Isabella (21 page)

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?"

"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?

But Henry Latham was speaking, and Basil forced himself to attend.

"You see, Mr. Trevelyan," he was saying, "I do feel responsible, in a way. For I saw what you were about some time ago, when my sister-in-law wrote to me. You may not believe it, but none of us—excepting Matt—knew
the whole truth of the story. I learned of it myself the very day I'd heard from Maria. I was shocked then, but hesitated to act until I knew more—about
you,
especially. Maybe I should have been more forthright. Maybe I should have spoken with you directly, man to man, and we could have come to some agreeable arrangement."

Basil gave a morose growl in reply.

"At any rate, I have a proposition for you." He went on to explain that he had bought up more than half of Basil's notes—"for there has not been time to locate all your creditors. It really is astonishing," Henry mumbled, half to himself, "the amount of credit a man in your position is extended; no wonder so many of you are ruined so young. But at any rate," he went on, more brightly, "I believe something can be done."

"What the devil are you talking about? Bought up my notes? Why, there must be—"

Henry put up his hand. "Outrageous is what it is. Why, the interest alone could keep a family of six comfortably for several years. Well, what's done is done."

"I am undone, is what it is. You are saying that if I don't consent to curb my tongue, you'll call in my markers and have me clapped into prison."

"Why, that's the long and short of it. But it doesn't solve your problems, now does it, Mr. Trevelyan? For how are you to get
out
of prison again?"

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but as I have no means of escaping to the Continent, and as prison most certainly won't agree with me, you can look forward to my early demise." Basil flung himself into a chair to contemplate his untimely end.

"Do you think India might be more agreeable?"

"India," Basil repeated dully.

"For I have some business there and could use a clever fellow."

"Business. In India." Basil looked up from his mournful meditations to meet the kindly brown eyes.

"You are proposing I go into
trade?"
He said it as though he'd been asked to consider contracting a loathsome disease.

But Mr. Latham explained that the young man would not be expected to dirty his hands with trade. Only to keep a lookout on things, to hobnob a bit with the local higher-ups. "It could be very profitable, sir, for both of us. A few choice pieces of information at the right time would pay handsomely. You might even be put in the way of information which would be of use to His Majesty's government."

Basil's eyes flew open at this.

"For to be quite frank with you, sir, I am rather in such a way myself. Business is inextricably tied to politics, you know. And even such as I have some concern in keeping our enemies at bay."

"You suggest that I take up the sort of endeavour my cousin was forced to give up?"

"In the way of business, no more. And as to business, why, I'd guess that with your talents, you'd earn enough to cover all your debts in two or three years—and come away with something handsome in the bargain. Are you game, sir?"

Basil thought quickly. He could try to convince Aunt Clem to hold off the creditors. But would she? And for how long? And if she would not or could not, he must leave England...with nothing to live on. No, there was nothing to be decided. It meant work; the very idea made his blood run cold. But it could mean adventure, of sorts. And maybe a bit of glory might drift his way and cling to him. A hero. He might even be a hero. In less than two minutes, in a very bored, very resigned voice, he replied, "Well, it seems I have no choice. Yes, Mr. Latham, I am—as you say—game."

***

"Alone at last," murmured the earl, closing the bedroom door behind him. "No mama, no aunts, no cousins, no blasted servants—come to think of it, there
are
the servants, and with my luck...perhaps I'd better bar the door?"

"In your own home, My Lord?" Though her voice was playful, Isabella was suddenly nervous. For here she was, alone with her new husband in his—their—bedroom, and no officious relatives likely to burst in to protect her virtue. Good heavens. She was married to him and was not
supposed
to protect her virtue. Quite the opposite, in fact. She blushed and, seeing the dark eyes gazing at her with such intensity, backed away...and stumbled against the bedpost.

"Better safe than sorry," Lord Hartleigh muttered as he turned the key in the lock. A few quick strides and he was across the room, but to his amazement, his bride retreated. "Is something wrong, my love?" Then, noting the blush that spread from her cheeks to her throat, his lip quivered, and he whispered, "Surely you're not afraid of me, Isabella."

"No. Yes," was the subdued reply.

"Darling, you don't think I'm going to murder you."

"No."

"And after all, you've had some sample...or at least a prologue."

A faint smile began to curve her lips.

He held out his arms. "Then come to me...and let us complete what was so rudely interrupted a few days ago. As I recall, you have a most winning way with a neckcloth."

Taking a deep breath to slow her pounding heart, Isabella walked into his open arms and laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding, too. But then his arms closed around her, pulling her close. She felt his warm breath at her ear, and had only a moment to mutter something about a concussion before his lips were pressing softly on hers. Then love took over (and lust, too, it must be admitted), and the earl's cravat went bravely to its destruction.

***

Maria raised her world-weary eyes from her book.

"Who?" she enquired of Lord Hartleigh's discomfited butler.

Life in her brother's household had become increasingly uncomfortable after Isabella's departure. Although Charlotte had come rather quickly to accept Veronica's preference for the Stirewell heir, she could not forgive Maria the Earl of Hartleigh's defection. If Isabella and Maria had not conspired to entrap him, he would never have been enticed away from Veronica. That Lord Hartleigh had never evidenced the remotest interest in Veronica was all put down to the conspiracy. And then, of course, there was Lord Tuttlehope, who, out of the clear blue sky, up and offered for Alicia Latham. If that wasn't conspiracy, Lady Belcomb didn't know what it was—and she would not be surprised to learn that Napoleon was at the bottom of it.

It was the conspiracy theory that finally wore out Maria's patience. And despite her brother's pleadings, she accepted the Earl and Countess of Hartleigh's invitation to live with them.

Now it may be counted odd in a newly wed couple to invite a parent to come live with them. And certainly Isabella had wondered at her husband's proposing it, even before they learned how difficult life had become for Maria in London. But when questioned, the earl calmly replied that Maria was not the interfering sort, and that it was more than likely they would be unaware most of the time that she was even about.