Miss Nothing (Unexpected Heirs)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

LONDON, MARCH 1817

N obody—not one person—had ever said or even thought that the Right Honourable Mr. Charles Keynsham was unreliable.

He’d always done everything that was expected of him. He’d been a dutiful son, a hardworking student, a loyal friend and an exemplary officer.

He owed no debts of honor. He paid his tailor’s bills promptly. His name had never been tainted by scandal. The cut of his jackets was impeccable and his valet kept his boots flawlessly glossy.

The only habit that he had of which his mother disapproved was that he boxed. But then, Lady Alford was known to be unreasonable. No fair-minded person would have considered this a serious flaw.

He was honest and forthright. If any of his friends needed a second in an affair of honor, Keynsham was the man they asked. He didn’t spread gossip, and he’d never trifled with a young lady’s affections.

He was, in short, perfect.

And all he asked in return was to be left alone.

Which was part of why he was so upset now, as he scanned the latest edition of a scandal sheet that his friend and second cousin Viscount “Monty” Montfort, had just handed to him.

“But this is entirely false. I have scarcely spoken to the girl! I have done nothing at all to create any expectations in that quarter.”

“Oh, I am certain that you have not.” Monty took the sheet out of his hands and straightened the paper where Keynsham’s suddenly sweaty grip had crumpled it. “But the item leaves no doubt as to your identity. ‘It has come to our attention that Mr. C.K.—heir to Viscount A.—will in short order celebrate nuptials with the lovely Miss F., of Knightsbridge.’”

Though Keynsham had led charges in the war, his knees were suddenly wobbly. He sat down hard in one of the library’s comfortable armchairs. “It—it is reckless! It endangers the lady’s reputation as well as mine! What can they be thinking?”

“That you will do the right thing. As you always do.” Monty, who was many degrees more cynical than his cousin, sat down across from him. “And it is not ‘they.’ It is Miss Fairleigh’s mother who has contrived somehow to have this nonsense published.”

Keynsham ran both hands through his hair, leaving it sticking up at wild angles. “Then I must cry off my grandmother’s ball tonight. Miss Fairleigh will be there. If I am seen with her it will appear to be confirmation of our engagement.”

“Or they will try to arrange to have you caught alone with her.” Monty’s reputation for cynicism was deserved.

Keynsham felt outflanked. He hadn’t anticipated that traps would be set for him merely because at some point in the distant future, he would inherit the title from his relatively young father. “My grandmother will be displeased. She says that I have been too reclusive since the war.”

Monty shrugged. “Well, then she must be displeased.”

Few people dared to displease Keynsham’s grandmother, the formidable Lady Sophronia. Even the weather bent to her will: Although it had rained most of the day, it had stopped just in time for her annual ball. Still, there was an unseasonable chill in the air, for late March. “Will you make my excuses for me?”

“Of course. Although I caution you against moping here. If your mother finds you she will ring a peal over your head.”

Keynsham had only recently returned to town after spending months in the country visiting various friends. He’d been staying at Alford House until he could settle into his own apartments at Albany. Now he saw the drawbacks to this arrangement—though the library was ordinarily a safe retreat.

After all, his father, the Fifth Viscount Alford, was certainly not a man who spent any time reading. Or, for that matter, at home. Keynsham and his younger sister Pomona had made the library their own since childhood. Ordinarily, its book-lined walls were a refuge. But tonight he felt trapped.

“Well, let this be a lesson to you.” Monty went to the sideboard and poured two drinks from a crystal decanter. “This is what comes of being known as—not to put too fine a point on it—a flat.”

“Why thank you.”

“I am quite serious. If you had been sowing your wild oats, instead of being a perfect gentleman, Mrs. Fairleigh would have moved on to an easier target. Here.”

Keynsham took the drink. That was easy enough for Monty to say. Since Oxford days he’d been known as a ladies’ man. He’d inherited the title of Viscount Montfort at eight years old and was considered one of the handsomest men in England. He was also a flirt and a gamester, and although he was fabulously rich, he gambled often enough that his pockets were frequently empty. In fact, he’d just borrowed most of Keynsham’s ready money.

No, no mama in her right mind would have staked her daughter’s reputation on the odds of maneuvering Viscount Montfort into marriage.

But Keynsham’s position was different. His father was very much alive. Still handsome in early middle age, his infatuations with a string of ever-younger mistresses were becoming less discreet and more embarrassing by the year. Keynsham knew that one day, it would be his duty to restore the family name to respectability. And part of that task included marrying a suitable young lady.

He wasn’t happy about the prospect. Aside from the fact that his parents weren’t the best advertisement for marriage, all the ladies he met seemed… dull.

No doubt in private, amongst their friends, they had personalities, hopes and dreams. But their behavior with him was limited to… simpering . That was the only word for it. He was certain that if he announced that the sun was purple, at least three of them would trip over each other to agree with him.

And Miss Fairleigh was one of these girls. So the fact that he’d been linked with her in a gossip column was enough to make his neckcloth feel too tight and his forehead break into a sweat.

He set the glass down. “It is no good.”

“Then go out.” Monty poured himself another glass. “Or better yet, pack.”

“Pack?”

“Yes. Pack. Surely you have not forgot the time-honored practice of a gentleman spending six months to a year abroad in order to remove himself from the vicinity of a lady whose attentions have become too pressing?”

Keynsham rubbed the growing tension in his forehead. “Waterloo was the last I ever wish to see of the Continent.”

“Then go to Egypt.” Monty waved vaguely eastward, as though Egypt were just the other side of St. James’s Square. “Or Constantinople! Or Boston! You must find it in yourself to act—and act quickly—or you will find yourself leg-shackled before you have time to take ship.”

But suddenly, Keynsham was nearly as irritated by Monty’s impractical suggestions as he was by Mrs. Fairleigh’s scheming. Being unfailingly perfect—and doing his duty—really ought to have been enough to get everyone to leave him in peace.

“Well. No doubt Constantinople is an excellent idea.” He stood. “I shall make inquiries in the morning. However, in the meantime, I am going for a walk.”