ANNE ASHLEY - The Viscount's Scandalous Return

No one could have mistaken the disdain in his voice, which she felt was a great pity, because it could have been made into such a lovely bright and airy room without too much effort.

Conscious of his nearness, and the fact that he was staring at her in that intensely disturbing way once more, she put some distance between them by wandering about again, noting what items of furniture were left in the room and, perhaps, more importantly, those that were quite obviously missing. Maybe the furniture had not been to his taste either. Or perhaps certain items still bore the evidence of what had taken place. After all, the old butler had told her once that it had been nothing short of a bloodbath.

Something in her expression must have betrayed her train of thought, for when she happened to glance in his lordship’s direction once more, she caught him staring back at her, that cynical curl to his lips very much in evidence.

‘My father, by all accounts, was found over there in his favourite chair.’ He pointed in the general direction of the impressive fireplace. ‘My brother somewhere over here, so I understand, on one of the sofas.’

She frowned. ‘So you never …?’

‘Saw for myself?’ he finished for her. ‘No. As soon as the bodies were discovered, Bunting, I believe, sent immediately for the local Justice of the Peace, Sir Montague Cameron, and the constable. I was still sound asleep when they arrived, covered in blood, with a bloodstained sabre on the floor by my bed.’ The cynical smile was suddenly more pronounced. ‘Pretty damning evidence, wouldn’t you say? Had it not been for your intervention, and the help of some good friends, I might still be living in obscurity across the Channel. But when one has none other than Wellington as a staunch ally, other influential people begin to take notice.’

Isabel’s ears pricked up at this. ‘You know the Duke personally?’

‘I was with him throughout most of the Peninsular Campaign,’ he revealed so casually that one might have supposed he had found the whole experience quite uneventful and dull. ‘I was on his staff, as it happens, one of his Exploring Officers. As you might already be aware, my mother was a Frenchwoman. She taught me to speak her native tongue so well that I could pass for one of her fellow countrymen. Which, as I’m sure you can appreciate, proved most useful when I was obliged to ride deep into enemy territory.’

It took Isabel a moment only to assimilate what she was being told. Then a feeling of bewilderment, not to mention irritation, gripped her. ‘You were a spy, you mean. You spied for Wellington. You put your life at risk attempting to discover things he needed to know?’

His faintly ironic bow confirming this only served to irritate her further. ‘Then why—for heaven’s sake!—with all your experience, have you never attempted to discover who tried to frame you for the murder of your father and brother? Your name has been cleared, yes. But mud sticks,’ she reminded him bluntly. ‘There will always be those who will wonder.

‘No, you might not care, my lord,’ she continued when all he did was to raise his broad shoulders in a shrug of complete indifference. ‘But your wife might, should you ever choose to marry. More importantly, so would any children you might one day be blessed to have. Do you suppose they would ever wish to hear their father called a murderer?’

He stared at her for so long in silence, his expression, yet again, totally unreadable, that she was convinced her words had fallen on deaf ears. Then he astonished her by asking, ‘So, where do you suggest we begin? The events, may I remind you, took place almost nine years ago. All the old servants were discharged soon afterwards, and found new positions, I know not where.’

‘With one exception,’ she reminded him.

‘Bunting was questioned at the time by Sir Montague. He neither saw nor heard anything,’ he responded.

Isabel, knowing this to be true, acknowledged it before adding, ‘I’m certain what he did reveal was the absolute truth. But I should still like to know how the murderer managed to get into the house without using force, and left it again, without anyone being any the wiser.’

‘In that case, Miss Mortimer, we’d best go and ask him.’ Leading the way back into the hall, his lordship gave orders for the carriage to be brought round to the door as soon as possible, before he turned to discover an expression of doubt flicker over a finely boned face. He guessed at once the reason behind the troubled look. ‘Had you come here alone, ma’am, I wouldn’t have hesitated to consider the proprieties. However, as you have your own four-legged duenna to hand, I think we might dispense with the services of a maidservant for the short journey to Bunting’s cottage, don’t you?’

The journey to the old butler’s cottage on the edge of the estate was conducted almost in silence. His lordship couldn’t quite make up his mind whether this was because his fellow passenger felt uneasy at being in the close confines of a carriage alone with him, or she was merely not garrulous by nature. Whatever the reason, he considered her a restful young woman for the most part. For instance, he could never envisage her getting into a state over trifles. Or ever succumbing to a fit of the vapours, come to that. None the less, he could well imagine she could be a managing little madam on occasions, if not sufficiently bridled.

He couldn’t resist smiling to himself. Few in his life had ever exerted sufficient influence over him to bestir him into doing something he had no real desire to do, or to persuade him to look at something from a totally different viewpoint. Miss Isabel Mortimer had succeeded in doing just that, however. No mean feat!

he was silently obliged to concede. Whether he would thank her for it in the long run was another matter entirely. But he had embarked, now, on this quest to solve the mystery of who had killed his father and brother, and he had no intention of changing his mind.

‘You may relax now, Miss Mortimer, we’ve arrived at our destination,’ he teased gently, as the carriage drew up before a double-fronted cottage at the end of a row of newly limewashed dwellings. ‘You’ll not be obliged to suffer my baneful presence alone any longer.’

The implication was clear. ‘I do not feel in the least ill at ease in your company, sir,’ Isabel assured him. ‘Why should I? You’ve never given me any reason to mistrust you. I apologise, though, if I seemed a little distant. It’s merely that I’ve never travelled in such a comfortable carriage before, and I’ve been enjoying the experience hugely, not to mention travelling across part of the estate where I’ve never ventured before.’

As he threw wide the door to allow Beau to jump out, his lordship felt something within him stir. It wasn’t pity, he felt sure. What she had revealed was the simple truth, not an attempt to arouse compassion. Yet it had moved him none the less.

He let down the steps himself, and as he helped her to alight, and she placed her hand briefly in his own, he could feel the calluses in the palm. His old butler had revealed that, for a gentleman’s daughter, she hadn’t enjoyed the most favourable existence. The elderly retainer clearly had not lied.

Yet again something within him stirred.

Making use of his silver-handled walking stick, the

Viscount made their presence known, and it wasn’t long before Bunting answered the summons.

‘Why, your lordship!’ he declared, clearly astonished. ‘This is a most unexpected pleasure! And Miss Isabel, too! Oh, do come in, please!’