This quickly recalled his sense of propriety, and the earl backed away guiltily from the bed.
"Good God," he exclaimed, "what am I thinking of? Madam, you must forgive me—"
"For rescuing my only child? Well, perhaps in time I can manage it. Now come, sir. Let me offer you a brandy, for I'm sure you need it. And you most certainly deserve it." And so saying, she led him from the room.
Basil learned of the accident from Freddie, who had gone to claim Alicia for a drive in the park that afternoon. Upon being informed that Miss Latham was neither dead nor likely to die, Basil coldly remarked that he had not thought she would take such drastic measures to escape him.
Considering that his own heart had been permanently reduced to mush, Lord Tuttlehope was somewhat stunned by his friend's callousness.
"Must say, old boy," he chided, "not a joking matter. Didn't know her own mother. And babbled a lot of nonsense at poor Hartleigh—"
"'Poor Hartleigh'!" Basil exploded. "What the devil has my cousin to do with it?"
"Why, didn't I tell you?"
"Tell me what? All you've told me is that her horse threw her and scattered her wits in the bargain. What has my cousin to do with it?"
"Quite sure I told you," the baron insisted, blinking at this uncharacteristic display of temper.
"You have got your mind stuck, as usual, on something else," Mr. Trevelyan noted with some irritation. Then, as he saw the hurt in his friend's eyes, he regained his self-command and apologised. "Sorry, Freddie. I didn't mean to snarl at you that way—"
"Not at all. Not at all." Embarrassed, the baron brushed away the apology. "No need. Worried about the girl, Basil. Know how it is."
No, you don't know how it is, you fool, Basil thought; but he swallowed his exasperation and bore Lord Tuttlehope's inarticulate reassurances with heroic fortitude. Finally, as Freddie sputtered to a close, Basil assembled his features into an appropriately appreciative expression and thanked his friend for his solicitude.
"For I know I'm an ungrateful wretch, Freddie. But come, let us have the whole miserable business. I can bear it now." Meeting with two uncomprehending blinks, he prodded, "I believe that, in your anxiety to spare my tender feelings, Lord T, you left out half the story."
And to be sure, he had. When Basil learned the whole of it, he burst into a long and only partially intelligible diatribe on the perfidy of women and the treachery of relatives. Not understanding more than one word in twenty, Freddie listened patiently, but with growing concern. He was used to Basil's extravagant speech, but was not used to seeing him so impassioned. And when his friend had done, he agreed (as he thought) that yes, Basil was barking up the wrong tree.
"Best to chuck it," he added, nodding wisely. "Other fish in the sea, Trev."
"Not for me, my friend. Come, let me show you something." Leading his friend to the window, Basil indicated a small, sallow-looking man in the street below. "Solsman and his friends have been very generous, you know, but for a price. I have three annuity payments overdue already and two more in another month. They come by now and then to remind me of our 'little business,' as they put it. But they haven't sent the bailiff for me yet, Freddie. Do you know why?"
Very ill-at-ease, Lord Tuttlehope shook his head.
"Why, they don't want to spoil the wedding plans, my boy. They're really most considerate fellows," he went on as he turned away from the window.
"Didn't know it was so bad, Trev. Only too glad to help—"
"You've thrown enough good money after me, Freddie. But you needn't worry. It's as I just explained to my friend down there on the street. Miss Latham and I have an understanding. A bargain, if you will. And though I'm on my somewhat questionable honour not to disclose the details, I can assure you that it will all come out right. Soon. Quite soon."
He patted his friend on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly at him, but Lord Tuttlehope was not reassured. Long after the baron left his friend's lodgings, he was still trying to understand what had happened, and was still wondering whether it was the moneylenders hovering about like vultures or something very different which had made Basil act so odd.
When he reached home, Lord Hartleigh was relieved to discover that Lucy had borne the suspense surprisingly well. True, she had refused to be coaxed away from the window where she watched for her guardian's return. But she had waited, dry-eyed and quiet; and, when offered reassurances, had surprised the concerned staff by asserting—that of course Missbella was all right—after all, Uncle Edward was taking care of her.
"You're a very brave little woman," he told her as he lifted her in his arms and hugged her.
"Yes," she agreed complacently.
But after he had satisfied her with all the details of Missbella's rescue and happy prospects of recovery, he was a trifle disconcerted to hear his ward read him a lecture. Missbella's family, she maintained, did not take care of her properly, and anyway there were too many of them to look after her as they should. And so it would be best if Missbella came to live with them—for Uncle Edward was big and strong and had only herself to look after. And there was lots of room, wasn't there?
In vain did the earl try to explain that there were rules governing these matters. Lucy informed him that she knew all about it; Miss Carter had told her. Oblivious to her guardian's astonishment, she went on: "Missbella is grown up, and they'll let her go away if she gets married. So you can get married to her and bring her back here and she can be my mama and you can take care of us."
The earl admitted that this was a sensible idea. "However," he added, "it is a very serious decision, Lucy. Whoever Miss Latham marries she will be married to forever. So she must be very, very sure it's me she wishes to marry."
"Oh, she'll be sure," his ward told him confidently. "But you must ask her, mustn't you?"
I already have, he thought. And, recalling the brief conversation he'd had with Maria Latham that morning, he wondered whether it would not be better to discourage Lucy's hopes.
"She tells me she has given your cousin her word," Mrs. Latham had told him. "And to Isabella, that word is as sacred as it would be to any gentleman. She has had, you see, a rather unusual upbringing."
But Lord Hartleigh couldn't bring himself to disappoint the child, especially after the terrifying experience she'd had, and the courageous way in which she'd dealt with it. So all he told her was that he would speak to Miss Latham, but only after he was certain she was quite well. And though she was fully prepared to assist personally in moving Missbella to her new domicile this very afternoon, Lucy promised to be patient.
Chapter Fifteen
The doctor's potion had the desired effect, for when Isabella woke in the early evening, she was once again in command of her senses. Her mother, upon determining this, ordered in tea, and spent an hour with her. Because Isabella was still rather dim on what had happened versus what she had dreamed, Maria offered up the account she'd had from Lord Hartleigh. The tale was told in her usual languid fashion, but contained so many sly hints and ironic references to the lengths to which the earl had gone—"solely on his ward's account"—that Isabella was finally moved to plead with her mother, "Stop teasing and tell me plain what you're about, Mama."
"Why, plain then, if you'll have it so, my love," Maria replied, gazing into her teacup as though the story were written there. "A man does not call one his 'poor darling' in that anguished tone of voice without some personal concern in the matter." Isabella opened her mouth to argue, but her mother was still talking to the teacup. "Certainly one wouldn't expect him to have rehearsed such words of concern and affection as I heard him whisper at you—although I did try not to hear, for it was most improper of him, you know." The cup not deigning to reply, she bent her gaze upon her daughter. "But then, all he did was so monstrous improper that we were all about the ears and didn't know where to look or what to hear. Your aunt, needless to say, was quite beside herself, but oddly enough, she didn't seem to think you compromised by it."
<
br /> News that a Peer of the Realm has so far forgotten propriety on one's account cannot fail to be gratifying, especially if said Peer is eligible, elegant, and handsome; and, more especially, if one would rather like to forget proprieties on his account. But the information also made Isabella feel quite desperate, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to leap from the bed and hurl herself out the window. If Lord Hartleigh did care for her, then her life was entirely ruined. It was one thing to give up the man you loved when he didn't love you. It was altogether another to give him up when he did. It was idiotic, in fact.
As though reading her daughter's mind, Maria went on, "In light of his behaviour this morning, I find it perfectly absurd that you have engaged yourself to his cousin."
"Oh, Mama, it's not absurd," Isabella cried. "It's completely horrible. Oh, why didn't that horrible animal kick me in the head and be done with it? What am I going to do now?"
"Isabella, you are far too unwell to engage in theatrics. But it's what comes, I imagine, of spending so much time in Mr. Trevelyan's company. Whatever is the matter with you, my love? You have only to cry off. It's done every day. Some young ladies do it twice in a morning, I understand. To keep in practice, no doubt." She gazed thoughtfully at the biscuits on the tray and calmly selected and nibbled at one while Isabella protested that she could not. For one, added to her already questionable reputation would be the label of "jilt." For another, and more important, she had given her word.
"Considering that you were deceived into giving that word," Maria answered, daintily brushing a crumb from her sleeve, "and considering that your Intended has behaved dishonourably toward you, I don't think you need feel obliged to abide by it."
"But, Mama, he's desperate. I know he is. And if I break my promise...I don't know what he'll do."
"You cannot allow your life to be ruled by fear of what he'll do. And what can he do, after all? Blacken your name? Do you think for a moment his cousin would permit it?"
"I don't know."
"Of course you do." Maria stood up. "I would have preferred to postpone this discussion until you were feeling more the thing, but that is not possible. I have often found that in precisely those cases requiring lengthy and calm consideration, circumstances permit neither, but demand instead prompt action. Life can be very trying in that way, Isabella."
It struck Isabella that there was something unusual in her mother's expression. There seemed to be a note of something like regret in her tone, not at all in keeping with her usual air of indifference. But there was nothing to be read in Maria's face. The blue-green eyes were, as usual, focused elsewhere, and the still-beautiful features appeared untouched by any emotion. She was still Mama, still languid, still an enigma.
"What circumstances do you mean, Mama?"
Maria sighed. "Lord Hartleigh will be here tomorrow. I don't think we need pretend he comes simply to enquire after your health."
"But I can't speak to him yet!" Isabella cried, her pleasure at this message quickly swamped by panic. How could she face him?
"That is both ungrateful and cowardly of you. And if that's the best you can do, then perhaps you and Mr. Trevelyan will suit after all." Maria did not wait for a reply, but, in her normal manner, drifted out of the room. Abnormally, however, she slammed the door behind her, making Isabella cringe at the throbbing it set up in her head.
That same evening, Lord Hartleigh made his way to his cousin's lodgings. He had not visited the place in some years, and the closeness and shabbiness of the apartments shocked him, especially in their marked contrast to Basil's elegant attire. Mr. Trevelyan was just applying the finishing touches to his ensemble, preparatory to an evening on the town, and he seemed neither surprised nor disconcerted by his cousin's abrupt appearance.
"Come in, cuz," he told him coolly. "This is indeed an honour—though not, I must say, unlooked for."
"You expected me?" the earl asked, no whit less coolly.
"Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, I have been on pins and needles the whole day. Even sent my man out for a bottle or two of your favourite. And considering that I had to send ready cash along with him—for neither the vintner nor my valet will advance me another penny—I hope you'll do me the honour to partake of it."
At Lord Hartleigh's nod, he drew out from a small cabinet two glasses. These he minutely inspected, holding them up to the light. He then subjected the wine to the same scrutiny, and, after leisurely satisfying himself on these two counts, served his cousin and himself, and bade the earl be seated. Basil took a chair opposite and launched into a long stream of social chatter in which the weather and Lord Byron's relations with Caro Lamb figured most prominently. The earl bore with him. He knew that his cousin wished to irritate him, and therefore refused to be irritated. Finally, after some twenty minutes of relentless jabber, Basil broke off abruptly: "But then, cuz, I forget that this can't be a social call. I believe you have come on"—he smiled, recalling Isabella's tone that morning a few days ago—"a matter of business."
At the earl's nod, he went on, "Then tell me your business—although I believe I can guess it. Do you come on Miss Latham's behalf? I suppose you must, though I confess I'd rather she came as her own emissary."
"I come on her behalf" was the curt reply, "but she has not sent me."
"Ah, then perhaps she is still unconscious. How unfortunate that your ministrations had so little effect."
Lord Hartleigh suppressed the urge to hurl his glass in his cousin's face, and, wishing to avoid possible future temptation, he gently put it down.
"I believe I'll let that insinuation pass," he answered, his voice just a shade too quiet, "though it does you no credit. For I've known you all your life, Basil, and I do believe you can't help it."
"You needn't patronise me, My Lord—"
The earl went on, as though he hadn't heard, "In fact, it's precisely because you can't help yourself that I've come. You seem to have gotten yourself into a surprisingly bad scrape, especially considering the advantages with which you began."
"You don't mean to lecture at me? For if you do, let me warn you that I get a weekly sermon from Aunt Clem. And, uplifting as it may be, it quite adequately meets my needs for that sort of thing."
"I haven't come to lecture. I've come to offer a solution—"
"But, cousin, perhaps I have one already."
"I don't doubt that you do. But it isn't worthy of you,”
Basil's face flushed as he snapped, "Enough of this sanctimony. Let's have the word with no bark on it. In return for something or other, you want me to give the lady up."
"Yes."
"Well, I simply can't imagine what you could offer to compensate. It isn't only that Miss Latham is the perfect solution to all my difficulties. No. I know it'll surprise you—it surprises me—but I've grown rather fond of her. Oh, I'll admit she isn't very pretty: certainly not in my usual style. And she is overly serious and so terribly responsible. But I like to hear her laugh, you see. And at close quarters, Edward," he went on in confidential tones, deliberately baiting his cousin, "she is surprisingly appealing. Why, if I were at all poetical, I should write an ode to those delicious lips of hers."
The urge to strangle his cousin nearly overcame Lord Hartleigh, but with superhuman effort he controlled himself, and merely pointed out that in such a case, Basil must, of course, consider Miss Latham's happiness above all things.
"Dear Edward, I should like ever so much to think of nothing but Miss Latham's happiness. Unfortunately, I am forced to consider the feelings of certain other parties."
"And I gather these 'other parties' require certain payments in gold to soothe their tender feelings."
"Why, there you have it, Edward. They are quite tender about their guineas."
"You are telling me you want the money...and the girl."
"Yes, of course."
"And you would not consider an offer—say, an annuity which would allow you to pay the more pressing of your debts while still leaving you
something to live on." The earl went on to name an amount which nearly took Basil's breath away.
But Mr. Trevelyan recovered quickly enough. "Tempting, cousin. But no, it won't do. I mean to have her, Edward. And I recommend you give it up."
The menace in his tone made the earl look up in surprise.
"You mistake me, cousin, if you think to bribe or trick me out of this game. And I believe you know me well enough to understand that I do not speak idly when I warn you away. You have your title. You have your lavish inheritance, which you so casually toss in my face. Be content with those, and find another mama for Lucy. For you will not have Isabella Latham."
Now this was odd indeed. Lord Hartleigh had expected a struggle. Basil needed money, and had enough spite to want Isabella just because Edward wanted her. But Edward had hoped that his cousin would eventually be content to escape marriage—as long as he could do so profitably. After all, he had no real hold on Miss Latham. Basil knew Edward wouldn't stand for any more scandal-mongering. So what was it that made the little beast so confident? Another quarter hour's argument made it clear that the little beast had no intention of telling. He just sat there, smiling and smug, unmoved by threats or appeals to his honour or any other of the pleas to which his cousin at length resorted.
"No, Edward," he said, finally. "It won't do. And don't think to try to steal her away, for you may force some matters which can only cause my darling—and her family—tremendous pain."
And that was as much as could be gotten out of him. Edward took his leave calmly enough, but inwardly he seethed with rage and frustration. For without knowing what new villainy his cousin was contemplating, he hardly dared press Isabella to abandon the wretch.
Yet Lord Hartleigh knew he could not keep away from her—not if his life depended upon it. It was all he could do to stay away until tomorrow; all he could do to keep from rushing to her house and carrying her away—now— in the middle of the night.
Basil, meanwhile, was not quite as sanguine as he had appeared to his cousin. Before him on the table, next to a half-empty wine glass, was a much-creased letter.