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"I don't know."
"Of course you do." Maria stood up. "I would have preferred to postpone this discussion until you were feeling more the thing, but that is not possible. I have often found that in precisely those cases requiring lengthy and calm consideration, circumstances permit neither, but demand instead prompt action. Life can be very trying in that way, Isabella."
It struck Isabella that there was something unusual in her mother's expression. There seemed to be a note of something like regret in her tone, not at all in keeping with her usual air of indifference. But there was nothing to be read in Maria's face. The blue-green eyes were, as usual, focused elsewhere, and the still-beautiful features appeared untouched by any emotion. She was still Mama, still languid, still an enigma.
"What circumstances do you mean, Mama?"
Maria sighed. "Lord Hartleigh will be here tomorrow. I don't think we need pretend he comes simply to enquire after your health."
"But I can't speak to him yet!" Isabella cried, her pleasure at this message quickly swamped by panic. How could she face him?
"That is both ungrateful and cowardly of you. And if that's the best you can do, then perhaps you and Mr. Trevelyan will suit after all." Maria did not wait for a reply, but, in her normal manner, drifted out of the room. Abnormally, however, she slammed the door behind her, making Isabella cringe at the throbbing it set up in her head.
That same evening, Lord Hartleigh made his way to his cousin's lodgings. He had not visited the place in some years, and the closeness and shabbiness of the apartments shocked him, especially in their marked contrast to Basil's elegant attire. Mr. Trevelyan was just applying the finishing touches to his ensemble, preparatory to an evening on the town, and he seemed neither surprised nor disconcerted by his cousin's abrupt appearance.
"Come in, cuz," he told him coolly. "This is indeed an honour—though not, I must say, unlooked for."
"You expected me?" the earl asked, no whit less coolly.
"Oh, yes, indeed. In fact, I have been on pins and needles the whole day. Even sent my man out for a bottle or two of your favourite. And considering that I had to send ready cash along with him—for neither the vintner nor my valet will advance me another penny—I hope you'll do me the honour to partake of it."
At Lord Hartleigh's nod, he drew out from a small cabinet two glasses. These he minutely inspected, holding them up to the light. He then subjected the wine to the same scrutiny, and, after leisurely satisfying himself on these two counts, served his cousin and himself, and bade the earl be seated. Basil took a chair opposite and launched into a long stream of social chatter in which the weather and Lord Byron's relations with Caro Lamb figured most prominently. The earl bore with him. He knew that his cousin wished to irritate him, and therefore refused to be irritated. Finally, after some twenty minutes of relentless jabber, Basil broke off abruptly: "But then, cuz, I forget that this can't be a social call. I believe you have come on"—he smiled, recalling Isabella's tone that morning a few days ago—"a matter of business."
At the earl's nod, he went on, "Then tell me your business—although I believe I can guess it. Do you come on Miss Latham's behalf? I suppose you must, though I confess I'd rather she came as her own emissary."
"I come on her behalf" was the curt reply, "but she has not sent me."
"Ah, then perhaps she is still unconscious. How unfortunate that your ministrations had so little effect."
Lord Hartleigh suppressed the urge to hurl his glass in his cousin's face, and, wishing to avoid possible future temptation, he gently put it down.
"I believe I'll let that insinuation pass," he answered, his voice just a shade too quiet, "though it does you no credit. For I've known you all your life, Basil, and I do believe you can't help it."
"You needn't patronise me, My Lord—"
The earl went on, as though he hadn't heard, "In fact, it's precisely because you can't help yourself that I've come. You seem to have gotten yourself into a surprisingly bad scrape, especially considering the advantages with which you began."
"You don't mean to lecture at me? For if you do, let me warn you that I get a weekly sermon from Aunt Clem. And, uplifting as it may be, it quite adequately meets my needs for that sort of thing."
"I haven't come to lecture. I've come to offer a solution—"
"But, cousin, perhaps I have one already."
"I don't doubt that you do. But it isn't worthy of you,”
Basil's face flushed as he snapped, "Enough of this sanctimony. Let's have the word with no bark on it. In return for something or other, you want me to give the lady up."
"Yes."
"Well, I simply can't imagine what you could offer to compensate. It isn't only that Miss Latham is the perfect solution to all my difficulties. No. I know it'll surprise you—it surprises me—but I've grown rather fond of her. Oh, I'll admit she isn't very pretty: certainly not in my usual style. And she is overly serious and so terribly responsible. But I like to hear her laugh, you see. And at close quarters, Edward," he went on in confidential tones, deliberately baiting his cousin, "she is surprisingly appealing. Why, if I were at all poetical, I should write an ode to those delicious lips of hers."
The urge to strangle his cousin nearly overcame Lord Hartleigh, but with superhuman effort he controlled himself, and merely pointed out that in such a case, Basil must, of course, consider Miss Latham's happiness above all things.
"Dear Edward, I should like ever so much to think of nothing but Miss Latham's happiness. Unfortunately, I am forced to consider the feelings of certain other parties."
"And I gather these 'other parties' require certain payments in gold to soothe their tender feelings."
"Why, there you have it, Edward. They are quite tender about their guineas."
"You are telling me you want the money...and the girl."
"Yes, of course."
"And you would not consider an offer—say, an annuity which would allow you to pay the more pressing of your debts while still leaving you
something to live on." The earl went on to name an amount which nearly took Basil's breath away.
But Mr. Trevelyan recovered quickly enough. "Tempting, cousin. But no, it won't do. I mean to have her, Edward. And I recommend you give it up."
The menace in his tone made the earl look up in surprise.
"You mistake me, cousin, if you think to bribe or trick me out of this game. And I believe you know me well enough to understand that I do not speak idly when I warn you away. You have your title. You have your lavish inheritance, which you so casually toss in my face. Be content with those, and find another mama for Lucy. For you will not have Isabella Latham."
Now this was odd indeed. Lord Hartleigh had expected a struggle. Basil needed money, and had enough spite to want Isabella just because Edward wanted her. But Edward had hoped that his cousin would eventually be content to escape marriage—as long as he could do so profitably. After all, he had no real hold on Miss Latham. Basil knew Edward wouldn't stand for any more scandal-mongering. So what was it that made the little beast so confident? Another quarter hour's argument made it clear that the little beast had no intention of telling. He just sat there, smiling and smug, unmoved by threats or appeals to his honour or any other of the pleas to which his cousin at length resorted.
"No, Edward," he said, finally. "It won't do. And don't think to try to steal her away, for you may force some matters which can only cause my darling—and her family—tremendous pain."
And that was as much as could be gotten out of him. Edward took his leave calmly enough, but inwardly he seethed with rage and frustration. For without knowing what new villainy his cousin was contemplating, he hardly dared press Isabella to abandon the wretch.
Yet Lord Hartleigh knew he could not keep away from her—not if his life depended upon it. It was all he could do to stay away until tomorrow; all he could do to keep from rushing to her house and carrying her away—now— in the middle of the night.
Basil, meanwhile, was not quite as sanguine as he had appeared to his cousin. Before him on the table, next to a half-empty wine glass, was a much-creased letter.
