Chapter One
September 1818
The interior ofthe carriage darkened as it halted beneath the portico of Spruce Court, the Staffordshire home of Baron Grissom. The carriage door opened immediately and Ambrose Michael Crossley, fifth Earl of Pendlewood, addressed the footman. “Please announce Lord Pendlewood to Lady Grissom,” he said, stepping out. “I am not expected.”
The man nodded. “At once, my lord,” he replied, and scurried off.
Ambrose removed his hat, wandered into the foyer of Spruce House, and inhaled the pleasing mélange of floral and herbal aromas. Muted sounds of chit-chat and laughter drifted out of the belly of the house, indicative of a party already in progress. Ambrose had been invited but, due to political commitments, had initially declined.
“Lord Pendlewood!” Lady Eleanor Grissom, face lit with a smile, hurried across the floor to greet him. “Oh, what a pleasant surprise.”
“The pleasure is mine, Lady Grissom,” he replied. “And not an inconvenient surprise, I trust. My commitments were swiftly dealt with, hence my change of plan.”
“Not inconvenient at all,” she replied, gesturing to a footman to take Ambrose’s coat and hat. “My daughter will be thrilled to see you, I’m sure. She was quite put out when she learned you would not be joining us. Please, come on through. We’re just finishing off a light luncheon. Plenty left on the table, however.” She regarded the footman once more. “Have Lord Pendlewood’s luggage taken to the Vienna Suite.” Then, to Ambrose, “This way, my lord.”
Ambrose followed her into the great hall, his arrival acknowledged by many of the guests already there. There was no sign, however, of Miss Sylvie Grissom.
“My daughter is probably out in the gardens somewhere,” Lady Grissom said, as if reading Ambrose’s mind. “It’s such a lovely day. I’ll send someone to find her. Please, help yourself to the buffet.”
Ambrose acknowledged the remark with a smile and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to surprise Miss Grissom, but before I do, I’d like a private word with Lord Grissom.” He glanced about. “I don’t see him anywhere either.”
“Oh!” Lady Grissom blinked and pressed a hand to her bosom. “A private word with my… um, yes, yes, of course.” A visible flush traveled up her neck and into her cheeks. “Might it have something to do with Sylv… er, that is, my daughter?”
“It might, my lady,” Ambrose replied, his lips twitching in amusement. “It might indeed.”
“Oh, my.” Lady Grissom licked her lips and blinked several more times. “Then please follow me, my lord. I’ll put you in Grissom’s study while I send for him. He’s probably in the games room. Enjoys his card games, you know.”
A few minutes later, Ambrose found himself in Lord Grissom’s study, and went over to the window. Beyond lay a large expanse of lawn, the grass being neatly mown by an efficient flock of black-faced sheep. A pleasant, rural vista that wrought a smile.
But then, Ambrose found pleasure in many things of late. Things he might not previously have noticed. His smile remained as he acknowledged a now-familiar sense of contentment. A recent and most welcome singularity.
There had been a time, not so long ago, when he’d despaired of finding his countess. He’d met his fair share of giggling debutantes, none of whom had caught his eye. He’d also danced with many young ladies in their second or third season, but not a single one had snared his full attention.
Ambrose was keen to marry, but he could afford to be selective. Title aside, his estates were in good order, his balance sheet robust. Yes, he wanted an heir, but more than that, he wanted the fulfillment of a happy marriage. A genuine relationship forged from mutual love and respect. It wasn’t too much to ask. He knew of others who had achieved it, one of them being his closest friend.
Edward Fortescue, Viscount Eskdale, had a marriage to be envied. With the right woman at his side, he’d gone from being a lonely man tortured by his past to being a devoted husband and father. While Mrs. Dove-Lyon, owner of the Lyon’s Den, had played a crucial part in the match, Ambrose also took some of the credit. He now fervently hoped for a similar outcome and believed he might have found it, at last, in Miss Sylvie Grissom. When it came to courting Miss Grissom, however, the Black Widow’s services had not been required.
He’d met the young lady not quite a month earlier at a society event in London. She was a debutante, fresh-faced, and demure without being prudish. Drawn by her prettiness, Ambrose hadasked her to dance, and found himself breathing in a soft lavender scent and gazing into a pair of captivating brown eyes. Not one giggle, either. Just a sweet smile and some polite, yet intelligent, conversation. She was, Ambrose decided, absolutely lovely. Following a second turn around the dance floor, he’d asked permission to call on her.
“Pendlewood!”
Snatched from his thoughts, Ambrose turned toward the door. “Grissom,” he replied, striding over to shake the baron’s extended hand. “Good to see you.”
“Likewise, likewise. An unexpected pleasure, indeed.” Grissom gestured to a chair. “Sit, please. I understand you wish to speak with me and, given my poor wife’s flustered state, I suspect I might know why.”
“And I suspect you might be correct,” Ambrose said, and took his seat.
A short whilelater, Ambrose stepped out onto the terrace and inhaled a lungful of fresh air. This fine day in early autumn, with its blue skies and mild breeze, was guaranteed to lift the spirits. Ambrose’s spirits were already soaring as his gaze wandered over the impressive expanse of formal gardens. A few of the guests were strolling amongst the orderly flower beds and neat hedgerows, though he could see no sign of Sylvie.
Stepping down from the terrace, Ambrose made his way along one of the gravel paths, looking left and right as he passed the numerous hedged enclaves. Private little spaces, perfect for reading or quiet contemplation.
Or romantic interludes.
Smiling to himself, he entertained a sense of anticipation, like a child playing hide-and-seek, seeking the one who ishidden. Then, from somewhere to his left, he heard a soft ripple of laughter, feminine and familiar. Slowing his step, he approached one of the enclaves, peered over the hedge, and gazed upon the back of Sylvie’s head. She was seated on a bench.
And she was not alone.
“I really should go,” he heard her say, her voice clear, but hushed. “Mama will be looking for me.”
