ANNE ASHLEY - The Viscount's Scandalous Return

‘Oh, no, you don’t, you abominable creature! Get down at once!’

Although the dog surprisingly enough obeyed the command, his immediate compliance didn’t appear to impress the Viscount, who followed the hound’s subsequent exploration of the fine library with a jaundiced eye.

‘What did I hear you call him …? Beau, was it?’ At her nod of assent, he rolled his eyes ceiling-wards. ‘A singularly inappropriate name. A more ill-favoured brute I’ve yet to clap eyes on!’

More amused than anything else by this most unjustified criticism of her beloved hound, Isabel smiled up at him. ‘Ah, but you see, my lord, you do not view him through my eyes.’

He regarded her in silence, his expression, as it so often was, totally unreadable. Then he said, ‘What on earth possessed you to acquire such a breed? You know what it is, I suppose?’

‘Yes, a wolfhound—er—mostly,’ she responded. ‘When a pup he was discovered scavenging for food round the cottages in the village by some urchins, who then considered it would be wonderful sport to tie a large stone about his neck and throw him in the millpond,’ she explained. ‘I happened along at the time, rescued him and took him back with me to the farmhouse. Naturally I made enquiries about the village, and in

Merryfield, too, to see if anyone had lost a wolfhound pup, but no one came forward to claim him. So he’s been with me ever since.’

While she had been speaking Lord Blackwood had seated himself in the chair opposite. Not many moments afterwards Beau had returned to the hearth and had settled himself on the rug before the fire, making use of one of his lordship’s muscular thighs to rest his head.

Isabel watched as his lordship raised one long-fingered hand and began to stroke the hound gently. He appeared perfectly relaxed, and she would have been too, strangely enough, had she not been convinced that striking blue orbs were avidly scrutinising her from behind those half-shuttered lids.

‘Well, I’d better not waste any more of your time, my lord,’ she said hurriedly, suddenly feeling embarrassingly aware that the hem of her skirts and cloak were caked in mud.

Although she had always remained particular in her personal habits, she would have been the first to admit she had never spent an inordinate amount of time before her mirror, simply because being perfectly groomed at all times had never ranked high on her list of priorities. Yet she couldn’t deny that being likened to an ill-groomed country wench had touched a very sore spot indeed. Why suddenly should her appearance matter so much? Moreover, why should this aristocrat’s approbation all at once be so important to her?

‘It was good of you to see me,’ she added, ‘but now I’ll be on my way.’

‘Nonsense, child!’ he countered, when she made to rise. ‘Sit and finish your wine. As I mentioned before, I’m quite at leisure.’

She was forced silently to admit that he looked it too. Sitting there, with his long, muscular legs stretched out before him, and his eyes fully closed now, he appeared totally relaxed, completely at ease with himself. Had she needed more proof that he could never have committed that terrible crime all those years ago, she was being given it now. Surely no man who had carried out such a dreadful deed could look so at peace with himself?

Yet the murders did take place, she reminded herself, once more taking stock of her surroundings. There was no refuting that fact. Could the grisly events have taken place here, in this very room? She couldn’t help wondering.

‘Something appears to be troubling you, Miss Mortimer,’ he remarked, his eyes once again fully open and as acutely assessing as her own had been only a short time before. ‘I trust you are not concerned about being in here alone with me. You are in no danger, I assure you. And if, for any reason, I should experience an overwhelming desire to lay violent hands upon you, I’m sure your trusty hound, here, would come to your rescue.’

‘Ha! I’m not so very sure he would!’ Isabel returned, quite without rancour. She was more amazed than anything else that Beau had taken such an instant liking to someone. It had never happened before. Which just went to substantiate her belief that his lordship was not the black-hearted demon he had sometimes been painted.

‘So, what were you thinking about a few minutes ago that brought such a troubled expression to your face?’

Lord! Isabel mused. Was he always so observant? ‘Well, since you ask, I was experiencing a surge of morbid curiosity,’ she finally admitted. ‘I was wondering whether your father and brother were killed in this room.’

‘No, in the drawing room, as it happens. Should you like to visit the scene of the crime?’

Had she not witnessed it with her own eyes she would never have supposed for a moment that those icy-blue orbs could dance with wicked amusement. He really was a most attractive and engaging gentleman when he chose to be. And, she didn’t doubt for a second, a damnably dangerous one, to boot, to any female weak enough not to resist his charm! Was she mad even to consider remaining with him a moment longer?

‘Well, yes, I would, as it happens,’ she answered, curiosity having rapidly overridden sound common sense.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Lord Blackwood escorted her and his new-found friend across the woodpanelled hall and into the large room situated at the back of the house. Of all the ground-floor rooms, the drawing room boasted the most commanding view of the formal gardens at the rear of the house, which could be reached by means of tall French windows leading out on to a wide, stone terrace.

His lordship recalled vividly the many large parties held in the drawing room when his mother had been alive. It had once been, without doubt, the most elegant salon in the entire house. Sadly this was no longer the case. It smelt musty through lack of use, the wallpaper and curtains were tired and faded, and what few bits of furniture remained scattered about the floor were sadly worn and heralding from an age long gone by.

As she moved about, noting the dark, intricately patterned carpet and the elegance of the marble fireplace, Isabel didn’t experience, strangely enough, any sense of disquiet because of what had taken place in the room. If anything, she felt saddened by its neglect. Undoubtedly the carpet, the wallpaper and the curtains had been expensive. All the same, they were far too dark and oppressive, an ill choice for such a room as this in her opinion.

His lordship, easily detecting the tiny sigh of discontent, smiled ruefully. ‘No, not the most pleasant of atmospheres, is it, Miss Mortimer? Such a dark, depressing place!’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ she returned at her most candid. ‘But it has little to do with what took place here. I do not know who might have chosen the décor, my lord, but whoever it was betrayed a sad want of taste, if you’ll forgive me saying so. The wall-coverings are far too dark, and totally at odds with the patterned carpet. And as for the crimson curtains …’

Isabel went over to the French windows, where the offending articles hung. Once it must have been a wonderful view. Now even the gardens were showing clear signs of neglect. As the windows were securely bolted, both top and bottom, denying access to the terrace, she wandered over to the windows in the east-facing wall, and was instantly reminded of how windy it was outside.

‘Great heavens! Little wonder it strikes so cold in here. This window, here, is very ill fitting, my lord.’

He came to stand beside her, and tested the catch himself. ‘That is something that must be put right without delay,’ he remarked. ‘The Lord only knows how long it has been like that. I’ve seldom set foot in here since my father had it redecorated some eighteen years ago.’ He looked about him with distaste. ‘You’re quite right, the room is damnably depressing. I dislike it intensely!’