Isabella (18 page)

"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."

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.

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.

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.