The English Witch

by Loretta Chase

  Basil lying cold and lifeless on the ground. Basil dangling from the end of a gibbet. Such visions were not conducive to rest. She lay awake, frightened and sick at heart and, yes, angry as well. It was bad enough to have fallen in love with a libertine. To be besotted with a villain—a criminal—well, that was the very acme and pitch of stupidity.

  It cannot be expected that even one of so philosophical a turn as Miss Alexandra Ashmore could wait placidly for the denouement. She wept a great deal more than she liked when she was private, though she was able to behave rationally enough in company. She was used to pretending, after all. The past three months, it seemed, had been spent in one performance after another. It was only in the loneliness of her bedroom that she let herself give way.

  So it went: a performance by day and misery by night, as the days and nights passed and there was no word.

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Have what, my dear?" the gentleman asked mildly, removing his spectacles.

  "That horrid creature is back again, and I'm sick of the sight of him. Wherever he goes trouble follows." Mrs. Latham collapsed into a chair, her ample bosom heaving. "Was it not he who came with that wicked man in the first place? Was it not he, back again just a few days ago? Now Marianne is ruined. Ruined! And the beast dares to show his face again, smiling and preening himself like a sneaky tomcat."

  Her husband, who'd been thoughtfully polishing his spectacles during this tirade, now put them back on again. "But my dear, he's not the tomcat who made off with your daughter. So hadn't you better have him shown in?"

  There were ominous signs that his calm assessment of the situation would drive his wife into one of her hysterical fits. Happily, he was able to forestall this dangerous prospect by means of quiet but firm words. In another five minutes, Mrs. Latham was herself again. She haughtily bade Mary show the gentleman in to Mr. Latham's study and then see speedily about some refreshment.

  "Well then, Basil, it is just as we thought." Mr. Latham spread out a pile of papers before his guest.

  "Actually, it's as Randolph thought. He was certain that Sir Charles's travel accounts had been well received though in a quiet way. My own experience with them showed that the baronet is a frugal traveller. Yes, his so-called patron had ample return on his small investment."

  "Well, your aunt suspected as much, you know."

  There was a brief silence—hardly more than a few seconds—before Basil answered, easily enough, "Did she now?"

  "Or did I neglect to mention that she'd written to me after George returned her bank draft? Yes, it troubled me from the first," he went on, running his eyes over the sheet he held in his hand. "Until you got Randolph talking, I was stymied. George keeps his affairs mighty close. Fortunately, Randolph made a few accurate guesses about his father's business associates, and once I tracked them down it was a simple matter. Their records did not match with what George reported to Ashmore. He'd kept two sets of ledgers, you see. Such a pity, when Ashmore never bothered to examine the accounts."

  "Our irascible baronet cares only about the work itself, difficult as that is to believe. He wants a better keeper, Henry." Basil lounged back in his chair and smiled. "At any rate, between Randolph's defection and our evidence, I doubt Mr. George Burnham will care to give any more trouble."

  "If he thought to, I expect he'll think again when he gets my letter. Marianne and Randolph will be enjoying their honeymoon by then, no doubt."

  "Oh, yes. They had less than two full days' journey to Gretna Green."

  "Good." Mr. Latham nodded with satisfaction. "My wife is still a tad overset. She wanted titles for all the girls, you know. Wants them all to do the same as Alicia."

  "Still, she has two more unwed daughters."

  "If they make matches one half as satisfactory as their older sisters', I shall count myself the most fortunate of Papas. Randolph is a good, honest man, and we must make shift to tolerate his family's frailties. If Marianne is content, that's all that counts." The genial businessman looked over his spectacles at his companion. "And what of you, sir? All this hard work and trouble—and no reward in it for you? Perhaps you'd have done better to have stayed in India or Greece. Certainly there'd have been more profit in it, eh?"

  Mr. Trevelyan's smile faded. "I wish to heaven I'd never gone to Greece," he muttered, half to himself. Noting his friend's uplifted eyebrow, he went on quickly, "But then, I'd never have stumbled upon this Burnham business, and Randolph would never have come here—"

  "—and fallen in love with my daughter. Well, how fortunate you did stumble upon this Burnham business, as you put it. Come," the older man said briskly, "let us give you a proper meal. May we offer you a bed this night?''

  Basil accepted the offer of sustenance but declared his determination to go back to Hartleigh Hall. "I can get there sooner than a letter can and will enjoy breaking the news myself."

  "The news. Ah, yes, so you will. So you will."

  "But first, Henry, I believe there is some information you wish to share with me."

  Mr. Latham looked over his spectacles at his guest. "Is there, sir?"

  "My aunt, Henry. What exactly has my aunt to do with all this?"

  ***

  For all that he hadn't had more than one night's sleep in three, and for all his eagerness to be back at Hartleigh Hall, Basil did have some consideration for his beast. He stopped several times to rest his horse. Hunger had finally caught up with him, if weariness had not, when he reached the Dancing Pig.

  While the hostler saw about his mount, Basil made his way into the tiny inn and ordered a little light refreshment from his hostess, the plump owner of the place.

  He was just swallowing his last morsels of bread and cheese when the door to the snuggery opened and Lord Arden burst in.

  "You—you bastard!" the marquess shouted, as he launched himself upon his startled victim. His attack was so unexpected and immediate that Basil had no time to react. As Will's fingers closed around his throat, Basil tumbled backwards helplessly in his chair onto the floor.

  It was not the first time, however, that an irate gentleman had attempted to throttle him. Basil's survival instincts quickly taking over, his knee shot up. In an instant Lord Arden had rolled off him onto the floor and was curled up in a fetal position, gasping in agony as he clutched at certain parts of his aristocratic anatomy.

  "Good heavens, Will," Basil told the writhing form of his childhood playmate. "What a turn you gave me." He picked himself up, dusted himself off, and straightened his cravat. He'd just restored the chair to an upright position when the hostler came stomping through the door with the hostess behind him, brandishing a broom.

  "Here now," the man growled. "We won't have any brawling here. This is a respectable place."

  "Why so it is," Mr. Trevelyan calmly agreed. "And as you can see, there's no brawl. Only that his lordship has been suddenly taken ill."

  His lordship groaned.

  "Now," Basil continued, "if you'd be so kind as to bring in a bottle of your best brandy, perhaps we can help restore the gentleman to rights."

  The phrase "his lordship" had a magical effect, and the coins Mr. Trevelyan dropped into a plump, feminine hand an even more miraculous one. The two respectable persons took themselves off, bowing and curtseying as they went. A few moments later, the required bottle of brandy was carried in by the beaming hostess.

  "Now, Will," said Basil, as he helped his companion to his feet. "Come sit down and have a glass with me. Tell me what on earth you were thinking of to pounce on me in that savage way."

  If the marquess thought of pouncing again, the sight of the golden beverage being poured into a glass must have distracted him, for he did sit down dazedly and take the drink offered him.

  It was not the first time he and Basil had scuffled, nor was it the first time that hostilities had been followed up by olive branches in liquid form. At any rate, he knew—and if he didn't, Basil was prompt to call it to his attention—that murder had a rather
unwholesome effect upon one's reputation. The murder, moreover, of one of the ton could very easily lead to more unwholesome effects upon one's health. A noose, for instance, was prodigious unhealthy.

  Still, the provocation had been very great. "What in blazes did you mean by interfering in the business, Trev? We were on our way to Gretna Green.”

  "I was only trying to help you, Will."

  The marquess shook his head in dazed incredulity. "Help me?"

  "Yes. Good heavens, man. How could I stand idly by, knowing the sort of fate that awaited you?"

  Lord Arden had any number of "hows" in reply, as well as the very cold assertion that he hadn't asked for any help. But Basil bade him drink and be calm, and the marquess wanted the drink badly. His head throbbed, and he was exhausted after four days spent scouring the countryside. Also, at the moment, certain more vital areas of his anatomy were throbbing as well. He gave a resigned sigh and brought his glass to his lips.

  "I myself," Basil informed him, with a pitying look, "have not once, but several times, nearly tripped the parson's mousetrap on her account."

  "Oh, come, Trev. Tell me another one."

  "It's the truth. Why, she very nearly had me in Albania. Why do you think I kept away from my aunt's house after my return? The fact is, upon discovering that I couldn't keep my hands off your prospective bride if she was within reaching distance, I was obliged to keep myself out of reach."

  Basil went on to assert that he would have stayed away had he not been alarmed on his friend's account. He knew he couldn't warn his friend as it was bound to be taken ill. Still, Basil had felt obligated to come and keep an eye on things.

  "Oh, really, Trev. You expect me to believe that was all out of concern for me?''

  "Well, perhaps not entirely. Knowing you're a wise fellow, on to every trick, I was naturally curious how long it would take you to understand precisely what you were up against." To forestall any hasty defences of Miss Ashmore's honour—and Will was showing signs of rather homicidal hastiness—Basil refilled his companion's glass.

  "I'm not trying to slander your Intended," he placated. "But think, Will, for once. Just think what a merry dance she's led you already. Think, too, of the hundreds of Eligibles your Mama has paraded before you, and ask yourself which one of them could have kept you so long a-wooing and driven you to such desperation. Ask yourself how it came to be that you, the future Duke of Thome, must drag your intended bride off to Scotland in the dead of night in order to be sure of her. And ask yourself, while you're at it, just how sure of her you'd ever be. Ask yourself what pleasure you could take in your mistresses with your mind always on your wife, wondering what she was up to—and with whom."

  Lord Arden asked himself these questions and must have found the answers unnerving, for his hand shook a little as he carried the glass to his mouth. He took a very long swallow while he studied his companion's face.

  "You don't mean to say, Trev, that you think she'd play me false?"

  "I mean to say," was the composed reply, "that the British male population would give you reason to worry. Which, I daresay, is nearly worse. How could you leave her out of your sight knowing there were hundreds like myself, quite unable to keep their hands off her? Of course, you could leave her in the country—but even the country is not so secure a place for unattended wives, as any number of unhappy husbands might tell you. You see the problem, of course. If she could put even you into a fever to be shackled, then what effect do you think she'll have on lesser men? The fact is, Will, the woman's a menace to the national peace. Do you know what they called her in Albania? The English Witch. Because even the Albanian men—who think women a species of cattle—were obsessed with her."

  As Basil went on to describe the extremities to which Dhimitri had been driven, Lord Arden found himself, for perhaps the first time in his self-indulgent life, thinking twice about something he'd set his mind on having. It confused him. He wanted Alexandra Ashmore as his wife mainly because it was unthinkable that so splendid a creature should grace any other home, carry any other name, bear any other children than his. However, it was also unthinkable that the future Duke of Thome must submit to the indignity of living in his wife's pocket for fear of being cuckolded. What time would he have for women and gaming and drinking and all the other pleasures his vast wealth practically demanded if he must be forever fending off jackals like Trev?

  Like Trev, Will's eyes narrowed. "You want her for yourself, Trev. That's why you warn me off."

  "Of course I want her for myself," was the amiable reply. "Didn't I just say so? And I promise you, Will, if you marry her I'll be there in my hunting pinks with the rest, after your lovely fox. I tell you, I can't wait for her to be wed, because until she is I must keep to the sidelines. As you told me once, Auntie is standing guard. One false move and I'd be the nervous, horn-sprouting husband. Though I'm not nearly as possessive as you are and needn't worry about the family honour—after all, that's Edward's lookout, isn't it—still, it's bound to be an irritating sort of existence, don't you think? All these duels, for one thing. So tiresome."

  The poison was taking its effect along with the brandy. In another couple of hours, as Basil went on to paint increasingly grim pictures of what the future held for any man rash enough to marry Miss Ashmore, Lord Arden was brought to heel.

  He was, in fact, sick of the whole business. True, she was a priceless ornament to add to the Farrington possessions. But she was also, he was forced to admit to himself, incomprehensibly unresponsive to him. It would be pleasant to get back to his far less taxing twins in London. Relieved to have a face-saving excuse for abandoning the tiresome chase and more than a little foxed, he confessed aloud that Lust had blinded him to Consequences, went on to recite some sentimental poetry, and was soon admitting maudlinly that Basil was the very best of fellows, the very best indeed. A man couldn't ask for a better friend and couldn't deserve him if he did.

  If Mr. Trevelyan had a conscience, it must have been moved by these expressions of brotherly feeling; but as he hadn't, it wasn't. Besides, he'd done no more than tell the truth, only tinted and arranged it to suit his purposes. After all, Basil silently replied to the thing muttering at the back of his mind that was not a conscience, it could all turn out as he'd predicted. Alexandra didn't love Will, and Will didn't really love her. If he did, he'd have been willing to risk all—the devil with his future peace of mind, his mistresses, and all his other trivial occupations.

  Having in this way quieted the troubling inner voice and having divided the remnants of the brandy bottle, Basil proposed a final toast, "to friendship." Thereafter he suggested that they find themselves beds for the night.

  "A bed. Yes," his lordship agreed thickly. "Another lonely bed. Nearly a month of it, Trev. Though that's over, eh?" But as he was rather inelegantly rising from his chair, a thought struck him forcibly enough to make him fall back into it again. "Trev, it isn't over. The girl...I proposed. Half a dozen times at least."

  "There were no witnesses."

  "No." The marquess shook his head and blinked several times, trying to focus and looking amazingly like Freddie. "But still. Honour. Obliged, you know." He stared owlishly at Basil.

  "Not at all. You disgraced yourself. Remember? Thanks to me. And though Miss Ashmore knows the truth, she can hardly admit it. With this cloud over you, no one would expect you to have the audacity to offer for her. Nor would my formidable aunt allow her to accept you if you did. No, don't worry about it, Will. Now let us go get some rest."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord Hartleigh's family and friends were gathered in the sunny breakfast room, peacefully attending to their morning meal, when Basil and Will came sauntering in just as cavalier and careless as you please.

  It took all of Alexandra's self-control, amid the ensuing pandemonium of questions and exclamations, to keep from leaping out of her chair and throwing her arms around Basil's neck. Though by now her body should have used up its supply of saltwat
er, tears of relief filled her eyes, and his face swam before her...for a moment. Then it wanted only another moment before the tears dried up of their own accord.

  He never even looked at her. True, the others were raising a terrific clamour, and he was kept busy making clever retorts. Still, he might spare her a glance instead of dropping so coolly into the chair next to Jess—at the other end of the table. Will, the faithless fribble, couldn't spare his Intended a glance either. He only stood by the door, smiling appreciatively at the witticisms of his erstwhile rival. Gone after Basil, indeed. To carouse with him no doubt. To share some unspeakable dissipation or other. As disagreeable visions of buxom barmaids and chambermaids paraded through her head, her feminine flutterings of concern and relief precipitously gave way to rather unfeminine heavings of fury. Oh, she wished they had killed each other, the selfish beasts.

  Miss Ashmore was so busy working herself into a rage that she barely heard the conversation. It was not until she heard the gasps of surprise and Jess's "Oh, Lud!" that Alexandra called herself to attention.

  "Eloped!" Lady Hartleigh exclaimed.

  Alexandra's head jerked up, and her whole body began to tremble. But no one was looking at her or Will. They were all fixed on Basil, who answered with a little smile, "That's what I said. Randolph has run away with Miss Marianne Latham to Gretna Green. Actually, they're not running any more. By now they must be wed."

  Lord Tuttlehope blinked uncomprehendingly at his wife, who blinked back.

  "Marianne?" Alicia gasped. "Run away with Marianne?"

  "Why, yes," said Basil. "Why do you think she was so obsessed with Athens and Sparta? You yourself remarked it. Not once but many times have I heard you complaining about those tiresome Penelope Wars. You see, when Mr. Burnham and Sir Charles visited, the two young people took a liking to each other. That much even I dimly noticed. I did not, however, imagine it was as serious as it turned out to be."