‘You’ve got men pursuing you by the dozen. Won’t one of them do?’

‘No, it should be someone right outside my normal life, who’ll serve his purpose and then vanish.’

Benedict laughed. ‘Then why not advertise?’

The next moment he wished he’d held his tongue, for Meryl whirled around on him, her eyes shining. ‘Benedict, you’re a genius. That’s exactly what I’ll do.’

‘There’s something wrong with this whisky of yours,’ Ferdy Ashton observed, studying the bottom of his tumbler.

Jarvis, Lord Larne, raised his head from the desk where he was working. ‘Something wrong with it?’ he asked, frowning.

‘It keeps disappearing,’ Ferdy complained. ‘I could swear this glass was full a moment ago. So was the bottle. And look at them now.’

Jarvis’s rather stern face softened into a grin. ‘You’ve got my special vanishing whisky,’ he said. ‘It always seems to be around when you’re here.’

‘Well, it’s certainly vanished now.’

‘You know where it’s kept.’

Ferdy looked around him at the library of Larne Castle as though expecting a fresh bottle to present itself for inspection. Behind the thick brocade curtains a window rattled slightly in the night wind. It was tightly shut, or at least as tightly as could be managed, but there wasn’t a window in the building that didn’t let in a draught. The place was eight hundred years old and urgently in need of repairs to help it withstand the gales. Its inhabitants protected themselves as best they could with heavy drapes and roaring fires. There was one in the grate this minute, casting a red glow over the two Alsatians stretched out on a shabby rug before it.

Nearby sat their master, also shabby despite his ancient, aristocratic title. From his appearance Lord Larne might have been one of his own tenants. His dark brown hair looked as if it needed a cut, and its shaggy disarray somehow typified him. His corduroy trousers were old and darned, as though in continual use for hard country work, which, in fact, they were. The sweater Jarvis wore over them had started life in an expensive shop, but it too had come down in the world.

He was a tall, powerfully built man, massive about the shoulders but lean in the face, with dark eyes that easily grew fierce over a nose with a faint hook. That nose told the story of the awesome Larne temper that he let rip only occasionally, often at the stupidity of the world, especially when it threatened his ancient heritage.

But with anyone who had his affection the fierceness vanished, replaced by an all-forgiving tolerance. With Ferdy Ashton tolerance was often tinged with exasperation, but the fondness never wavered, which baffled observers.

Just what the serious, puritanical Jarvis saw in the irresponsible Ferdy nobody could fathom. He was as willowy slender as Jarvis was bull massive, his voice as light and reedy as Jarvis’s was deep and resonant. Their friendship had started at school and they were the same age, but Ferdy’s boyish looks and manner made him seem younger.

He was an artist, when he bothered to be anything. He had talent, which he was too lazy to use, treated life as a joke, never troubled about tomorrow, and would probably be shot by an enraged husband before he was fifty. No worries troubled his brain, and perhaps that was the secret of his attraction for the permanently troubled Jarvis.

‘Not a drop of whisky in the place,’ he mourned now. ‘You’re a hard man, Jarvis Larne.’

‘I’m a poor one; I know that.’

A young woman with handsome features and an air of disapproval spoke from the library steps. ‘You’d be less poor if you didn’t let spongers soak up your whisky and live rent-free in your cottages.’

Ferdy surveyed her cynically. ‘If that’s meant for me, sister dear, I’ll thank you to keep your observations to yourself. Jarvis and I settled the rent of my cottage long ago.’

‘I know you settled it, but when did you last actually pay it?’

‘Don’t split hairs. I pay for my cottage and my drink, not in cash, but in the pleasure of my company.’

Sarah Ashton made a noise that was perilously close to a snort. ‘I’d like to see Jarvis pay his bills with the pleasure of your company-such as it is,’ she remarked acidly.

‘Leave him alone, Sarah,’ Jarvis advised amiably. ‘You know he’s incorrigible.’

‘He wouldn’t be if you didn’t encourage him.’

‘Yes, I would,’ Ferdy said at once. ‘I was born incorrigible.’ He went to the drinks cabinet, considered its sparse contents, and returned to his seat empty-handed. On his way he caught his heel in the shabby carpet and almost fell into the chair. He grasped the arms to steady himself, and heard a dismal wrenching sound as the threadbare material tore. ‘I’ve made a hole in your chair,’ he announced with an air of discovery.

Jarvis shrugged. ‘I doubt I’ll notice it among the others.’

‘You know what you could do with, Jarvis lad?’

‘A new chair, probably.’

‘A rich wife.’

Jarvis’s grin returned. ‘To be sure, they’re going begging, aren’t they?’

‘As a matter of fact they are.’ Ferdy picked up the newspaper which he’d been reading a moment earlier. ‘See here,’ he said, jabbing with his finger at an advertisement.

Jarvis took the paper and read, “‘Wanted-one fortune-hunter to marry heiress: Millionairess seeks nominal husband in order to gain control of her own fortune. Generous terms to the right man”.’

He tossed the paper back to Ferdy. ‘Someone’s idea of a practical joke,’ he growled. ‘Either that or a journalist. If you think I’m going to offer myself up to ridicule you’ve taken leave of your senses.’

‘But suppose it’s for real? Why pass up the chance?’

‘Because for one thing I’ve nothing to offer a millionairess-’

‘Nonsense,’ Ferdy ribbed him. ‘You’re a fine upstanding fellow and the answer to any maiden’s prayer.’

‘And you’re incurably vulgar,’ Jarvis said without rancour.

‘I agree,’ Sarah added acidly.

‘And for another,’ Jarvis continued, ‘the last thing I’d ever do would be to offer myself to a rich woman in a meaningless marriage simply to get my hands on her money.’

‘Quite right,’ Sarah announced. She descended from the steps and pointed to a large portrait over the fire. It showed an elderly man with a belligerent face that bore a notable resemblance to Jarvis’s own, standing very upright, in the splendour of a general’s dress uniform. ‘What would your grandfather have said?’ she demanded. ‘I’ll tell you. He’d have reminded you of the Larne family motto-“Let invaders tremble”. Then he’d have shown this woman the door.’

‘But he’d have tumbled her in the hay first,’ her brother said wickedly.

‘Ferdy!’ she snapped.

‘Well, it’s true. He was a terrible man for the women. Father told me there was hardly a family in these parts that didn’t have a little Larne bast-’

‘That’s enough. You’re shocking Sarah.’ Jarvis grinned.

She took up the paper. ‘If this isn’t a journalist but a real woman she must be lacking in all sense of decency.’

‘She’s certainly not a woman I’d ever care to meet,’ Jarvis agreed.

‘You’re a puritan,’ Ferdy rebuked him.

Jarvis nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right. Don’t worry. I’ll save the estate, but I’ll do it on my own.’

‘How?’ Ferdy demanded.

Jarvis sighed.

A few minutes later Sarah requested a private conversation with Jarvis, who courteously left the room with her. Ferdy could heard the hum of their voices through the door. ‘So what’s this little chat about, eh, Sarah?’ he murmured. ‘Some earnest advice about nothing? Whatever excuse you’ve found, you’re wasting your time. You’ve given Jarvis a hundred chances to propose to you, and he’s taken none of them. You’re like a sister to him, I’m glad to say. It wouldn’t suit me at all to have you the mistress here.’

He surveyed his empty glass with a sigh. Then a wicked smile spread over his face. He crossed over to the desk, quickly purloined a couple of sheets of estate notepaper, and was sitting by the fire again when the other two returned.

‘Where exactly is Yorkshire?’ Meryl asked Benedict as they shared a bottle of champagne.

‘In England. That’s all I know. Why?’

She chuckled. ‘It’s where my prospective husband lives.’

‘You actually had a reply?’

‘It came this morning.’ She yawned and leaned back against the leather arm of Benedict’s huge sofa. She was lying lengthways on it while he sat sprawled at the other end.

‘No kidding!’ he said. ‘Who?’

‘Jarvis Larne. A lord, no less. He lives in Larne Castle in Yorkshire.’

Benedict took the letter from her and scanned it hilariously. ‘He’s very upfront about his poverty,’ he noted. ‘Castle falling down, cracks everywhere, whisky running out-heiress urgently required.’

‘It’s a joke. I bet he doesn’t exist at all.’

‘He does,’ Benedict said unexpectedly. ‘I’ve seen the name in a book of English peerages I bought in case I ever get any titled customers. It’s on that table.’ She gave it to him and he began flicking through the pages. ‘Here we are. Viscount Larne of Larne Castle. Hmm! Quite a pedigree.’

He began to read aloud, “‘Jarvis, Lord Larne, twenty-second viscount, age thirty-three, inherited the title when he was twenty-one.” Hey, fancy being a lord at twenty-one. All that droit de seigneur.’

‘What?’

‘The ancient feudal right of the lord to have any virgin on the estate.’

‘You made that up!’

‘No way. It’s the tradition. It goes back centuries. That’s why half the estate workers look alike. When you give him a son you won’t be able to tell him from the others.’

‘Don’t be silly. Of course I’m not going to marry him. I put that advertisement in because I was mad at Larry, but I’ve cooled down now.’

‘Goodbye ten million dollars,’ Benedict sighed.