And why? Lord Belcomb wondered. For here was the Earl of Hartleigh coming along, slow but sure, and probably would offer for the girl in a month or two, simultaneously restoring sister and niece to respectability. But Charlotte had turned purple when he'd ventured his opinion, and he had wisely refrained from arguing with her.
Now here was the Trevelyan chap, just as amiable as you please, wanting to hear about the old days. So Belcomb went on at some length about his youth, and about the Deverell family, who had been near neighbours.
"Then you knew him well?" Basil pressed, after patiently enduring a long-winded account of a youthful escapade. "Harry, I mean," he responded to Belcomb's befuddled look. "The new viscount."
"Ah, yes, Harry. No. Knew Marcus. Harry was much younger. And it was Maria who was his great friend. In fact—" He hesitated, but the brandy had loosed his tongue, and having a listener was a rare experience. "Well, everyone knows what Maria did. But I maintain to this day that if Harry had been home, he'd have tracked her down and brought her back before she could disgrace herself. He knew her ways, you see."
I believe I do, thought Basil. But aloud he asked, "Do you mean that by this time he was thought dead?"
"No. That was some months after Harry had gone to sea. No choice, poor lad. Old Deverell never had much to begin with, then ruined himself in one speculation or another. Left Marcus a title and a pile of debts—and the old ruin they were living in." Not unfamiliar with such experiences, Lord Belcomb sighed. But it was not his nature to be dispirited, and he became hearty again in a moment.
"But that was all before, eh? For they say Harry comes back quite the nabob." And what with contemplating Harry Deverell's new wealth, and the repairs he might make to the family ruin, the viscount whiled away another half hour in Mr. Trevelyan's amiable company.
Chapter Seven
Lord Hartleigh, who had begun the day feeling inordinately pleased with himself, was now out of sorts and cross with the world in general. As he gazed down at his attractive companion, he wondered how this picture business had grown so dull and stupid. He barely managed to squelch a sigh of exasperation as Veronica returned his glance with a simpering smile. She was pleased to see that her new bonnet had rendered the earl quite wistful.
For you see, it had been found, at the very last minute, that no other suitable companion could be spared, all the servants being required at home and the rest of the family otherwise engaged. And though it wasn't quite proper for Veronica to be going about with a gentleman before she'd been introduced to society, it was determined by Lady Belcomb to be the lesser of two evils. Thus Lord Hartleigh found himself expounding the merits of landscape painting to an empty-headed young miss fresh out of the schoolroom, who understood not three words in twenty and insisted on interpreting it all as flirtation. Isabella, meanwhile, trailed behind with Lucy, whose joy was not to be described. To hold Missbella's hand as that wonderful lady pointed out the beauties of the paintings was to be in heaven.
Not to imply, of course, that the Earl of Hartleigh—who could have bought every last painting in the gallery and still have had enough left over to buy the building in which they were housed with as little concern for his finances as if it were a new neckcloth he were purchasing; whose simple elegance and individual style had been admired by even the great Beau himself; who, moreover, was as highly respected in the very highest political chambers of the kingdom as he was admired in some of the most elegant private chambers of its ladies—to repeat, this is not to imply that the elegant and sophisticated Earl of Hartleigh would have the same notions of paradise as a little girl of seven. Still, it must be owned that he had looked forward to having a certain rather mousy-looking spinster lady on his arm, and to sharing with her his own knowledgeable enthusiasm for these landscapes.
But in vain did the earl endeavor to slow his companion's pace so that Isabella and Lucy might catch up with them. Veronica, bored with the work, hurried him along. She declared that every scene reminded her of the Belcomb country estate, and cross-examined him on the features of his own country home, Hartleigh Hall. Thus Lucy and Isabella remained several pictures behind—too far away to join in the conversation—and the earl found himself brought in less than an hour to the limits of his endurance.
Fearing that in another ten minutes he would throttle his happily innocent interlocutress, he begged that they might wait for the others to catch up.
"Lucy cannot walk as fast as we," he explained to a blankly smiling Veronica, "and I am sure by now she has quite exhausted your cousin with her questions."
"Oh, Isabella doesn't mind," Veronica replied with a giggle. "Your ward is ever so sweet; and look—we're just coming to the landscapes you spoke of."
He, however, was not to be rushed again. He stopped and turned round—in time to see his cousin walking quickly toward Isabella. Blast, he thought. Must the man be forever hovering about?
But Basil stopped only for a moment. He chucked Lucy under the chin, laughed at her grimace, then slipped a note into Isabella's hand...and continued in his cousin's direction. A polite greeting to Lord Hartleigh, a handsome bow to Veronica, and Basil was gone, as quickly and quietly as he had come. Isabella stared after him, dumbfounded, then, collecting herself, hastily crushed the note into her reticule and endeavoured to continue her slow progress with Lucy.
Veronica, who had not seen the note change hands, batted her eyelashes, fluttered and smiled and sighed in vain. Lord Hartleigh had seen all and burned with outrage. Not jealousy, certainly. Just the...the...impropriety! A note? What nature of communication was it that could not be done publicly, aloud? His thirty-five years of aristocratic breeding, his faultless courtesy ebbed away, and his mouth tightened into a fine line as Isabella and Lucy approached.
Hoping he had not seen, yet with the sinking suspicion that he had, Isabella met his eyes only for an instant before dropping her own. She glared down at her reticule and its criminal contents, and quickly looked away again—at nothing in particular.
"I'm so sorry we've dawdled," she said, too brightly, "but I have as much to learn here as Lucy. I wish I had one hundredth the skill and sensibility evident in even the least of these. Ah," she added, as her nervous glance took in the next series of works, "and here are Mr. Constable's landscapes. He sees," she noted, forcing herself to speak to the earl, "what others do not, I think."
"You must not underestimate your own abilities, Miss Latham," he replied coldly, "for most of these gentlemen must get their living by painting, and must concentrate all their energies upon refining their skills in the one task. You and I—and your cousin," he added as an afterthought, "are blessed by fortune. We may turn from one interest to the next, all the while knowing we'll be well fed and housed. We who are not forced to one vocation are subject to innumerable distractions. Even in a gallery, our attention is not solely given to art."
The emphasis of these last words left no doubt that he had indeed seen. Isabella felt that the note she carried was like a burning coal which any moment would set her reticule ablaze, proclaiming her disgrace to the world. What must he think of her? But for all her guilty embarrassment, she was angry with him. So quick to judge, so quick to disapprove. Just as he'd been that day at Madame Vernisse's.
"I declare you're right, My Lord," said Veronica, smiling sweetly up at him. "When I look at paintings, they always seem to put me in mind of something else." She turned to her cousin. "Isn't it so, Bella? Isn't that funny cloud just the exact shade of my favourite bonnet?"
"Why, so it is," Isabella replied, wishing her cheeks did not feel so hot. "But we must not say so before Lord Hartleigh, lest he judge us hopelessly frivolous." She felt a tiny hand press hers a little tighter, and looked down to meet Lucy's concerned gaze. The child had sensed her discomfort, had recognised the familiar disapproving look on her guardian's face. She squeezed Isabella's hand again, in sympathy, and Isabella returned the gesture with a smile.
This silent exchange did not go unnoticed b
y the earl, who muttered something inane about an unfrivolous world being a very dull place, then turned abruptly to continue his progress with Veronica.
It was damned irritating. Yesterday this had seemed a thoroughly reasonable way to spend the afternoon. He'd hoped that spending time with Miss Latham would bolster his ward's spirits. Perhaps it would help him penetrate the barrier between himself and the child. And at the same time, he would spend a few hours in the company of an intelligent young woman with whom he might have a rational discussion about art. But see what had happened. Miss Latham was exchanging secret messages with his disreputable cousin, and his ward had sided with Miss Latham against her guardian. And for consolation, he had a simpering young miss whose reaction to works of art was that they put her in mind of bonnets.
They had not gone more than a few paces when they met the youngest Miss Stirewell, whom Veronica greeted warmly. Her display of affection might have been attributed to a deep and abiding friendship, but since the two girls had met only once before, a few weeks ago, the young lady's warmth more likely had other sources. Miss Stirewell's brother, for instance. That worthy eldest son of a baronet was as yet unmarried, and possessed an independent income which would double at his father's decease. Thus, while Veronica would vastly prefer being a countess, she was level-headed enough not to put all her eggs in one basket. In short, when Miss Stirewell offered to introduce Veronica to her mama and brother, waiting in the hall beyond, that young lady agreed with alacrity, leaving Lord Hartleigh, Miss Latham, and Lucy to amuse themselves.
Isabella endeavoured to fill the awkward silence which followed by retying a ribbon that had come loose from Lucy's hair. As Miss Latham bent to the task, Lucy told her, "I hope Uncle Basil doesn't come back."
"No?" said Isabella, forcing a smile. "And why is that?"
"He teases me and calls me Moppet." The hazel eyes met hers. "And he makes Uncle Edward cross."
Uncle Edward was about to utter a mild rebuke when he caught the expression on Miss Latham's face, which exactly matched that of his ward. Both looked as though they were expecting a scolding. A smile cracked his stern features, and he bent down to lift Lucy into his arms.
"I'm certainly not cross with you, Lucy," he told her.
She placed her arm about his neck, but pulled back a bit to stare into his face. "You're not?"
"No."
She considered this a moment, glanced at Isabella, then back at her guardian, and asked, "Are you cross with Missbella?"
His ears reddened, and "Missbella's" cheeks, in sympathy, did likewise.
"No, I'm not," Lord Hartleigh replied, although that infernal constriction, which had suddenly seized his chest again, made it difficult to get the words out.
"Good." The little girl surprised him with a shy hug. "But you may be cross with Uncle Basil," she added magnanimously, "because he does tease me, and I don't like it."
"Well, then, we must tell him to stop," her guardian agreed.
Isabella was struck by the way the man's face softened as he held the little girl. She wondered if this was the first time the child had demonstrated any affection for him, for he seemed so surprised and pleased at that gentle little hug. It gave her a queer tiny ache to watch them.
"But here is Miss Latham waiting patiently through these family affairs. Shall we continue our tour?"
Miss Latham acquiescing, he put Lucy down. The child placed herself between them, taking each by the hand.
"We'll go on this way," she announced. "It's much better."
They had nearly half an hour to themselves before Veronica reappeared, and despite still feeling piqued about the scrap of paper hidden in Miss Latham's reticule, Lord Hartleigh was beginning to enjoy himself. With the barrier between his ward and himself crumbling, he relaxed, and soon found himself telling of an episode from his childhood, a story called to mind by one of the landscapes.
He'd had a pet frog, which was kept hidden in a box under his bed. His parents had given a party, to which all the best families in the county had been invited.
"At the height of the festivities, the frog escaped from its box, hopped along down the stairs and into the drawing room. The horror of the scene was not to be imagined—ladies screaming and fainting; footmen scurrying about, endeavouring to capture the poor creature, and stumbling over swooning ladies."
A giggle from his ward and a low chuckle from Miss Latham encouraged him to go on.
"I awoke, hearing the shrieks, and immediately knew what had happened. I rushed downstairs in my night-clothes, clutching the box to my chest and screaming, ‘Eliot! Eliot!’”
Picturing the scene, Isabella could control herself no longer. She burst into laughter.
"Eliot?" she choked. "That was its name?"
"His name," the earl gravely corrected. As he went on with his story, he found himself embellishing the tale, just to draw more of that delicious laughter. By the time he had done, she was gasping for breath.
"A true scene of Gothic horror," she told him when she finally regained control of herself.
"It was indeed," he agreed, chuckling. "I defy even Mrs. Radcliffe to match it."
"Ah, Mrs. Radcliffe!" said Isabella. "Now that is another matter. Do you know, I suspect—"
But he was not to learn her suspicions, for Veronica had returned to them, chattering effusively about dear Miss Stirewell and her charming mama. And as it was drawing near the time they'd promised to be home, they hurried through the rest of the exhibit and out to the earl's waiting carriage.
"By the way, Maria, heard anything from Deverell?" Lord Belcomb had wandered into the small saloon. The house was in its usual state of uproar, with servants scurrying to and fro, moving furniture and bric-a-brac, and he was seeking refuge as distant from his wife as possible. Fortunately, she was engaged in haranguing the chef, and only his sister occupied the room. He didn't hear Maria's quick intake of breath at his question, and when he took a chair opposite, the blue-green eyes met his composedly.
"Harry, you know. Back from the drowned. The new viscount," Lord Belcomb prodded, wondering how the deuce Maria had grown so slow over the years. She used to be such a clever girl.
"Oh. Harry. No. I can't think why I should," Maria drawled. "His own family has heard little enough." Absently picking a stray thread from her sleeve, she asked, in a very bored voice, "What's put you in mind of Harry?"
The viscount described meeting with Basil at his club, and then, having found another listener (although not nearly as attentive as Mr. Trevelyan, Maria did listen, more or less—certainly she did not interrupt to harangue him), went on at some length, reminiscing about old times. It was only when he saw his sister yawn for the eighth time that Lord Belcomb left off.
"How very interesting" was her polite response. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Thomas, I believe I must have a nap."
"You're not ailing, are you, Maria? For now I look at you, you seem not quite...quite...in colour, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, my dear. My constitution hasn't yet adjusted to the stimulation of city life." And, giving him a wan smile, she got up and drifted wearily from the room.
Chapter Eight
Isabella was just removing Basil's note from her reticule when she heard a scratching at the door. Quickly, she replaced the note, and looked up to see Alicia gazing at her from the doorway.
"Well, come in, dear," Isabella told her, a bit impatiently.
"Oh, Bella, the most dreadful thing has happened while you were gone." Alicia rushed forward, took her cousin's hand and squeezed it sympathetically.
"What? What?" her cousin returned, alarmed. "Is Mama ill?"
"No, not dreadful like that. But bad enough. Lady Belcomb was at your mama for an hour this afternoon."
"Well, she's always at somebody—"
"But your mama raised her voice," was the ominous reply.
"Mama?" Mama was not capable of raising her voice.
"It's true. And it was all because of that old cat, L
ady Jersey, who wouldn't give me a voucher to Almack's because Mama's grandfather kept an inn."
"I do not understand what your great-grandfather—"
"Not him. Lady Jersey. She told your aunt that everyone believes you are having a love affair with Mr. Trevelyan."
"Alicia!"
The girl had the decency to blush, but went on nonetheless, "Well, one does know of these things, so I don't know why I'm not to speak of them."
"Because it isn't ladylike" was Isabella's stern response. But in a moment she softened again, for her cousin looked at her with such concern. "But who or what has put such a scurrilous rumour abroad?"
"From what I could hear—and I did try not to eavesdrop, Isabella, but as I said, even your mama raised her voice...anyway, it is apparently because of the way he behaves toward you."
"But it is all play-acting!"
"Lady Jersey and her friends don't see it that way." Alicia went on to explain that added to everyone's observation of attentions considered over-warm even in one's betrothed, there was a tide of rumours of clandestine meetings and a series of bets at White's regarding "a certain cit's daughter." In short, the gossip cast grave doubts on Isabella's virtue.
When her cousin had finished speaking, Isabella did not immediately reply, but sat as one stunned. No wonder Lady Jersey had sent such sly glances her way. And here Isabella had thought it was all on account of that old scandal about Mama. She had not expected to find complete acceptance among the ton—certainly not by the highest sticklers—but to have her name blackened because of the theatrics of an insolvent rakeshame; it was too much! Looking up, she saw that Alicia's eyes were filled with tears.