Isabella (20 page)

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.”

"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."

"He won't suffer long for it," Henry Latham assured her. "Not if he's sensible."

"Ah, but he isn't," the young woman sighed. "Or he wouldn't be in such a fix, now would he?"

The middle-aged gentleman merely shrugged, and with a courtly bow of which she somehow wished she were worthy, he handed her a bulky envelope and left.

"You think," the earl snarled, as the two cousins made their ignominious exit from the house, "that because you are my cousin, I shall not call you out. Well, you are sadly mistaken—"

"I had rather thought to call
you
out," Basil retorted, "considering that she is
my
betrothed. If anyone has been insulted, it is I."

"Why, you wretched little slug!" the earl cried, grasping his cousin by the throat.

"My neckcloth, Edward. You're forgetting yourself." This last came out in a gasp, for the Earl of Hartleigh was, in fact, to the considerable interest of several passers-by, attempting to throttle his cousin. Words having no effect, Basil gave his lordship a sharp kick in the shin. The sudden pain made the earl loosen his grip, so that Basil was able to wrench his cousin's fingers from his neck.

"Now," he croaked, "you are making a spectacle of yourself, and unless you desire to cause a riot on your darling's doorstep, I advise you to mind your manners."

Thus recalled to his surroundings, the still furious Lord Hartleigh stepped away. "You have the effrontery to babble of manners. How dare you subject that girl to that villainous tale?"

"I did not make it up" was the tart rejoinder. But Basil's ears reddened—evidence that it was not only attempted strangulation which worked on him at present.

"True or not, it was infamous to tell it. It was obvious from the start that the poor girl had no idea—"

"That is her mother's fault." Basil attempted to adjust his neckcloth, but quickly gave it up and turned to face his cousin. "If you truly do wish to protect your precious Isabella, I advise you to keep your hands to yourself—not only in my case, but in hers as well. Good day, cousin." And he quickly took himself away.

For a moment, the earl debated whether to pursue him, but reason prevailed, and he took himself in the opposite direction, trying to collect his disordered thoughts.

Ever since the day when Lucy had been misplaced, it seemed that the Earl of Hartleigh was doomed to travel the streets of London in one state of fit or another. He did not understand why he, as well as his cousin, had been so cavalierly dismissed by Mrs. Latham. Yes, Isabella needed comforting, but who better than himself to minister to her needs? And he had not been given opportunity to assure her that no matter what Basil knew or threatened to tell, she would be Countess of Hartleigh, and scandal would not be allowed to touch her.

Oh, scandal there would be, no doubt. But it was ancient history, and would soon be washed away as a new tide of gossip swept in. Why, by the time Harry Deverell made his way to London, it would all be forgotten...wouldn't it? But if it were not forgotten, could he truly protect her from the pain? And if he could not, could he bear to watch it, and know he was the cause of it? For Basil had been adamant: The betrothal would be honoured, or he'd go directly to Sally Jersey with the whole sorry tale. That Basil should have sunk so low...He hadn't used to be cruel—only selfish and irresponsible.

As he walked slowly in the direction of his aunt's house, Lord Hartleigh contemplated the twisted tale he had just heard. What had Matt written to Harry Deverell to drive him away, to discourage him so completely from attempting to see Maria himself, to drive him from England forever? Some appeal to Harry's honour, no doubt. And if Harry had loved Maria enough to run off with her secretly, to risk being cut off forever from his family, then he would be unable to bear living on the same island, knowing she belonged to another. At least, if Lord Hartleigh compared it to his own state of mind, then this must be the case. No, as Harry had reasoned it, he could not come back to life. He could not reclaim his wife. And should any discover the early marriage, his being alive would make her guilty of bigamy. Gossip would not take into account the circumstances. Her youth and her naivete would be held against her, particularly by the spiteful old cats who resented her beauty. For she had been a beauty; was still.

And now Isabella? Even if she escaped relatively unscathed from the scandal, her Latham cousins' prospects would be ruined. And though their mother might be a social climber, the daughters—or Alicia, at least—seemed well-bred enough to move into a higher social strata.

But with no blood claim on Isabella, their fragile hold on Society would be cut away. Alicia would be forced to retire to Westford; no, she would not. The Countess of Hartleigh could take under her wing whomever she chose, and all but the very highest sticklers would be happy to recognise her protégées.

No, Isabella would not suffer her mother's fate. She would not be forced to sacrifice her future happiness on the simple threat of scandal. Basil was a fool, a desperate fool, and he would not have his way.

Abruptly, Lord Hartleigh turned and made his way back to Lord Belcomb's residence.

"Lord Hartleigh, you do tax my patience," said Mrs. Latham as he was shown into the room. "Did I not just half an hour ago tell you and your cousin to go away until further notice?"

The earl maintained that he would
not
go away, that he intended to marry Isabella, and that he intended to do so immediately.

"Gracious God!" Isabella cried. "Are you mad? Didn't you hear what Basil said?"

"Yes. And that's why time is of the essence. I'm going now to procure a special licence. While I'm gone, your maid can help you pack."

"Pack?" she echoed blankly. "What are you saying?" She turned to her mother. "What is he saying?"

Maria Latham dropped gracefully onto the sofa. "You are excessively slow today, Isabella. It must be the concussion. Lord Hartleigh wishes to carry you off somewhere to be married. Under the circumstances, it would be best to begin packing immediately. I expect you'll be going some distance?" She lifted an enquiring gaze to Lord Hartleigh.

"To Hartleigh Hall. We'll stop for Aunt Clem, first, of course," he added. "Unless you wish to chaperone us, madam?"

"No, thank you. I find all this display of energy excessively fatiguing. And someone must remain to explain the situation to dear Charlotte. She'll be dreadfully cross." A low chuckle expressed the degree of concern Maria felt for her sister-in-law's delicate sensibilities.

"Then please make haste, my love," said Lord Hartleigh. He dropped a gentle kiss on Isabella's forehead, bowed to Mrs. Latham, and was gone, leaving his intended bride to gaze wonderingly after him.

"I still cannot decide whether he or his cousin is more handsome, but on the whole, I think he will make a better husband. Well, Isabella? Are you going to stand here gaping all day?"

"But, Mama, Basil just said—"

"Yes, and if you don't make haste, you will not have the pleasant opportunity of thwarting Mr. Trevelyan. Why, what scandal do you think he'll dare provoke once you are married?"

"But, Mama—"

"Isabella, you're exhausting me. Please go away and pack."

Although he'd taken a calm leave of his cousin, Mr. Trevelyan was an exceedingly uncomfortable man at the moment. He cringed at the greetings of acquaintances as he strode down the street, and may have been perceived to slink into the privacy of his club. But there was no privacy for him, really, for he must bear
himself
company, and that self had, in the last hour, turned into a decidedly unpleasant fellow—one whom, in fact, he'd prefer not to know.

First, of course, there was the shock and the blow to his vanity of coming upon Miss Latham in the embrace of his cousin. That she returned the embrace enthusiastically was obvious, even to an imbecile. And Basil greatly feared that this was exactly what he had become. He politely declined the various invitations to join his cronies, and found instead a quiet corner, where he sulked behind a newspaper. Hating himself, he was yet most angry with Isabella, for it was she who had reduced him to this state—reduced him to the level of a slug, as his cousin had so aptly labelled him.

Perhaps he was unfair to Isabella in this; yet it must be known that for all his sophistication, Basil lacked a certain important experience: He had never in his thirty years been rejected in favour of another by a female.

True, his aim had not been high. Married ladies and members of the
demimonde
had always been his targets. And those young virgins with whom he had occasionally flirted had all been so naive—and astoundingly stupid— that he had never been tempted to more than flirtation. In fact, it was Isabella's intelligence which was her undoing, for she didn't immediately bore him. Had she done, he might have more easily torn himself away. No, the matter was that from his doting mother to the complaisant matrons and eager Cyprians, women had always been captivated by him. And thus, never having experienced rejection, he had not philosophy to guide him. He had no idea how to shrug it off.

Perhaps he'd known in his heart that, in the end, Isabella would not have him. Perhaps he'd known even before that morning when she'd so stiffly outlined her "conditions" and promised herself to him—then winced at his kiss. Certainly he'd known it this afternoon, when he'd made his unwelcome entrance.

But the knowing was of no use to him, since it didn't show him how to salvage his wounded vanity. And of course, added to wounded vanity was the harsh reality of an army of creditors, lying in wait.

It was not surprising, then, that he'd revealed what he knew of Maria Latham's history; nor was it surprising that he'd stooped to blackmail. But he found it strange, and definitely unpleasant, to realise the whole while (indeed, even as the first words were out of his mouth) that in doing so, he had abandoned the ranks of civilised human beings and sunk to the level of vermin.

And now what would he do? Common sense told him to give it up as a bad job and make immediate arrangements for a flight to the Continent. Freddie would loan him the money. Good God, even Edward would help him, would do anything to see the back of him. And then there were friends he could join, for Napoleon had not the entire continent in his grasp, after all. But what would he live on?

One moment Basil was determined on flight; he would live somehow. The next, flight was impossible. And so he went, back and forth, until Celestine's note arrived, and then he thought he need not make so critical a decision at this very minute. First, he would see what the beautiful lady wanted.

No, Mr. Trevelyan was not at his lodgings. No, the servant at the club told him, Mr. Trevelyan had left hours before. No, none of the club members knew where he'd gone. But Sir Eliot gave a knowing wink as he remarked that he believed Basil had had an urgent message from one of his ladybirds.

Lord Tuttlehope blushed as he knocked on the door. The little French maid's seductive smile only compounded his embarrassment as he stammeringly asked for Mademoiselle Celestine. The maid was so sorry, but mam'selle was engaged with a visitor. He was about to leave then, but screwed up his courage even as the door was closing in his face.

"It's damned urgent," he whispered hoarsely. "A message. Would you be kind enough—"

"But of course," the girl simpered.

"Then please tell Mr. Trevelyan—"

"Oh, no, monsieur. Mr. Trevelyan is not here." Perhaps monsieur was afflicted with a facial tick, for he blinked so. "It is another gentleman," she explained in a conspiratorial whisper.

Well, he had done his best. And to tell the truth, Freddie breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the street. For had he found Basil and told him what was in the wind, it was certain that his darling Alicia would never speak to him again.