplomacy he could exert.

Sir Thomas had loaned him an elegant silver-topped ebony cane and Chance considered that with its aid he managed to cut not too ridiculous a figure as he limped out on to the broad terrace overlooking the bay. It made a charming setting for the Residency dinner-party guests to assemble.

Sir Thomas, easily distinguishable amongst the gentlemen with his bald head fringed with pure white, came over to greet him. ‘My dear fellow! Do you find yourself in less pain this evening? Yes? Excellent, excellent! Now, I think you have met everyone except Lady Blackstone and Miss Blackstone.’

Her ladyship acknowledged the introduction with an inclination of her head and a gracious smile. It appeared she was going to pretend that she had not already met the Earl in bare feet and shirt sleeves. Miss Blackstone giggled and blushed. Chance, who would have expected nothing else from a young lady at a fashionable London dinner party and thought nothing of it, now found himself making unfavourable comparisons with another young woman altogether.

‘Are you taking a Greek tour, Lady Blackstone?’ Chance enquired once Sir Thomas had taken himself off.

‘My husband is on a mission in Venice—he is with the Foreign Office, you understand. Frances and I are joining him for the last few months of his time there.’

Corfu was certainly not on the obvious route from England to Venice. Chance risked some further fishing. ‘How imaginative of you to take this route,’ he observed. ‘So many people would have gone direct to Venice—from Milan, perhaps.’

Lady Blackstone smiled tightly and Chance recognised discomfort, for all her poise. Oh, yes, she is hiding something. Just so long as it is not a flaming affair with the Lord High Commissioner…

‘It seemed such a good opportunity. I am sure Frances will never have the chance to see the classical sights again.’