An Unconventional Miss by DOROTHY ELBURY Page B

well!’ came a voice from the doorway of the room. ‘If it ain’t the new earl himself! Your servant, Wyvern! May we join you?’
    Wyvern froze. Scooping up his brother’s note and thrusting it back into his notecase, he settled himself more comfortably in his chair before saying, ‘If you’re after your money, Hazlett, you’ll just have to wait your turn!’
    The newcomer, one Viscount Digby Hazlett, was a tall, slim-built man in his mid-thirties, with pale blue eyes and lanky brown hair. An ugly scar, running from his left cheekbone down to his chin, marred his once-handsome features. Rumour had it that Hazlett had received this injury in a sword duel some five years previously but, since all trace of the other combatant—who was reputed to have been the younger son of Lord Aylsham—had inexplicably vanished into thin air, the mystery remained unsolved. The general consensus was that the fight had occurred as a result of young Jack Stavely having taken violent exception to some remark or other that Hazlett was supposed to have made concerning the reputation of a certain young lady whom Stavely had held in high regard. Given Stavely’s sudden disappearance, however, nothing of this legend had ever been confirmed. It had always been supposed that the young man, wrongly under the impression that he had killed his opponent, had fled the country, the gallows currently being the punishment for such a heinous crime. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was an indisputable fact that, since that fateful night, not a single attempt to contact his family had ever been made by, or on behalf of, the young renegade. And, although society had been very careful not to point the finger of suspicion at Hazlett, his name had quickly been removed from a significant number of calling-card lists.
    Ignoring the undercurrent of scorn in Wyvern’s tone, the viscount merely raised his eyebrows and affected a pained expression. ‘My dear Wyvern!’ he drawled. ‘Who mentioned money? Far be it from me to kick a man when he’s down! As I understand it, you’re about as strapped for cash as old Theo was before he stuck his spoon in the wall!’
    â€˜Steady on, Hazlett!’ protested Fitzallan, eyeing the silent Wyvern anxiously.
    Knowing the earl’s temperament as well as he did, it would have come as no surprise to him to see Wyvern suddenly leap to his feet and plant his fist right in the middle of Hazlett’s mocking countenance. ‘It’s damned bad form to make remarks like that! You have Ben’s word that you will get your money—can’t you just leave it at that?’
    â€˜No problem, old bean,’ murmured the viscount, settling himself into a chair at a nearby table and signalling to his podgy-faced companion, Viscount Cedric Stockwell, to do likewise. ‘I’m in no hurry, I assure you. Just wanted to express my sorrow at your loss and to wish you all the best in your endeavours.’
    Wyvern’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘What endeavours might those be, then?’ he enquired as he reached for his glass.
    He had been too long acquainted with the notorious viscount to be taken in by the man’s dubious attestations of good will. Besides which, since he was uncomfortably conscious of the fact that Hazlett held a good many of Theo’s promissory notes and could, if he so desired, demand restitution at any time, he had decided that it would probably do no harm to humour him.
    Having signalled the barman to bring a bottle, Hazlett waited until the man had departed then, after pouring both his companion and himself generous servings, he quaffed back a good half of the contents of his glass before announcing, ‘Well, from what I’ve heard, you’re hoping that Draycott’s fortune’s going to solve your problems!’ And, pulling a large lace-edged handkerchief out of his pocket, he proceeded to dab the