Isabella (12 page)

"I'm afraid you are innocent in the ways of society, Miss Latham."

"No, I've had more than a month's education. If you wish to tattle about that episode, there will be gossip— and it will fuel the gossip you've so carefully cultivated—"

"Cultivated!" For the moment he was taken aback by her blunt assertion.

"Please don't insult my intelligence by denying it. If you truly cared for my reputation, you would not have behaved in a way to excite suspicion. Already half the ton thinks I'm your mistress, for you've shown less discretion in your looks, gestures, and words"—she gave each a special emphasis—"than you would if they were directed to an opera dancer." This being rather a mouthful, she paused for breath, and was pleased to see him look discomfited. "In short," she went on, "if you do tattle, then you are no gentleman."

Basil had to smile at this, for though it was not what he'd expected, it was an apt rebuttal. Was she nearly a match for him, then? How utterly fascinating. "But perhaps I am not" was his amiable rejoinder.

"That's your lookout," she snapped, "for though you tell tales into the next century, no one can make me marry against my will. And before you think to frighten me with threats of scandal, think on this: My Uncle Henry—not Lord Belcomb—manages my funds. And Henry Latham would never deliver me into the hands of a fortune hunter." Her hands tightened on the reins as she turned her horse, preparing to depart.

"Stay, Miss Latham," he urged, bringing his own mount around to block her retreat. "Those are harsh words, indeed." As she opened her mouth to retort, he held up his hand and continued, "And I don't deny I deserve them. But before you reject me out of hand, there's one other matter I wish to lay before you."

"I cannot imagine any other—"

"My cousin, you know," he said quietly.

There was that odd flutter near her heart, but she kept her face stony as she met his gaze. "I don't see what Lord Hartleigh has to do with this."

"You don't?" The glitter in his eyes belied the innocence of his tone. "How strange, for
I
do. I see, for example, that you have developed a
tendre
for him—oh, don't trouble to deny it," he continued as he heard her quick intake of breath. "I may be a thoroughly disreputable creature, but I am not an idiot. Even your aunt can see it; and doesn't like it above half, I assure you."

"Your imagination is running away with you," she interjected, but weakly.

"I wish it were. But no, the Fates are all against me. For here is Edward, in love with the fair Lady Honoria, who would make a most suitable mama for Lucy. But Lucy can't abide her. No, Lucy wants Missbella for her mama, and no one else will do. I greatly fear, my darling, that Edward will offer for you, just to please his ward. That he will be spiting me in the bargain will, I assume, add some little zest to the venture."

Of course. Lady Honoria. Had it not been obvious? Yet he'd give her up, for his ward's sake?
Isabella's momentary joy at the prospect of being Lord Hartleigh's wife was quickly swamped by a wave of despair. To marry her, out of a completely selfless sense of duty...No, he was not so indulgent a guardian as all that.

Basil felt the tiniest tweak of conscience as he watched the play of emotions on her face. Her confidence was crumbling, and the colour had drained from her cheeks. He sighed. "I suppose it must all come about right in the end. I hope so, for your sake. Imagine what it must be like to be married to the man you love, knowing he gave up the one
he
loved, out of too-acute notions of responsibility. Wondering," he went on, as though talking to himself, "as Lucy grows into adulthood, marries, goes away—wondering whether he'll come to love you in time. Or whether he'll come more and more to resent you."

It was cruel of him to say it, it was cruel to paint that bleak picture—yet wasn't it
true?
She couldn't deny how precious Lucy was to her guardian, how much her happiness meant to him. Hadn't Isabella seen ample evidence, time and time again?

She forced herself to respond. "You presume a great deal," she told Basil, her voice flat and tired. "That Duty would lead your cousin to such a step; or that I would accept. I have no wish, no need, to marry anyone."

"But your family?"

"What of them?"

"Let's be business-like about this," he said briskly. "In marrying me—or my cousin—you're firmly established in society. With Edward or myself to smooth matters with his family, there will be no difficulties in Freddie's marrying Alicia—if she'll have him. And then, when your other little cousins are ready to join society..." Rebellion gleamed in her eye; abruptly, he changed his tack. "Pray don't look at me as though I were an ogre. I was trying to be practical, pointing out the assets and liabilities—and it doesn't suit me, I'm afraid. But the fact is, I care deeply for you, Isabella—"

"In spite of my fortune," she noted sarcastically.

"I'm cursed with an extravagant nature and little income of my own. I have no choice but to marry a wealthy wife. But that doesn't mean I have no feeling for you. The truth is, I've never cared for anyone so much in my life; except myself," he finished, with a rueful smile.

"Surely you realise I don't return those feelings."

"Not now. But maybe in time. If you'd but give me the chance, I might earn your affection."

Looking down at her hands resting on her saddle, she heard the sincerity of his voice, but missed the flicker of amusement in his eyes. "My uncle has taught me to steer clear of speculation," she answered, softly.

"I promise it is no gamble. I can prove it, but you must give me the chance. Will you at least think on what I've said?"

Oh, indeed she would. No doubt through many long, sleepless nights. She nodded.

"And perhaps we will talk again—soon?"

"Yes."

"And perhaps you'll save me a dance at your cousins' ball?"

"Perhaps." She started to urge her mount away. "I must go home now."

As he watched her leave, Basil shook his head. Pity the girl took it so hard. Well, at least he hadn't needed to bring out the heavy artillery. His recent investigations were all beginning to point in the same direction, but he needed another few days to be sure. And desperate though he was, even he must shrink at blackmail. Fortunately, there
were
other forms of persuasion: It had been well worth losing half a night's sleep to rehearse and perfect his "sincere" speech. Tonight he would compensate for the exertion with a visit to the talented, and very expensive, Celestine.

Henry Latham folded up the letter he'd just finished reading. He removed his spectacles and, taking out a handkerchief, began polishing them, a thoughtful look on his genial countenance.

"News from Alicia?" asked his wife, entering his den with a cup of coffee. She tried to get a glimpse of the letter, which he casually slipped into his pocket.

"No, my love. Business. Appears I'll have to go into town."

Pamela Latham's plump features were eloquent with astonishment. In recent years, her husband had avoided the city at all costs, preferring to send a representative to handle any problems which arose there.

"This matter calls for more than the usual discretion," he explained. "And though I'd trust William with my life, I'll feel more comfortable seeing to it myself."

The cup was placed at his elbow with rather more noise than was absolutely necessary. "You'll not attempt to see Alicia, I hope." Her tone indicated that this was not so much a wish as a command.

"Of course not, my love. Wouldn't dream of it. I'll be there and back in a week—two at most—and they'll never know I stirred from here."

"I fervently hope not, for you know it was a condition—"

"Of course." There was a cold edge to his voice which told her that the matter was not to be discussed further. So, though she wished for another glimpse of that handwriting, she held her tongue and, like the dutiful wife she was, offered to help her husband pack.

While Henry Latham was preparing for his pilgrimage, Lord Hartleigh was already embarked upon one of his own. Like a restless ghost, he wandered from Boodles to Brooks to White's; managed, despite his best efforts, to lose less than a hundred pounds; and failed utterly in his attempts to get drunk. Defeated, he returned to his house shortly after two in the morning, called for his favourite brandy, and retired to his library with a growled command that he was not to be disturbed unless the house caught fire.

Slumped in his favourite chair, without the distraction of his companions, it did not take him long to realise what was wrong. Aunt Clem's confident prediction that Basil would offer for Miss Latham had thrown him into a rage, the likes of which he had not experienced since the day Lucy had been misplaced. Curiously, he had the same feeling of being personally at fault.

At first he'd refused to take it seriously, assuming that if Basil was bold enough to ask, at least the lady was sensible enough to refuse. But the earl's perambulations through the clubs of London had disburdened him of these optimistic notions. A great deal of talk was circulating about the two, and even if only a quarter of it was based on any semblance of fact, Miss Latham's reputation was in an uncertain state. She might be forced to marry Basil, just to stop the wagging tongues.

Benumbed, Lord Hartleigh stared around him at his book collection, at the few choice pictures which adorned the walls of this, his private sanctum. With his intelligence missions ended, he'd turned his energies back to his first loves: literature and art. Lucy's coming had been a further encouragement, for he wanted his ward to grow up with a genuine appreciation of what great minds could create. Lucy would not be like the rest of those white muslin-decked debutantes. She'd be able to talk of and understand something besides bonnets and slippers and shawls. She'd grow into a beautiful, bright young woman, and the man who eventually won her would be worthy of her; not some debt-ridden gallant like Basil, or inarticulate dandy like his friend, Tuttlehope.

Of course, she wasn't old enough yet to share with her guardian his appreciation of books and paintings. In fact, there was virtually no one with whom he could share this love. And from time to time he had wished for such a companion: one with whom he could talk—about Lucy and the many questions he had about raising and educating her and making her happy. About books. About art.

He poured more brandy into his glass. Certainly it was difficult to imagine such conversations with Lady Honoria, or with any of her equally eligible rivals. They preferred talk of fashions, when they weren't flirting or gossiping. As he stared morosely into his glass, his alcohol-laden brain betrayed him, and a pair of intelligent blue eyes seemed to stare back at him. As he remembered those eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter, and a generous mouth parted to deliver a witty sally to one of his remarks, there was a familiar tightening in his chest. Only now he noted that it wasn't an obstruction but an ache.

He remembered the day at the dressmaker's shop, and the way her few gentle words to the child had effectively put him in his place. He remembered his visit the next day, and the way she'd coolly accepted his apologies— and her ghost of a smile when she had remarked that children, unlike the rest of one's possessions, seldom remained where one had last left them. He remembered that first dance, and the way her laughter and good-natured teasing had eased his worry about his ward. And other dances, other conversations; those scattered moments in her company, each so unique, all pointed to a quality he hadn't recognised before. She had a way about her which seemed to put things right. And now, angry and depressed by turns, disoriented with alcohol, he wished she were here, to put it all right again.

At length, weary of these drink-sodden reveries, he stumbled from the library and made his way, slowly and painfully, to his bedroom. Exhausted, he collapsed, fully clothed, onto the bed. But oblivion would not come. He stared at the ceiling, willing himself to think.

It wasn't so bad, after all, as being in a French prison, dying by inches in the filth.
And he'd survived that, had he not?—with Robert Warriner's help, of course. Indeed, if all that was worrying him was the prospect of Isabella's being thrown away on his cousin...well, he must stop it, then.

He'd been a fool to let matters go this far. But the task of bringing Lucy out of her shell, added to the rigours of attending on now one, then another eligible young lady, had blinded him to what was going on. Only tonight had he heard how Basil supposedly took Miss Latham, unescorted by chaperone, to Vauxhall Gardens...and how they'd been surprised in a
tête-à-tête
at one party or another. He'd also heard of the diverse assignations and clandestine meetings which managed to place Miss Latham in half a dozen different locations simultaneously—and of course there was that matter of the note exchanged at the exhibition. That, at least, he could vouch for; but it did not necessarily make Miss Latham guilty. He knew from long experience that Basil had a talent for manipulating circumstances to his own advantage.

Having insinuated himself into the household, it would be child's play for Basil to learn of her comings and goings, and arrange to be in the right place at the right time. Just as it would be easy enough for Basil to "refuse to betray a lady" if someone asked, "Was that not Miss Latham with you at such-and-such a place at such-and-such a time?" And then smile and look in such a way as to confirm the questioner's suspicions. Basil had no principles, no sense of honour—except perhaps at cards— and would have no trouble with his conscience as he wove his meshes about her. And from what Lord Hartleigh had heard, no one in the Belcomb household was looking out for her interests; quite the contrary. Apparently, Lady Belcomb was more eager for the marriage than even Basil was.