Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

"And just last night, My Lady, I learned that he is likely in possession of a letter never intended for public consumption."

Lady Bertram shook her head sadly. "Poor Basil. What a dreadful boy he's turned out to be."

"Not so much dreadful, I should think," Henry suggested tactfully, "but careless, as so many young men are. And now, it seems, desperation has soured his better nature."

"That is very generous of you, my good sir, but I know my nephew, and he has been devious since the day he was born. Well, there's no help for it, then. I will have to speak to my man of business—"

Mr. Latham jumped up from his seat in agitation. "Gracious Heaven, no, My Lady! It will never do. You'll pay the old debts and he'll go on making new ones. No, no. It is unthinkable." He was adamant, shaking his head even after he'd finished speaking.

"Henry is right," said Maria. "And he has some ideas of his own on how we may proceed. Furthermore, you've forgotten about your other nephew, who—unless I am greatly mistaken—will not be content with Isabella's tiresome excuses."

"He's been devilish slow and thickheaded so far" was the muttered response. "To stand there and take no for an answer when it was plain as the nose on his face...but then I told him what I thought." She turned to the gentleman. "Well then, sir," she urged, with the air of a conspirator, "tell us your plan."

Chapter Fourteen

"Uncle Edward! Look! Look!" But this time, instead of indicating her own accomplishments in the saddle, the child on the silver-grey pony was pointing in the opposite direction, across the meadow where a familiar figure in a dark green riding habit had just emerged from one of the park's side trails. Though she was some distance away, neither Lord Hartleigh nor his ward had any difficulty in recognising Miss Latham.

"Oh, Uncle Edward, it's Missbella. May I show her my new pony?"

The earl was about to agree when he saw Miss Latham turn back angrily toward her groom, then set her spurs to her horse and dart away.

"No, I don't think so," he said slowly, never taking his eyes from the slim figure on the brown mare. "She is going rather fast"—he noted with alarm that it was very fast indeed—"and we had better not distract her."

Blast her! John, the groom, cursed to himself, watching helplessly as his mistress galloped across the meadow. Warning him to keep away, she had shot far ahead of him, as if all the fiends of Hell were after her. Was ever a man so cursed to have such a one in his care? Her usual way was bad enough, but at least she was usually in control of herself and her animal. Today, though, she was in a temper, and urged her horse on to a pace that even in a man called for a cool head and complete concentration.

Oh, she was an odd one, no doubt. And not just in her unladylike riding practices. There was talk in the stables which matched the downstairs talk Polly had passed on to him. And though he made it a practice to believe only half of what he heard, the half that remained did not match what he 'd seen. Oh, yes, she'd met the light-haired gentleman in the park, but you could look as hard as you liked and precious little sparking you'd see. For Miss Latham might be a plain girl from the country, but she had a will of her own. He swore to himself as her pace increased—for even were she a man, riding astride, it would be a dangerous pace, damn her. She was like that black Arabian his lordship had had to sell at such a loss: quiet on the outside and very obedient, but with a willful streak. Would just take it into his mind he wouldn't have a rider, and he'd just shy and rear up until he was free. Turned around and bit his lordship one day for no reason at all. Aye, the one Miss married—if she married at all—would get himself bit now and then, depend on it.

Lost in earthy fantasies about Miss Latham's relations with some anonymous husband, the groom was slow to react when he first saw the horse shy at a bird that darted past. As John watched in paralyzed horror, the horse abruptly stopped, its head dropped forward, and its rider slipped over its shoulder, tumbling to the ground. Cursing once more his ill luck in having so wrong-headed a female under his care, he whipped his own animal toward the still—too still—form lying in a heap next to the now quiet mare.

But he was beaten to the spot by the Earl of Hartleigh, who was out of the saddle and kneeling beside her while the groom was yet halfway across the meadow. The earl was tearing off his coat as the groom drew near.

"Good God, man," he upbraided him, "could you not see that her horse had gotten away from her?"

"B-but, My Lord, that's how she always does—and she won't let me—" The groom stopped, for there was murder in his lordship's eye.

"What's the matter with you, you fool! Can't you see she's hurt? And you there talking? Go for help!"

Relieved to escape the scene of his crime, John dashed away. But even as he rode, tormented with the prospect of losing his place and the even worse prospect of never getting another, he found a moment to wonder why his lordship looked so desperate: sick, almost. It was an odd thing, for one who'd surely seen worse in France and Spain.

Desperate and sick at heart Lord Hartleigh was indeed, as he gently placed his rolled-up coat under her head. He chafed her cold hands, by turns murmuring unintelligible endearments, then muttering curses on himself and his stupidity. Hours seemed to pass thus, rather than the actual few minutes, before her eyes fluttered open to gaze blankly at him.

His heart, which seemed to have stopped from the moment he'd seen her galloping madly across the meadow, resumed some semblance of normal operation. But his voice shook as he spoke her name, and the hand which brushed her fair hair from her face trembled.

"Are you all right, Isabella?" he asked softly. "Are you in pain?"

"I never fall," she responded. Her eyes gazed blankly at him.

"Yes, I'm sure you don't," he agreed.

"I never fall," she repeated, more emphatically. As if to prove it, she started to get up, then winced and fell back.

With dismay, he realised that she did not know him or understand what had happened. A sickening dread filled him as he continued to stroke her forehead gently, and tried to make her understand.

"You mustn't move. Your groom has gone for help. You mustn't move until we can tell how badly you're hurt."

She insisted that she could not be hurt and that she never fell, and again tried to get up, with the same result.

"Stop it," he whispered. "Stop it." He told her who he was, he told her that help was coming soon, but she continued to repeat her two claims, no matter what he said to her.

After what seemed a lifetime, John returned, along with a carriage, a brace of footmen, and a doctor. Reluctantly, the earl gave up his place to the medical man and, only by sheer force of will, restrained himself from throttling that professional as he poked and prodded at Isabella. Turning away in frustration, Lord Hartleigh suddenly remembered his ward. He had barked an order for her to stay where she was when he first took off after Isabella. Had she seen the accident? Or had Tom been clever enough to distract her? Well, there was no time to worry about it now. He called to one of the footmen gawking idly nearby, and sent him off with a message to Tom to take Lucy home. Explanations would have to wait until later.

At length, the physician rose and joined him. The lady, he said, was not seriously hurt, but she was bruised. When the earl hotly argued that she didn't know where she was, he was met with an indulgent smile.

"Just a mild concussion, My Lord, but nothing to concern yourself about. A bit dazed right now, but she'll come around in a little while. At any rate, it will be all right to move her."

Rudely thrusting him aside, the earl returned to Isabella and was relieved to find that, though she still didn't seem to know him, she had at least stopped insisting that she never fell. Over the exclamations of the servants, he lifted her in his strong arms and carried her to the waiting carriage. When he took a place be

side her and slipped his arm protectively around her shoulders, he met the physician's raised eyebrows.

"I have no intention of leaving her to the ministrations of these idiots," the earl growled, his tone daring opposition. "And besides, she should not be jolted overmuch." Well, Dr Farquahar was not a daring man, and decided to keep his opinions to himself.

When they reached the house, Lord Hartleigh insisted upon carrying her up to her room, despite Lady Belcomb's vehement protests that there were strong healthy servants to see to it—and it was most improper—

"Pray control your grief, Charlotte," Mrs. Latham interrupted rather sharply. "Your hysteria will not make Isabella the least bit better, and it is very trying to Lord Hartleigh, who, after all, has taken quite good care of her thus far."

Thus silencing her indignant sister-in-law, Maria accompanied Lord Hartleigh and Dr Farquahar to her daughter's room. When the earl had deposited his burden on the bed, he was still unwilling to leave her, but stood instead watching as the doctor mixed a potion of some sort and gave it to his patient. Still apparently oblivious to all that was happening around her, Isabella obediently drank it. After giving further instructions, the doctor left, and Maria turned to her distraught visitor.

"My Lord," she said quietly, touching his arm, "you must come away now."

"I cannot leave her like this," he answered, unable to tear his eyes from the blue ones that looked back but didn't appear to see him at all.

"But you must. When she does come to her senses— and the doctor assures us she will, quite soon—she'll be distressed to find you here." Seeing that her words were having some effect, she teased him gently: "And besides, if you do not leave soon, we must put her to bed in her dirty riding habit—for how can Polly undress her with you there staring, My Lord? That would not be at all the thing, I assure you."