Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

"No, my love, she said all she had to say to me; at considerable length, I might add. But no matter. Apparently Lord Hartleigh bears no grudges." She gave her daughter a sidelong glance. "As I am sure you do not, Isabella—for it is quite wicked, you know, to bear a grudge."

"Yes, Mama."

"But to the other matter. What of his charming cousin? From what I have heard, he suffers from an excess of creditors. Not that there is anything so unusual in that." Maria paused, apparently distracted by another thought. "And if there is affection, of course—"

"I believe he is simply after my money," Isabella responded softly.

"In that case, perhaps you might send him about his business?"

"Perhaps."

"Unless you are fond of him," Maria added, as though she had not heard her daughter's reply.

"No."

"At any rate, you do not lack other suitors."

"Mama, they are all in love with my income," Isabella cried. "Every impoverished gentleman in London has put his name on my dance card and made his call. I have had so many offers to ride in the park that I could spend the next ninety years in curricles, with my feet never once touching the earth." Though she spoke ironically, her eyes began to glisten with tears, which she determinedly withheld.

"How peculiar that so many impoverished young men should have so many curricles," her mother noted abstractedly.

"I am sure the money lenders do not find it peculiar at all."

"You are right, my dear. Money lenders understand everything, even the most inscrutable. But that was not my point; or was it? No. What I meant was that many of these young gentlemen are perfectly respectable—although, admittedly, unfortunate in having elder brothers. But Mr. Trevelyan's reputation, from what I can gather—and that is mostly from the servants, for your aunt prefers to look smug—at any rate, his reputation is not entirely, shall I say, 'sunny'?"

Isabella gave a rueful little smile. "Perhaps that's why I find him the least abhorrent."

"My love, you are not turning romantic, are you? You have not been reading Childe Harold again? For you know your aunt will not have Byron's works in the house."

Isabella laughed in spite of herself. "No, Mama. It is just that if I must choose among fortune hunters, I would rather they be clever and charming—and wickedly attractive," she finished with a nervous giggle.

"I see."

Isabella had the feeling that her mother saw rather more than what had been spoken, but could not read in her face what it was.

"Well, then, go back to your stitching, though how your eyes can bear it I shall never know. I hope you will not wrinkle up on me, darling. Ah well, I suppose there's no stopping you. At any rate, I shall not tease you for at least the next hour. I am fearfully tired and must have a nap."

The wickedly attractive gentleman in question was in the process of being scolded—exactly like a naughty child—by his only partially indulgent aunt. He lounged carelessly against the ornate mantelpiece as, for the eighteenth time in one hour, she stressed the necessity of his getting his affairs in hand. In vain did he protest, his face absurdly innocent, that this was exactly what he'd been doing.

"Attempting to entrap a well-bred lady worth twenty of you in intelligence and good sense is not quite what I had in mind, you horrid boy." Lady Bertram was glaring at him most ferociously, but he did not cower; instead, he managed (though it hardly seemed possible) to look even more innocent. He was imagining himself a persecuted Muslim facing the Spanish Inquisition.

"Aunt Clem," he told her patiently, "I have been so prodigiously proper that it fair makes my hair stand on end. I have not spent a minute with the young woman when there were not at least half a dozen others standing watch in the same room—if not her aunt or her mother or her giggling cousin, then the servants. Belcomb has more footmen than he has furniture, you know. If anyone should feel entrapped, it should be myself."

This was met with a derisive snort.

"And I do not see, dearest Aunt, why you are so concerned with Miss Latham. Why, you are quite maternal—a veritable lioness defending her cub. Frightfully disloyal of you, you know. After all, I am your cub, or rather, one of them."

"Stuff! I like the girl, and won't see her made miserable for life. Bad enough her mother made such a mull of things."

While Basil did not find this response especially flattering, he was too aware of his own failings to contradict. More than likely he would make a wife miserable, and her misery would increase in proportion to her intelligence. That promised Miss Latham a thoroughly wretched future. Unfortunately, Basil hadn't enough conscience to overcome his self-interest. While he knew of several wealthy—and vulgar—peageese who might look upon him with favour, he had already spent much precious time cultivating Miss Latham and couldn't afford to start afresh with someone else. He would have preferred, certainly, to see a bit more evidence that she was succumbing to his charm. The creditors were beginning to raise a nasty clamour; and the way she watched Edward when she thought no one was looking was not at all encouraging to their interests. Even less encouraging was that Edward watched her in the same manner. This made Basil anxious, a state of mind entirely foreign to his nature and, oddly enough, not the least bit refreshing.

He ran his fingers through his tawny hair, making its carefully arranged windblown appearance more genuinely tousled. He did wish Aunt Clem would leave off scolding. For here was a tailor's bill in his pocket which, if not paid up by tomorrow, would render his current wardrobe his final one. And in frayed collars, limp neckcloths, and threadbare waistcoats, one could not expect to charm wealthy young ladies or allay the fears of their relatives. He offered his aunt a lazy smile.

"Ah, her mother. But you know, Aunt, I suspect she hadn't the energy to make a mull of things. They must have simply mulled themselves."

"You know nothing of it. She was quite a lively girl in her youth. But her life in later years wore her down. As it will, you know." Lady Bertram spared her nephew a meaningful look before returning to her reminiscences. "What a pity she and Harry Deverell couldn't have made a match of it. You know," she mused, partly to herself, "I never did understand what made her run off with Latham."

Basil was all curiosity, the tailor momentarily forgotten. "You mean there was something between Mrs. Latham and the new viscount? The one everyone thought dead all these years?"

The sharp brown eyes considered him, and a sad, patient look passed briefly across the aristocratic features. "No, that's not what I meant at all. They grew up together and were like brother and sister. And even

if their feelings had been more romantic, it would have been impractical, of course. Neither family was well off."

"You see, Aunt? Even you realise that one can't live on affection alone. The grocer must be paid..."

"And the tailor, too, I suppose. Don't play the innocent with me, you villainous boy," she went on, in response to his upraised eyebrow. "My sources tell me that Mr. Stutts refuses to extend you any further credit."

"Aunt Clem sees all, knows all," replied the villainous boy, with some relief.

"Of course I do, you young jackanapes. Well, then, what will it take to pacify him?"

Now this was interesting, Basil thought, as he strolled down Saint James's. Harry Deverell and the languid Mrs. Latham had grown up together. And yet, when the story about the mysterious viscount had come up in conversation, she had barely attended. But then, whenever she did put in one of her rare appearances, she seldom seemed to attend to anything. And every time Basil saw her, he was hard put to connect her darker, striking beauty with her daughter's pale, nearly nondescript features. Must take after the father, he thought. And yet that side of the family, too—if Alicia was the rule, rather than the exception—certainly was more strikingly handsome. Well, one could not always rely on family resemblances. Although that had sealed the mysterious viscount's fate, hadn't it? Basil cast his mind back, trying to recall the story that had had London in such an uproar...when was it, a year ago?

Harry Deverell, youngest son of Andrew, Viscount Deverell, had gone to sea. Evidently, he was not the clerical type of younger son, for he had decided on a distinctly hazardous mode of getting his living. But his career was cut short when he fell overboard in a sudden storm off the Cornish coast, and he was presumed drowned.

It turned out, however, that he'd been able, by some miracle, to make his way to shore, where he was rescued by some folk or other—smugglers, no doubt, as they all were thereabouts. Severely weakened by his efforts, he'd fallen seriously ill, and when the fever and delirium finally left him, several weeks later, he could remember nothing, not even his name. Only his sailor's garb offered any clue, and he returned to his trade, hoping this would help him recall his lost past.