The English Witch (24 page)

Lady Deverell sighed in sorrowful agreement. "Ah, yes. You charming wretches. It is such great sport for you to play fast and loose with our tender feminine hearts"

"Yes, madam. Great sport indeed. Speaking of which, is this the romantic site you told me of? The scene of stolen interludes, jealous hearts, tears, and I don't know what else?"

They had, in fact, reached the site of recent highly charged events—the place, in short, where Lord Arden had attempted to compromise his Intended. Lord Deverell, having been obliquely accused of certain sporting instincts and furthermore seeing that the place was altogether satisfactory in every respect, determined to live up to the accusation and swept his wife into his arms. That vulnerable creature being, as she'd hinted, no proof against such wicked masculine wiles, gave herself with a low chuckle over to the conqueror.

If anyone deserved a good night's sleep, it was himself. Yet Mr. Trevelyan was strangely reluctant to take himself to bed. He took another turn in the garden, and then another, but the cool fragrance of the country night did not soothe him. It had, after an hour's aimless pacing, only brought back vividly another garden far away and another night many weeks ago...and a pair of startled green eyes, searching his face.

He'd felt those eyes reproachfully upon him today and had been quite unable to meet them. He should have told her. It had been unkind—at the least—to leave her in the dark. But to see her arrive at that inn on Will's arm...well, in a matter of minutes, Basil had gone from jealous rage to guilt and back again. Yet, he'd been very high-handed with her—the more so because he knew he was to blame. Had he confided in her before he left, she could easily have found a way to put Will off.

But no. He'd been all in a dither then, too—because she'd proved, once and for all, how helplessly besotted he was, and because she'd laughed at him just when he was on the brink of confessing it.

He turned and made his way back to the house. Another long, lonely night then. Only this time he'd better think, and to the point. He'd have to speak to her tomorrow. "And say what, you great ass?" queried a mocking voice in the back of his head. "What do you think she'll believe
now?"

***

Alexandra sat up and pounded her pillow, though her anger was hardly the pillow's fault. It was, however, an inanimate
object upon which she might vent her frustrations with impunity—though it would have been ever so much more satisfactory to be pounding upon Mr. Trevelyan's head and tearing out his tawny hair by the clumpfuls.

For the tenth or twentieth time since she'd retired for the night, she flung herself back down upon the bed and closed her eyes. And for the tenth or twentieth time she cursed the day she'd met him.

The fact was that, like a great many other people whose prayers the gods have answered, Miss Ashmore was wishing she'd worded her orisons more carefully. True, being in love with the man, she must be overjoyed that he'd returned safe and sound. The problem was that, in returning not only unscathed but unchanged and therefore unimproved, he made her feel like an idiot. Virtually everything she'd thought and done from the minute she'd met him had been wrong. She'd driven herself distracted, trying to manipulate her father and Will by turns and had succeeded only in twisting herself deeper into a quagmire. From which Basil had, with hardly a second's thought, extricated her. A snap of his fingers and Randolph, Papa, George Burnham, and Will were all disposed of simultaneously.

There she'd been, plotting and worrying by day, worrying and weeping by night—a prodigious waste of energy. She was a fool. Her brains must have rotted away in the sultry Mediterranean climate.

Look at her prowling about the house and grounds all day today by herself, hoping like a sentimental goose that he'd come to her. Then what? Fall to his knees declaring that he did it all because he loved her? And in some treacly way straight out of a fairy tale, swear always to be faithful because now he'd found his one, his only, his
true
love at last.

Faithful, indeed.
It was all a game to him, to play with others' lives. Hadn't Aunt Clem said it? It was a matter of pride with him to succeed completely in whatever he undertook, "particularly if it is something devious." All of this meant no more to him than what he'd done when he was abroad. Why confide in her? Why bother even to talk to her? She was only another of his pawns. Now he'd tied up all the loose ends he'd be gone again. Back to London and his usual dissipations.

If only he could go out of her life as well. But she was going to London herself in another two days, where she'd have to endure a Little Season, catching glimpses of him now and then at some party or other, watching him dance and flirt and reduce other ladies to inbecility. Doubtless she'd hear as well of much worse, for the gossips of London were indefatigable. No matter was too small for their prying eyes and malicious tongues.

That sort of thing she didn't need to witness or be told of. She was already jealous of the hundreds of young women she imagined in his arms because, fool that she was, she wanted him all to herself. How she'd missed him! But when she felt the tears starting in her eyes, she quickly took herself in hand. She would not weep another instant over him.

The clock in the hall struck one. Good grief! Nearly two hours she'd lain here making herself mad. Enough. If she couldn't sleep, at least she could read. There was always the interminable
Clarissa,
and she had finally got to the last volume. As she was getting up, about to light the candle on her bedstand, she remembered that she'd left the book downstairs in the library last evening. Well, no help for it then. She must either go down and get it or stay here and madden herself all night.

She crawled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, stubbed her toe on a footstool, and stumbled against the bedpost, but eventually got out of the room. Quietly and very cautiously—not wanting any more bruises—she made her way downstairs and groped along the hall. Having narrowly missed collision with the heavy table that stood by the library door, she found the door handle and opened the door.

Light. There was light in the room, and it was occupied. A single candle burned in a silver holder upon an elegant mahogany table. The soft candlelight bathed the room in a dreamlike, golden glow, and lounging at his ease on the great leather sofa was Mr. Trevelyan.

He was fully dressed except for his coat, which was draped over a nearby chair. His neckcloth dangled carelessly, and his tawny hair, glinting gold like new-minted coins under the soft light, was tousled—the result, no doubt, of being raked with his fingers. Even now he ran his hand through it as though bedevilled by something.

He looked up from the letter he'd been reading and stared at her for a moment as though disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes. Then a slow smile lit his handsome face.

Really, it was most unfair,
she thought crossly. He had no right to be so beautiful, draped upon the sofa like some sly Apollo come down among mortal women to destroy their peace. It was positively cruel what that smile did to her. It made her want to do things a lady must not—like hurl herself at him or, at the very least, run her fingers through that tousled, sun-bleached mane. No. A lady, certainly, had better make a dignified—and speedy—exit.

Grasping the door handle, she turned to leave.

"Why, you've only just come, Alexandra. ‘They flee from me,'" he quoted. "But no, that's not right, is it? For you never ‘did me seek,' did you? More's the pity."

"Do be quiet," she whispered. "Do you want everyone to hear you?"

"Why, they're all sound asleep, their consciences clear. Unlike yours and mine. But yes, my guardian angel," he went on, dropping his voice to a low timbre that sent a chill running down the back of her neck. "I take your meaning. And if I promise to be very quiet, will you stay a minute and talk to me?"

Oh, how she wanted to stay, how she'd missed him. For all that he made her uncomfortable physically—and that was mainly the discomfort of trying to bring her desires into harmony with her morals—there was no one else with whom she could talk so easily. Because he knew her better than anyone else did...though she rather wished he didn't know her quite so well.

She looked down at her scanty attire and told herself to be sensible. "No. I only came for my book. I-I couldn't sleep." She glanced around the room, seeking the wayward volume.

"This one?" he asked, taking a familiar tome from the table near his head.
"Clarissa?
The interminable seduction? You are nearly at the end of it, I see." Idly he turned the pages. "Perhaps, as we're both wakeful, you might read to me."

"Don't be absurd." She was not sure what to do. She could not bring herself to go and take the book from him, nor did she think it advisable that he bring it to her. Nor did she wish to leave the room without it.

"Ah, I see the problem," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "What a thoughtless creature I am, to be sure. For here it is"—he consulted his pocket watch—"nearly half past one in the morning, and there are you in your dishabille, alone in a dim library with an arrant rogue. But see how simple it is? At this hour there's no one to notice the breach of decorum. There is my coat to protect your modesty. As to the rogue part—well, what dreadful thing do you think I'd dare attempt with the circumstances so very incriminating and my family only a shriek away?"

Putting the book down, he rose from the sofa. He took his coat from the chair, and held it up with a beckoning gesture.

She hesitated.

"Come, Miss Ashmore. Or are you afraid?"

Yes, actually, she was afraid. His effect on her was always unnerving, always dangerous. Still, he'd admitted that the risks were too great even for
him.
She put up her chin, crossed the room, and allowed him to help her on with his coat. He gestured towards the sofa, and she sat down gingerly.

She could not, however, suppress a gasp of shock when she saw him go to the door and turn the key in the lock. Grinning at her obvious alarm, he tossed the key to her. She caught it with trembling hands.

"That's in case there happen to be other insomniacs," he explained, as he pulled up a chair opposite her. "If we hear anyone coming, I shall crawl out the window while you take your time about going to the door. You would, of course, have locked it for fear of being disturbed by naughty gentlemen."

If she was uneasy at first, she forgot that as soon as he began talking, because immediately he set to telling her the true story of Randolph's elopement. Her surmises, she learned, had been correct. "But why," she asked, when he'd finished describing the elopement arrangements, "did you insist on going looking for him?"

"I couldn't rest easy until I was certain they were both in the coach and on their way. If the smallest thing went wrong, Randolph would have been helpless. Also, I was obliged to keep Henry Latham informed. We'd agreed, you see, that he'd handle the business end while I saw to the romance part of it."

"You mean he knew about the scheme all along?"

"He knew, thanks to my aunt, about your father's debt to George. He guessed about the romance sooner even than I did and must have dropped a hint to Aunt Clem when he wrote to her, for she dropped hints to me. None of which I picked up, I'm ashamed to admit. But when your Papa spoke that day about Randolph's breaking heart...well, to make a long story short, by the day of the picnic I'd not only got the truth out of Randolph, but also, in exchange for devising a workable elopement scheme, some important details regarding his father's practises. So on I dashed to Westford. Henry saw right off that mine was the best solution. It would have taken ages to reconcile his wife, and meanwhile George could have finally torn himself away from Yorkshire before you left, there to force your marriage to his son. There was no time to be lost."

"So you had everything in hand,” there was a note of reproach in her voice.

Basil stared at the carpet. "I know. I should have told you. But the one time we were private—well, it all got driven out of my head. Then I made you hate me...and it was getting late. I should have been on my way hours before...and, well, I didn't tell you. I'm sorry, would have spared you a deal of aggravation. If you'd known, you could have considered this. Kept Will out of your hair easily enough, I'm sure."

She played with the key as she considered this. “I'd like to think so,” she began slowly. “But it looks as though you've taken care of that too, haven't you?” The green eyes fixed on him. “I should very much like to know what happened when you met up with him.

Mr. Trevelyan was evasive. He even looked uncomfortable, as he gave a highly edited account of his meeting with Lord Arden.

"What did you say to him?" she pressed. "Why did he avoid me all day?"

"I wish you wouldn't look at me that way. It turns my blood quite cold. I only had a serious discussion with him about the responsibilities of marriage, and he finally admitted he wasn't ready for them."

This, considering Will's impetuosity, she found a trifle hard to swallow.
But then, was it so important?
Basil had solved all her problems, disposed of all her fiancés. It was churlish to cavil at the means. "Never mind," she said with a small gesture of impatience. "It doesn't matter what you said. So long as I'm free of him."