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This quickly recalled his sense of propriety, and the earl backed away guiltily from the bed.
"Good God," he exclaimed, "what am I thinking of? Madam, you must forgive me—"
"For rescuing my only child? Well, perhaps in time I can manage it. Now come, sir. Let me offer you a brandy, for I'm sure you need it. And you most certainly deserve it." And so saying, she led him from the room.
Basil learned of the accident from Freddie, who had gone to claim Alicia for a drive in the park that afternoon. Upon being informed that Miss Latham was neither dead nor likely to die, Basil coldly remarked that he had not thought she would take such drastic measures to escape him.
Considering that his own heart had been permanently reduced to mush, Lord Tuttlehope was somewhat stunned by his friend's callousness.
"Must say, old boy," he chided, "not a joking matter. Didn't know her own mother. And babbled a lot of nonsense at poor Hartleigh—"
"'Poor Hartleigh'!" Basil exploded. "What the devil has my cousin to do with it?"
"Why, didn't I tell you?"
"Tell me what? All you've told me is that her horse threw her and scattered her wits in the bargain. What has my cousin to do with it?"
"Quite sure I told you," the baron insisted, blinking at this uncharacteristic display of temper.
"You have got your mind stuck, as usual, on something else," Mr. Trevelyan noted with some irritation. Then, as he saw the hurt in his friend's eyes, he regained his self-command and apologised. "Sorry, Freddie. I didn't mean to snarl at you that way—"
"Not at all. Not at all." Embarrassed, the baron brushed away the apology. "No need. Worried about the girl, Basil. Know how it is."
No, you don't know how it is, you fool, Basil thought; but he swallowed his exasperation and bore Lord Tuttlehope's inarticulate reassurances with heroic fortitude. Finally, as Freddie sputtered to a close, Basil assembled his features into an appropriately appreciative expression and thanked his friend for his solicitude.
"For I know I'm an ungrateful wretch, Freddie. But come, let us have the whole miserable business. I can bear it now." Meeting with two uncomprehending blinks, he prodded, "I believe that, in your anxiety to spare my tender feelings, Lord T, you left out half the story."
And to be sure, he had. When Basil learned the whole of it, he burst into a long and only partially intelligible diatribe on the perfidy of women and the treachery of relatives. Not understanding more than one word in twenty, Freddie listened patiently, but with growing concern. He was used to Basil's extravagant speech, but was not used to seeing him so impassioned. And when his friend had done, he agreed (as he thought) that yes, Basil was barking up the wrong tree.
"Best to chuck it," he added, nodding wisely. "Other fish in the sea, Trev."
"Not for me, my friend. Come, let me show you something." Leading his friend to the window, Basil indicated a small, sallow-looking man in the street below. "Solsman and his friends have been very generous, you know, but for a price. I have three annuity payments overdue already and two more in another month. They come by now and then to remind me of our 'little business,' as they put it. But they haven't sent the bailiff for me yet, Freddie. Do you know why?"
Very ill-at-ease, Lord Tuttlehope shook his head.
"Why, they don't want to spoil the wedding plans, my boy. They're really most considerate fellows," he went on as he turned away from the window.
"Didn't know it was so bad, Trev. Only too glad to help—"
"You've thrown enough good money after me, Freddie. But you needn't worry. It's as I just explained to my friend down there on the street. Miss Latham and I have an understanding. A bargain, if you will. And though I'm on my somewhat questionable honour not to disclose the details, I can assure you that it will all come out right. Soon. Quite soon."
He patted his friend on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly at him, but Lord Tuttlehope was not reassured. Long after the baron left his friend's lodgings, he was still trying to understand what had happened, and was still wondering whether it was the moneylenders hovering about like vultures or something very different which had made Basil act so odd.
When he reached home, Lord Hartleigh was relieved to discover that Lucy had borne the suspense surprisingly well. True, she had refused to be coaxed away from the window where she watched for her guardian's return. But she had waited, dry-eyed and quiet; and, when offered reassurances, had surprised the concerned staff by asserting—that of course Missbella was all right—after all, Uncle Edward was taking care of her.
"You're a very brave little woman," he told her as he lifted her in his arms and hugged her.
"Yes," she agreed complacently.
But after he had satisfied her with all the details of Missbella's rescue and happy prospects of recovery, he was a trifle disconcerted to hear his ward read him a lecture. Missbella's family, she maintained, did not take care of her properly, and anyway there were too many of them to look after her as they should. And so it would be best if Missbella came to live with them—for Uncle Edward was big and strong and had only herself to look after. And there was lots of room, wasn't there?
In vain did the earl try to explain that there were rules governing these matters. Lucy informed him that she knew all about it; Miss Carter had told her. Oblivious to her guardian's astonishment, she went on: "Missbella is grown up, and they'll let her go away if she gets married. So you can get married to her and bring her back here and she can be my mama and you can take care of us."
The earl admitted that this was a sensible idea. "However," he added, "it is a very serious decision, Lucy. Whoever Miss Latham marries she will be married to forever. So she must be very, very sure it's me she wishes to marry."
"Oh, she'll be sure," his ward told him confidently. "But you must ask her, mustn't you?"
I already have, he thought. And, recalling the brief conversation he'd had with Maria Latham that morning, he wondered whether it would not be better to discourage Lucy's hopes.
"She tells me she has given your cousin her word," Mrs. Latham had told him. "And to Isabella, that word is as sacred as it would be to any gentleman. She has had, you see, a rather unusual upbringing."
But Lord Hartleigh couldn't bring himself to disappoint the child, especially after the terrifying experience she'd had, and the courageous way in which she'd dealt with it. So all he told her was that he would speak to Miss Latham, but only after he was certain she was quite well. And though she was fully prepared to assist personally in moving Missbella to her new domicile this very afternoon, Lucy promised to be patient.
Chapter Fifteen
The doctor's potion had the desired effect, for when Isabella woke in the early evening, she was once again in command of her senses. Her mother, upon determining this, ordered in tea, and spent an hour with her. Because Isabella was still rather dim on what had happened versus what she had dreamed, Maria offered up the account she'd had from Lord Hartleigh. The tale was told in her usual languid fashion, but contained so many sly hints and ironic references to the lengths to which the earl had gone—"solely on his ward's account"—that Isabella was finally moved to plead with her mother, "Stop teasing and tell me plain what you're about, Mama."
"Why, plain then, if you'll have it so, my love," Maria replied, gazing into her teacup as though the story were written there. "A man does not call one his 'poor darling' in that anguished tone of voice without some personal concern in the matter." Isabella opened her mouth to argue, but her mother was still talking to the teacup. "Certainly one wouldn't expect him to have rehearsed such words of concern and affection as I heard him whisper at you—although I did try not to hear, for it was most improper of him, you know." The cup not deigning to reply, she bent her gaze upon her daughter. "But then, all he did was so monstrous improper that we were all about the ears and didn't know where to look or what to hear. Your aunt, needless to say, was quite beside herself, but oddly enough, she didn't seem to think you compromised by it."
News that a Peer of the Realm has so far forgotten propriety on one's account cannot fail to be gratifying, especially if said Peer is eligible, elegant, and handsome; and, more especially, if one would rather like to forget proprieties on his account. But the information also made Isabella feel quite desperate, and for a moment she was sorely tempted to leap from the bed and hurl herself out the window. If Lord Hartleigh did care for her, then her life was entirely ruined. It was one thing to give up the man you loved when he didn't love you. It was altogether another to give him up when he did. It was idiotic, in fact.
As though reading her daughter's mind, Maria went on, "In light of his behaviour this morning, I find it perfectly absurd that you have engaged yourself to his cousin."
"Oh, Mama, it's not absurd," Isabella cried. "It's completely horrible. Oh, why didn't that horrible animal kick me in the head and be done with it? What am I going to do now?"
"Isabella, you are far too unwell to engage in theatrics. But it's what comes, I imagine, of spending so much time in Mr. Trevelyan's company. Whatever is the matter with you, my love? You have only to cry off. It's done every day. Some young ladies do it twice in a morning, I understand. To keep in practice, no doubt." She gazed thoughtfully at the biscuits on the tray and calmly selected and nibbled at one while Isabella protested that she could not. For one, added to her already questionable reputation would be the label of "jilt." For another, and more important, she had given her word.
"Considering that you were deceived into giving that word," Maria answered, daintily brushing a crumb from her sleeve, "and considering that your Intended has behaved dishonourably toward you, I don't think you need feel obliged to abide by it."
"But, Mama, he's desperate. I know he is. And if I break my promise...I don't know what he'll do."
"You cannot allow your life to be ruled by fear of what he'll do. And what can he do, after all? Blacken your name? Do you think for a moment his cousin would permit it?"
