Isabella (11 page)

Under the tutelage of her Uncle Henry Latham, Isabella had learned a great deal about business. He had explained the various ploys and promises which had led her father to near-ruin. Compared to the machinations of men of business, Mr. Trevelyan's trick was a child's game. And it would take more than that and an outraged viscountess to bring Isabella Latham to the altar.

Well, I will meet you, you horrid creature,
she thought, tearing the note into pieces;
if for no other reason than to show how little I care for your pathetic threats—and to put an end to this nonsense, once and for all.

***

Although the earl was pleased to see his ward so animated, as she eagerly plied him with questions all the way home, he found himself unable to give her his full attention. Over and over, his mind replayed the visit to the gallery, calling up Miss Latham's image and the delectable sound of her laughter as he'd told his frog story. What had possessed him to relate that tale? For a few moments he'd felt young and carefree himself; the painful memories of war, the burden of his responsibilities had vanished briefly, and he was simply a man, entertaining a pleasant young woman. What was there in that? It was only her enticing laughter and its secret, intimate promise that unsettled him.

No, there was more. While somewhat absently replying to Lucy's questions, he found himself wondering if he would have told that story to Lady Honoria. And he wondered why, though that lady possessed every requisite for a satisfactory—nay, superior—wife, he was not drawn to her. She was beautiful, yet he gazed on her with no special pleasure. She was reputedly clever, yet he quickly wearied of her conversation. She was—even Aunt Clem agreed—the best of the lot, and yet, and yet...He shook himself out of his reverie as Lucy's voice became insistent.

"Then
when,
Uncle Edward?"

"What was that, child?"

With an exasperated little sigh, Lucy repeated,
"When
may we see Missbella again?"

"I don't know."
When indeed?
"Her family is to give a ball in a few days and she'll be quite busy. Perhaps after that.
If
you remember the special task you were to perform for me."

"My special task?" The hazel eyes looked away from his as she concentrated, trying to remember.

"Now you see, Miss Latham has put it quite out of your head. The pony. You were to decide what colour pony we should have."

"Oh yes! I know!" She bounced up and down, excitedly. "A silver one. Like the one in the picture. With the white on his face."

"Ah, well, that's a difficult order—" Then, meeting her look of disappointment, he went on, "Indeed, it is a dangerous mission, you propose, madam, but I, Edward Trevelyan, seventh Earl of Hartleigh, shall undertake it."

Lucy giggled in delight, and rewarded him with a fierce hug.

"Lucy talks of nothing but Miss Latham," Lady Bertram remarked as she poured herself a cup of tea. "She seems almost as much taken with the girl as your cousin is."

The smile on Lord Hartleigh's lips tightened. "I doubt my cousin is taken with much else besides himself."

"You're very hard on Basil."

"He has done little to warrant my compassion."

"Your father was much like Basil, at the same age. Yet he settled down and led a respectable life soon thereafter. Some men come by their sense of responsibility late."

"My father did not manage to squander his entire inheritance in five years—"

"He did not have the opportunity, coming so late to the title, and by then he had a wise and affectionate wife to guide him. But I did not invite you here to quarrel with you, Edward." Lady Bertram, whose back was always straight, straightened it just a bit more, and assumed a dictatorial air. "I wish to know what progress you have made."

The long, strong fingers gripped the wineglass just a bit more tightly. "Progress, Aunt?"

"Don't play the fool with me, Edward. You have narrowed down the field to half a dozen, and I hear Lady Honoria Crofton-Ash is leading by a nose. When do you plan to offer for her?"

"Really, Aunt Clem, you make it sound like a race at Ascot."

"Well?"

Curious how, lately, women seemed so often to be putting him at a disadvantage. Aunt Clem, with her cross-examinations concerning his prospective brides; Lady Honoria, with her meaningful smiles and glances which he was quite incapable of returning; Miss Latham, with her intelligent blue eyes and insinuating laughter...
Oh no. Not that train of thought again.

The majestic bosom rose and fell as Lady Bertram exhaled a sigh of impatience.

"Are you still there, Edward?"

"Sorry, Aunt. I was just considering how to phrase it—"

"It? What? Will you offer for her or not? If you do not plan to do so, then you must cease paying her such particular attention." Her nephew's blank look told her that Lady Honoria little occupied his thoughts, and inquiries regarding other prospective countesses had the same result. His obvious lack of interest in these eligibles, coupled with his unusually passionate hostility at the mention of Basil, led Lady Bertram to put two and two together. Thus, she ceased her cross-examination, and casually turned the topic to his ward. She enquired about the new pony Lucy had been in such a flurry about, and then easily went on to Lucy's infatuation with Miss Latham. Noting that merely mentioning the young lady's name wrought an interesting change in the earl's demeanour, she pressed on.

"I have conversed with her several times," Aunt Clem said innocently, "and have been much impressed with her good sense. She can also be most amusing—once you can get her away from that cat of an aunt of hers. It's no wonder Lucy likes her. In fact, I've thought of inviting her to tea; but it would be so awkward."

Lord Hartleigh raised an eyebrow. Awkwardness, he knew, was not in his aunt's repertoire.

"How so, Aunt?"

"Well, if Lucy is to come, I must have you, I suppose, for I will not have that ninny Miss Carter. And then of course I can't have Basil. But if I don't invite Basil, he'll be horribly put out, for he is quite besotted with Miss Latham."

"The devil he is!" the earl burst out, and then, catching his aunt's inquisitive eye, settled back in his chair and drawled, "I told you, Basil is in love only with his expensive amusements—which, I assume," he went on, unable to help himself, "he would like Miss Latham to pay for. As my father did. As Basil expected me to do. Aunt, you know he has no consideration for anyone but himself, has no thought of responsibility to anyone or anything—"

"In that case, what would you have him do?" his aunt asked. "Unlike you, he has no choice but to marry a woman with a fortune. And if Miss Latham finds him suitable, and is content to have him—"

"What?" Lord Hartleigh sat bolt upright, nearly spilling his sherry in his agitation. "Surely he has not offered for her?"

"Not to my knowledge, but if he should—"

"Aunt, you cannot permit it."

"I have nothing to say in the matter." Calmly, she helped herself to a piece of cake. "I cannot dictate my nephew's behaviour."

"You cannot think to abandon her to his...his...machinations."

"Edward, I do believe you have a touch of your cousin in you. You are growing quite melodramatic. I am sure Miss Latham is sensible enough to avoid whatever 'machinations' you are imagining. I understand she assisted her uncle and has a surprisingly sophisticated understanding of business. I doubt she'll be taken in easily. And if she is, then we may assume it was because she was inclined to be. May we not?"

Having discovered what she wished to know, Lady Bertram gently turned the conversation to other channels. She noted, however, that Lord Hartleigh never did fully regain his equanimity, and she wondered if he was too much of a fool—as men so often were—to realise what he wanted.

Isabella had never sympathised much with her Aunt Pamela's social ambitions. After all, the Lathams were not slave-traders; their businesses were respectable. And certainly they were far better off financially than many of the nobility. The latter were often obliged to bring themselves to the brink of bankruptcy, just to keep up appearances. Look at her uncle, Lord Belcomb.

Had Aunt Pamela not been so ambitious, her four daughters might have had their pick of any number of respectable, though untitled, young men. And Isabella might have stayed quietly in Westford, making herself useful to her uncle, instead of having to spend her time dodging the various parties so eager to make use of her fortune.

But that same social ambition had also provided her current means of escape. Insisting that a proper young lady must be conservant with the art of managing a horse, Aunt Pamela had insisted on riding lessons for her girls. After many debates on the subject, Uncle Henry had finally agreed—on condition that Isabella be taught as well.

"The poor child does not have sufficient exercise," he'd told his wife in his quiet but firm way. "She must be encouraged to spend more time out of doors." That his wife demanded too much of the girl within doors was an issue left unspoken, for he had no wish to hear the lengthy denials.

Thus Isabella had been afforded some refuge from the chaos of the viscount's household. And in this one case, at least, the viscountess did not require detailed explanations. Lady Belcomb's passion for horses, like her need for battalions of servants, had contributed in part to her husband's current unhappy financial state. Isabella, then, had only to don her habit in the morning and take her groom with her, and she would have an hour or more of peace. For that, today, she was doubly thankful.

She had left well before time, both to actually exercise the horse and to clear her own head. She'd lain awake a long time the night before, trying to calculate the risks of flouting her aunt's demands, and had at length determined that if all else failed, she would turn to Uncle Henry. He had straightened out worse tangles. And so, clinging to this comforting thought, she'd fallen asleep at last.

She took a side trail, away from the park proper, where there would be room to run. As she urged her horse to a gallop, the groom, by now inured to her headlong pace, patiently waited. On their first excursion, he'd been convinced the horse had run away with her, and had earned a good-natured scolding for his attempts to rescue her. Today, as he had ever since, he gritted his teeth and fervently prayed that Miss would not be killed—at least not while in his keeping.

But Miss was made of sterner stuff than most people realised. She flew across the meadow, confident and secure. As she felt the fresh morning air and the graceful power of the animal beneath her, aunts and debutantes and suitors faded from her mind. Life made sense again; as it rarely had since she'd come to London. She wished she could continue galloping, on, out of the park, away from the city, and back to her uncle's comfortable home. But one could escape only for moments at a time.

Reluctantly, she made her way back, and was guiding her horse along the more travelled paths (although, at this hour, few travelled them) when she caught sight of Basil. He was still some distance away, and as she watched his approach, she wondered what quirk of fate had led him to her—rather than any one of a hundred other similarly well fixed young women; and why, like most of that hundred, she could not be content simply to purchase an attractive, well-born husband.

For, though she felt his were no match for the darker good looks of his cousin, there was no doubt he was handsome: slim and graceful, impeccably dressed, with that beautifully sculpted face and those unsettling amber eyes beneath that mane of tawny hair. He was clever and poetic and amusing; he was, in fact, exactly the kind of wickedly romantic hero one might conjure up in one's dreams. But such a hero would want her for herself, not for her fortune.
Not,
Isabella thought with regret,
that a mousy-looking spinster was calculated to inspire passion in any hero's breast.

But Isabella did not realise how un-mousy she appeared at the moment. Her face was flushed with exercise, her eyes sparkled, and her fair silky hair had begun to come loose from its pins. She looked quite...fetching. Once again Mr. Trevelyan noted that Miss Latham was a great deal more appealing when she was stimulated—whether by merriment, anger, or exercise. It would be a fascinating study to discover the diverse ways in which stimulation might be effected; and more than ever he was determined that such discoveries would not be left to his cousin.

Neither the groom's suspicious stare nor Isabella's cold reply to his greeting disconcerted him. He wished she would look a tad more worried, but there was no help for that. If his speech succeeded, she would no doubt have reason to fret.

"I pray you will be brief, Mr. Trevelyan," she told him. "I do not usually ride more than an hour, and I do not wish to cause anxiety at home."

"Briefly, then," he agreed, as they moved on a few steps, out of the groom's earshot. "As I indicated in my note, it is no small matter that I attempted to compromise you—"

He was interrupted by her low chuckle, and an angry light shone briefly in the cat eyes as he asked her to share the joke.

"It will not do, Mr. Trevelyan," she told him, her face quickly solemn again. "I am not so missish as to think that a stolen kiss in a public park in broad daylight will sink me entirely beneath reproach."