Well then, Alexandra thought, glancing at Mr. Trevelyan, who seemed to find Papa inordinately amusing today, let us by all means call him to us so you can speak ill to his face.
Aloud she said, "It isn't kind to drop such alarming hints to me, Randolph, and then say nothing more. Surely you must have some basis for what you claim."
As a scholar who prided himself on his logic, Mr. Burnham wasn't about to own he had no foundation for his remarks. On the other hand, it went against his gentlemanly grain to trade in gossip. The scholar won out.
"I was in London some two years after you left, as you know. While we did not travel in the same circles, I did hear of Mr. Trevelyan, and, I'm sorry to say, nothing to his credit. When I heard this story of six years trying to make his fortune, I was astonished. Knowing what I did, I could not imagine that he had got his money any other way than by gambling."
Well, this was of a piece with everything else—and surely Randolph wouldn't say such a thing if he didn't have reasonable evidence. Gambling, too. Add that to the rest and it made a pretty sort of blackguard.
What of it, then? She certainly wasn't going to marry the fellow. Fortified by this comforting certainty, she rose—as she must—to Mr. Trevelyan's defence. "That would be very distressing news, indeed. But he was in low spirits when I last saw him," she lied, "and I understand that some men will turn to vice—temporarily—when they're in low spirits. Besides, he does say he's partners with Henry Latham, and we could always find out the truth of that."
Randolph nodded gravely. "Mr. Latham is a distant acquaintance of my father. It won't be difficult to ascertain the facts once we are home. Perhaps I wrong the man. I don't mean to. It is only that I cannot like to see you misled."
He was sincere, of course. Honest as the day is long: that was Randolph. He made her feel guilty. A little while in Mr. Trevelyan's company and she'd deceived her father, Randolph, and even Dhimitri. But when men persisted in being such blockheads, what else could one do? Still, maybe she'd been overhasty in rejecting Randolph. Charm and clever conversation weren't everything. Better to be a little bored occasionally than to be forever worrying what one's untrustworthy spouse might be up to.
Dear heavens! Whatever had led her into that train of thought? What unworthy spouse could she possibly be thinking of?
Randolph was still making apologetic murmurs. Alexandra collected her wandering thoughts and made him a soothing reply—exactly the sort of thing his wife would have to say every now and then when some bit of stone puzzled him or when he lost one of his sketches. Well, he was kind and sincere, but there were other men in the world. Nothing on earth—except perhaps her stubborn father—obliged her to choose between these two alone. Not that they were, she chided herself, willing to be chosen from. Had not one of them made that very clear the first night she met him?
Chapter Four
Saranda now bore few traces of its origins as the ancient, thriving seaport of Onchesmus. It was a port, still, but a very minor one, and so a boat must be hired to take the group on to Prevesa. With luck—ill luck, as Alexandra saw it—they might speedily obtain places on one of the British vessels that regularly stopped there.
There was news in Saranda of Napoleon and contradictory tales of a great battle in France or Belgium. The outcome of that battle, unfortunately, was a matter of violent debate.
Basil was standing with Miss Ashmore, waiting for the dragomen to finish bullying the townsfolk as they loaded their belongings into the tiny boat.
"I suppose," he said, "we must wait until we get to Prevesa—or even Malta—to learn for certain. I should like to know, in the first place, how the Corsican eluded the British cruisers guarding his island. Then I should be curious to find out why he didn't attack Wellington in Brussels. He was still in Paris, last I heard—though it was all rumour and everyone contradicting everyone else, just as they do now. I couldn't stop to wait for news." He glanced at his companion.
Miss Ashmore seemed lost in reverie. She was gazing out across the narrow neck of the Ionian Sea towards the gloomy mass of Corfu's mountains.
"What do you think will be the outcome?" he asked.
She brought herself back, but her green eyes were still rather dreamy. "How difficult it is to contemplate war when one gazes upon such peaceful beauty. Yet this has never been a peaceful place. Ali Pasha and his soldiers have conquered, town by town, towns which had been conquered by others before. In time, someone will wrest his dominions from Ali. And he is so much more clever and efficient a manager than Buonaparte," she added, her eyes gleaming now with mischief.
"More Machiavellian, you mean?"
"Certainly that. Ali, I think, would never have been so careless as to alienate Talleyrand. Or if he had, he would have known enough to have the man killed, instead of leaving him to lick his wounds and plot revenge for five long years."
He wondered once again, looking into that heartbreakingly beautiful face, how she came by her opinions. As the daughter of Sir Charles Ashmore, she could hardly be expected to escape without some smattering of historical knowledge. But the baronet knew nothing of current events—beyond the dim awareness that there had been a war going on which occasionally interfered with his travel plans—and she seemed to know everything.
Much of Miss Ashmore's information, Basil had learned, came from divers diplomats the Ashmores had encountered in their travels, especially the many foreigners who paid court to Ali Pasha hoping to lure the sly Albanian to their side. Nonetheless, what Alexandra made of the facts and rumours she heard was her own and always interesting. Eager to egg her on, he asked ingenuously what she meant about Buonaparte. After all Buonaparte couldn't help but alienate somebody and could hardly trouble himself about whose feelings he might hurt.
She shot him a look of incredulity. "To call the man a stockingful of excrement—and that before the whole court? He could not have helped that? And he reputed a brilliant strategist?"
Basil suppressed a grin. "Called him what?"
But she was already caught up in the drama of the moment she pictured. "Before the whole court," she repeated, shaking her head. "Talleyrand stood and bore the abuse, never saying a word. Yet, one suspects, from that day forth he must have plotted his revenge. Plotted, planned, biding his time for years." She shivered. "Such patience is frightening. I should not care to have such a one about. I imagined him like Cassius, with his 'lean and hungry look.’”
Basil gave his own theatrical shudder. "That sounds exactly like Rogers, my valet. Left to his devices in Prevesa, heaven knows what he might be plotting. I hope, at least, he's guarding my trunks."
"If he's a proper British valet, Mr. Trevelyan, he'll be obliged to shoot himself as soon as he claps eyes on you."
Basil glanced down ruefully at his raffish attire: Turkish-style trousers, limp cotton shirt the Albanians called a kam-isha, and travel-stained cloak. "Well, you see, my costume doesn't look like anything in particular, and so I can't be categorised, which makes men careful how they treat me. I may, you know, be mad."
Miss Ashmore assured him, with a little grin, of her certainty that he was.
"But sane enough to hope Rogers has kept my baggage safe from these rogues. I don't know why he shouldn't, as he's a worse rogue than any of them. At any rate, he'll not deign to notice my disgraceful appearance. He'll take me immediately in hand, and the next time you see me you won't recognise me."
"Ah, then I shan't be obliged to speak to you."
"In which case, I shall travel as I am," was the prompt retort. "But here we are, speaking of my sartorial tragedies, when I am on pins and needles to hear about this Cassius-Talleyrand of yours. And of Napoleon's Fatal Flaw. Is he a tragic figure, do you think?"
It wanted very little to coax her to talk. She led Basil on back through history, from Buonaparte and Talleyrand to Caesar to Alexander to Alexander's father, Philip of M
acedon. Basil was content to go where she led, though he teased and questioned and tried to undermine her theories. He liked to listen to her, liked exploring with her the characters of those who'd made history, and those who'd made art and literature of history.
What had Dhimitri's relatives called her? The English witch. She wove spells, they claimed, entrapping young men with her beauty, but to Basil she was Scheherazade. He could have listened to her forever...and oh, how he wished she could keep him company through his long, restless nights.
They reached Prevesa by late afternoon—too soon—and he was jolted out of his trance as they prepared to disembark. Deaf to her protests and oblivious to Dhimitri's congratulatory smile, Basil lifted her out of the boat and waded to shore with her in his arms. No, he thought, he was under no spell. He only liked to hear her talk because he wanted her, and he wanted her because he'd been lonely too many months. There was no spell. Only Desire, and that must fade once they were home.
Lefka, Gjergi, and Stefan had stayed behind in Saranda, but Gregor and Dhimitri refused to part from their charges until those fragile English creatures were safely aboard their ship. A British merchant vessel lay in the harbour, awaiting the escort of a brig of war which was scheduled to arrive the next day and depart the day following.
While Mr. Trevelyan made arrangements for passage, Dhimitri saw to accommodations. The young Albanian had distant relatives in the town who were very well-to-do. Their spacious and well-furnished home was, he insisted, infinitely preferable to the Spartan lodgings of the English vice-consul. Too tired to argue, the travellers agreed to accept the hospitality.
After dinner, their hosts proposed that the Englishmen take a stroll through the town. Alexandra helped the womenfolk wash the simple dinner utensils and then decided to take her own quiet walk through the garden. She had, after all, a great deal to think about.