Isabella

by Loretta Chase

  Calmly, Mr. Trevelyan returned his plump partner to her chaperone. He then danced with two more antidotes before leisurely making his way to Isabella's side.

  "Will you dance, Miss Latham?" he asked, his voice coolly formal for the benefit of the curious dowagers nearby, whose conversation had come to a halt at his approach.

  Isabella's acceptance was equally cool. It was only after some minutes of Basil's inane chatter that she finally snapped, impatiently, "Enough. I have decided to accept your offer." He began to speak, but she stopped him. There were conditions, which she would discuss with him tomorrow, in private. Meanwhile, she would trust him to say nothing, hint nothing—to anyone. He solemnly assured her of his discretion, but as the dance ended and she rejoined her other company, it was all he could do to keep from shouting his victory to the entire room—and most loudly in the ears of his cousin.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was very late when an exhausted Henry Latham emerged from the elegant town house close by Governor Square. He was not a did man, but the trip to town had been an arduous one. The gentlemen with whom he needed to speak—like his recent host—were reluctant to have their neighbours see him entering or leaving their homes, and thus had set their appointments late into the night. Used to keeping country hours, the businessman found it difficult to keep his eyes open, and his weary feet could barely carry him down the steps. The two figures hovering in the shadows saw him stumble as he plodded down the street, and nudged each other in anticipation: another drunken nob, ripe for plucking.

  Well, thought Henry as he made his painful way, it was no surprise that his clients were loath to admit their connection to trade. He smiled to himself, thinking how many of his host's neighbours were so connected, all trying to hide their guilty secret.

  Ah, but it was their way. And their many little hypocrisies had served him well. Honour, pride, the dictates of fashion—their social code was an expensive one. Land was not always profitable, gambling was risky. Thus, sooner or later, a number of society's shining lights found themselves connected with Henry Latham. Whether it was to avoid disgrace and debtors' prison, or merely for profit, these shining lights found themselves working for him. He'd profited from the information these well-placed sources provided, and his sources had shared the profits.

  And tonight, he thought, as his weary eyes scanned the empty street for a hackney, his sources had served him well, though there was no profit in it. No, there never was profit in anything his brother had touched...but there was still much to do, and he had no way of knowing—yet—if there would be time enough in which to do it. He looked around quickly as he heard in the distance hoof beats and the rattle of wheels, and then there was an explosion in the back of his head and all went black.

  Lady Bertram pounded with her cane on the roof of the carriage, demanding to know why they had stopped. Her coachman's face appeared at the window.

  "A gennulmun, ma'am," he explained apologetically. "Lyin' in the road. Looks as he's hurt pretty bad."

  "Drunk, rather," her ladyship grumbled.

  "Beg pardon, ma'am, but 'e don't smell uv hit. 'E's had a hawful whack on the 'ed."

  Eager as she was for her bed, she ordered the coachman to investigate. When he reported back that the man was indeed hurt, and that further, the footman had seen two figures scurry off when the carriage approached, she bade the two servants carry the man into the carriage.

  "We're nearly home," said the countess. "No point in waking up another household. We'll take him back with us and send for a doctor."

  As they entered the house, she was surprised to see her nephew, who was just handing his hat and walking stick to a servant.

  "Good evening, Edward," she said, then turned her back on him and began issuing commands to the sleepy household. One servant was sent for the physician. Two were sent out to assist in carrying the man into the house. Maids were ordered to fetch tea, brandy, towels, and hot water. Not until the entire house was abustle did she condescend to explain the situation to her bewildered relative.

  Lady Bertram brushed aside her new houseguest's thanks.

  "I did not wish to disturb you," she told him, "but thought perhaps you'd like to have a message sent to your family."

  "Thank you, My Lady, but it's unnecessary. My family is in Westford, and there's no one here in town expecting me at any particular time."

  "Well then, as no one will be made anxious about your absence, we won't worry them needlessly. The doctor says you will recover nicely; all you want is rest and proper food. So I will start by leaving you to your rest, Mr..."

  "Latham, My Lady. Henry Latham." Seeing her start at the name, he asked, "Is anything wrong?"

  Lady Bertram smiled, "Why, no, Mr. Latham. Not in the least. But I believe we have some mutual friends." She advanced upon the bed to offer her hand to the astonished patient, and surprised him further by adding, with a chuckle, "And may I say how very pleased I am to make your acquaintance."

  Not long afterward, she and her nephew sat sipping sherry before a comfortable fire. Lady Bertram did not see fit to enlighten him as to the visitor's identity. At any rate, Edward did not seem particularly interested; not that this came as any surprise. She had seen all that Basil had seen, and a little more. She had, for instance, seen the gloating triumph on Basil's face after he'd danced with Isabella Latham. Miss Latham had looked very unhappy, though she had made a valiant effort not to appear so. And Edward's face had been a mask—cold, correct. But, like Basil, she'd recognised the anger behind it.

  Right now he looked as he had when he was a boy, come to Aunt Clem to confide an unhappiness—and, just as when he was a boy, angry with himself for needing to. She knew it was best not to question him but, rather, to let him take his own time and way of getting to it. Still, it was late, and she was no young deb, and she wished he'd get on with it.

  In response to her soliciting his opinion of the two young ladies who'd this evening made their debut, he went on at some length about the little golden-haired one. Then, abruptly, he stopped midsentence to stare at the fire.

  "Are you asleep, Edward?" his aunt prodded. "For if you are, I should prefer you continued it elsewhere."

  The dark eyes flickered in her direction briefly, then returned to the fire. "No, Aunt, I was just wondering. How badly dipped do you think my cousin is?"

  "What difference does it make? You've made it plain you're not in the least concerned for his welfare."

  "It's not his welfare I'm thinking about. As you well know. Aunt Clem sees all, knows all."

  "You make me sound like one of those swarthy gypsy women."

  "Then tell me my fortune." His voice was quiet enough, calm enough, but the flickering firelight emphasised the lines of his face, underlining the effort with which he controlled himself. "She won't have me."

  "I believe you mean Miss Latham," said his aunt. "She has refused you?"

  He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for the moment, for his aunt's words recalled the cramped room and the small detached voice saying, "I cannot," and the frustration seemed about to choke him. He could still taste her lips, still feel the press of her body against his, and it still sent shock waves through him.

  He had come to his aunt's house not knowing where else to go, unable to bear the thought of his own pillow, where the remembrance would, he knew, come to torment him. And tomorrow, how would he tell Lucy—for she must be told sometime—that Missbella would never be her new mama?

  "You must tell me what happened." As he began to protest, she waved him away. "Don't tell me what a gentleman does and doesn't do, Edward. I know all about it—and you know I don't intend to make this the latest on-dit."

  "I know all that, Aunt. But there's no point in discussing it. She made herself quite plain. And though she did not say so, I suspect you were right; she does mean to have Basil." He spat out the name as though it were a curse. The thought of Basil touching her, holding her—it did not bear thinking of—and yet it see
med he'd be doomed to think of it the rest of his natural life.

  "You are quite maudlin," she replied, motioning for him to refill her glass. As he did so, she continued. "I cannot believe you are willing to give up so easily after one skirmish. You've been mooning after the girl since you first clapped eyes on her—"

  " 'Mooning'!" In his indignation at this lowering assessment of a thirty-five-year-old peer and former intelligence officer, the earl nearly spilled his drink. "Really, Aunt—"

  "Yes, mooning. Ever since she gave you that set-down you so richly deserved, you've been making excuses to see her. Lucy has been a convenient excuse, but I'm tired of it. The sooner you admit that you're head over heels in love with Isabella Latham, the sooner we can talk sensibly. And perhaps find a way out of this coil. I shall never to my dying day understand how you managed to make such a mull of this, Edward. Even an idiot can see how well you suit. But then, men are such blockheads where women are concerned."

  Being lumped together with every other male of the species did little to lighten the earl's mood, but he was forced to recognise the truth in his aunt's words. And somehow, even this scolding, though not at all agreeable to one's dignity, brought some small measure of relief, as Aunt Clem's scoldings always did.

  And so he found himself telling her all that had happened. When he referred to "forcing his attentions," he was further relieved to hear his aunt pooh-pooh the idea.

  "You are being melodramatic," she insisted, "She did not scream, or faint, or box your ears. She was even honest enough to admit her own willing participation. And you think she has taken you in disgust?"

  "Whatever it was, she refused to even consider marrying me."

  "She said she could not."

  "Will not, cannot. What difference does it make?" he retorted, pacing the floor now. "The answer is still No. And she will marry Basil—"

  "That is very likely, unless you prevent it."

  He protested that this was exactly what he'd tried to do.

  "From what you've told me," said his aunt, taking the tone one would with a particularly slow child, "you did make an attempt. But your strategy was not well considered. And I am very surprised. For though Basil is a clever fellow, he is not nearly as clever as that little Corsican soldier you outwitted—"

  "With some small assistance from Robert Warriner— not to mention the combined allied armies—"

  She ignored him. "You did not study your opponent, master his weaknesses, or make any attempt to understand his plans. I know Miss Latham has a good head on her shoulders, but I doubt she's come up against one of Basil's ilk before. Don't mistake me, Edward. I love Basil dearly, with all his faults, but even I must admit that he is a very adept liar. So adept that he convinces even himself. Well, after all, his survival has depended upon it. What a great pity he has not entered politics. Will you stop pacing, Edward. A body can't think."

  Obediently, Lord Hartleigh stopped, and flung his long form into a chair. It was amazing, his aunt thought, that for all his internal distress, only his hair—raked into disordered cuds—gave any evidence.

  "You're telling me to try again?" he asked.

  "Yes. But for heaven's sake, do use a little more guile. I can't believe that when she drew away from you, you didn't think to draw her back with soft words. Instead you make her a speech. One would think you a schoolboy fresh down from Oxford and still wet behind the ears." Lady Bertram gave an exasperated sigh. "What is this generation coming to?"

  In spite of himself, he smiled. For his aunt was right. He'd been so busy protecting his pride—ashamed of the way his senses had betrayed him, ashamed of taking advantage of Isabella's distraught state—and so busy convincing himself he was protecting her, that he'd omitted the most important words; the "soft words" his aunt spoke of. Regard, respect, suitability—how cold and patronizing those terms seemed now, unaccompanied by any whisper of affection or love. To one of Isabella's intelligence, how pompous he must have sounded. What an ass he'd been! He looked up to find his aunt watching him, her own face a document of concern.

  "Yes, Aunt," he admitted, "I've been a great blockhead. Your perspicacity will never cease to astound me." He lifted his glass in salute.

  "I'm merely old," the lady replied, "and have had time to learn." But she lifted her glass in return.

  Light was breaking as Lord Hartleigh left his aunt's house. He'd had little sleep in the past three days, but his step was lighter than it had been. He had some hope. Perhaps the odds were with Basil. Perhaps his cousin had won the skirmish and was now on his way to winning the war. But Edward Trevelyan, seventh Earl of Hartleigh, would not relinquish the battlefield just yet.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The other members of the Belcomb household were yet abed when the groggy servant showed Basil into the library where Isabella was waiting. Mr. Trevelyan himself had slept quite soundly, thank you, happy anticipation serving in his case as a soporific. And though it was an inhumane hour of the morning, he had no complaints. One must expect to make some sacrifices, after all. He was thus at his most sprightly as he entered the room, exclaiming, "Miss Latham, how perfectly charming you look this morning. I would say green is your colour, but then last night I was convinced blue was your colour, for you put your cousins altogether in the shade and quite took my breath away. But this morning I am breathless again. I declare it is a privilege and an honour for that dress to be draped upon your delightful person. Exactly as I should like to be," he added, sotto voce.

  "Gracious God," she cried, "was there ever such a chatterbox?"

  "My love, if I don't talk, then I must do something. And at present, what it is in my mind to do would probably not meet with your approval." When he made as if to move toward her, she backed away behind the great desk. He smiled, perched himself on the edge of the desk, and folded his arms. "But I shall endeavour to restrain myself—for the moment."

  "Yes," she faltered. "We...we have business to discuss."

  "How cruel you are. Not business, darling. A wedding." The amber eyes were wide open and innocent—angelic, even. "We're going to be married. And I hardly slept a wink for thinking of it," he lied. Clearly, she had not slept. The dark shadows under her eyes emphasised her pallour.

  "Yes," she repeated. "We're going to be married. But as I told you last night, there are some conditions." She looked at him, expecting some protest, but he sat quietly, waiting.

  "I believe," she continued, "that I am entering into this...this—business—with my eyes wide open. However, there are some demonstrations of good faith I require. Not for myself, for I have no illusions about your feelings for me—"

  "You know I adore you."

  "Cut line, Basil," she snapped. "I wish at least you'd stop insulting my intelligence with this absurd pretence."

  "It isn't a pretence..." he began, but, thinking better of it, subsided, contenting himself with looking more angelic than ever.

  "The conditions are for my family's sake," she went on, in an odd, dry voice. "First, there is to be an end to the gossip about us—"

  "But, my love—"

  "You encouraged it. Now you can discourage it. The gossip and the wagers are to stop. Completely. Further, you are to behave toward me with respect. And with discretion. You were able to do so last night, and I'm sure you can continue to do so. At least for two weeks, which is the time limit I've set—though I'm sure you could stop the gossip in as many hours."

  His eyes sparkled dangerously, but "Yes, dear" was all he said.

  "The fortnight's time limit is as much for your sake as my own. I realise that some of your creditors must be satisfied soon. If at the end of this period you have kept your part of the bargain, I shall immediately set things in train to pay the most pressing of your debts. Most of your creditors, of course, will be more patient when our betrothal is announced."

  Her generosity astonished him. He'd expected far more difficult conditions. He'd even come prepared for some blows to his pride. But this wasn't wha
t he expected. It was too simple. Puzzled, he asked if that was all.

  "No. That is, yes. As soon as I've settled with your creditors, you may do as you wish: send the announcement to the papers, set the date. Whatever." She shrugged. "I shall marry you when and where you say."

  "But for a fortnight," he said, slowly, "no one is to know?"

  "I plan to tell my mother immediately, and let her decide when to tell my aunt and uncle. In any case, all will see the advantages of keeping silence meanwhile."

  "But, my love, how can I be sure you'll not slip away from me between now and then, while I'm hard at work crushing gossip and behaving myself?"

  "Slip away?" she echoed. "Where? How? Where you have not hemmed me in, my obligations have. You know as well as I that what I ask is a mere token. To undo the damage done to my reputation, to allow my cousins a fair chance. I ask you this for my family's sake—a small act of good faith. And besides," she added listlessly, "I give you my word that I shall not break this bargain."

  He was torn between delight and suspicion. "You exact no other promises—no other conditions?"

  She shook her head.

  "Isabella, you've made me very happy, but you astonish me."

  "Why?"

  He slid from his perch and circled round the desk to where she stood. This time she held her ground, even as he placed his hands on her shoulders and gazed into her eyes. "Because you might have offered me a marriage of convenience," he replied.

  "You may have that, if you wish."

  "I don't wish it. But do you?"

  She stared at him—or, rather, through him—for a long moment before she answered, softly, "There's enough pretence in this business as it is. Let us at least make an honest effort at this marriage of ours. I will try to be a good wife. I ask in return that you make an honest effort to be a good husband."

  "But it's so very unfashionable, my dear."

  "Yes. I know it's all the rage to be miserably married and happily unfaithful. Well," she said with a shrug, "you'll do what you like in the end. Only give me some peace of mind for the next fortnight. And now, will you please go away?"