Her face feeling as though it were in flames, she got up from the bed and went to the washstand to bathe her eyes and burning cheeks. The cool water helped calm her. As she forced herself to look into the minor, she knew why she had not prevented his embrace. Madame Vernisse may have been a worker of miracles, but even her powers could not render Isabella Latham beautiful. Or even unusually pretty. There was nothing uncommon about her blue eyes. They were not violet, like those of the infamous Lady Delmont. And while the right light— or the right frock—might enhance their colour, they had no real depth, no real mystery. And it was highly improbable that they were "that deep blue of the Ionian sea, wherein a man might choose to drown himself," as Basil had recently assured her. If only he would drown himself, she thought crossly. But in doing so, he would drown the only romance that had ever had or would ever enter her life. She stared critically at her reflection as she angrily yanked the comb through her hair.
She was twenty-six years old. And until this poetically inclined fortune hunter had come along, no man had ever looked twice at her. Not, of course, that she'd had much contact with young men; first poverty, and then the work she was so happy to do for Uncle Henry, had kept her from socializing. Still, her own father had barely noticed when she was in the same room. And now, though a small army of men had besieged her, not one except Basil had so much as hinted, in look or word, that she (as opposed to her income) was desirable. Oh, they had flattered her, but not with hidden suggestion, as Basil had. And as to the flattery, one could not even enjoy it for what it was, knowing that their eyes lingered more lovingly—good heavens!—upon her mother.
Thus, though she knew it was foolish, Isabella had wanted not simply to be kissed, but for someone to want to kiss her. She had wanted to know what it was like. Only now she could hardly recollect what it was like, so overset was she with anger and shame. She took a deep breath and forced herself to remember. His hand had touched her cheek, bringing her face closer to his...and then his lips, soft on her own. And then? What had she felt? She closed her eyes, trying to recapture that moment. But all she could remember was his overwhelming physical presence and her own warring sensations of fear...and curiosity. It was not quite what she'd expected from an embrace. She hadn't even felt that rush of warmth she'd experienced when Lucy hugged her. And not...that tingle of excitement when Lord Hartleigh sat down beside her.
For that was what she'd been contemplating when Basil had come upon her. Lord Hartleigh. Oh, worse and worse. Lord Hartleigh, who only tolerated her to indulge his ward. Had Isabella actually believed one cousin might substitute for the other? The idea drove her tears away.
"Isabella," she scolded her reflection, "you are perfectly absurd."
And with that heartening thought to cheer her, she dried her tears, changed her clothes, and went down to join her family.
Chapter Six
"Lord Hartleigh!" her aunt cried. "Taking you for a ride in his carriage? But that—"
"Is yet another one," Mama interjected, in an undertone.
It was at tea that Isabella had quietly announced her plans for the following day. Alicia had nearly knocked over the teapot in her excitement and had been about to bubble forth predictions concerning the earl's intentions when the viscountess's outraged response immediately subdued her.
"What is it that you are saying, Maria? You know one cannot understand you when you mumble."
"It was nothing, my dear sister. Arithmetic. Counting to myself."
"I cannot think why you should do figures when we are discussing this highly improper state of affairs."
The only indication of alarm Maria Latham gave at this pronouncement was a slight lifting of one eyebrow in disbelief. "I do not see what is so improper about Isabella being invited for a drive. You were not shocked when Mr. Porter invited her—and I am sure that high-perched contrivance of his cannot be safe."
Isabella attempted to step into the crossfire. "We are not taking a drive through the park, Aunt Charlotte," she began to explain.
"What, have you rejected him too, my love?"
Now this was very naughty of Mama indeed. Lady Belcomb had not at all objected to the penurious suitors who crowded her drawing room every day the family was "at home." It was a convenient means of separating the wheat from the chaff, since, with neither looks nor charm, the only attraction Isabella could boast was her fortune. Those who called were therefore not at all the sort whose attentions one would wish upon Veronica. But Lord Hartleigh was not of this ilk. What doubly provoked the viscountess was that the earl seemed somehow beholden to Isabella on account of that absurd business with the little orphan.
And now here was Maria implying—with that studied innocence of hers—that the Earl of Hartleigh had been reduced to a state which rendered him vulnerable to rejection, and by a tradesman's daughter! The idea filled the viscountess with rage and, consequently, turned her face purple. She relieved her feelings by venting some of her wrath on her daughter.
"Veronica, I do wish you'd stop that dreadful noise," Lady Belcomb commanded, scowling at her. Under her parent's glare, Veronica quickly stifled her giggles and bowed her head to stare into her cup. Alicia, subduing her own mirth, bent her head likewise and endeavoured to look serious.
"Please, Aunt," Isabella interjected. "It is all very easily explained—and not a bit what you think." This being met by no other rejoinder than a "harrumph," she went on, "I believe you are aware that Lord Hartleigh has been named as guardian to the daughter of his very dear friend, who passed away a short time ago—"
"Such a sad business," Mama sighed.
"This ward," Isabella went on, with a brief frown at her irrepressible parent, "has taken a fancy to me; I am sure I don't know why..."
"But, my love, you were always so good with children—even the most tiresome—"
"Mama, it is very difficult to hold my train of thought when you keep interrupting."
"Yes, Maria, do let her get on with it."
Murmuring an apology, Maria looked off toward the clock with an abstracted air.
"At any rate, the child has taken a fancy to me, and Lord Hartleigh—who, you can well imagine, is much at a loss to amuse a seven-year-old girl—"
A quelling glance from the viscountess squelched another of her daughter's giggling fits.
"—has invited me to this exhibition of landscapes solely to please the child, who insisted I bear them company."
There were some signs that Lady Belcomb was beginning to be appeased: Her face, for instance, was beginning to recover its normal colour. She was not entirely satisfied, however.
"It seems to me, Isabella," she asserted, "that Lord Hartleigh is overly indulgent of his ward's whims."
"I am sure, Aunt, that that is because he has had no experience with children. As he becomes more accustomed to his role, I am quite convinced he will be less indulgent."
"I would expect so. Nonetheless, I do not think he would take it much amiss if you were to indicate—tactfully, of course—that it is not at all to his ward's benefit to spoil her."
"At the very first opportunity," Isabella solemnly assured her aunt, while feeling quite convinced that the earl would take it very much amiss indeed.
"Well, then, I suppose we must at least commend Lord Hartleigh for wishing to do his duty by this orphan; although I do feel he has been carried away by his enthusiasm. But no matter. And you will take your abigail with you, Isabella?"
"I do not see why Polly must go as well..." Maria began, but the viscountess's face began to darken again, and she lazily added, "but then I suppose a seven-year-old child cannot count as chaperone."
"Of course not, Mama."
"Then I suppose we must let her go, Maria," Lady Belcomb announced magnanimously.
"Oh, I suppose we must," her sister-in-law agreed with a sigh. "I only hope the child does not tire her overmuch."
And with the crisis resolved, the ladies returned to their tea and managed to make a tolerable meal, des
pite the disagreeable necessity of having to shoo away diverse servants who persisted in duplicating one another's efforts, bustling in and out for no apparent reason, adding to and subtracting from the meal at their own whims.
It was not long after tea that Maria Latham entered her daughter's room. She was not wont to visit much, preferring to spend most of her time in her sitting room, where she could recline comfortably. Thus she was struck anew by the room's small size and inelegant decor. Gracefully, she dropped into a chair close by the little desk where Isabella sat composing a letter to her Uncle Henry.
As she glanced about her at the threadbare furnishings, Maria lamented, "I do wish your aunt had selected another room for you, my love. These yellow draperies do not suit your complexion."
Isabella swallowed a smile. "I don't know where else she might put me, Mama. Veronica cannot be expected to share her room with Alicia, and certainly one could not squeeze so much as a mouse into the servants' quarters."
"Yes, I'm certain you are right, darling—although I'm afraid I must quarrel with any attempt to put you among the servants. But it is so distressing. I do not know whether it is the colour of the draperies that makes you appear so fatigued. Although, come to think of it, you appeared fatigued at tea as well. But of course, there was Charlotte being so very tiresome. Not to mention this distressing surfeit of servants. They quite exhaust me. It is no wonder Thomas could not afford a proper Season for your cousin, when he requires an army to run even such a modest place as this. At any rate, you must promise me that you will not allow this little girl to treat you as her hobby-horse. Polly tells me that the child made you most untidy. 'Like a big wind had blowed her from one end of London to the other' were her exact words, I believe."
Isabella could not meet her mother's eyes.
"I'm sure Polly was exaggerating, Mama," she managed to reply after what seemed like a monstrous long silence. "Lucy is very affectionate, and I believe she is very lonely—"
"No doubt," her mother replied, apparently engrossed in contemplation of a particularly inept sketch that hung by the door. As she brought her gaze back to her daughter, she went on, softly, "Still, it would not do for your aunt to see you return home tomorrow in the frazzled state Polly so vividly described."
"You are quite right, Mama. But as we are merely going to look at some pictures, Lucy will not have the opportunity to 'frazzle' me."
"Yes, that is so. Well, I believe I shall go to my own room and take a nap. Your aunt's lectures weary one so, and I do not see why she must be so disagreeable at tea. It is not at all recommended for the digestion." She patted her daughter's hand and rose to leave. But a few steps from the door, she stopped and said, as an afterthought, "By the way, Isabella, I do not recollect your mentioning meeting up with Mr. Trevelyan as well as his cousin. But then, perhaps I was not listening as closely as I ought." She frowned once again at the offending sketch. "No matter. I should develop a headache as well as indigestion attempting to keep count of your beaux." And on that enigmatic note, she exited, leaving Isabella staring open-mouthed after her.
Miss Latham’s was not the only equanimity to be ruffled by the morning's adventure. Upon returning to his lodgings, Mr. Trevelyan found himself uncharacteristically out of sorts. It was not the pricks of conscience which disturbed him, however; nor was it the tone of impatience which had crept into his landlady's heretofore respectful inquiry regarding several months' back rent. After all, Freddie could most likely be counted on to advance a small loan. But one could not much longer continue to exist on the good offices of friends and Aunt Clem, and the once extremely remote prospect of debtors' prison now loomed closer by the day. The prison walls cast a long cold shadow which seemed to draw the warmth from Basil's cramped rooms. What else had led him, on this beautiful spring afternoon, to build a fire near which he huddled, nursing a brandy?
His friends' experience had shown him that debtors' prison could be a tolerable place. There at least one was free of the harassments of creditors. Yet though it might be tolerable, he had no wish to avail himself of that species of liberty, and was just now wondering how his normally reliable instincts for survival had led him so far astray.
Patiently, he'd been insinuating himself, little by little, into Miss Latham's good graces. And the hints he'd dropped among his acquaintance had led many to believe that her virtue was teetering on the brink. But this morning he had risked it all—for what? A kiss. And now she would not only cease trusting him, but would more than likely refuse to have anything further to do with him. This could not improve his position with his creditors, who, like his gambling friends, had begun to believe he was on his way to a prosperous match.
As he absently turned the brandy glass in his hands, he realised that he might have mistaken his victim. Her plainness, her naiveté, and her idiotic relations had all led him to believe she was less well protected and would be more easily manipulated than other eligible young ladies. But she would only be led so far; she was still wary of him, still taken with Edward.
He gazed for a long time into the fire, watching the logs crackle and break, to send off bright, hot little sparks before they crumbled into ashes. Though Isabella was not an antidote, she certainly was not beautiful. Next to the sparkling good looks of her young cousins, she was a mouse. But there was something about her innocent, blunt way of reacting to him which was rather appealing.
There was an odd mixture of longing and defiance in the looks which accompanied her earnest scoldings, and these looks somehow tempted him. Today he had succumbed to temptation. The brief embrace showed that she was truly inexperienced, despite that insinuating laugh of hers. But tutoring her might be rather pleasant, for she was—though in the oddest way—attractive. He did not love her, but maybe in time might feel affection for her. And perhaps those attractions might even command his attention—at least now and then—over the interminable dreariness of marriage.
Yet one could hardly contemplate marriage when one's Intended refused to have anything further to do with one. What a fool he'd been. What would it be now? Go to Lord Belcomb, confess to compromising her, offer to repair the damage by marrying her? He paused, the glass halfway to his lips. Could he carry it off?
Not likely. True, her noble relations might agree to any nonsense he suggested. When Maria had run off with her cit, they'd coldly washed their hands of her. They'd do anything to prevent another scandal. After all, a second generation run amok would indicate something depraved in the blood. But Isabella was just as likely to pack up and return to her commercial uncle and bury herself in the country. Marry a scoundrel? On account of one stolen kiss in broad daylight? No. Something else must persuade her, and soon.
According to Freddie, Lord Hartleigh had called more than once for Isabella; and he was seeking a mama for Lucy. So either he was interested in Isabella on her own account or he was courting her on account of the moppet. Not that it made sense, for Edward could marry where he chose. And of course, if he chose Isabella, she'd have him. Then Basil would have to start afresh with another Answer to His Prayers, and that would take time. But time was running out.
In this unusual state of self-doubt, Basil continued until the fire had long died down and Freddie appeared, seeking company for dinner. As he waited for his friend to dress, Lord Tuttlehope helped himself to a glass of brandy and settled himself in the chair Basil had vacated. When Basil re-emerged, Freddie eyed him up and down.
"See Stutts came up to snuff after all," he commented.
"The aunt, Freddie, whose generosity surpasseth understanding," Basil explained. "She has paid the tailor, in hopes that—in appearance, at least—her nephew will not disgrace her."
This led to a discussion of the cut of waistcoats and a review of their acquaintances' merits in this area.
"All in all," Freddie noted, "only one in the same race with you is Hartleigh. But all his valet's got to do is dress him." And thus casually discounting Lord Hartleigh's sartorial achievements, he went on.
"By the way, heard he's taking Miss Latham to look at some pictures tomorrow. Never fancied art myself. Hunting scene's not a bit like the real thing, you know."
Basil, who had been regarding his reflection in the glass with a certain degree of complacency, whirled around. At Lord Tuttlehope's blink, he turned back again, adjusted his neckcloth, and responded blandly, "Indeed? So you've been to see the Belcombs et al. on your own today."
"Well, yes. That is...well, you were engaged." Discomfited, Freddie blinked at his brandy glass several times.
"And were you rewarded, my friend? Did you catch a glimpse of the fair goddess?"
"What? Oh. Well, that is..."
Basil was amused to see his companion's face turn red as a beet root. He turned from the mirror and gave Freddie's shoulder a comforting pat.
"Try to restrain your lyric tongue, my lad. At least to me. It will be better spent on the young lady." He poured himself another glass of brandy. "But I gather you heard something useful?"
"Didn't stay long. Ladyship was in a pet. Just saw Belcomb on the way to his club. Said she'd rung a peal over him. Asked me why his niece couldn't see Hartleigh if she liked. Free country."
And in this clipped fashion, with the help of patient questioning, Freddie told his friend what he wished to know.
"Deverell?" Lord Belcomb repeated, trying to put the name to a face he hadn't seen in over a quarter of a century. Absent-minded, like his sister, Basil thought; yet quite different. Where Mrs. Latham was languid, he was bluff and hearty. And where he was the bumbling sort who knew a great deal less than he thought he did, Mrs. Latham seemed to understand rather more than she let on. Basil had more than once felt her considering gaze upon him, and looked up only to find her staring off at nothing in particular. Yes, of course all considered her perfectly harmless—perfectly useless, in fact—but somehow Basil's instincts warned him otherwise. And even now, as he pumped the viscount for information, he had the dim sensation of having strayed too far.
"Ah yes," Lord Belcomb recalled. "Young Harry. The fair-haired one. Fine lad. Pity he died so young. Or rather, not dead after all, eh?" He signaled for more brandy. Charlotte had been in one of her takings this evening, and he—as was his custom on such occasions—had beat a hasty retreat to his club. He'd not been exactly delighted to see Mr. Trevelyan, for that young man was one of the subjects on which Charlotte dwelt at unmerciful length; as though it were the viscount's business to bring the man up to scratch.