Isabella

by Loretta Chase

  "He won't suffer long for it," Henry Latham assured her. "Not if he's sensible."

  "Ah, but he isn't," the young woman sighed. "Or he wouldn't be in such a fix, now would he?"

  The middle-aged gentleman merely shrugged, and with a courtly bow of which she somehow wished she were worthy, he handed her a bulky envelope and left.

  "You think," the earl snarled, as the two cousins made their ignominious exit from the house, "that because you are my cousin, I shall not call you out. Well, you are sadly mistaken—"

  "I had rather thought to call you out," Basil retorted, "considering that she is my betrothed. If anyone has been insulted, it is I."

  "Why, you wretched little slug!" the earl cried, grasping his cousin by the throat.

  "My neckcloth, Edward. You're forgetting yourself." This last came out in a gasp, for the Earl of Hartleigh was, in fact, to the considerable interest of several passers-by, attempting to throttle his cousin. Words having no effect, Basil gave his lordship a sharp kick in the shin. The sudden pain made the earl loosen his grip, so that Basil was able to wrench his cousin's fingers from his neck.

  "Now," he croaked, "you are making a spectacle of yourself, and unless you desire to cause a riot on your darling's doorstep, I advise you to mind your manners."

  Thus recalled to his surroundings, the still furious Lord Hartleigh stepped away. "You have the effrontery to babble of manners. How dare you subject that girl to that villainous tale?"

  "I did not make it up" was the tart rejoinder. But Basil's ears reddened—evidence that it was not only attempted strangulation which worked on him at present.

  "True or not, it was infamous to tell it. It was obvious from the start that the poor girl had no idea—"

  "That is her mother's fault." Basil attempted to adjust his neckcloth, but quickly gave it up and turned to face his cousin. "If you truly do wish to protect your precious Isabella, I advise you to keep your hands to yourself—not only in my case, but in hers as well. Good day, cousin." And he quickly took himself away.

  For a moment, the earl debated whether to pursue him, but reason prevailed, and he took himself in the opposite direction, trying to collect his disordered thoughts.

  Ever since the day when Lucy had been misplaced, it seemed that the Earl of Hartleigh was doomed to travel the streets of London in one state of fit or another. He did not understand why he, as well as his cousin, had been so cavalierly dismissed by Mrs. Latham. Yes, Isabella needed comforting, but who better than himself to minister to her needs? And he had not been given opportunity to assure her that no matter what Basil knew or threatened to tell, she would be Countess of Hartleigh, and scandal would not be allowed to touch her.

  Oh, scandal there would be, no doubt. But it was ancient history, and would soon be washed away as a new tide of gossip swept in. Why, by the time Harry Deverell made his way to London, it would all be forgotten...wouldn't it? But if it were not forgotten, could he truly protect her from the pain? And if he could not, could he bear to watch it, and know he was the cause of it? For Basil had been adamant: The betrothal would be honoured, or he'd go directly to Sally Jersey with the whole sorry tale. That Basil should have sunk so low...He hadn't used to be cruel—only selfish and irresponsible.

  As he walked slowly in the direction of his aunt's house, Lord Hartleigh contemplated the twisted tale he had just heard. What had Matt written to Harry Deverell to drive him away, to discourage him so completely from attempting to see Maria himself, to drive him from England forever? Some appeal to Harry's honour, no doubt. And if Harry had loved Maria enough to run off with her secretly, to risk being cut off forever from his family, then he would be unable to bear living on the same island, knowing she belonged to another. At least, if Lord Hartleigh compared it to his own state of mind, then this must be the case. No, as Harry had reasoned it, he could not come back to life. He could not reclaim his wife. And should any discover the early marriage, his being alive would make her guilty of bigamy. Gossip would not take into account the circumstances. Her youth and her naivete would be held against her, particularly by the spiteful old cats who resented her beauty. For she had been a beauty; was still.

  And now Isabella? Even if she escaped relatively unscathed from the scandal, her Latham cousins' prospects would be ruined. And though their mother might be a social climber, the daughters—or Alicia, at least—seemed well-bred enough to move into a higher social strata.

  But with no blood claim on Isabella, their fragile hold on Society would be cut away. Alicia would be forced to retire to Westford; no, she would not. The Countess of Hartleigh could take under her wing whomever she chose, and all but the very highest sticklers would be happy to recognise her protégées.

  No, Isabella would not suffer her mother's fate. She would not be forced to sacrifice her future happiness on the simple threat of scandal. Basil was a fool, a desperate fool, and he would not have his way.

  Abruptly, Lord Hartleigh turned and made his way back to Lord Belcomb's residence.

  "Lord Hartleigh, you do tax my patience," said Mrs. Latham as he was shown into the room. "Did I not just half an hour ago tell you and your cousin to go away until further notice?"

  The earl maintained that he would not go away, that he intended to marry Isabella, and that he intended to do so immediately.

  "Gracious God!" Isabella cried. "Are you mad? Didn't you hear what Basil said?"

  "Yes. And that's why time is of the essence. I'm going now to procure a special licence. While I'm gone, your maid can help you pack."

  "Pack?" she echoed blankly. "What are you saying?" She turned to her mother. "What is he saying?"

  Maria Latham dropped gracefully onto the sofa. "You are excessively slow today, Isabella. It must be the concussion. Lord Hartleigh wishes to carry you off somewhere to be married. Under the circumstances, it would be best to begin packing immediately. I expect you'll be going some distance?" She lifted an enquiring gaze to Lord Hartleigh.

  "To Hartleigh Hall. We'll stop for Aunt Clem, first, of course," he added. "Unless you wish to chaperone us, madam?"

  "No, thank you. I find all this display of energy excessively fatiguing. And someone must remain to explain the situation to dear Charlotte. She'll be dreadfully cross." A low chuckle expressed the degree of concern Maria felt for her sister-in-law's delicate sensibilities.

  "Then please make haste, my love," said Lord Hartleigh. He dropped a gentle kiss on Isabella's forehead, bowed to Mrs. Latham, and was gone, leaving his intended bride to gaze wonderingly after him.

  "I still cannot decide whether he or his cousin is more handsome, but on the whole, I think he will make a better husband. Well, Isabella? Are you going to stand here gaping all day?"

  "But, Mama, Basil just said—"

  "Yes, and if you don't make haste, you will not have the pleasant opportunity of thwarting Mr. Trevelyan. Why, what scandal do you think he'll dare provoke once you are married?"

  "But, Mama—"

  "Isabella, you're exhausting me. Please go away and pack."

  Although he'd taken a calm leave of his cousin, Mr. Trevelyan was an exceedingly uncomfortable man at the moment. He cringed at the greetings of acquaintances as he strode down the street, and may have been perceived to slink into the privacy of his club. But there was no privacy for him, really, for he must bear himself company, and that self had, in the last hour, turned into a decidedly unpleasant fellow—one whom, in fact, he'd prefer not to know.

  First, of course, there was the shock and the blow to his vanity of coming upon Miss Latham in the embrace of his cousin. That she returned the embrace enthusiastically was obvious, even to an imbecile. And Basil greatly feared that this was exactly what he had become. He politely declined the various invitations to join his cronies, and found instead a quiet corner, where he sulked behind a newspaper. Hating himself, he was yet most angry with Isabella, for it was she who had reduced him to this state—reduced him to the level of a slug, as his cousin had so ap
tly labelled him.

  Perhaps he was unfair to Isabella in this; yet it must be known that for all his sophistication, Basil lacked a certain important experience: He had never in his thirty years been rejected in favour of another by a female.

  True, his aim had not been high. Married ladies and members of the demimonde had always been his targets. And those young virgins with whom he had occasionally flirted had all been so naive—and astoundingly stupid— that he had never been tempted to more than flirtation. In fact, it was Isabella's intelligence which was her undoing, for she didn't immediately bore him. Had she done, he might have more easily torn himself away. No, the matter was that from his doting mother to the complaisant matrons and eager Cyprians, women had always been captivated by him. And thus, never having experienced rejection, he had not philosophy to guide him. He had no idea how to shrug it off.

  Perhaps he'd known in his heart that, in the end, Isabella would not have him. Perhaps he'd known even before that morning when she'd so stiffly outlined her "conditions" and promised herself to him—then winced at his kiss. Certainly he'd known it this afternoon, when he'd made his unwelcome entrance.

  But the knowing was of no use to him, since it didn't show him how to salvage his wounded vanity. And of course, added to wounded vanity was the harsh reality of an army of creditors, lying in wait.

  It was not surprising, then, that he'd revealed what he knew of Maria Latham's history; nor was it surprising that he'd stooped to blackmail. But he found it strange, and definitely unpleasant, to realise the whole while (indeed, even as the first words were out of his mouth) that in doing so, he had abandoned the ranks of civilised human beings and sunk to the level of vermin.

  And now what would he do? Common sense told him to give it up as a bad job and make immediate arrangements for a flight to the Continent. Freddie would loan him the money. Good God, even Edward would help him, would do anything to see the back of him. And then there were friends he could join, for Napoleon had not the entire continent in his grasp, after all. But what would he live on?

  One moment Basil was determined on flight; he would live somehow. The next, flight was impossible. And so he went, back and forth, until Celestine's note arrived, and then he thought he need not make so critical a decision at this very minute. First, he would see what the beautiful lady wanted.

  No, Mr. Trevelyan was not at his lodgings. No, the servant at the club told him, Mr. Trevelyan had left hours before. No, none of the club members knew where he'd gone. But Sir Eliot gave a knowing wink as he remarked that he believed Basil had had an urgent message from one of his ladybirds.

  Lord Tuttlehope blushed as he knocked on the door. The little French maid's seductive smile only compounded his embarrassment as he stammeringly asked for Mademoiselle Celestine. The maid was so sorry, but mam'selle was engaged with a visitor. He was about to leave then, but screwed up his courage even as the door was closing in his face.

  "It's damned urgent," he whispered hoarsely. "A message. Would you be kind enough—"

  "But of course," the girl simpered.

  "Then please tell Mr. Trevelyan—"

  "Oh, no, monsieur. Mr. Trevelyan is not here." Perhaps monsieur was afflicted with a facial tick, for he blinked so. "It is another gentleman," she explained in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Well, he had done his best. And to tell the truth, Freddie breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the street. For had he found Basil and told him what was in the wind, it was certain that his darling Alicia would never speak to him again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was nearly dawn when Basil opened his eyes. Only a faint grey light filtered through the drapes, but to him it was a blinding explosion which set off a sympathetic thundering in his brain. His wench must have drugged him, he thought, but had no time to consider more before blessed unconsciousness overtook him once again.

  When he reawakened, the light was much stronger, but the thundering in his head had subsided to a dull throbbing, and he was able to look about him. It was not Celestine's bedroom; that much was certain. And it was not his own. He wasn't sure, but he thought he detected the faint smell of sea air. Perhaps that was what made his stomach rumble so. Where, then, was he?

  As though in answer to his silent question, a plumpish, middle-aged gent who put Basil immediately in mind of a muffin, came to the doorway.

  "Ah, you are awake, Mr. Trevelyan," said the muffin in the kindliest of tones. "Then let us see what we can do about finding you some nourishment."

  "Who the devil are you?" Basil snapped, as he hauled himself up, painfully, to a sitting position. But the gent had disappeared as quickly and silently as he had come, and Mr. Trevelyan was left to simmer for a quarter hour before he reappeared. By that time, Basil had managed to crawl out of the bed and make some poor effort at dressing himself—a task rendered extraordinarily difficult by his trembling hands and weak, throbbing head. "Who the devil are you?" he repeated as the stranger placed a breakfast tray on the small table which stood in the darkest corner of the room.

  "Latham," said the gent. "Henry Latham, at your service. And I do hope you'll consent to eat something, sir, for you look a bit peckish this morning."

  The topaz eyes narrowed, although the effort cost some pain, as Basil asked hoarsely, "How do I know you haven't drugged that too?"

  "Why, Mr. Trevelyan, what would be the purpose in that?" Mr. Latham replied mildly.

  "It would be of a piece with the rest of it, wouldn't it?" But hunger gnawed at the young man. How long was it since he'd last eaten? How much time had passed since Celestine had put that glass of wine in his hand? He remembered—or maybe he'd only dreamed it—being jolted in a coach. And an inn. And more wine. And Celestine—or another woman. And apparently they were all in league with this kindly old muffin, who continued to smile innocently at him. The aroma of eggs, ham, toast, and coffee beckoned, however, and Basil determined to postpone further enquiries until he had recovered his strength.

  But even as he fell to his meal, he wondered at it—at his sitting there eating a breakfast while Isabella's uncle sat benevolently watching him. It must be a dream, still. At length, as Basil was sipping his second cup of coffee, Henry Latham quietly remarked that he owed the young man an explanation.

  "Ah," Basil murmured. "A dream with an explanation. So you mean to tell me you are not a figment of my overactive imagination?"

  "No, Mr. Trevelyan. But I would hope to play a beneficial role in your life."

  Basil quirked an eyebrow. "You mean to help me?" At the other's nod, he went on, "Then you have a devilish odd way of going about it, my good man. I do not usually have to be drugged into accepting aid."

  "Well, you see, sir, I was concerned that you'd create difficulties."

  "I never stand in the way of charitable efforts on my behalf—"

  "And I had to be sure," Henry continued, "that my niece was safely out of danger before I put my proposal to you."

  The coffee cup clattered to its saucer. "The devil you did," Basil sputtered. "Where is she?"

  "With your cousin, sir. Or I should say," he corrected with a gentle smile, "with her husband."

  "That scheming—you conniving thief!" Basil shrieked, jumping up. "I'll have the law on you. Assault. Kidnapping." He went on with a list of various criminal complaints, punctuated at intervals with curses on his perfidious fiancée and cousin and their families, all of which Henry Latham bore patiently—benignly, in fact— as though it were an outpouring of good wishes.

  "Yes," he responded, as Basil paused to catch his breath, "I can see how very disappointing it is for you, Mr. Trevelyan. But you must see that Isabella's happiness must come first with all of us."

  "Happiness," Basil snarled. "We'll see how much joy she has of her marriage. And the rest of your wretched, conniving family. What kind of a life do you think she'll have when all of London learns of her mother's hasty, bigamous marriage—and of your brother's part in Harry Deverell's disappearance?"
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  "Why, as to that," said Henry, calmly, "there's no telling how the wind will blow. Mayhap they'll make out Maria as the victim of my unscrupulous brother. And if so, 'tis only my family that must bear the shame. Alicia will simply have to come home with me and make the best of her prospects among her own kind."

  "And give up her baron?" Basil sneered.

  "She's no business with such. A plain 'Mrs.' is all the title she needs."

  "You think to convince me that the scandal doesn't matter?"

  "No, Mr. Trevelyan. For the plain fact is, much as I think my daughter was encouraged to look too high above herself—well, we'd all rather keep the shameful story quiet. And that is why I appeal to your better nature. Isabella has married your cousin. What's done is done."

  "No, Mr. Latham. It is not done. You've stolen my last chance from me, and I will not go down to destruction without some revenge. And if it is only the satisfaction of bringing misery and shame down on your whole miserable family, then I will have it." But even as he spoke, Basil knew he was defeated. What good would it do him? Driving Alicia from society would not pay his debts—and it would alienate Freddie. Dragging Isabella's family through the mire of scandal would not keep him from debtors' prison. The amber cat eyes were bleak with despair. Debtors' prison.

  But as his gaze fell upon the open, kindly countenance before him, he realised that he had lost more than a fortune. Somewhere in the place where his heart was supposed to be had been a faint, unacknowledged hope: that Isabella would somehow make things right for him. Perhaps he'd even imagined she'd one day come to love him, and thereby prove that he'd done no wrong; had acted in her best interests, in fact. But he'd deluded himself. It was only now, as he contemplated his dismal future, as he thought of the friends who'd fall away when the prison walls closed around him, that he realised how completely alone he was. And if any suspected the level to which he had sunk...well, who would come to his aid?