Having thus reassured himself, the marquess proceeded to ease Freddie's troubled feelings. "As to Trev not being asked, what did you expect? Harry must still bear a grudge for that business three years ago."
Lord Tuttlehope blinked at him in surprise.
"Come now, Freddie. All Society knows Lady Hartleigh is Harry's daughter. They've made no secret of it, and any number of us know that Basil was up to some nasty business concerning her that got him packed off to India."
With several more blinks, Lord Tuttlehope stoutly denied that this was so and then in the next moment contradicted himself by insisting that Harry didn't bear a grudge. At least, so his beloved Alicia had assured him.
"Then," said Lord Arden, glancing at Lady Deverell, who was smiling lazily at something Miss Ashmore was saying, "it must be Maria."
Leaving Lord Tuttlehope to puzzle out for himself what the languid Lady Deverell had to do with the matter, Will made his way to Miss Ashmore's side.
At the moment she was explaining to the assembled group some of the pitfalls into which the subtleties of Albanian had led her. He had leisure, therefore, to admire—in addition to everything else he'd noted before—her low, husky voice. It thrilled him.
"And so," she was saying, "to pronounce it one way was to call him a boy—and yet to accent it only a bit differently was to call him a fiend. And the poor thing, who'd been so kind to find the goat for us, could not understand why I scolded him."
“But as it was a little boy, surely he could think of a reason for being scolded," Lady Tuttlehope responded. "They are always up to some mischief or other."
Lord Deverell added, with some pride, "Why, my grandson's only a year old, and already a prodigy at crawling into devilment."
Interesting as such conversation must be for doting Grandpapas, it eventually came to an end, and the party broke off into smaller groups. In time only Lord Arden, Lady Tuttlehope, and Lady Deverell remained with Miss Ashmore, and soon, to the marquess's unutterable relief, even this number dwindled. Maria, bored finally with standing between himself and Miss Ashmore, making conversation impossible with her sighs and lazy drawls, took herself languidly away to chat with Lady Bertram. That left only Lady Tuttlehope to thwart him.
The baroness, who had a romantic heart, was torn between leaving these two stunning creatures alone and wanting to hear what they'd say to each other. The choice was made for her when she saw her husband trapped into conversation with Lady Pomfret. She exclaimed softly, "Oh dear. Freddie is blinking terribly. Please excuse me." And off she went to his rescue.
Smiling a little at Lady Tuttlehope's ingenuous ways, Alexandra looked up to find herself the object of a very appreciative gaze. He was, just as Aunt Clem had promised, devilishly handsome. His hair was dark as a raven's wing, gleaming blue-black in the candlelight. The strong, ragged angles of his face were softened by grey eyes that managed to look boyish and innocent—though his manner was too polished to be boyish, his gaze too warmly appraising to be innocent. His manner, in fact, reminded her very much of someone else.
"I daresay, Miss Ashmore, that all of Society will be interrogating you about the mysterious country you visited. In a week you'll be sick to death of it and must swoon at the mere mention of the place.''
The killing look he bent upon her would have invited a weaker-minded female to swoon in any case, but Alexandra was made of sterner stuff. "Surely there's no danger of that, my lord. My simple reports cannot compete with Lord Byron's romantic tales, and Society, I am sure, has got those by heart."
"You credit Society with longer memory than it possesses—at least on any matter not fraught with scandal. And even if people had got the stories by heart, they would prefer—at least the gentlemen would, I know—to hear of the place from the lips of a beautiful lady."
"Would they? How odd." She looked up at him in a puzzled way. "Oh," she said in soft surprise, as though she'd only then caught his meaning. "You meant that as a compliment."
"It's the simple truth, Miss Ashmore. Byron himself would second me. That cannot surprise you, surely. I daresay that even Basil required you to spin tales for him by the hour—and he likes nothing better than to hear himself talk."
She looked puzzled again, and he explained hastily, "I thought you and your father travelled with Mr. Trevelyan. Perhaps I misunderstood?"
"Oh. Why, yes, he did accompany us on our return." Lord Arden looked rather sly, she thought, and she wondered what Basil may have said about her. Surely he wouldn't have boasted of stolen kisses. And was the marquess another such? Did he mean to work his arts upon her, too? She looked away from him, seeking a polite means of escape from this suddenly depressing exchange. But the others were engrossed in their own conversations, and Lord Arden was talking again.
"Yes, well, I couldn't be sure. Basil never said a word. It was only Freddie who mentioned it just a moment ago. As a matter of fact, Miss Ashmore, no one would say a word. They've all contrived to make a mystery of you, as though you'd dropped from out of the heavens into London."
The slyly inquisitive look disappeared, and with it her discomfort. They could not all be Basil Trevelyans. Besides, Aunt Clem would never have specially arranged for her to meet a scoundrel. Smiling at her unwonted timidity and mistrust—although his lordship took the smile as intended for himself—she answered, "Well, I'm not at all mysterious. I was abroad for six years with my father—and not in the most civilised places. Most likely I was such a ragamuffin upon my return that no one wanted to admit my existence until I could be made to look respectable again."
Lord Arden opened his mouth to contradict, eagerly, this slight upon her charms but was prevented by the reappearance of Lady Deverell, who had drifted back to them.
"How tiresome of me," she announced, with inexpressible ennui. "I had quite forgotten what I meant to ask you before, Will. It was that recipe for curry Lady Pomfret explained at such length that distracted me, I'm sure. It was so absorbing, was it not?"
Lord Arden agreed soberly that it was most absorbing.
"And if I'd realised it troubled her so, I would have asked Auguste to make it—although it is likely Harry would have left the house. He declares he cannot abide to see another curried anything again for as long as he lives. My husband," she explained to Miss Ashmore, "spent many years in India. But what was I about?" She stared thoughtfully at her diamond bracelet and must have found the answer there, for in a moment she told them, very wearily indeed, "Oh, yes. Isabella. How tiresome she is, Will."
"Not a bit of it. She's perfectly delightful."
"Yes, that is what I meant. She is so determinedly delightful that it quite wears me out to contemplate it. But she insists that I come to Hartleigh Hall at last, and so I must go, I suppose. And she declares she must have you, too, Will, and Jess—for if you don't bring your sister, you can't come at all, poor dear. The children will never forgive you, such hard-hearted creatures they are."
Lord Arden was delighted to accept and promised less delightedly to bring his sister.
"It will not be a very large party—such a pity your parents are in Scotland, though I daresay it's more comfortable for them. At any rate, Lady Bertram comes, of course, with Miss Ashmore." She did not appear to notice Miss Ashmore's little start. "And Freddie and Alicia. Oh, yes. Lady Bertram promises to write your Papa, Miss Ashmore—and that young man who assists him. She said he was very pleasant."
Lord Arden's eyes might have been perceived to narrow ever so slightly.
"Though where to write them is the great question. If he has gone on to visit the Burnhams in Yorkshire, he will hardly wish to travel so far in this heat for a quiet house party among so many strangers. Yet I was positive Henry Latham meant to have him to Westford. At any rate, that is all, I suppose, though one cannot be certain with curry uppermost in one's thoughts."
The prospect of meeting her father at Hartleigh Hall with Randolph in tow was not pleasant to contemplate. Very sensibly, then, Alexandra put it out of her min
d. It was not sensible, however, to feel so very disappointed that a certain name was conspicuously absent from the guest list. She forced a smile as she told her two companions she was looking forward to making so many new acquaintances.
"Well, I only hope we do not wear you out, Miss Ashmore. You have just got to London"—a perfectly heartbreaking sigh—"and now you must be dragged off again. You have only had a very little respite from Basil and now must be thrust into his company once more." Lady Deverell shook her head sadly over this, as one who could not account for the naughty behaviour of Providence.
"Then Basil is coming as well?" Lord Arden asked with a covert glance toward Miss Ashmore.
"Why yes. Didn't I say so? Well; perhaps I didn't. That curry plagues me so." And with another tragic sigh, the viscountess floated away.
Chapter Seven
"So," Basil was saying, as he played with the note he'd received that morning—nearly a week after the dinner to which he'd not been invited. "It isn't enough they bid me come and be roasted by all my relations at once, but they must have Will, too, and Jess. Well, we know what that's all about, don't we?"
Freddie didn't know, but he nodded sagely nonetheless.
"And if they mean to push her off on the first peer who comes along, it's not my trouble is it?"
Freddie shook his head.
"Arden's welcome to her. But I am not about to keep Jess amused while he woos Miss Ashmore. I'm not Hartleigh's court jester, after all."
Freddie was halfway into a nod but stopped suddenly and blinked instead. "Don't mean you're not coming?"
"I am not."
"But they ain't seen you in three years, and we're going."
"I'll be very sorry to lose your company, Freddie, but my family must learn that I am no longer to be ordered about, here and there, at their whim. Why, they make up some claptrap about a young woman in dire straits and dispatch me off to rescue her. Dire straits. I'll tell you who's in dire straits—anyone who comes within a mile of her tongue, that's who."
"Seemed amiable enough to me. Alicia likes her."
"Freddie, your beautiful wife is so good-natured that she can discover no less in all those she meets."
Such praise could not fail to gratify one who saw his wife as the paragon of every sort of perfection and virtue. Even so, Freddie could not willingly forego his friend's company. He made a stammering attempt to change Basil's mind.
"No, Freddie, I can't do it. I'd see you in another month or so, no doubt, when you come back to town. I will not play the fool again, even to accommodate you. Besides, I have business to attend to."
"Business? This time of year?"
"Oh, yes. I must see about a house, of course, for I don't intend to live in a hotel forever. But more important, I've just met a perfectly charming barque of frailty, and if I go away now, there are half a dozen others ready to take my place in her mercenary affections. Such business cannot wait. Jess must contrive to entertain herself, and you must find consolation in the company of your beautiful wife."
Lord Tuttlehope returned home bluedevilled. He was the happiest of husbands, but he'd missed his clever friend dreadfully. Now to learn that he must endure that friend's absence until the Little Season at least… There was no understanding Basil lately. They'd only seen him twice in the two weeks since he'd returned. It was most disappointing, and so he told his wife.
"Oh, Freddie," she said, "whatever are you thinking? Of course Basil is coming."
"Not at all. Said he wasn't."
"Oh, he never means half what he says. You know that, dear. Maria says he'll be there, and so he will."
Lady Deverell, of course, knew everything. Quite like Lady Bertram in that respect. A couple of oracles they were. Nonetheless, Freddie stoutly maintained that Basil would not appear. "She'll be there, you know, and he can't abide her."
"Whom do you mean, darling?"
"Her. Ashmore's girl."
"Basil can't abide her?" Lady Tuttlehope's eyes opened wide with astonishment. "But she's so beautiful—and so clever and amiable."
"Hates her," her husband insisted. "Said so. Won’t be made a fool of."
"So that's why he hasn't gone to see his aunt. Yet, what kind of excuse is it, when he's been away three whole years? Then I hope he shan't come after all, the mean thing. For he's sure to be unpleasant to Miss Ashmore, and then I shall have to hate him. I think she's lovely, and I hope she marries Will. Did you see the way he looked at her the other night? It made my heart flutter."
Lord Tuttlehope was a generous-minded man, but he did not like his wife's heart to flutter on anybody's account but his own. He blinked unhappily, and the tactful Alicia moved quickly to reassure him.
"Oh dear," she said, after a few very pleasant minutes had passed.
"What? What is it?"
"You came home looking so troubled, dear, that I forgot all about Marianne's letter."
"All well, I hope," her husband responded, though he really couldn't care less at the moment. He wanted more coddling.
"Quite well. Though she does say Mama has been very tiresome about her coming to us for a Season. Poor girl— she'd so much rather stay at home with her books."
"Quiet, sensible girl." Lord Tuttlehope dimly remembered Marianne as the least terrifying of Alicia's three younger sisters.
"Yes. And she writes to say that Papa has brought guests with him. You'll never guess."
"Can’t think who."
"Miss Ashmore's Papa. And a young man—a Mr. Burnham. Very agreeable, Marianne says. He knows heaps about old things—history, you know, dear—and must talk the livelong day about it, for she crossed an entire page telling me about the something wars. It begins with a 'p,' I think something like 'Penelope'—but it's much too hard a word to remember."
Her husband couldn't think what it was either and didn't especially want to know. He had much rather be assured again about Lord Arden and so found a way to stammer back to that subject and be comforted accordingly.
The post must have been doing a brisk business that day, for Alexandra also had a letter from Westford. It was not from Marianne Latham—Alexandra didn't know that young lady—but from Sir Charles. And, as was the case with most of the baronet's communications, it was annoying.
The long and the short of it was that he'd found out that Mr. Trevelyan was a perfectly dreadful young man. Sir Charles had found it out from Mrs. Latham, who, in the course of apprising him at unnecessary length of her dear daughter Alicia's highly satisfactory marriage to a baron, had also some choice words to bestow on the subject of the baron's good friend, Mr. Trevelyan.
"And it's no good," wrote Sir Charles in his crabbed script, "that Mr. Latham makes excuses for him. Nor can I think what excuse to make for you, Alexandra. Trevelyan is, and has been for all his adult life, one of London's most notorious libertines. I must believe you either the greatest fool or the most deceitful daughter there ever was. How, I ask, could the man be secretly engaged to you when three years ago he was so busy trying to get himself engaged to Mr. Latham's niece—or former niece—I cannot make out what the relations are in that family. Everywhere I turn, I hear nothing but scandal. If I were not kept here on important business, as Mr. Latham expresses interest in investing in my Albanian work, I would come and take you away immediately. Still, while I am here some matters can be put in train, and in a few more days I expect that Randolph and I can come to London for you."
There was more, a great deal more, and all of it unpleasant. Alexandra was scowling at the letter when Lady Bertram entered the room. "Good heavens, child, what dreadful news is it?"
The younger woman made no answer, but simply handed her the document so she might see for herself. Lady Bertram read it, glared, then crumpled the letter in a ball and tossed it into the cold fireplace. "Don't trouble yourself, my dear," he said. "No one is going to cart you off anywhere like so many bushels of corn. You're in England now, Alexandra, and among friends."
"But Papa—"
"—is only in bad humour because he hasn't any bits of ancient rubble to be poking at. This is nothing to distress yourself about. Go now. Will arrives shortly to take you for a drive, and you haven't even begun to dress. I will send Emmy up to you directly."
Smiling, Alexandra pointed out that it did not require two full hours to make herself ready.
"Then find something to do, there's a dear girl. I must write some letters."
Ordinarily, Lord Arden would not have taken his Intended to Hyde Park—certainly not at five o'clock—since this would announce her existence to every bachelor still in town. For ornately, the party was scheduled to leave for Hartleigh Hall the following day. He trusted, therefore, that when she next appeared in the park, it would be as his wife. What a glorious marchioness she'd make! And when the Respected Parent finally stuck his spoon in the wall, she'd make an even more stupendous duchess.
Accordingly, Lord Arden set himself to being even more agreeable than usual, though it scarcely seemed possible, and suppressed his boredom when she firmly turned the conversation from gossip to politics. Nor did he patronise her (at least not very much) when she went on to talk so earnestly of literature, though he didn't listen either. He was too busy imagining what it would be like to have a beautiful bluestocking as his hostess. Fondly, he pictured her astonishing his aristocratic colleagues with her harangues. He even envisioned her teaching an assortment of handsome children—some green-eyed, some grey-eyed—to lisp Greek and Latin.
Yes, a beautiful wife who was slightly eccentric was even better than a beautiful wife who was much like everyone else. Thus, though he barely heard five words out of every twenty, he fancied he was quite in love with her mind as well as everything else about her.
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