Isabella (Trevelyan Family 1)

But Henry Latham was speaking, and Basil forced himself to attend.

"You see, Mr. Trevelyan," he was saying, "I do feel responsible, in a way. For I saw what you were about some time ago, when my sister-in-law wrote to me. You may not believe it, but none of us—excepting Matt—knew the whole truth of the story. I learned of it myself the very day I'd heard from Maria. I was shocked then, but hesitated to act until I knew more—about you, especially. Maybe I should have been more forthright. Maybe I should have spoken with you directly, man to man, and we could have come to some agreeable arrangement."

Basil gave a morose growl in reply.

"At any rate, I have a proposition for you." He went on to explain that he had bought up more than half of Basil's notes—"for there has not been time to locate all your creditors. It really is astonishing," Henry mumbled, half to himself, "the amount of credit a man in your position is extended; no wonder so many of you are ruined so young. But at any rate," he went on, more brightly, "I believe something can be done."

"What the devil are you talking about? Bought up my notes? Why, there must be—"

Henry put up his hand. "Outrageous is what it is. Why, the interest alone could keep a family of six comfortably for several years. Well, what's done is done."

"I am undone, is what it is. You are saying that if I don't consent to curb my tongue, you'll call in my markers and have me clapped into prison."

"Why, that's the long and short of it. But it doesn't solve your problems, now does it, Mr. Trevelyan? For how are you to get out of prison again?"

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but as I have no means of escaping to the Continent, and as prison most certainly won't agree with me, you can look forward to my early demise." Basil flung himself into a chair to contemplate his untimely end.

"Do you think India might be more agreeable?"

"India," Basil repeated dully.

"For I have some business there and could use a clever fellow."

"Business. In India." Basil looked up from his mournful meditations to meet the kindly brown eyes.

"You are proposing I go into trade?" He said it as though he'd been asked to consider contracting a loathsome disease.

But Mr. Latham explained that the young man would not be expected to dirty his hands with trade. Only to keep a lookout on things, to hobnob a bit with the local higher-ups. "It could be very profitable, sir, for both of us. A few choice pieces of information at the right time would pay handsomely. You might even be put in the way of information which would be of use to His Majesty's government."

Basil's eyes flew open at this.

"For to be quite frank with you, sir, I am rather in such a way myself. Business is inextricably tied to politics, you know. And even such as I have some concern in keeping our enemies at bay."

"You suggest that I take up the sort of endeavour my cousin was forced to give up?"

"In the way of business, no more. And as to business, why, I'd guess that with your talents, you'd earn enough to cover all your debts in two or three years—and come away with something handsome in the bargain. Are you game, sir?"

Basil thought quickly. He could try to convince Aunt Clem to hold off the creditors. But would she? And for how long? And if she would not or could not, he must leave England...with nothing to live on. No, there was nothing to be decided. It meant work; the very idea made his blood run cold. But it could mean adventure, of sorts. And maybe a bit of glory might drift his way and cling to him. A hero. He might even be a hero. In less than two minutes, in a very bored, very resigned voice, he replied, "Well, it seems I have no choice. Yes, Mr. Latham, I am—as you say—game."

***

"Alone at last," murmured the earl, closing the bedroom door behind him. "No mama, no aunts, no cousins, no blasted servants—come to think of it, there are the servants, and with my luck...perhaps I'd better bar the door?"

"In your own home, My Lord?" Though her voice was playful, Isabella was suddenly nervous. For here she was, alone with her new husband in his—their—bedroom, and no officious relatives likely to burst in to protect her virtue. Good heavens. She was married to him and was not supposed to protect her virtue. Quite the opposite, in fact. She blushed and, seeing the dark eyes gazing at her with such intensity, backed away...and stumbled against the bedpost.

"Better safe than sorry," Lord Hartleigh muttered as he turned the key in the lock. A few quick strides and he was across the room, but to his amazement, his bride retreated. "Is something wrong, my love?" Then, noting the blush that spread from her cheeks to her throat, his lip quivered, and he whispered, "Surely you're not afraid of me, Isabella."

"No. Yes," was the subdued reply.

"Darling, you don't think I'm going to murder you."

"No."

"And after all, you've had some sample...or at least a prologue."

A faint smile began to curve her lips.

He held out his arms. "Then come to me...and let us complete what was so rudely interrupted a few days ago. As I recall, you have a most winning way with a neckcloth."

Taking a deep breath to slow her pounding heart, Isabella walked into his open arms and laid her head on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding, too. But then his arms closed around her, pulling her close. She felt his warm breath at her ear, and had only a moment to mutter something about a concussion before his lips were pressing softly on hers. Then love took over (and lust, too, it must be admitted), and the earl's cravat went bravely to its destruction.

***

Maria raised her world-weary eyes from her book.

"Who?" she enquired of Lord Hartleigh's discomfited butler.

Life in her brother's household had become increasingly uncomfortable after Isabella's departure. Although Charlotte had come rather quickly to accept Veronica's preference for the Stirewell heir, she could not forgive Maria the Earl of Hartleigh's defection. If Isabella and Maria had not conspired to entrap him, he would never have been enticed away from Veronica. That Lord Hartleigh had never evidenced the remotest interest in Veronica was all put down to the conspiracy. And then, of course, there was Lord Tuttlehope, who, out of the clear blue sky, up and offered for Alicia Latham. If that wasn't conspiracy, Lady Belcomb didn't know what it was—and she would not be surprised to learn that Napoleon was at the bottom of it.

It was the conspiracy theory that finally wore out Maria's patience. And despite her brother's pleadings, she accepted the Earl and Countess of Hartleigh's invitation to live with them.

Now it may be counted odd in a newly wed couple to invite a parent to come live with them. And certainly Isabella had wondered at her husband's proposing it, even before they learned how difficult life had become for Maria in London. But when questioned, the earl calmly replied that Maria was not the interfering sort, and that it was more than likely they would be unaware most of the time that she was even about.

In truth, the house and grounds of the Hartleigh estate were so vast that Maria could be lost for weeks before anyone noticed. And as it turned out, only Burgess, the earl's terrifying butler, who for thirty years had ruled his household with a rod of iron, was at all disturbed by the new resident. For from the first, when Maria had looked up at his immense height and stern demeanor with that faint indulgent smile—a smile one would give a great overgrown puppy, or a very small boy, as one patted him fondly on the head—the butler had been frightened of her. He lived in terror, that one day this slender, lackadaisical, unpredictable woman would pat him on his head, and all his authority would crumble into dust. But for all that, he was fond of the lady, and very sharp with any staff member who so much as hinted a question of Mrs. Latham's mental faculties.

Still, she was at it again. He had announced the visitor, and she acted as though he were saying it only to tease her. As she looked up at him, Burgess had the unaccountable sensation that he had done something naughty.

Nonetheless, his face was emotionless as he repeated, patiently, "Lord Deverell,

madam. I have explained that you are not at home today, but—"

"Confound it, Maria, I've been up and down the whole blasted island looking for you, and this fellow has the effrontery to tell me you're not at home." A tall, fair-haired, quite handsome gentleman in his late forties pushed past the protective butler.

"Why, Harry," said Maria.

"Don't 'Harry' me, you unfaithful female. Where's Isabella?"

"Well, I'm sure I don't know," the female replied, sinking gracefully back onto her cushions. "Somewhere about. Perhaps Burgess can tell you."

"His Countess of Hartleigh," announced Burgess, with awful dignity, "is in the garden with Miss Lucy. Shall I inform her ladyship that Lord Deverell has arrived?"

"Whatever," said Maria with a sigh.

Unperturbed by Burgess's dignified disapproval, the viscount plunked himself down, uninvited, in a nearby chair. As soon as the butler had departed, he said, "You might show a little interest, Maria. You haven't seen me in twenty-seven years."

"Well, of course I haven't, Harry. One doesn't expect to see a dead person. Unless one has a morbid turn of mind. Which I have not." And Miss Latham fell to examining the diamonds on her fingers.

"Well, I'm not dead anymore," the viscount remarked, tapping his foot impatiently.

"No, you're not" was the unhelpful reply.

"In fact, I never was."

Another sigh. "How was I to know?"

Moments ticked by as the star-crossed lovers meditated. Then:

"Maria?"

"Yes."

"I missed you horribly."

"Well, I hope so, Harry," replied the lady. She considered for a minute, then raised herself to a sitting position and let her glance travel from the tips of his polished boots to his tanned face and his fair hair, so sun-bleached that it was impossible to be certain where the gold left off and the silver began. "I have missed you rather horribly myself." And for no apparent reason at all, she laughed.

The viscount sprang from his seat to take his long-lost bride in his arms.

"Why, Harry," she murmured as his lips met hers.