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Miss Latham acquiescing, he put Lucy down. The child placed herself between them, taking each by the hand.
"We'll go on this way," she announced. "It's much better."
They had nearly half an hour to themselves before Veronica reappeared, and despite still feeling piqued about the scrap of paper hidden in Miss Latham's reticule, Lord Hartleigh was beginning to enjoy himself. With the barrier between his ward and himself crumbling, he relaxed, and soon found himself telling of an episode from his childhood, a story called to mind by one of the landscapes.
He'd had a pet frog, which was kept hidden in a box under his bed. His parents had given a party, to which all the best families in the county had been invited.
"At the height of the festivities, the frog escaped from its box, hopped along down the stairs and into the drawing room. The horror of the scene was not to be imagined—ladies screaming and fainting; footmen scurrying about, endeavouring to capture the poor creature, and stumbling over swooning ladies."
A giggle from his ward and a low chuckle from Miss Latham encouraged him to go on.
"I awoke, hearing the shrieks, and immediately knew what had happened. I rushed downstairs in my night-clothes, clutching the box to my chest and screaming, ‘Eliot! Eliot!’”
Picturing the scene, Isabella could control herself no longer. She burst into laughter.
"Eliot?" she choked. "That was its name?"
"His name," the earl gravely corrected. As he went on with his story, he found himself embellishing the tale, just to draw more of that delicious laughter. By the time he had done, she was gasping for breath.
"A true scene of Gothic horror," she told him when she finally regained control of herself.
"It was indeed," he agreed, chuckling. "I defy even Mrs. Radcliffe to match it."
"Ah, Mrs. Radcliffe!" said Isabella. "Now that is another matter. Do you know, I suspect—"
But he was not to learn her suspicions, for Veronica had returned to them, chattering effusively about dear Miss Stirewell and her charming mama. And as it was drawing near the time they'd promised to be home, they hurried through the rest of the exhibit and out to the earl's waiting carriage.
"By the way, Maria, heard anything from Deverell?" Lord Belcomb had wandered into the small saloon. The house was in its usual state of uproar, with servants scurrying to and fro, moving furniture and bric-a-brac, and he was seeking refuge as distant from his wife as possible. Fortunately, she was engaged in haranguing the chef, and only his sister occupied the room. He didn't hear Maria's quick intake of breath at his question, and when he took a chair opposite, the blue-green eyes met his composedly.
"Harry, you know. Back from the drowned. The new viscount," Lord Belcomb prodded, wondering how the deuce Maria had grown so slow over the years. She used to be such a clever girl.
"Oh. Harry. No. I can't think why I should," Maria drawled. "His own family has heard little enough." Absently picking a stray thread from her sleeve, she asked, in a very bored voice, "What's put you in mind of Harry?"
The viscount described meeting with Basil at his club, and then, having found another listener (although not nearly as attentive as Mr. Trevelyan, Maria did listen, more or less—certainly she did not interrupt to harangue him), went on at some length, reminiscing about old times. It was only when he saw his sister yawn for the eighth time that Lord Belcomb left off.
"How very interesting" was her polite response. "And now, if you'll excuse me, Thomas, I believe I must have a nap."
"You're not ailing, are you, Maria? For now I look at you, you seem not quite...quite...in colour, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, my dear. My constitution hasn't yet adjusted to the stimulation of city life." And, giving him a wan smile, she got up and drifted wearily from the room.
Chapter Eight
Isabella was just removing Basil's note from her reticule when she heard a scratching at the door. Quickly, she replaced the note, and looked up to see Alicia gazing at her from the doorway.
"Well, come in, dear," Isabella told her, a bit impatiently.
"Oh, Bella, the most dreadful thing has happened while you were gone." Alicia rushed forward, took her cousin's hand and squeezed it sympathetically.
"What? What?" her cousin returned, alarmed. "Is Mama ill?"
"No, not dreadful like that. But bad enough. Lady Belcomb was at your mama for an hour this afternoon."
"Well, she's always at somebody—"
"But your mama raised her voice," was the ominous reply.
"Mama?" Mama was not capable of raising her voice.
"It's true. And it was all because of that old cat, L
ady Jersey, who wouldn't give me a voucher to Almack's because Mama's grandfather kept an inn."
"I do not understand what your great-grandfather—"
"Not him. Lady Jersey. She told your aunt that everyone believes you are having a love affair with Mr. Trevelyan."
"Alicia!"
The girl had the decency to blush, but went on nonetheless, "Well, one does know of these things, so I don't know why I'm not to speak of them."
"Because it isn't ladylike" was Isabella's stern response. But in a moment she softened again, for her cousin looked at her with such concern. "But who or what has put such a scurrilous rumour abroad?"
"From what I could hear—and I did try not to eavesdrop, Isabella, but as I said, even your mama raised her voice...anyway, it is apparently because of the way he behaves toward you."
"But it is all play-acting!"
"Lady Jersey and her friends don't see it that way." Alicia went on to explain that added to everyone's observation of attentions considered over-warm even in one's betrothed, there was a tide of rumours of clandestine meetings and a series of bets at White's regarding "a certain cit's daughter." In short, the gossip cast grave doubts on Isabella's virtue.
When her cousin had finished speaking, Isabella did not immediately reply, but sat as one stunned. No wonder Lady Jersey had sent such sly glances her way. And here Isabella had thought it was all on account of that old scandal about Mama. She had not expected to find complete acceptance among the ton—certainly not by the highest sticklers—but to have her name blackened because of the theatrics of an insolvent rakeshame; it was too much! Looking up, she saw that Alicia's eyes were filled with tears.
