Excerpt of Tavern Wench by Anne Ashley

"Confound it, I'm bored!"

Armed with the latest edition of the Morning Post, Fingle slipped quietly into the library in time to catch this astonishing admission, and thought for a moment that he couldn't possibly have heard aright. His master bored...? Surely not!

The butler stared across the wholly masculine sanctum at the spot where the Honourable Benedict Grant-ley, his fine physique wrapped in a dazzlingly patterned silk robe, lazed in one of the comfortable winged-chairs. With his feet, encased in a pair of fashionable Turkish slippers, resting on a footstool, he appeared wonderfully relaxed, utterly contented.

"Feel free to remain by the door for as long as you wish, my good man," his master's deep and faintly amused voice invited. "I assure you I'm in no particular hurry to apprise myself of the latest town gossip."

Smiling to himself, Fingle came forward, not for the first time appreciating that keen perception. Truly, there were occasions when he almost suspected that Mr Grantley did indeed possess a second pair of eyes, located somewhere in the back of his head, for little ever seemed to escape his notice.

"I do beg your pardon, sir," he apologised, placing the journal on the table by one silk-clad elbow. "It was just that I thought I heard you utter something as I entered the library, and wasn't perfectly sure that I could have heard correctly."

"You will undoubtedly be relieved to discover that your hearing is not impaired. Ashamed though I am to admit to it, I am finding life quite surprisingly tedious. And the truth of the matter is that I have no one to blame for my present ennui but myself."

Swinging his long legs to the floor, Benedict rose to his feet and went to stand by the hearth, where he made immediate use of the mantel-shelf by resting one arm along its length. "You never knew my father, did you, Fingle?"

"No, sir. I was denied that pleasure. I believe he passed away the year before I was fortunate enough to attain a position in your household."

"No doubt, though, you have discovered much about him."

Fingle did not attempt to deny it, for he considered that any servant worth his salt should make a point of discovering as much as he could about the person for whom he worked. Consequently he was secretly proud of the fact that there was very little that he did not know about his kindly master.

Mr Grantley's father, the late Earl of Morlynch, was reputed to have been somewhat erratic by nature; a rakehelly fellow who had brought the family to the brink of ruin on numerous occasions with his excessive gambling. Fortunately, none of his offspring had ever betrayed a weakness for the gaming tables, and his youngest child in particular, although resembling him most strongly in looks, was least like him in character, if common report were to be believed.

"I was determined from a very young age never to follow in my capricious sire's footsteps." This second unexpected admission interrupted Fingle's thoughts, and he raised his eyes in time to catch a rueful expression flitting over his master's striking features. "Are you aware that certain members of my family swear that you know precisely where I am to be found at any time of the night or day?"

Although he considered this a slight exaggeration, Fingle, here again, did not attempt to refute it, for the truth of the matter was that it wasn't in the least difficult to keep track of his master's movements.

Orderly in mind, and reasonably sober in habits, Mr Grantley rarely altered his routine. When residing in town, he rose at precisely the same hour every morning, and retired at precisely the same time each night. He visited his club on the same days each week, and favoured his mistress with regular visits, on every occasion remaining for precisely the same amount of time. When he accepted an invitation to a party, he would arrive punctually at ten, and would leave no later than two in the morning. Although this practice might occasionally upset certain society hostesses, not one, as far as Fingle was aware, had ever been overheard to complain, for it was generally held to be no mean feat to persuade one of the most eligible bachelors in London to be amongst one's guests.

"Be assured, sir, that I would only ever divulge your whereabouts to members of your immediate family and your close friends."

"It was not intended as a criticism, Fingle," Benedict assured him. "And it is a relief to know that, should an emergency arise, you would be aware of precisely where I was to be found." He could not prevent a sigh escaping. "None the less, that does not alter the fact that, after a dozen or so years of living a well-ordered lifestyle, I am heartily bored with my lot. What I need, of course, to relieve the tedium is the opportunity to indulge in my little hobby."

A mystery to solve isn't likely to bring contentment back into your life, Fingle silently countered, as he crossed the room to straighten the curtains. But a wife might possibly do just that.

Never would he have believed it possible that the day would dawn when he would find himself in complete accord with his master's rather overbearing sister. But, yes, Lady Agnes Fencham was right — it was high time Mr Grantley married.

Fingle was very well aware that his master's continued bachelor state was purely and simply a matter of choice. Having attained the age of four-and-thirty, Mr Grantley had enjoyed many Seasons in the capital, and yet not one of the beauties who had crossed his path over the years had come, as far as Fingle was aware, remotely close to tempting him to take the matrimonial plunge, which in itself was testament to his master's strength of character.

For years Mr Grantley had been pursued by countless matchmaking mamas, eager to call him son-inlaw. He possessed all the fine qualities any young lady could possibly wish for in a future husband. He was every inch the well-bred gentleman, both affable and charming. His address was excellent, and although he might scorn the use of quizzing glasses, and despise the taking of snuff, he was considered one of the most fashionable members of his class. Furthermore, Mother Nature had seen fit to bestow upon him a well-muscled physique, and a countenance which, although some might not consider it precisely handsome, was blessed with a pair of the most vivid violet-blue eyes, made more striking by dusky lashes and brows, and a shining crop of slightly waving, black hair as yet untouched by any hint of silver.

The fact that he wasn't averse to feminine company made his continued single state more puzzling still, except to those who knew him well. Mr Grantley was a stickler for punctuality and, sadly, there were not too many members of the gentler sex who gave the least consideration to good time-keeping, Fingle mused. And the few who did were, in general, more mature in years, or were dreaded bluestockings, a species that Mr Grantley did not hold in the highest esteem.

His musings this time were interrupted by the sound of the door-knocker being applied with quite unnecessary vigour. The whole of the polite world knew that Mr Grantley never made calls, nor wished to receive any for that matter, before two o'clock.

"Be assured, sir, I shall send whoever it is on his way."

Having every faith in his butler to do just that, Benedict resumed his seat, and was about to reach for the newspaper, when he clearly detected the murmur of voices filtering through from the hall; evidence enough that the enterprising caller had somehow managed to cross the threshold.

Not for long did Fingle remain in danger of toppling from that supreme position he held amongst the very best of major-domos, for a moment later the library door was thrown wide, and a very familiar, fresh-faced young gentleman, with a decidedly devil-may-care attitude about him, came striding cheerfully into the room.

"What's this? Still not dressed, Uncle! You're turning into a right slug-a-bed! You'll be old before your time."

Needless to say, this piece of rank impertinence didn't precisely compensate for the interruption of his sacrosanct period of solitude, a fact which Benedict was not reticent in making perfectly plain. "What the devil do you mean by coming here at this time of day, you obnoxious whelp?" he demanded to know before something swiftly occurred to him. "And what the deuce are you doing in town in the middle of May, come to that?" He frowned suspiciously up at his nephew. "Been up to some lark, and been sent down, I do not doubt."

An expression somewhere between sheer devilment and comical dismay flickered over the Honourable Harry Fencham's boyishly handsome features. "Nothing but a bit of harmless tomfoolery," he assured his favourite relative. "All will be forgiven and forgotten in a week or so. I'll be allowed back in the autumn."

Without waiting to be asked, Harry went across to the decanters and helped himself to a glass of his uncle's fine wine, before seating himself in the chair opposite the man whom he had always considered to be the very best of good fellows. "Anyway, you ought to feel grateful that I did take the trouble to pay you a visit. Came here especially to warn you that Mama intends to inflict her company upon you some time during the day, and that she'll have donned her match-making mantle."

There was just a suspicion of a twitch at the corner of Benedict's well-formed, masculine mouth. "Loath though I am to interfere in matters that are really none of my concern, I'll do my very best to advise your beloved mama that she really ought to wait a year or two, until you've acquired a little town polish, before attempting to persuade you to take the matrimonial plunge."

Harry almost choked. "Not me! It's you she's intent on seeing leg-shackled. I think she's invited almost every eligible female in London to her ball next week." He shrugged. "Mind, I've already told her she's wasting her time... Who'd want to be tied for life to a walking timepiece?"

Blue eyes narrowed. "I can recall on one or two occasions taking a birch rod to you, Nephew. It would appear that I didn't indulge in the exercise nearly often enough."

A chortle of wicked masculine laughter echoed round the book-lined room. "I remember very well that occasion when I stayed with you at Fairview, and sought to prove my equestrian skills by attempting to ride that prize hunter you had at the time. Lord, didn't you make me smart!" Harry confessed, quite without rancour. "And speaking of Fairview... I don't suppose you'd care to have a break from town life, and take a bolt into the country for a week or two? I shouldn't object in the least to bearing you company."

"Oh, wouldn't you, you impudent young pup!" Benedict responded, concealing quite beautifully the fact that the prospect of spending a brief period at his country home with his nephew didn't displease him. "Well, I just might consider it. In the meantime..." he rose from the chair in one swift and graceful movement '...I shall change my attire so that I am not at a total disadvantage when I am forced to face your formidable mama."

A hint of respect flickered in young eyes. "You're the only one who does stand up to her. Which reminds me..." Tossing back his wine, Harry followed his uncle into the hall. "I'd better not be here when she calls, otherwise she'll know I came to warn you. If I don't run across you before, I'll see you at the ball on Friday, and you can let me know then what you've decided about returning to Hampshire."