To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

He wanted a wife. A lady who would happily be his, who would share his life and remove him from the ranks of the eligible.

Marriage was, for him, a necessary escape.

The regular reverberating thuds of the grays’ hooves underscored his thoughts, and his determination.

The green fields of Surrey flew past. Ten minutes later, he spotted the signpost for Cranbrook Ford. Checking the grays, he turned them south; less than a mile down the lane, stone gateposts appeared, a brass plaque proclaiming them the entrance to Cranbrook Manor.

He swept through and set the grays briskly trotting. A light breeze rippled through the leafy canopies of the oaks bordering the drive. The manor appeared ahead, a low, wide house in gray stone, its façade whimsically crenellated.

“Be that where we’re going then?”

Deverell glanced around at Grainger, his groom-cum-tiger. “Yes.” Deverell faced forward. He’d known Grainger, about nineteen years old, a lanky, good-hearted lad with a quick laugh, for less than a year. He’d discovered him on his first visit to Paignton; a natural with horses, Grainger had nevertheless been something of an outcast—a lowly orphan with no known family, tolerated because of his unusual skill. Deverell had changed that; he’d made Grainger his groom, taking him out of the routine of the larger stables and giving him his prize cattle to tend.

When it came to horses he had complete faith in Grainger. In other spheres…

“While we’re here, you’ll behave as if you were at Paignton Hall, under Mallard and Mrs. Mottram’s thumbs. Mind what everyone says and do nothing untoward.”

He felt Grainger’s gaze.

“Be n’t I to help you then? Ain’t there nothing I’m supposed to do—beyond the grays, I mean?”

Deverell was about to disavow any need, but recollection of Audrey’s words had him temporizing. “There may be something I need you for later, but the first thing you must do is be quiet and friendly, helpful and undisruptive with all the other staff. Keep your eyes and ears open so that when I need information, you’ll know who to ask—or more rightly who to encourage to talk to you.” He glanced at Grainger. “Do you understand?”

The light in Grainger’s eyes assured him that horses weren’t his groom’s only interest. “Oh, aye—I can do that.”

Looking forward, hiding his grin—his understanding that Grainger was now fantasizing about the maids he might meet and how to encourage them to talk to him—Deverell steered the curricle onto the gravel forecourt before the manor’s wide stone steps.

A groom came running; Grainger greeted him jovially.

Halting the horses and handing over the reins, Deverell stepped down and started up the steps. Before he reached the porch, the door swung wide; a large and stately butler waited to bow him in.

He was shown into the drawing room, a long room with French doors along one side, presently open to the terrace and the manicured lawns beyond. As Audrey had prophesized, Maria, Lady Cranbrook, was delighted—no, aux anges—to welcome him to her home, informing him without a blink that his presence would assuredly cause a considerable stir among her female guests.

In the face of her enthusiasm he smiled charmingly and cast a sharp glance at Audrey; seated beside her ladyship, his aunt merely smiled back, fondly smug, and nodded her encouragement when Lady Cranbrook directed him to the lawn, on which the bulk of her guests were strolling.

Stepping out onto the terrace, he cast a quick, searching look around—and very nearly stepped back. There was a small army of young ladies present, and he’d omitted to ask for a description of Audrey’s paragon.

But most of the guests, both ladies and gentlemen, had noticed him; to retreat would make him appear ludicrously high in the instep, as if he thought himself above their company.

“Besides,” he muttered to himself as, nonchalant smile in place, he stepped down to the lawn, “how hard can it be to identify one female and run her to earth?”

Fatal words. By the time he’d done the rounds, been introduced and spoken politely with every female, both young and old, gracing the wide lawn and drifting beneath the trees, and discovered that Miss Phoebe Malleson was simply not there, his patience—always limited—had worn distinctly thin. Spying Audrey descending from the terrace, he excused himself from the matron who, along with her two daughters, had corraled him, and strolled to intercept his aunt.

One look into his eyes and Audrey’s lips twitched.

His own lips thinning, he hung on to his temper. “Your paragon is playing least in sight.”

“Well of course she is, dear—I did warn you.” Audrey patted his arm, leaned closer, and murmured, “Now she’s twenty-five, she’s determined to go her own way and waste no more time even pretending an interest in gentlemen and marriage. So she’s here at the house, but elsewhere.”

He frowned. “If she has no interest in gentlemen and marriage, why am I here?”

“To teach her the error of her ways, of course.” Taking his arm, Audrey drew him around. “Have you met Edith Balmain, Phoebe’s aunt?”

“Yes.” He glanced to where the sprightly, white-haired widow sat, bright blue eyes drinking everything in, interested and alert. At first glance she appeared the epitome of a little old lady, tiny, slightly stooped, with a soft lined face and a retiring manner, but once he’d met those eyes he’d reassigned her to quite a different category. She was an astute observer—one who saw, detected, and consequently knew everything, including all those private matters people thought they’d concealed.

Even without the connection to his paragon he would have been drawn to, and interested in learning more of, Edith Balmain. However…“She didn’t know where her niece might be skulking, either.”

“Well, Deverell dear, if there’s one gentleman in all this gathering with the right skills to hunt Phoebe down, it’s you.” Audrey caught his eye, smugly smiled. “And when you do I’m sure your persuasive talents will be up to the challenge of making her rethink her rejection of matrimony.”