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mistaken.”
    Lady Ashmead nodded her regal head. “I know you and Ada insist on seeing no ill in Tess, but not even you can gainsay the gal has a deucedly odd kick to her gallop.”
    “We prefer to view Tess’s quirks as the eccentricities of a creative genius.”
    “Nuttier than last month’s fruit cake, is what I call it, but that’s irrelevant now, thank my stars and salvation.” She took another bite, then put down her fork. “So, Charles, if you aren’t going to wed the Westlake chit, whom are you going to marry?”
     

Chapter Five
     
    So who was he going to marry? Chas knew he’d have to wed in the near future, to provide heirs to the Ashmead estate and titles. That and nurturing his properties and dependents were his raisons d’etre, according to his mother, drummed into him since birth. Begetting more little blue bloods was one of the prime obligations that the country demanded of its nobles.
    The viscount wouldn’t even mind having children, little lace-capped infants, sturdy sons to trail after him about the estate, dainty moppets who would look just like their mother. The problem was, he could put no face to this future bearer of his heirs.
    Chas had spent most of his life—since thinking he would become a pirate—thinking that he would marry Ada Westlake, when the time was right. He’d believed she was his, his friend and companion, his laughing bride, the loving mother to his children, when the time was right.
    He’d thought wrong. That time was never going to come.
    Still, he could not retire from the world, nursing his broken dreams along with his perhaps broken wrist. His mother would nag him to death, for one thing, and his father’s memory would haunt him. Uncertain of their futures, his many dependents would feel betrayed. And his house would grow quieter and emptier, like a museum or a mausoleum. No, he would have to marry.
    Chas could not, however, think of a single woman he wished to spend the evening with, much less eternity.
    So what was he going to do? For one thing, he was going to retrieve Monsieur Prelieu’s parcel, in case that well-placed and thus highly valuable gentleman ever managed to get himself and his information out of France. The leather pouch was not on Lord Ashmead’s dresser, nor in the stables, confound it, which meant that Chas’s inebriated imaginings were less fanciful and more likely fact. He cursed all castaway clunches and pot-valiant visionaries. At least the money was his own and not the Crown’s, the government having other odd notions as to the obligations of its more wealthy citizens. They were delighted to have him oversee the small espionage trade from Lillington, at their request but at his own expense. Now he would only have to explain the loss of a Frenchman to the Foreign office, not a fortune.
    Telling his concerned valet that he needed to clear his still muddled mind, Chas donned his most comfortable boots and tossed a cloak over his shoulders, so he would not have to disturb his injured arm, now in a sling. He also accepted from his anxious butler a packet of bread and cheese to sustain him.
    Chas thought he might be able to manage a horse with one hand, if Coggs was willing to saddle one for him, which he doubted. He believed he could handle the curricle, if the bays were not eager to run, which he also doubted. He refused to be driven in one of his mother’s carriages, or trundled around the estate like a sack of grain in one of the carts. Besides, he had no intention of letting anyone know exactly how big a fool he’d been. So, whistling jauntily, Viscount Ashmead strode smartly down the ash tree-lined carriage path, his dog for company. Tally, whose actual name was Tally-ho, since she was always so keen to be running, as usual refused to be left behind.
    As soon as he was out of sight of the windows and outbuildings where Chas knew his devoted retainers kept watch, his step faltered and the whistle turned to ragged breathing, as every