Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

"Oh, but she is. Hasn't she thought to tell you, cuz? Carried away by the heat of the moment, no doubt. But really, Isabella, you might have at least waited until after we were wed. I declare, you haven't the faintest notion how to go on in Society, do you, my love? First you get married, then you're unfaithful. Not the other way around. It just isn't done."

"Isabella has always had an odd way of doing things, Mr. Trevelyan. She has had an unusual upbringing, you see. All those ledgers..." This last trailed off into a sigh, as Maria Latham stepped into the room. Her weary gaze drifted from one to the next to the next, and she sighed again. "I do hope Frederick does not subject us to any more visitors today. I find dramatic entrances most fatiguing." Acknowledging the gentlemen's bows, she wandered toward the sofa and, having waved Lord Hartleigh to another chair, took her place beside her daughter. "Isabella," she said, "I think you have been naughty."

"She has had a concussion," the earl began, but a speaking look from Mrs. Latham quelled him.

"A concussion is no excuse for bad manners. Pray apologise to Mr. Trevelyan, Isabella—"

"Mama!" Isabella gasped.

"And tell him to go away. Under the circumstances, he cannot wish to marry you."

"Oh, but I do, Mrs. Latham. I am a very forgiving sort of person."

"Are you indeed?" The blue-green eyes met his, and Basil reddened slightly, but he went on nonetheless. "Yes, quite forgiving. She has had a concussion and my wicked cousin has attempted to take advantage of her weakened condition—"

"He did not!" Isabella cried, irritated at being treated like somebody's senile aunt.

"Well then, my love, I forgive you anyhow. I'm sure you had a good reason," Basil replied, with a maddeningly patronising smile.

"Yes, I did," she snapped. "I love him—and I'm going to marry him—aren't I?" She faltered, looking at Lord Hartleigh.

"Of course you are," that gentleman reassured her.

"There you are, Mr. Trevelyan," said Mrs. Latham, in tones of exhausted yet patient forbearance. "She means to marry your cousin. And now you may go away."

"Well, she's not going to marry him for all she thinks so at the moment." The topaz eyes glittered under half-closed lids as Basil toyed with his cane. "For one thing, what will her father say?"

There was silence in the room. Two faces stared at him as though he had suddenly gone mad. But there was a tiny crease between Maria Latham's brows as she watched him, warily. Isabella was the first to speak.

"What are you saying, Basil? Papa died five years ago."

"Matthew Latham died five years ago. Your papa is alive and well. If he is not already in London, he is on his way—from India."

The tale had been told, and Isabella sat in stunned silence as her two suitors were summarily dismissed. Viscount Deverell—her father—and Mama had never said a word; not all these years, no, and not even today, as Basil's strangely harsh voice had gone on and on.

Yes, Harry Deverell had gone to sea. And yes, when Maria had run away, it was long after he'd left home. But that had been part of the plan—so that none would connect Maria's disappearance with Harry. And according to plans made well in advance, the two had married in an obscure town on the Cornish coast. The young couple had a few months of bliss before Harry was called away. He had just left when Maria discovered she was pregnant. And then, in less than a week, there was the accident, and Harry was presumed drowned.

What came next brought an aching lump to Isabella's throat, but she couldn't cry. What would she have done in her mother's place? Would she have waited, hoping against hope that it was all a terrible mistake? Would her pride have allowed her to present herself to her unsuspecting in-laws and demand that they care for her and the unborn child she claimed was Harry's?

Maria re-entered the room, but she did not approach her daughter. Instead, she stood by the window, gazing out in her usual abstracted manner. It was only now that Isabella associated that look with the sailor's wife, gazing out to sea.

As though she'd read her daughter's thoughts, Maria said, softly, "I did not know which way to turn. I had my marriage lines, but even so, it was more than likely we'd forfeited any claims to our families' support by going against their wishes. And even if they had determined it was their duty to help—they had little enough for themselves. When Matt Latham offered to marry me, it seemed the only solution. Harry was dead. I believed neither my family nor Harry's family would take me in. And I had more than myself to consider. I did not want Harry's child to grow up in misery and want." Her voice never changed, never trembled. It was steady and detached throughout her recitation; and it did sound curiously like a recitation of a piece of fiction, rather than the true story of the ordeal she'd undergone.

Isabella got up and moved across the room to join her mother at the window. "In your place, Mama, I think I would have done the same. But why did you never tell me?"

"Neither when I thought Harry dead nor in recent months, when I knew him to be alive, did I feel it necessary to burden you with our secret."

"But surely when you learned—"

"No. I knew nothing of his life for all those years. I knew nothing of his wishes in the matter. I had rather even Mr. Trevelyan be the first to tell you than that I do so without Harry's expressed consent."

Isabella took her mother's hand. "Poor Mama," she murmured.

"No," said Maria. "You must not pity me. Matt Latham did a terrible thing in driving your papa away. But he did love me. And except for betraying Harry, who had been his friend—Matt had even helped us plan our elopement, you know—well, apart from that, and those disastrous financial undertakings, Matthew Latham was a tolerable husband." The bored tone had crept back into her voice—and oddly enough, Isabella was relieved to hear it.

"But he knew my...my father was alive—and he never told you."

"Your father regained his memory almost a year later; he'd been struck in the head during some scuffle or other." Maria smiled, remembering Harry Deverell's quick temper. "He wrote to Matthew Latham—not his parents or brothers—first, asking him to break the news gently to me. But instead, my new husband wrote back, telling of the marriage, lying about the date of your birth, and, apparently, giving your father to understand that to reclaim me as his bride was to ruin me. I knew nothing of this. Nor did your uncle know of it, until a very short time ago. I had written to him that I suspected Mr. Trevelyan knew something of the story. And Henry had that same day received a letter from a Captain Macomber, a friend of your father's, who re

lated as much of the story as your father had finally confided to him. Apparently, once Harry received Mart's letter, he had determined to leave the past in darkness forever, and never to return to England. It was only the death of his older brothers that persuaded him otherwise. And in the course of corresponding with his family, he learned a bit more about us, and soon realised that Matthew Latham had lied about your birth."

Maria gently led her daughter away from the window, back to the sofa. Gazing earnestly at her, she went on, "Isabella, perhaps now you'll understand my reluctance to abandon you to the tender mercies of Mr. Trevelyan. Matt Latham did a terrible thing, but he did it because he loved me. And because he loved me, I was able to have a tolerable life, though I was only moderately fond of him. I do not say that you may not have some mild affection for Mr. Trevelyan. It is not difficult to see that there is a decent sort of heart there, somewhere underneath his poses and machinations. But he cannot truly love you. How could he, and wave the family's dirty linen in your face? To marry him would be to march merrily off to your own perdition."

"But he has threatened to spread your story—"

"Good heavens, Isabella. Caro Lamb stalks Byron everywhere he goes and he makes sport of her to his friends. I'm sorry to disillusion you, but their antics will quite take the shine out of this Gothic ancient history of ours. And as to a little accidental bigamy that happened more than a quarter century ago—why, has not our Regent made bigamy quite fashionable? No, society will buzz about us for a day or two, and then Caro will commit another outrageous act, and they will quite forget all about us. And you seem to forget—as Mr. Trevelyan has—that at some point he will have to answer to Harry Deverell, if he does not first have to answer to Lord Hartleigh. No, my love. I do not think we need trouble ourselves overmuch with your nefarious so-called fiancé.”

Chapter Seventeen

"There," said the lovely Celestine as she sealed the note and handed it to her visitor. "That'll fetch him. But I want you to know I'd never play him such a sorry trick if I wasn't about to get the toss myself, and need the money so badly."