Basil Trevelyan lifted an eyebrow.
"How few?"
"Ten or twenty. Maybe more. Matt blew up most of what he had in one scheme or another. But Henry took them in hand. Clever man, Henry. Shrewd investor."
Basil's interest increased. His topaz eyes half-closed in apparent boredom, he nonetheless watched the trio make their way through the room until they settled in a corner with Lady Stirewell and her daughter.
"Indeed. Charming girl, don't you think?"
Freddie blinked uncomprehendingly at his friend. The two had been at Oxford together and maintained a friendship ever since; yet it may safely be supposed that Lord Tuttlehope understood only a fraction of what his companion said or did. However, he made up for his slow wit with a strong loyalty.
"Barely met the girl myself," he replied. "Introduced at the Fordhulls' dinner. Sat the other end of the table. Never said a word. Don't blame her. Meal was abominable. Fordhulls never could keep a good cook."
"My dear Freddie," Basil drawled, still watching the young woman, who had embarked upon a lively conversation with the youngest Stirewell daughter, "it does not require an intimate relationship to ascertain that a young woman with an income of more than ten or twenty thousand a year must perforce be charming. And to those already considerable charms, one must add the mystique of scandal. Didn't her mother up and run off a week after her come-out?"
"Heard something about it. Never said whom she'd run off with. Six months later sends word she's married the merchant—and breeding," Freddie added with a blush.
"I thought Belcomb had washed his hands of his regrettable sister and her more regrettable spouse and offspring. Or hath ready blunt the power to soothe even the savage Belcomb beast?"
His speech earning him two blinks, Basil translated, "Is his lordship so sadly out of pocket that he's reconciled with his sister?"
The light of comprehension dawned in Lord Tuttlehope's eyes. "Thought you knew," he responded. "Bet at White's he'd be down to cook and butler by the end of the Season. Staff got restless—hadn't paid 'em in months. Then the Lathams turned up."
"I see." And certainly he did. No stranger to creditors himself, Basil easily understood the viscount's recent willingness to overlook his sister's unfortunate commercial attachment. Though he was barely thirty years old, Basil Trevelyan had managed to run up debts enough to wipe out a small country. Until two years ago, he'd relied on his uncle—then Earl of Hartleigh—to rescue him from his creditors. But those halcyon days were at an end. Edward Trevelyan, his cousin, was the new Earl of Hartleigh and had made it clear, not long after assuming the title, that there would be no further support from that quarter.
Basil had remained optimistic. Edward, after all, regularly engaged in extremely risky intelligence missions abroad, and one could reasonably expect him to be killed off one fine day soon—and, of course, to leave title and fortune to his more deserving cousin. Disappointingly, upon his father's death Edward had dutifully ceased risking his life on England's behalf, and had taken up his responsibilities as a Peer of the Realm.
"Not in the petticoat line myself, you know," Freddie remarked, "but she ain't much to look at. And past her prime. Closer to thirty than not."
His friend appeared, at first, not to hear him. Basil's attention was still fixed on the viscount's party. It was only after Lady Belcomb finally let her glance stray in his direction that he turned back to his companion, picking up the conversation as though several empty minutes had not passed.
"Yes, it is rather sad, Freddie, how the uncharming poor girls look like Aphrodite and the charming rich ones like Medusa."
Lord Tuttlehope, whose own attention had drifted longingly toward the refreshment room, recalled himself with a blink. After mentally reviewing the stables of his acquaintances and recollecting no horses which went by these names, he contented himself with what he believed was a knowing look.
"Always the way, Basil, don't you know?"
"And I must marry a Medusa. It isn't fair, Freddie. Just consider my thoughtless cousin Edward. Title, fortune, thirty-five years old, still a bachelor. Should he die, I inherit all. But will he show a little family feeling and get on with it? No. Did he have the grace to pass on three years ago, when the surgeons, quite intelligently, all shook their heads and walked away? No. These risky missions of his have never been quite risky enough."
"A damned shame, Trev. Never needed the money either. Damned unfair."
Basil smiled appreciatively at his friend's loyal sympathy. "And as if that weren't exasperating enough, along comes the orphan to help spend his money before I get to it. And to ice the cake, I now hear from Aunt Clem that he's thinking to set up his own nursery."
"Damned shame," muttered his friend.
"Ah, but we must live in hope, my friend. Hope of, say, Miss Latham. Not unreasonably high an aspiration. Perhaps this once the Fates will look down on me favourably. At least she doesn't look like a cit—although she obviously doesn't take after her mother. Aunt Clem said Maria Belcomb was a beauty—and there was something odd in the story...oh well." Basil shrugged and turned his attention once more to the pale young lady in blue. Seeing that the viscount had abandoned his charges for the card room, he straightened and, lifting his chin, imagined himself a Bourbon about to be led to the guillotine.
"Come, Freddie. You know Lady Belcomb. I wish to be introduced to her niece."
Miss Stirewell having been swept away by her mother to gladden the eyes and hearts of the unmarried gentlemen present (and, possibly, to avoid the two ne'er-do-wells who seemed to be moving in their direction), Isabella Latham tried to appear interested as her aunt condescended to identify the Duchess of Chilworth's guests. Her grace's entertainments were famous, her invitations desperately sought and savagely fought for, with the result that anyone of the ton worth knowing was bound to be there, barring mortal illness.
"Even the Earl of Hartleigh," Lady Belcomb added. "For I understand he's given up those foreign affairs and is finally settling down."
Isabella's cheeks grew pink at the mention of the name. Though a week had passed since that scene at the dressmaker's shop, she still had not fully recovered her equanimity. True, the earl had called the day after the contretemps to make a very proper, though cool, apology—to which she had responded equally coolly and properly. Lady Belcomb had absented herself for a moment (to arrange for Veronica's "accidental" appearance), and Mama, as usual, was resting. Thus none of the family had been privy to their conversation. However, the footman who stood at the door guarding her reputation had heard every syllable, and Isabella wondered what exaggerated form the drama would have taken by the time it reached her aunt's ears.
"Indeed," that lady continued, "it was most astonishing, his coming to call. But he is rumoured to be seeking a wife. And Veronica was looking well Tuesday, was she not?"
"She is always lovely, Aunt," Isabella replied. She had not missed the increased warmth in the earl's manner when Veronica entered the room. Nor, when those haughty brown eyes had been turned upon herself, had she failed to notice how he'd sized her up, appraising her head to toe and, in seconds, tallying her value at zero. Not that it mattered. It was her cousin's Season to shine. At the advanced age of twenty-six, Isabella Latham need not trouble her head with the appraisals of bored Corinthians.
"It is a pity their come-out had to be put off so late," Isabella continued, forcing the handsome and haughty earl from her mind. "For Alicia and Veronica might have been here to enjoy this with us."
"Well, well. Alicia could not be presented to society in a wardrobe made by the village seamstress."
"That is true, Aunt."
"And after all," Lady Belcomb went on, not noticing the irony of her niece's tone, "there will be festivities enough. Although this is quite a brilliant assembly—did you notice Lady Delmont's emeralds? I was not aware her husband...but then, never mind." Reluctantly, she turned from contemplation of the jewels on Lady Delmont's bosom. "Veronica will have plen
ty of time to shine, along with your other little cousin. It is but two weeks until their little fête."
Her niece looked down to hide the smile quivering on her lips. While the viscountess had accepted the exigencies of fate and graciously agreed to oversee preparations for the come-out ball, she was compelled to reduce the situation to diminutives. Thus the come-out for Veronica and Alicia, costing the Lathams many hundreds of pounds, was a "little" party, and Alicia herself, though three inches taller than Lady Belcomb, a "countrified little thing."
"That reminds me; we must be certain Lord Hartleigh has been sent an invitation. It would be mortifying, after his thoughtful visit, to discover he had not been included."
Isabella, who had, purely on her cousins' account, resisted the temptation to hurl said invitation into the fire, assured her aunt that all was well. With the coming ball, Lady Belcomb's responsibilities would cease, according to the agreement. It would then be up to Isabella to accompany her cousins on their debutante rounds, for Mama was bound to be too tired, or too bored. Idly, Isabella wondered where she would fit in. Would she be required to sit with the rest of the gossiping duennas and attempt to converse with them? Did chaperones dance? The music had just begun, and Isabella looked down to see her white satin slippers tapping in time, as though they had nothing to do with respectable chaperones. Were chaperones allowed to tap their toes to the music? Smiling at the thought, she looked up to meet a pair of glittering topaz eyes gazing down at her.
"Lady Belcomb, Miss Latham, may I present Mr. Basil Trevelyan," Lord Tuttlehope announced, with the air of one introducing Prinny himself. And she should count herself lucky, Freddie thought. Mousy old thing for Basil to be leg-shackled to, poor chap, with all his romantic poetical nonsense.
But Mr. Trevelyan was looking at the possible answer to his prayers. Hadn't Aunt Clem warned him that few parents would care to put their daughters' fortunes in his hands?
"Even I should not," she warned him, "though I do believe you'll outgrow it in time."
The Lathams, however, might be willing to trade some thousands of pounds to improve their position in society. Thus he had determined to find the unprepossessing Miss Latham charming, and to charm her in turn. After suitably flattering Lady Belcomb and hinting at the eagerness with which her daughter's entry into society was awaited, he left her to Freddie, and turned those strange amber cat eyes back to Isabella.
"I understand, Miss Latham, that you are new to London."
"Quite new—unless you count my first visit, at the age of five."
"Ah, you were cruel to abandon us. Hard-hearted even at such a tender age. But we must be thankful that you have relented toward us at last, and must endeavour to correct your previously poor opinion."
Perhaps it was the penetrating gaze which unsettled her, as she conjured up the image of a five-year-old femme fatale. At any rate, her careful poise cracked for a moment, and laughter escaped. It was a low, husky laughter; a haunting, inviting sound, completely out of place in this large public gathering.
Her aunt cast a puzzled glance in her direction. Was Isabella flirting with Trevelyan? Lady Belcomb would have wagered half her stable (were it still hers to wager) that her niece had no more knowledge of flirtation that she had of flying. No matter. Trevelyan's expensive tastes were well known, and he was decidedly an unsuitable match for Veronica. This niece (and any of her Latham cousins, in the bargain) was welcome to him; at least his family was unexceptionable. That settled, the viscountess resumed her debate with Lord Tuttlehope over the merits of certain horses of their acquaintance.
For his part, Basil was pleasantly surprised: The Answer to His Prayers had a mind not quite so dull as her face. As he stared, puzzling, at her, Isabella, imagining that she had committed some sort of indiscretion by laughing at her interlocutor's extravagant comments, blushed. She did not know that the combination of heightened color and sparkling blue eyes transformed her face from nothing remarkable into something which, in a quiet way, was rather lovely. Nor did she have any inkling of why her laughter caused people to stare.
Indeed, she would have reddened to her fingertips had she known the thoughts it conjured up in the tawny-haired young man with the unsettling eyes. Basil found himself wondering what it would be like to hear that laughter rather closer to his ear, in more intimate circumstances. The thought cheered him enormously, as he studied her with increased enthusiasm—and curiosity.
"Miss Latham," he continued, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "I declare you are cruel still. Here am I so deadly serious, so monstrously earnest, and I succeed only in throwing you into fits of laughter. Perhaps, though, you suspect I am attempting to turn your head with flattery. Perhaps for some nefarious purpose?"
This time she controlled herself, and only a twitching at the corner of her mouth hinted at laughter.
"I suspect," she replied, "only that you are talking arrant nonsense and that you do so to amuse yourself. Is London life so dull, then?"
"Dreary as an Irish bog—until now," he whispered, bending closer. Then, noticing that Lady Belcomb's attention had drifted back to them, he straightened and, in louder tones, requested the honour of a dance.
Stunned by the suggestiveness of his tone, Isabella could not think how to refuse him politely. She knew the relatively straightforward methods of business, but society and its ways were painfully indirect and convoluted. Certainly she could not tell him that he made her uncomfortable. There was something so...feline about him: the tawny hair and those strange amber eyes that slanted upward like a cat's. Eyes that were watchful, penetrating, even under their bored, sleepy lids.
"I promise I shan't bite," he said with a smile, leading her to the dancing area. "Although the ton may, if you have not been approved to waltz."
Although she privately felt that, considering her advanced age, such approval was rather irrelevant, Isabella assured him that she had been deemed worthy by the Almack's patronesses. And then she wished she had not, for while she had been taught, along with her cousins, to waltz, it had never before struck her as so perilous an enterprise. Dancing so close to him, her hand on his shoulder, she realised with some shock that he was more powerfully built than he seemed. He was only a few inches taller than herself, and slender, yet he had a supple strength which belied his slight appearance. The hand at her back was uncomfortably warm, despite his gloves, and it pressed her closer than seemed entirely necessary.
Apparently unaware of his partner's unease, Basil made light conversation (interspersed with generous doses of flattery), interrogating her about the sights she had seen thus far and her impressions of the city and its people. He was chagrined to learn that she had not yet been to Hyde Park, had not visited the Tower or the Mansion House or the Guildhall. She was chagrined to learn it was his intention to correct these oversights, personally. It was useless trying to explain that in attending to her two young cousins, she would have precious little time for sightseeing. "We'll take the little girls along with us, Miss Latham" was his rejoinder.
"They are not precisely little..." she began uncomfortably.
"I daresay not. Nor am I—precisely—concerned with improving upon their education. I am not acting from purely altruistic motives; quite the contrary. But you see, society requires that we observe certain proprieties, and I believe I should prefer the superfluous company of your cousins to that of disapproving aunts."
Again she blushed. His tone seemed to lace every sentence with innuendo.
"Mr. Trevelyan," she protested, "I wish you would recall that I am a mere naive from the country and haven't the faintest notion what you are about. Did I somehow give you the impression that I am in the habit of roaming about strange cities in the company of strange men?"
The music stopped.
"I rather wish that you were," he murmured as he released her. "But at any rate, I would hope to become less of a stranger."
"So you have made abundantly clear. Are all London gentlemen as forward as you?" s
he asked as he escorted her back to her aunt.
"I daresay not. But I am rather a dreadful young man, as Aunt Clem is sure to tell you." He indicated a large woman of about sixty, who had just joined Lady Belcomb. Dressed in mauve, and wearing an ornate turban which made her appear to tower over the rest of the guests, the Countess Bertram was an awesome sight. Her height, her grand bearing, the slightly hawkish cast of her nose, all put one in mind of a warrior goddess. Indeed, she seemed to lack only armour and shield to complete the picture.
"Lady Bertram," said the viscountess, "I do not believe you have met my niece, Isabella Latham."
Both ladies pronouncing themselves delighted, Lady Bertram turned her sharp brown eyes to Basil.
"So the prodigal returns," she drawled. "Miss Latham, I see you have already had the dubious honor of meeting my disreputable nephew."
"Aunt Clem! How very naughty of you. And here I have gone to heaps of trouble to present myself to these ladies in the most respectable light possible."
"A physical impossibility," the lady retorted. "I must warn you against him, Miss Latham. This disrespectful scapegrace has not deigned to call on his aunt in three weeks. And a woman of my age has not many weeks to waste." In punctuation, she tapped his arm with her fan and sat down.
"I am sure Mr. Trevelyan cannot be as dreadful as you say," Lady Belcomb felt compelled to remark, though she firmly believed otherwise.
"Honourable chap, must say," added Lord Tuttlehope.
"And what do you say, Miss Latham? Or has he exercised his wicked charm upon you too?"
It occurred to Isabella that Lady Bertram had a pretty fair knowledge of her nephew—and possibly of the perils of dancing with him. As she turned to that lady to respond, she thought she glimpsed something sympathetic in the face beneath the mauve turban.