The English Witch

by Loretta Chase

  The English Witch

  by

  Loretta Chase

  Copyright © by Loretta Chekani, 1987

  Prologue

  "Well, Maria, what do you think?"

  Lady Deverell looked up from the letter she'd just finished reading, but her gaze went to the fire, rather than to her questioner. Though it was a bright, cozy fire, so comforting on this late winter evening, she sighed.

  "How cleverly she writes. But then, I daresay she inherited her scholarly Papa's intellect."

  "Well, it wasn't from her Mama, that's for certain. Juliet, rest her soul, was a beautiful giddypate. A more ill-suited pair one could scarcely imagine. Juliet would never budge from London, and Charles was determined to be abroad. So, what happens but Alexandra is left with a governess and one or two servants in that lonely little place in the country. She was neglected shamefully, to my way of thinking—and now this. If only she had confided the matter sooner, I might have done something before she went away with her Papa. Wretched man." Lady Bertram nodded balefully at the letter, as though it were Sir Charles Ashmore himself.

  Certainly, if it were—and if it had had any sensibilities at all—it would have crept away in mortification. A tall, full-figured woman of sixty or so, unbowed by age or infirmity, the Countess Bertram could, when she liked, make herself very intimidating to lesser mortals.

  All the same, the letter lay, oblivious to the countess's scorn, in Lady Deverell’s delicate hand. Nor was the languid owner of that hand intimidated. She, in fact, scarcely seemed to attend at all, so absentmindedly did she answer. "Yes, it is most tiresome. And yet they are so very far away. Albania. One can hardly think how to help her at this great distance."

  "Nonetheless, one must. She's my goddaughter and requires my help. We must cudgel our brains, Maria."

  "Oh, must we?" Lady Deverell sounded rather faint at the prospect, as though someone had proposed that she run from London to Brighton. "Oh, dear, I suppose we must. Well, let me see." She glanced down at the letter. "There is the money, of course. Though one cannot understand why Charles went to a wool merchant for financial backing."

  "Because he is a proud, obstinate creature, who'd sooner shoot himself than toady to that bunch of aristocratic halfwits as he calls the Society of Dilettanti. So what does he do but put all his affairs into the hands of George Burnham— who was sly enough to toady to him."

  "But it is only money, after all, and you have enough, certainly—"

  "Yes, yes, I tried" was the impatient reply. "The day I received the letter, I dispatched a bank draft to Burnham. It came back with a curt note informing me that he could accept no funds on Ashmore's behalf without Ashmore's approval. Now Burnham has begun pressing for the marriage—and of course you see why."

  Lady Deverell gave the letter another glance and sighed. "Ah, yes. The eldest daughter is nearly one-and-twenty and must make her come out before she is obliged to wear caps."

  "A pack of mushrooms, Maria. Why should the Burnham care for my money when they might use Alexandra to introduce those ignorant, encroaching girls to society?"

  Lady Deverell made vaguely sympathetic murmurs.

  "I cannot think what to do next. For all her humourous comments, it's plain Alexandra is distressed. But if I write to her father, he'll resent my interference and, in one of his headstrong passions, is liable to haul them before one of those dervishes, to be married there. Really, he's the most vexing.”

  Lady Bertram's companion, immovably unvexed, replied dreamily, "Yes. Matters seem to have reached a crisis. Your goddaughter has run out of strategems, and the Burnhams press her Papa. Dear, dear. So he is determined to be back in England by summer."

  "Yes, and there's the devil of it. He'll pack her off to Yorkshire as soon as they set foot in the kingdom, and the poor girl will be married before she can blink."

  "How fatiguing to think of so much energy expended to such ill purpose. Yet that is exactly what he must do." Lady Deverell's preoccupied gaze wandered to the clock on the mantelpiece. "Unless, of course, some complication should intervene."

  "Yes." A faint smile softened the countess's patrician features.

  Lady Deverell followed another bored sigh with a change of subject. "Dear me, what a dreary winter this has been with half the world in Brussels. But it is nearly over. I understand Basil Trevelyan plans to return from Greece by summer."

  "Yes. So he's written."

  "Well, that will be pleasant, will it not? After three years we shall all be glad to see him."

  "Oh, yes. Prodigious glad."

  "I wonder," Lady Deverell mused, her eyes still on the clock, "what he will think of Albania."

  "Albania, my dear? Is that where he means to go?" the countess asked, very innocently.

  "Why, yes, Clementina. Now I think of it, that must be exactly what he intends."

  Chapter One

  It was called the "City of a Thousand Stairs." From a distance, the white stone houses with their elaborate red roof appeared to be carved out of the mountainside itself. They were white fairy stairs, zigzagging their way up to the mediaeval citadel. Veiled by the early dawn mist, Gjirokastra seemed exactly the sort of place where evil sorcerers hold fair princesses captive.

  On closer view the houses—windowless on the first floor, bay-windowed and ornate on the upper stories—were miniature fortresses themselves, clustered about their majestic parent. And at this hour of morning there were no fair princesses, nor evil sorcerers. There were instead a few women, most of them dressed in black, soberly going about their chores.

  The town was founded, according to folk legend, by the princess named Argjiro; but Sir Charles believed that its name came from the niyrian tribe of Argyres that had settled nearby. Gjirokastra's recent history was less mysterious: like every other town and hamlet of Albania, it had known only rare intervals of peace since its founding. Just four years ago, in 1811, Ali Pasha Lepelena had bombarded the rebellion town with artillery.

  In time, it could expect to be bombarded again by somebody, for some reason, but now in the misty dawn of what promised to be another sweltering June day, the place was quiet.

  Occasionally the women of Gjirokastra spoke to one another, but mainly they attended to their work. Certainly they had better things to do than watch the departure of the small caravan. The English were leaving, they knew. They also knew why.

  The women of Gjirokastra did not approve of "Skandara" Ashmore. Women were supposed to go about their back-breaking labour quietly, troubling nobody, but this English witch troubled everybody. Too many yearning songs had been composed in tribute to her green, sorceress eyes and gleaming dark curls. She made the young men restless, and that was bad.

  Meanwhile, the small caravan descending to the valley was not quite so subdued as the sleepy town it had just left. Alexandra Ashmore had not given up trying to sidetrack her father. This endeavour had grown increasingly difficult, because he'd finally made up his mind to go home, and once he made up his mind to something, he tended to apply all the concentration he normally focused on ancient inscriptions. At present his course was fixed. A certain Albanian family's apologetic warning the previous day had merely hastened a departure planned months before.

  "But Papa," Alexandra was saying, as calmly as she could, "surely we cannot come so close to Butrint and not spend time there."

  "I can go later, after you and Randolph are married."

  "But think of the expense. To go all the way back to England and then return all the way here again."

  "We've delayed long enough. You must be married. In a few more years, you'll be too old to have children. Randolph will want a family."

  Glancing ahead at the young man who rode with their ragged guard, Stefan, and the
ir slightly less ragged dragoman, Gjergi, Alexandra privately took leave to differ with her father. Randolph's beloved family existed already, in the remnants of ancient times. Her fiancé lusted for scraps of buildings and fragments of sculpture as another man might lust for women. He was blind to her charms. And she, while not vain, was not stupid either. She knew that most men found her very attractive.

  Randolph had agreed to marry her because he was dimly aware that he had to marry somebody. His father obligingly had found him a bride, thereby saving Randolph the trouble of looking for one, so he was content. Actually, oblivious was more like it. But aloud she said only, "Why, we can be married next year. Four-and-twenty is not the very brink of senility. And Randolph wouldn't mind. He, too, wishes to explore Butrint."

  "No. There'll always be trouble until you're married. Today we leave Gjirokastra because Dhimitri Musolja's besotted with you. In another place, it'll be someone else. With these men chasing you and upsetting their families, we accomplish nothing."

  That much was true. This was the fifth town they'd been forced to leave because of amourous young men. At any rate, it was futile to argue when those stubborn lines settled into Papa's forehead. Later she'd try again. She'd tempt him with Butrint once more.

  Gjirokastra, nestled in the mountains of southern Albania, was mainly mediaeval, although pieces of ancient rubble formed part of the material of which the citadel was built, and there were traces of ancient settlements nearby. Butrint was another story. Marcus Tullius Cicero had written of it, and according to the Aeneid, it was founded by the Trojans on their way from Troy to Italy. Though Papa said that was mere legend, he was dying to explore the place, as was Randolph. Surely there must be some way to convince them to stay—just a while longer. And perhaps, while they investigated antiquities, she might have an answer to the letter she'd written so many months ago.

  But what could Aunt Clem do, after all? Mama had adamantly objected to the match with Randolph; but as soon as she passed away, Papa had settled everything with George Burnham. While Papa had arranged the marriage as a means of paying off his long-standing debt to the wool merchant, he honestly believed he was looking out for his daughter's best interests. Her dowry was insignificant, and he had nothing to leave her after his death. Without a husband, her future would be a grim one.

  Awake to the need for a husband, she'd convinced her parents to scrape together enough money for a Season. Unfortunately, though she attracted many suitors, her lack of fortune as well as her Papa's eccentricity had a dampening effect on Honourable Intentions. The few London bachelors whose sensibilities were not thus dampened were unendurable. Alexandra did not think herself, as Mama complained, excessively fastidious, but it was quite impossible to accept Mr. Courtland, who was sixty, or Sir Alfred, who was short and fat and practically illiterate, or Mr. Porter, a Pink of the Ton whose only real passion was his tailor.

  In short, when, near the Season's end, her Mama had contracted a fever and died, Alexandra remained unclaimed. George Burnham was on the spot immediately, urging that the match go forward at once. Alexandra had responded by reminding her father that she was in mourning and convincing him to let her spend the time with him in Greece. Once they were abroad, it hadn't been difficult to stretch one year into another until six had passed. Papa forgot everything else when he was working.

  Meanwhile, she'd occupied herself by helping him keep his sketches and notes in order. She had also learned how to say what was expected of her while her mind wandered elsewhere. Since the two men were generally unaware of her existence, this was no great feat. It was not the most stimulating existence, and she did not see how being married to Randolph would improve it. She would like one day to talk of something besides the Peloponnesian War. With Randolph Burnham, such a day would never come.

  While she pondered her past and wondered sadly about her future, the group pressed on in relative silence, broken only by Gjergi's dropping into a soft song about the bravery of the Shqiptar—the Sons of Eagles. The mists that had enshrouded Gjirokastra were giving way to the bright morning sun, when the valley's peace was broken by the thundering of horses' hooves.

  Good God. Bandits. Alexandra had scarcely formulated the thought when she saw Stefan and Gjergi reach for the long guns slung across their saddles. Even as they were taking aim, the marauders thundered into their midst, stirring up a choking, blinding storm of dust. Her throat and eyes burning, Alexandra straggled to control her panicked horse with one hand while she rambled with the other for the pistol tucked into her waistband. In the next instant, she was dragged from her mount and flung onto another. Strong arms gripped her, and she stared up into a laughing, triumphant face.

  "Dhimitri!" she gasped.

  Furious, she pounded and clawed, screaming at him to let her go. The huge Albanian only laughed and grasped her more tightly.

  A single, curt command to his men, and Dhimitri Musolja galloped off with Sir Charles Ashmore's daughter.

  ***

  Basil Trevelyan glared at the breathtaking prospect beyond the narrow window: green and yellow valley below and majestic peaks beyond. The faint, sweet mountain breeze that cooled the early evening air only made him wish desperately to be home again. After two interminable years in India and another, equally dreary, in Greece, he was as tired of picturesque views as he was tired of business and politics. Now, when he should be on a ship bound for England, he was in Albania, in a wretched mountain village, whose suspicious inhabitants would tell him nothing.

  He turned angrily to the letters on the rough table before him. They'd come to him, one folded over the other, in Greece, and had plagued him ever since. His aunt, of course, habitually ordered him about. That was her character, just as it was his to ignore her. Since she was at least partially responsible for his three-year exile from England, it would have served her right had he torn the cursed things to bits. The trouble was, she knew what she was about. She'd enclosed Miss Ashmore's letter and let that do the business for her. Aunt Clem knew him too well—devious woman.

  Basil Trevelyan enjoyed drama. He enjoyed intrigue. And he enjoyed women. He especially enjoyed women, partly for their own sake and partly because relations with them so often involved drama and intrigue—not to mention the obvious pleasures. Because he had excellent taste, he particularly enjoyed beautiful women.

  Now here was a "good-looking girl," according to his usually critical aunt, who was attempting to conduct some sort of intrigue of her own. Alexandra Ashmore wrote coolly and humourously, yet movingly, of a typical maiden's plight: her Papa was making her marry a man she didn't love. The bridegroom had the Money. The bride had the Status—the usual trade.

  He'd tried one like it himself, three years ago, and had even gone so far as to try to blackmail Isabella Latham into marrying him. He'd failed because not only her relatives but also his own had thwarted him. They'd even had him drugged and abducted to make absolutely certain he couldn't interfere with her marriage to his cousin Edward, Earl of Hartleigh.

  Basil was still a bit ashamed of the way he'd behaved. He might not have been quite so ashamed, might even have nursed a grudge, had not Isabella, now Countess of Hartleigh, been the only one to write faithfully to him. Well, she'd always rather liked him. She just hadn't loved him.

  How she'd laugh if she could see him now: dirty, unshaven, uncombed, his borrowed clothes ragged and filthy. He was a far cry from the elegant man-about-town she'd known. That sophisticated fellow had been deeply sunk in debt three years ago. Now, thanks to Henry Latham, Basil was rich and even rather a hero—business, as Henry liked to say, being inextricably tied to politics. Having persuaded Basil to work for him, Latham was bound to put the younger man's talent for intrigue to profitable use. Mr. Trevelyan succeeded where even skilled diplomats had failed. For his efforts, he received some modest rewards and generous praise from the Crown. Less modest rewards and fewer words had come from the divers British businessmen and Indian princes to whom Basil had proved himself equ
ally invaluable.

  Now when he returned to England, he'd be welcome everywhere. Proper Mamas would push their innocent daughters at him. All kinds of respectable young ladies—pretty ones and plain, poor and wealthy and every variety in between—would pursue him. He doubted whether their virginal charms could compete with the more practised arts of the Fashionable Imputes he was accustomed to. Still, never loathe to be the centre of attention, he looked forward to making the comparison firsthand.

  One cleverly written letter had held him back from all that bliss. And why? He had a whim to meet the authoress. If her writing was any sample, she must be a very interesting young woman.

  That was what had brought him to this wretched place. He'd had a hot, miserable journey ending in a miserable town whose sullen folk refused to understand his guide's northern dialect. The name Ashmore evoked nothing but stubborn incomprehension.

  Basil ran his fingers through his tangled hair. The tawny, sun-bleached mane badly wanted cutting. His amber eyes were dull with exhaustion, and as he thought of more days wasted in search of the missing Ashmores, his head began throbbing horribly. Blast them! And blast his aunt as well. He wanted to be home in his own clothes and clean again. He wanted a familiar bed and familiar food. He thought longingly of London's cooling drizzles, forgetting that the city would soon be hot and odoriferous. He yearned for the quiet, cool comfort of his club. He even recalled wistfully the rustic peace of Hartleigh Hall.

  While he was in the midst of tormenting himself with these reflexions, Gregor crept into the room.

  "Zotir Basil," he whispered.

  Basil awoke from his reverie and gazed stupidly at his dragoman. "What? What is it?"

  "We have found Zotir Ashmore. A local boy, Dhimitri Musolja, has taken the girl."

  "Taken her? Where?"

  "Here, in the town, to his father's house. We must go quickly. There is big trouble now and soon, maybe worse."

  ***