Authors: Loretta Chase
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.
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.
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 by 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.