Isabella (10 page)

They had not gone more than a few paces when they met the youngest Miss Stirewell, whom Veronica greeted warmly. Her display of affection might have been attributed to a deep and abiding friendship, but since the two girls had met only once before, a few weeks ago, the young lady's warmth more likely had other sources. Miss Stirewell's brother, for instance. That worthy eldest son of a baronet was as yet unmarried, and possessed an independent income which would double at his father's decease. Thus, while Veronica would vastly prefer being a countess, she was level-headed enough not to put all her eggs in one basket. In short, when Miss Stirewell offered to introduce Veronica to her mama and brother, waiting in the hall beyond, that young lady agreed with alacrity, leaving Lord Hartleigh, Miss Latham, and Lucy to amuse themselves.

Isabella endeavoured to fill the awkward silence which followed by retying a ribbon that had come loose from Lucy's hair. As Miss Latham bent to the task, Lucy told her, "I hope Uncle Basil doesn't come back."

"No?" said Isabella, forcing a smile. "And why is that?"

"He teases me and calls me Moppet." The hazel eyes met hers. "And he makes Uncle Edward cross."

Uncle Edward was about to utter a mild rebuke when he caught the expression on Miss Latham's face, which exactly matched that of his ward. Both looked as though they were expecting a scolding. A smile cracked his stern features, and he bent down to lift Lucy into his arms.

"I'm certainly not cross with
you,
Lucy," he told her.

She placed her arm about his neck, but pulled back a bit to stare into his face. "You're not?"

"No."

She considered this a moment, glanced at Isabella, then back at her guardian, and asked, "Are you cross with Missbella?"

His ears reddened, and "Missbella's" cheeks, in sympathy, did likewise.

"No, I'm not," Lord Hartleigh replied, although that infernal constriction, which had suddenly seized his chest again, made it difficult to get the words out.

"Good." The little girl surprised him with a shy hug. "But you may be cross with Uncle Basil," she added magnanimously, "because he
does
tease me, and I don't like it."

"Well, then, we must tell him to stop," her guardian agreed.

Isabella was struck by the way the man's face softened as he held the little girl. She wondered if this was the first time the child had demonstrated any affection for him, for he seemed so surprised and pleased at that gentle little hug. It gave her a queer tiny ache to watch them.

"But here is Miss Latham waiting patiently through these family affairs. Shall we continue our tour?"

Miss Latham acquiescing, he put Lucy down. The child placed herself between them, taking each by the hand.

"We'll go on this way," she announced. "It's much better."

They had nearly half an hour to themselves before Veronica reappeared, and despite still feeling piqued about the scrap of paper hidden in Miss Latham's reticule, Lord Hartleigh was beginning to enjoy himself. With the barrier between his ward and himself crumbling, he relaxed, and soon found himself telling of an episode from his childhood, a story called to mind by one of the landscapes.

He'd had a pet frog, which was kept hidden in a box under his bed. His parents had given a party, to which all the best families in the county had been invited.

"At the height of the festivities, the frog escaped from its box, hopped along down the stairs and into the drawing room. The horror of the scene was not to be imagined—ladies screaming and fainting; footmen scurrying about, endeavouring to capture the poor creature, and stumbling over swooning ladies."

A giggle from his ward and a low chuckle from Miss Latham encouraged him to go on.

"I awoke, hearing the shrieks, and immediately knew what had happened. I rushed downstairs in my night-clothes, clutching the box to my chest and screaming, ‘Eliot! Eliot!’”

Picturing the scene, Isabella could control herself no longer. She burst into laughter.

"Eliot?" she choked. "That was its name?"

"His
name," the earl gravely corrected. As he went on with his story, he found himself embellishing the tale, just to draw more of that delicious laughter. By the time he had done, she was gasping for breath.

"A true scene of Gothic horror," she told him when she finally regained control of herself.

"It was indeed," he agreed, chuckling. "I defy even Mrs. Radcliffe to match it."

"Ah, Mrs. Radcliffe!" said Isabella. "Now that is another matter. Do you know, I suspect—"

But he was not to learn her suspicions, for Veronica had returned to them, chattering effusively about dear Miss Stirewell and her charming mama. And as it was drawing near the time they'd promised to be home, they hurried through the rest of the exhibit and out to the earl's waiting carriage.

"By the way, Maria, heard anything from Deverell?" Lord Belcomb had wandered into the small saloon. The house was in its usual state of uproar, with servants scurrying to and fro, moving furniture and bric-a-brac, and he was seeking refuge as distant from his wife as possible. Fortunately, she was engaged in haranguing the chef, and only his sister occupied the room. He didn't hear Maria's quick intake of breath at his question, and when he took a chair opposite, the blue-green eyes met his composedly.

"Harry, you know. Back from the drowned. The new viscount," Lord Belcomb prodded, wondering how the deuce Maria had grown so slow over the years. She used to be such a clever girl.

"Oh. Harry. No. I can't think why I should," Maria drawled. "His own family has heard little enough." Absently picking a stray thread from her sleeve, she asked, in a very bored voice, "What's put you in mind of Harry?"

The viscount described meeting with Basil at his club, and then, having found another listener (although not nearly as
attentive
as Mr. Trevelyan, Maria did listen, more or less—certainly she did not interrupt to harangue him), went on at some length, reminiscing about old times. It was only when he saw his sister yawn for the eighth time that Lord Belcomb left off.

"How very interesting" was her polite response. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Thomas, I believe I must have a nap."

"You're not ailing, are you, Maria? For now I look at you, you seem not quite...quite...in colour, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, my dear. My constitution hasn't yet adjusted to the stimulation of city life." And, giving him a wan smile, she got up and drifted wearily from the room.

Isabella was just removing Basil's note from her reticule when she heard a scratching at the door. Quickly, she replaced the note, and looked up to see Alicia gazing at her from the doorway.

"Well, come in, dear," Isabella told her, a bit impatiently.

"Oh, Bella, the most dreadful thing has happened while you were gone." Alicia rushed forward, took her cousin's hand and squeezed it sympathetically.

"What? What?" her cousin returned, alarmed. "Is Mama ill?"

"No, not dreadful like that. But bad enough. Lady Belcomb was at your mama for an hour this afternoon."

"Well, she's always at somebody—"

"But your mama
raised her voice
,
"
was the ominous reply.

"Mama?" Mama was not capable of raising her voice.

"It's true. And it was all because of that old cat, Lady Jersey, who wouldn't give me a voucher to Almack's because Mama's grandfather kept an inn."

"I do not understand what your great-grandfather—"

"Not him. Lady Jersey. She told your aunt that everyone believes you are having a love affair with Mr. Trevelyan."

"Alicia!"

The girl had the decency to blush, but went on nonetheless, "Well, one does know of these things, so I don't know why I'm not to speak of them."

"Because it isn't ladylike" was Isabella's stern response. But in a moment she softened again, for her cousin looked at her with such concern. "But who or what has put such a scurrilous rumour abroad?"

"From what I could hear—and I did try not to eavesdrop, Isabella, but as I said, even your mama raised her voice...anyway, it is apparently because of the way he behaves toward you."

"But it is all play-acting!"

"Lady Jersey and her friends don't see it that way." Alicia went on to explain that added to everyone's observation of attentions considered over-warm even in one's betrothed, there was a tide of rumours of clandestine meetings and a series of bets at White's regarding "a certain cit's daughter." In short, the gossip cast grave doubts on Isabella's virtue.

When her cousin had finished speaking, Isabella did not immediately reply, but sat as one stunned. No wonder Lady Jersey had sent such sly glances her way. And here Isabella had thought it was all on account of that old scandal about Mama. She had not expected to find complete acceptance among the ton—certainly not by the highest sticklers—but to have her name blackened because of the theatrics of an insolvent rakeshame; it was too much! Looking up, she saw that Alicia's eyes were filled with tears.

"But darling, it's just ugly gossip," Isabella told her, forcing her voice to be soothing when what she wanted to do was scream and break furniture.

"That's what your mother told Lady Belcomb, but she answered back that our position here was 'delicate enough.' And worse, she said that we would all be shunned on your account." The tears could be restrained no longer, and Isabella found herself spending the next half hour trying to calm her cousin, instead of thinking, which she desperately needed to do. For the first time in her life, Isabella wished she were a man, so that she could have called Mr. Trevelyan out, and shot him through the heart. But of course he most likely didn't have one.
Well, any organ would do.

But the thought of herself, armed with pistol, meeting the villain at dawn—and the thorny question of who would have served as her second—restored Isabella's sense of humour.

"There, there," she said soothingly. "Aunt Charlotte has a tendency to see the black side of everything. No one will be shunned. We will simply have to set Mr. Trevelyan right."

"But she said he would have to marry you, even though your mama said she didn't think you cared to." The innocent green eyes gazed seriously into Isabella's.

"Yes, I can see how that would be convenient for several parties. But Mama is right. I am not in a marrying mood this week, cousin."

Pretending a confidence she did not feel, Isabella was eventually able to persuade her cousin to dry her tears and wash her face and go away and leave her to think.

As soon as Alicia had departed, Isabella retrieved Basil's note, carried it to her desk, and opened it.

My dear Miss Latham,

I will not say the other thing, for it so offends your sensibilities, and though I am dreadful, I am not so dreadful as all that.

I apologise for distressing you yesterday—and yet somehow I cannot bring myself to apologise for what I did. Temptation was put in my way, and, never having any pretensions to sainthood, I succumbed. And yet I truly meant you no dishonour; quite the opposite. I am fully prepared to confess my transgression to your uncle, and to offer for your hand...

At this last, a great wave of anger flooded through her. She crumpled the note and hurled it across the room.
Offer for her? The nerve of the man! Did he think she'd offer her fortune and person into his keeping to make amends for a mere kiss? Did he think she'd jump at the chance to salvage her reputation with a hasty marriage?
Isabella's bosom heaved in righteous indignation. And when she thought of how he had embarrassed her in front of Lord Hartleigh...No wonder the earl was wont to be so cool to her; he'd probably heard the gossip, too.

Anger carried her through the next few minutes, but it was soon displaced by anxiety. If what Alicia had said was true, Aunt Charlotte would be more than willing to promote the marriage. She could bring considerable pressure to bear—perhaps even through Aunt Pamela. And
she
would make Uncle Henry's life miserable, for he'd never force his niece to marry against her will. This could be quite a tangle, indeed. She retrieved the crumpled letter and carried it back to her desk.

...
I
dare not hope that your feelings toward me have changed. I fear, rather, that my behaviour has alienated you entirely. That is why I have not yet attempted to see your uncle. Though I believe that you might acquiesce to the dictates of your family (not to mention those of society), I would rather merit your hand on some warmer basis...

Isabella felt her cheeks grow hot. Warm indeed—the odious man!

...It is with the latter hope, then, that I beg you to forgive me and agree to see me again; after all, it was not so grievous a sin I committed. I have some words to utter in my own defense—words which, in all fairness, you must consent at least to hear, and which do not fall easily to paper and ink.

I beg your pardon for the garbled way in which I have scratched down these few sentences. I write in haste, in the hopes of being able to deliver this to you at a time when you cannot refuse it.

I shall be riding in Hyde Park at nine tomorrow morning, and will look for you then.

She looked up at the flourish of his closing, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. This was the man her aunt wished her to marry. This fanciful schemer and dreamer who dared to threaten her with a kiss—to be reported dutifully to the head of the family, and paid for with marriage.
He
had transgressed, had set the rumour mills going. He had kissed her, and now he expected to be rewarded with her hand and her fortune.