The English Witch

by Loretta Chase

  "It's going to be deuced uncomfortable," he told his companion. "Both the horse and I had much rather it was you. But leading another beast would only slow us more. Ah, well." He gave a forlorn sigh, and they were on their way.

  They reached Hartleigh Hall a little before midnight and rode quietly round to the servants' entrance.

  "Now do you go on ahead," he whispered. "My valet was supposed to leave the door unlatched—"

  "You've been here already?"

  "No, but I sent Rogers. You must slip upstairs and go to my room. He'll be waiting. Tell him there's been a slight change in plans and that he's to come down to me."

  "You want me to go to him looking like this?"

  "My dear, Rogers cannot be shocked. It's out of the question. Besides, he's the most close-mouthed fellow in creation. And I must have his help in getting Will dressed and back to the party. Come," He strode over to help her down from her mount.

  If he took the opportunity to hold her a little closer than was absolutely necessary for rather longer than was absolutely necessary, and if his lips touched hers before he let her go, it must be blamed on the excitement of the moment. As must, of course, Miss Ashmore's delay in letting go of him. In any case, there was a brief embrace, at the conclusion of which Mr. Trevelyan gave it as his opinion that she'd better go in quickly. She retorted that it was he who kept her back, which led to another, longer embrace and Mr. Trevelyan's husky observation that if she didn't go in now he couldn't answer for the consequences.

  "Then let go of me," she snapped with rather more ferocity than circumstances required, for he was not holding her so very tightly as all that, and she had suffered two kisses without giving any sort of battle.

  At any rate, he did let go, and she fled, her face blazing with shame. She got upstairs undetected, found Rogers—who, as promised, never turned a hair at seeing her in his master's coat and trousers—and communicated her message. Then, red-faced again, she crept on to her own room, shut the door, and fell, shaking, onto the bed.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lifting the cup with two trembling hands, Alexandra informed her abigail that she'd never heard a thing, having slept like the very dead she was sure. That was true enough.

  Basil had come to her door last night just as she was preparing to climb into bed. Yanking her dressing gown tightly about her, she'd gone to answer the knock. With no thought of decorum, he'd pushed the door open and strolled in as assuredly as though he'd dropped into his own club. He'd looked so elegant and handsome—every hair in place, his evening costume perfectly pressed and spotless—that she'd begun to think she'd imagined the whole evening's adventure.

  It was only after his eyes raked her insufficiently clad form and he'd made a rather indecorous proposal that she'd collected her wits and seized the washbasin as a weapon. After declaring her cruel and heartless, he'd said he'd only come to take his clothes back and to tell her she must pretend she'd never left her room that night—no matter what Will might be foolish enough to say when he recovered.

  Basil had gone on to explain that he must be away for a few days, but he begged her to trust him in the meantime. "No one," he'd promised, "is going to drag you off to Yorkshire. So there's no need to fall in with any more of his lordship's schemes. Is that clear?" It wasn't clear, and she didn't like taking orders, but she'd nodded.

  He'd then asked for a good-night kiss. Being threatened with the washbasin instead, he'd taken mournful leave of her, once more remarking on her want of feeling.

  After he'd gone, she'd taken the laudanum her hostess had so thoughtfully provided earlier for her headache. It would have been impossible to sleep otherwise. She had, therefore, slept very soundly and never heard the others return. She did not mind that her tongue, at the moment, was thick and unpleasant-tasting in her mouth, or that her head felt as though it were in a vise. She had blessed oblivion for a few hours at least.

  Emmy seemed about to burst with suppressed excitement.

  "A to-do?" Alexandra asked, with admirable composure. "What sort of to-do?"

  "Oh, Miss, every sort of thing. Mr. Burnham is gone off, no one knows where. His lordship—Lord Arden, that is—was carried up to his room, and I don't know what else. We were all at sixes and sevens and no one in their beds until sunup at least. That was only the ladies, as the gents was down in the library talking the longest time after."

  As she took in her mistress's white, drawn face, Emmy was stricken with guilt, and began berating herself for upsetting the poor lady when it was plain she was still ill. She plumped up the pillows, straightened the coverlet, and left the room, still muttering at herself.

  It was several hours before Alexandra heard the full story, as the rest of the family and guests remained in their beds until well into the afternoon. She dressed herself but, not caring to risk a confrontation with Lord Arden, kept to her room and tried to focus on Mr. Richardson's Clarissa. Though she'd read the old novel years ago in defiance of her governess, and though the interminable epistles did tax her patience dreadfully, Alexandra was determined to read the story through, "for the sentiment," as Dr. Johnson had recommended.

  She would have preferred, certainly, that Lovelace did not so very much remind her of Mr. Trevelyan, and that Clarissa's parental difficulties did not make her own pale into insignificance. Nevertheless, she read on doggedly until Aunt Clem appeared to give her a full accounting of the night's events.

  Lady Bertram told the tale in her usual blunt way. That rattle of a nephew of hers had put in a surprise appearance just as the party was going in to supper. He'd treated them all to some cockamamie tale about his horse stumbling into a ditch and the consequent several hours' delay which had prevented his arriving at Hartleigh Hall in time to accompany them to the gala.

  Her ladyship communicated her private opinion that it was no four-footed creature that had delayed him but a barmaid, for he wore an insufferable cock-of-the-walk air that made his aunt want to slap him senseless.

  At any rate, he'd exhausted himself during supper and a couple of sets after, cutting a swathe through all the debutante hearts in the vicinity. He'd gone out to the terrace for a breath of air. There he'd come upon Will who was sprawled out, unconscious, on one of the long stone benches.

  "I'd wondered where he'd got to," her ladyship muttered. "Hadn't seen him for hours. Well, evidently he'd been fully occupied, drinking himself into stupefaction."

  Lord Arden was bundled off to an unoccupied parlour while the festivities continued into the small hours of the morning. When it was time to depart, the servants carried him out to the carriage. Basil, who'd been supervising this procedure, was the one to find the note addressed to Sir Charles. It was lying on the seat of the vehicle in which the baronet had ridden to the gala.

  At this point in the narrative, the countess's patrician features broke into a grin of unholy glee. "What do you think, my dear? Your Papa's scholarly companion—the steadiest chap in the world, according to Charles—has run away. Run away!"

  "Good heavens," said Alexandra, rather faintly.

  It was true. Mr. Burnham had, according to his note, decided to take control of his own life for once. Though he'd worded it diplomatically enough, it was plain—to Aunt Clem at least—why he'd gone.

  "Is it not astonishing, my dear? The dutiful boy blankly refuses to marry you."

  "Yes, it is astonishing, Aunt Clem. Randolph Burnham running away. Randolph flouting his Papa's commands. I can scarcely credit it," said the young lady. Her face was pale, but her voice was steady enough.

  "Well, credit it, my dear. Even your father, shocked as he was, was forced to believe his own eyes. I am sure that if he had not feared for Randolph's safety—for, in truth, as Basil said, the young man's an innocent lamb and might easily stumble into difficulties, left to himself—well, if that were not his main concern, he'd have shrugged it off soon enough. At any rate, Basil offered to go look for Mr. Burnham to reassure us all that the young man was safe. Obliging fell
ow, my nephew, isn't he?"

  Miss Ashmore nodded.

  "But I'll tell you, my dear, your father was not so very distressed by that note—though of course he grumbled and carried on. I was most pleased, as you can imagine. For you see what this means. Now, at last, you may have a proper Season."

  Miss Ashmore must not have appeared as delighted at this prospect as the countess had expected, for her ladyship went on reassuringly, "Well, of course you must, Alexandra. Will's behaviour last night does make one wonder whether he's settled and mature enough to make an acceptable husband. I recognise, of course, that the gentlemen must indulge, but it is very bad form to show the extent of the indulgence. A man who cannot hold his liquor had better not drink it in the first place. Most especially not when he is endeavouring to win the esteem of a gently bred woman."

  ***

  In the event the implications of this breach of etiquette had not already occurred to his lordship, his sister was in the process of bringing the matter forcibly—and at altogether unnecessary volume, he thought—to his attention. She stood over his bed of pain delivering a scathing lecture of nearly an hour's duration. This he was forced to endure in relative silence, having learned at the outset that no one knew anything of the aborted elopement. All assumed that Miss Ashmore had been sleeping innocently in her own bed the entire night.

  When his sister—with the parting declaration that she fervently hoped Miss Ashmore would give him his congi—finally took herself off, Lord Arden considered the facts as he had them. It was not easy or pleasant to do so. His head felt as though his horse had been dancing upon it, and twice he had to abandon his meditations in order to retch into the chamber pot. Nonetheless, sick as he was, he saw plainly enough the fine hand of Basil Trevelyan in this business. Trev's sudden appearance so late at the gala. Trev finding him on the terrace.

  Damn the intriguing, interfering devil! He'd arranged matters very neatly, very neatly indeed. The marquess could hardly accuse him openly without admitting his own guilty secret—and if he did, he must implicate Miss Ashmore. His hands were tied. After his allegedly low behaviour of last night, he must count himself lucky if allowed within fifty miles of the young lady. And, for the moment at least, there wasn't one blessed thing he could do about it.

  ***

  "Basil?" Lord Hartleigh repeated, looking at his guest as though the fellow had just escaped from Bedlam.

  He had, it was true, expected an apology. But the gothic accusations that followed made the earl wonder whether the young man should be sent back to bed and a physician called in. In the next few minutes, however, as Will summed up the suspicious circumstances, Lord Hartleigh was forced to admit to himself that this tale was very much in Basil's style.

  "You know me, Hartleigh," the marquess pleaded. "When have you ever seen me make such a cake of myself? Why, if you called all Dessing's servants together and questioned them, you'd find I had no more than three glasses of champagne altogether."

  "So you suspect Basil somehow slipped something into one of those glasses?"

  Though Lord Arden meant other glasses at another place, he nodded grimly.

  "Why? What had he to gain by it?"

  "I'm not sure," the marquess hedged. "Though I can make a good guess, and I mean to set him straight."

  "Well, that's only natural. Though I might add it's also a great waste of time. Basil can't be set straight. It's physically impossible. Besides, he's gone after Mr. Burnham."

  "Yes, and I'm going after him."

  "Now, Will, don't make a mountain out of a molehill. Whatever you suspect—"

  "It's no secret that I have been endeavouring to win the affection of the young lady under your roof," Lord Arden interrupted rather pompously. "Last night's events are not calculated to inspire her confidence. I intend to clear this matter up—and with it my character."

  In vain did the earl attempt to pour oil on the troubled waters. Will was determined to find Basil and wring the truth out of him. That failing, he would, he hinted darkly, seek revenge.

  Well, if he must, he must. Lord Hartleigh shrugged. Basil could take care of himself. Fortunately, not having the remotest idea where his cousin had gone, the earl was spared the disagreeable necessity of offering Lord Arden any other assistance than a reluctant "Godspeed."

  Lord Hartleigh, as was his habit in all things, confided the matter to his wife and was a little surprised to see her intelligent blue eyes lit with vexation.

  "Gone after him?" she repeated. "And you let him, Edward? Gracious God! What if he kills him?"

  "Of course he won't kill him. They've been playing pranks on each other and vowing revenge since they were boys. Will isn't about to risk disgrace and exile on account of a mere female—regardless how much he thinks he wants her."

  "I still don't like it. This whole business has gotten completely out of hand."

  "Which is what I predicted in the first place. There's nothing you or I can do now. Except, perhaps, report to your mother—as if she doesn't know already."

  "Gone after him?" Lady Deverell repeated, bored past all expression. "How very wearisome in this heat." She returned her attention to the book that lay in her lap.

  "Mama!"

  "Yes, my love." The viscountess did not look up.

  "What are we to do?"

  "I suppose," Lady Deverell answered vaguely, apparently preoccupied with the book, "we shall have to dress soon. We are promised to the Osbornes for dinner. How distressing for them. With the three gentlemen gone, the numbers at table will be sadly out. How tiresome for Mrs. Osborne when she goes to so much trouble."

  "She won't be tired at all if there's gossip to be gotten out of it," Isabella retorted. "I daresay it's all over the county by now after that scene at Netherstone. Mr. Burnham runs away, and then Basil goes after him for no apparent reason, and then Will after him. I wonder who'll be next?" She cast a speaking glance at her mother. In answer she received a world-weary shrug followed by a world-weary sigh. "I suppose," she told her provoking parent, "I had better let Miss Ashmore know of it.”

  "Why on earth should you do that, my love?"

  "Because," was the exasperated reply, "she's bound to remark Will's absence sooner or later, and though you like to tease and make secrets of everything, I do not."

  "Why, Bella, my darling, what on earth are you in such a bother about?"

  "You, Mama. You know exactly what is going on and you tell me nothing, only sit there like the Sphinx. As though it were the most natural thing in the world that a quiet, studious gentleman like Mr. Burnham should take it into his head to run away. Or that Will Farrington, whose head for spirits is harder even than Papa's, would drink himself insensible. Or that Basil, who makes such a scene about going to London, should turn up at the Dessing's party five days later—and the party half over. Really, Mama, what a ninnyhammer you must think me."

  Lady Deverell looked up from her book with a blank little smile. "Why, my dear, now you mention it, it is rather odd, is it not?" She shrugged philosophically. "Still, there's no accounting for the strange starts men will take. Don't trouble yourself about it, dear. Pray do not. I daresay there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything."

  "Oh, I daresay there is," Isabella muttered, sarcastically. "Oh, indeed, there must be. And I'm not about to find it out from you, am I? No, of course not. Why should you condescend to tell your daughter anything?"

  The viscountess only chuckled while Lady Hartleigh, feeling much inclined to shake her aggravating parent until her teeth rattled, told off the Fifth Commandment to herself and exited from the room.

  Though she was in the company of her godmother when the news was told, Miss Ashmore could not keep her voice steady. "Gone after Mr. Trevelyan? Kit why on earth should he do that?"

  "Will claims he wasn't foxed at all," Lady Hartleigh explained. "He insists that the little he did drink was adulterated with something else, and that it was Basil did the mixing."

  Alexandra was ve
ry surprised to hear her godmother explode with laughter, as was Lady Hartleigh. The two stared at the older woman.

  What on earth, Alexandra wondered, was so funny? Basil was in danger. He could be dead—even now—at Lord Arden's hands. It was horrible, and Aunt Clem was laughing!

  "Now, now Alexandra. Don't take on so. Why, child, you look as if you'd seen a ghost. You too, Isabella. Why, of course it's nothing. They are always at each other, those two. Have been since they were children. Oh, but it is monstrous amusing." Lady Bertram wiped away the tears, chuckling as she did so.

  "Yes," Isabella seconded, though with less assurance. "That is what Edward says. So you needn't worry about Will. He'll come to no harm, I’m sure."

  It had not occurred to Miss Ashmore to worry about Will, but she didn't mind having this convenient excuse for her too-obvious agitation. She got through the rest of the conversation with as much poise as she could muster, which was little enough, though no one seemed to notice.

  She managed to muster a bit more that evening when they dined with the Osbornes and some others, though the visit was ghastly. Those dreadful girls carried on so about the gentlemen's absence and dropped such thinly disguised hints about her devoted marquess's desertion that Alexandra wanted to throttle them. The Mama was even worse with a horrid smile pasted on her fat face as she asked two hundred times where all the young gentlemen had gone, and why and how.

  The evening dragged on interminably. Between worrying about Basil, hating the Osbornes, and pretending all the while to be perfectly at her ease, Miss Ashmore was nearly dead with exhaustion when she climbed into the carriage to return to Hartleigh Hall.

  Finally she could retreat to her bedroom, where the cumulative effects of not sleeping or eating properly and being consumed by anxiety resulted, quite logically, in hysteria.

  The others were not unduly alarmed about either Basil or Will—but then, they didn't know what had actually happened last night. Though, when you came right down to it, neither did she. Obviously, Basil had had a hand in Randolph's disappearance; and given what he'd done to Will, Alexandra was afraid to imagine the criminal means employed in her other fiancé’s case. She was afraid that even if Will didn't get to dispense his own justice, others would.