It had taken a great deal of investigating, not to mention associating with persons Basil preferred not to know, before he had discovered Captain Macomber. Recently arrived from India, and an old friend of Captain Williams (now better known as Viscount Deverell), the lonely widower had been pleased to make the acquaintance of Mademoiselle Celestine. And Celestine, of course, required payment for entertaining the Captain. For after all, she had not only discovered his mission but-unlooked-for prize—had relieved the retired seaman of the precious scrap of paper.
...to learn the truth after all these years—or at least, some part of the truth. I do not know what words he used to convince Maria, but if they were at all like those he wrote to me, the man must have had the very Devil at his ear, prompting him.
And yet you must think it was my own damned fault, do you not? That I made no effort, when opportunity finally came, to see Maria myself—or to enquire more closely into the circumstances of their marriage and the birth of the child. But I thought to spare her trouble. And in truth, my pride was hurt that she had not waited longer before remarrying.
I know this is sorry repayment for all you have done for me these many years—yet I pray you understand the circumstances which prevented my revealing myself even to you, my closest friend. And I hope you will find it in your great and generous heart to forgive me.
Though he would not admit it, the heartache of Deverell's letter moved him. Mired as he was in his debts and machinations, Basil wished, for a moment, that he had accepted Edward's offer. But no. Just to keep out of prison would take up the whole of the annuity. With nothing over to live on, there would be further debts. No, it wouldn't do. And after all he'd done and risked, he was not about to leave to Edward the promised pleasures of that delicious mouth, that slim and sensuous body...and that low, intoxicating laughter.
Chapter Sixteen
Mama certainly was energetic today, Isabella thought, as she sat with her book in the now-restored small parlour. Maria had begun by convincing Aunt Charlotte to visit with Lady Bertram.
"She begs for word of Isabella," Maria had sighed, "and will not be content with my note." In response to Lady Belcomb's protests that the countess could come see for herself, Maria provided seven or eight contradictory reasons why she could not, finally adding that she believed one of those Stirewells—or all of them—were expected, and Lady Bertram could not stir from home. This last silenced Charlotte, who immediately called for her daughter, found fault with her dress, made her change twice, and at length left the house, dragging the confused Veronica behind her.
Alicia was dispatched with her maid on a shopping expedition, and several dozen servants were provided with suitable occupations to keep them at some distance from the room in which Isabella sat reading. Mrs. Latham then had a confidential interview with the butler, who had very little trouble memorising the names of those whose visits would not be too fatiguing for her daughter.
And so, when Lord Hartleigh called, he found only Isabella and her mother at home. He had no sooner entered the room and presented Isabella with a bouquet (which she promptly dropped, in her agitation) than the indefatigable Maria suddenly recalled an urgent matter for the kitchen, and was gone before her daughter had time to object.
But Mama's treachery was forgotten in an instant, for the earl immediately lowered himself onto the sofa next to his darling, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. This proving insufficient expression of his feelings, he took her in his arms and kissed her until she was dizzy.
Now he knew it wasn't right, and she knew it wasn't right, but several blissful minutes passed before either of them was remotely inclined to act upon what they knew. As it was, Isabella was the first to act, but she made such a poor attempt at indignation that Lord Hartleigh immediately forgot the abject apology he owed her and told her instead that he'd been frightened half to death on her account, that his life was not worth living without her, that he needed her, wanted her, and other such romantical nonsense, which he then summarised by telling her that he loved her. And when those intelligent blue eyes looked back so adoringly into his, he silently bade the proprieties—and his cousin—to the Devil, and kissed her again.
Now this was all so very pleasant that it quickly began to grow indecent, for Lord Hartleigh was not quite content to plant tender kisses on Isabella's lips. He remembered a trail he had blazed a few nights ago, and let his lips travel upon it once again—from the ticklish spot behind her ear down along her neck to her shoulders to the not-insurmountable barrier of her bodice. And Isabella, to her shame, had tangled his lordship's hair into disorderly curls and had even disarranged the perfect folds of his cravat; not, as one would expect, in the struggle to protect her virtue, but rather to bring it into immediate danger.
However, as his lordship's gentle hands began exploring new territories, the danger finally penetrated Isabella's brain, and in the midst of a startlingly warm and enthusiastic response, she suddenly remembered that she was supposed to be engaged to someone else altogether.
"Oh, no. Stop," she gasped. "Please stop."
Now it is very true that Lord Hartleigh had "unusually high notions of duty" and a powerful sense of honour and right. But at the moment, having already sent Propriety to the Devil, he was exceedingly loath to recall it. He was, moreover, extremely reluctant to leave off his highly satisfactory explorations of Isabella's person. For though he did truly esteem and admire Miss Latham, and had great respect for her intellect, he was driven, at the moment, by naked lust. Every taste and touch was so delicious that he thought only of having more, and had completely forgotten everything else.
But now, for some unaccountable reason, she was telling him to stop. He pretended not to hear, and when her pleas grew more urgent, he tried to stop them with kisses. But she now refused to cooperate and was pushing him away.
"Please stop," she hissed. "Mama will be back any minute."
Mama? Heated and breathless, he drew back and looked at her. Her silky hair had come loose from its pins, and one strand tickled the corner of her mouth. Lovingly, he brushed it aside, letting his fingers linger on her soft cheek, which grew bright pink under his gaze.
"I quite forgot your mother," he said softly. "I thought—I wished—we were just...we two."
Feeling herself melting again, Isabella moved a few inches away from him, and strove—rather ineffectually, for her hands were trembling—to restore herself to rights.
"For some reason," she muttered, trying to gather together some shreds of dignity, "I seem to forget myself in your company, My Lord. However, I hope you will remember that I've recently had a concussion, and cannot be held completely accountable for my actions."
Despite his frustration—for Lord Hartleigh did truly feel like a starving man who'd been invited to inhale the fragrance of a great feast and then forbidden to partake of it—despite this agony, his lips twitched with suppressed laughter as he gravely replied, "I'm fully aware of that, Miss Latham, and can only offer you my abject apologies for taking advantage of your...your weakened condition."
"Yes," she agreed, rather absently. Then, noting that he was as dishevelled as herself, she added, "Perhaps you should repair your cravat, sir."
Solemnly, he assured her that this was impossible. "A cravat," he whispered wickedly, "is very much like a reputation, Miss Latham. Once damaged, it cannot be repaired." Ignoring her gasp, he went on: "Except perhaps by some other, higher power. My valet can easily replace the neckcloth, you see. But your reputation is a matter for the parson. You will have to marry me as soon as possible." He reached for her, but she quickly got up from the sofa and crossed to the other side of the room.
"I can't," she said.
"You've made some foolish promise to Basil—or, rather, he's tricked you into a foolish promise. Come, Isabella, you can't seriously believe you're obliged to him in any way—"
"I am. I gave my word."
"If you discover that a man has cheated at cards, you do not proce
ed to pay him the money he's cheated from you." Impatient, he rose and strode across the room. Grasping her shoulders, he said softly, "Look at me and tell me you don't care for me. Tell me that you love him instead and want to be his wife. Tell me that and I'll go away and never trouble you again."
She hesitated, then met his eyes and smiled. "You know I can tell you no such thing."
"Good," he replied, then added with a wicked smile that made her heart flutter, "Then I propose we continue where we left off some moments ago, so that your mother will find us in a suitably compromising position. I don't plan to allow you the opportunity to change your mind later—when I've gone, and your infernal conscience tweaks you." So saying, he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the sofa. He was just commencing yet another loving assault on her person when there was a rustling at the door.
"Now isn't that a pretty picture," Basil drawled as he sauntered into the room.
Isabella bolted upright, nearly knocking the earl off the sofa in the process.
"We could ignore him," Lord Hartleigh muttered, disentangling himself from her gown. "Perhaps he'd go away."
"Certainly not," said Basil. He dropped his elegant form into a chair opposite, then pulled out his glass and calmly surveyed the scene before him. "Good heavens, Edward, your cravat is a disgrace. I suspected my fiancée had a passionate nature, but I did not think she had no respect for a man's neckcloth."
"She is not your fiancée," Edward growled.
"Oh, but she is. Hasn't she thought to tell you, cuz? Carried away by the heat of the moment, no doubt. But really, Isabella, you might have at least waited until after we were wed. I declare, you haven't the faintest notion how to go on in Society, do you, my love? First you get married, then you're unfaithful. Not the other way around. It just isn't done."
"Isabella has always had an odd way of doing things, Mr. Trevelyan. She has had an unusual upbringing, you see. All those ledgers..." This last trailed off into a sigh, as Maria Latham stepped into the room. Her weary gaze drifted from one to the next to the next, and she sighed again. "I do hope Frederick does not subject us to any more visitors today. I find dramatic entrances most fatiguing." Acknowledging the gentlemen's bows, she wandered toward the sofa and, having waved Lord Hartleigh to another chair, took her place beside her daughter. "Isabella," she said, "I think you have been naughty."
"She has had a concussion," the earl began, but a speaking look from Mrs. Latham quelled him.
"A concussion is no excuse for bad manners. Pray apologise to Mr. Trevelyan, Isabella—"
"Mama!" Isabella gasped.
"And tell him to go away. Under the circumstances, he cannot wish to marry you."
"Oh, but I do, Mrs. Latham. I am a very forgiving sort of person."
"Are you indeed?" The blue-green eyes met his, and Basil reddened slightly, but he went on nonetheless. "Yes, quite forgiving. She has had a concussion and my wicked cousin has attempted to take advantage of her weakened condition—"
"He did not!" Isabella cried, irritated at being treated like somebody's senile aunt.
"Well then, my love, I forgive you anyhow. I'm sure you had a good reason," Basil replied, with a maddeningly patronising smile.
"Yes, I did," she snapped. "I love him—and I'm going to marry him—aren't I?" She faltered, looking at Lord Hartleigh.
"Of course you are," that gentleman reassured her.
"There you are, Mr. Trevelyan," said Mrs. Latham, in tones of exhausted yet patient forbearance. "She means to marry your cousin. And now you may go away."
"Well, she's not going to marry him for all she thinks so at the moment." The topaz eyes glittered under half-closed lids as Basil toyed with his cane. "For one thing, what will her father say?"
There was silence in the room. Two faces stared at him as though he had suddenly gone mad. But there was a tiny crease between Maria Latham's brows as she watched him, warily. Isabella was the first to speak.
"What are you saying, Basil? Papa died five years ago."
"Matthew Latham died five years ago. Your papa is alive and well. If he is not already in London, he is on his way—from India."
The tale had been told, and Isabella sat in stunned silence as her two suitors were summarily dismissed. Viscount Deverell—her father—and Mama had never said a word; not all these years, no, and not even today, as Basil's strangely harsh voice had gone on and on.
Yes, Harry Deverell had gone to sea. And yes, when Maria had run away, it was long after he'd left home. But that had been part of the plan—so that none would connect Maria's disappearance with Harry. And according to plans made well in advance, the two had married in an obscure town on the Cornish coast. The young couple had a few months of bliss before Harry was called away. He had just left when Maria discovered she was pregnant. And then, in less than a week, there was the accident, and Harry was presumed drowned.
What came next brought an aching lump to Isabella's throat, but she couldn't cry. What would she have done in her mother's place? Would she have waited, hoping against hope that it was all a terrible mistake? Would her pride have allowed her to present herself to her unsuspecting in-laws and demand that they care for her and the unborn child she claimed was Harry's?
Maria re-entered the room, but she did not approach her daughter. Instead, she stood by the window, gazing out in her usual abstracted manner. It was only now that Isabella associated that look with the sailor's wife, gazing out to sea.
As though she'd read her daughter's thoughts, Maria said, softly, "I did not know which way to turn. I had my marriage lines, but even so, it was more than likely we'd forfeited any claims to our families' support by going against their wishes. And even if they had determined it was their duty to help—they had little enough for themselves. When Matt Latham offered to marry me, it seemed the only solution. Harry was dead. I believed neither my family nor Harry's family would take me in. And I had more than myself to consider. I did not want Harry's child to grow up in misery and want." Her voice never changed, never trembled. It was steady and detached throughout her recitation; and it did sound curiously like a recitation of a piece of fiction, rather than the true story of the ordeal she'd undergone.
Isabella got up and moved across the room to join her mother at the window. "In your place, Mama, I think I would have done the same. But why did you never tell me?"
"Neither when I thought Harry dead nor in recent months, when I knew him to be alive, did I feel it necessary to burden you with our secret."
"But surely when you learned—"
"No. I knew nothing of his life for all those years. I knew nothing of his wishes in the matter. I had rather even Mr. Trevelyan be the first to tell you than that I do so without Harry's expressed consent."
Isabella took her mother's hand. "Poor Mama," she murmured.
"No," said Maria. "You must not pity me. Matt Latham did a terrible thing in driving your papa away. But he did love me. And except for betraying Harry, who had been his friend—Matt had even helped us plan our elopement, you know—well, apart from that, and those disastrous financial undertakings, Matthew Latham was a tolerable husband." The bored tone had crept back into her voice—and oddly enough, Isabella was relieved to hear it.
"But he knew my...my father was alive—and he never told you."
"Your father regained his memory almost a year later; he'd been struck in the head during some scuffle or other." Maria smiled, remembering Harry Deverell's quick temper. "He wrote to Matthew Latham—not his parents or brothers—first, asking him to break the news gently to me. But instead, my new husband wrote back, telling of the marriage, lying about the date of your birth, and, apparently, giving your father to understand that to reclaim me as his bride was to ruin me. I knew nothing of this. Nor did your uncle know of it, until a very short time ago. I had written to him that I suspected Mr. Trevelyan knew something of the story. And Henry had that same day received a letter from a Captain Macomber, a friend of your father's, who re
lated as much of the story as your father had finally confided to him. Apparently, once Harry received Mart's letter, he had determined to leave the past in darkness forever, and never to return to England. It was only the death of his older brothers that persuaded him otherwise. And in the course of corresponding with his family, he learned a bit more about us, and soon realised that Matthew Latham had lied about your birth."
Maria gently led her daughter away from the window, back to the sofa. Gazing earnestly at her, she went on, "Isabella, perhaps now you'll understand my reluctance to abandon you to the tender mercies of Mr. Trevelyan. Matt Latham did a terrible thing, but he did it because he loved me. And because he loved me, I was able to have a tolerable life, though I was only moderately fond of him. I do not say that you may not have some mild affection for Mr. Trevelyan. It is not difficult to see that there is a decent sort of heart there, somewhere underneath his poses and machinations. But he cannot truly love you. How could he, and wave the family's dirty linen in your face? To marry him would be to march merrily off to your own perdition."
"But he has threatened to spread your story—"
"Good heavens, Isabella. Caro Lamb stalks Byron everywhere he goes and he makes sport of her to his friends. I'm sorry to disillusion you, but their antics will quite take the shine out of this Gothic ancient history of ours. And as to a little accidental bigamy that happened more than a quarter century ago—why, has not our Regent made bigamy quite fashionable? No, society will buzz about us for a day or two, and then Caro will commit another outrageous act, and they will quite forget all about us. And you seem to forget—as Mr. Trevelyan has—that at some point he will have to answer to Harry Deverell, if he does not first have to answer to Lord Hartleigh. No, my love. I do not think we need trouble ourselves overmuch with your nefarious so-called fiancé.”
Chapter Seventeen
"There," said the lovely Celestine as she sealed the note and handed it to her visitor. "That'll fetch him. But I want you to know I'd never play him such a sorry trick if I wasn't about to get the toss myself, and need the money so badly."