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It was not surprising, then, that he'd revealed what he knew of Maria Latham's history; nor was it surprising that he'd stooped to blackmail. But he found it strange, and definitely unpleasant, to realise the whole while (indeed, even as the first words were out of his mouth) that in doing so, he had abandoned the ranks of civilised human beings and sunk to the level of vermin.
And now what would he do? Common sense told him to give it up as a bad job and make immediate arrangements for a flight to the Continent. Freddie would loan him the money. Good God, even Edward would help him, would do anything to see the back of him. And then there were friends he could join, for Napoleon had not the entire continent in his grasp, after all. But what would he live on?
One moment Basil was determined on flight; he would live somehow. The next, flight was impossible. And so he went, back and forth, until Celestine's note arrived, and then he thought he need not make so critical a decision at this very minute. First, he would see what the beautiful lady wanted.
No, Mr. Trevelyan was not at his lodgings. No, the servant at the club told him, Mr. Trevelyan had left hours before. No, none of the club members knew where he'd gone. But Sir Eliot gave a knowing wink as he remarked that he believed Basil had had an urgent message from one of his ladybirds.
Lord Tuttlehope blushed as he knocked on the door. The little French maid's seductive smile only compounded his embarrassment as he stammeringly asked for Mademoiselle Celestine. The maid was so sorry, but mam'selle was engaged with a visitor. He was about to leave then, but screwed up his courage even as the door was closing in his face.
"It's damned urgent," he whispered hoarsely. "A message. Would you be kind enough—"
"But of course," the girl simpered.
"Then please tell Mr. Trevelyan—"
"Oh, no, monsieur. Mr. Trevelyan is not here." Perhaps monsieur was afflicted with a facial tick, for he blinked so. "It is another gentleman," she explained in a conspiratorial whisper.
Well, he had done his best. And to tell the truth, Freddie breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the street. For had he found Basil and told him what was in the wind, it was certain that his darling Alicia would never speak to him again.
Chapter Eighteen
It was nearly dawn when Basil opened his eyes. Only a faint grey light filtered through the drapes, but to him it was a blinding explosion which set off a sympathetic thundering in his brain. His wench must have drugged him, he thought, but had no time to consider more before blessed unconsciousness overtook him once again.
When he reawakened, the light was much stronger, but the thundering in his head had subsided to a dull throbbing, and he was able to look about him. It was not Celestine's bedroom; that much was certain. And it was not his own. He wasn't sure, but he thought he detected the faint smell of sea air. Perhaps that was what made his stomach rumble so. Where, then, was he?
As though in answer to his silent question, a plumpish, middle-aged gent who put Basil immediately in mind of a muffin, came to the doorway.
"Ah, you are awake, Mr. Trevelyan," said the muffin in the kindliest of tones. "Then let us see what we can do about finding you some nourishment."
"Who the devil are you?" Basil snapped, as he hauled himself up, painfully, to a sitting position. But the gent had disappeared as quickly and silently as he had come, and Mr. Trevelyan was left to simmer for a quarter hour before he reappeared. By that time, Basil had managed to crawl out of the bed and make some poor effort at dressing himself—a task rendered extraordinarily difficult by his trembling hands and weak, throbbing head. "Who the devil are you?" he repeated as the stranger placed a breakfast tray on the small table which stood in the darkest corner of the room.
"Latham," said the gent. "Henry Latham, at your service. And I do hope you'll consent to eat something, sir, for you look a bit peckish this morning."
The topaz eyes narrowed, although the effort cost some pain, as Basil asked hoarsely, "How do I know you haven't drugged that too?"
"Why, Mr. Trevelyan, what would be the purpose in that?" Mr. Latham replied mildly.
"It would be of a piece with the rest of it, wouldn't it?" But hunger gnawed at the young man. How long was it since he'd last eaten? How much time had passed since Celestine had put that glass of wine in his hand? He remembered—or maybe he'd only dreamed it—being jolted in a coach. And an inn. And more wine. And Celestine—or another woman. And apparently they were all in league with this kindly old muffin, who continued to smile innocently at him. The aroma of eggs, ham, toast, and coffee beckoned, however, and Basil determined to postpone further enquiries until he had recovered his strength.
But even as he fell to his meal, he wondered at it—at his sitting there eating a breakfast while Isabella's uncle sat benevolently watching him. It must be a dream, still. At length, as Basil was sipping his second cup of coffee, Henry Latham quietly remarked that he owed the young man an explanation.
"Ah," Basil murmured. "A dream with an explanation. So you mean to tell me you are not a figment of my overactive imagination?"
"No, Mr. Trevelyan. But I would hope to play a beneficial role in your life."
Basil quirked an eyebrow. "You mean to help me?" At the other's nod, he went on, "Then you have a devilish odd way of going about it, my good man. I do not usually have to be drugged into accepting aid."
"Well, you see, sir, I was concerned that you'd create difficulties."
"I never stand in the way of charitable efforts on my behalf—"
"And I had to be sure," Henry continued, "that my niece was safely out of danger before I put my proposal to you."
The coffee cup clattered to its saucer. "The devil you did," Basil sputtered. "Where is she?"
"With your cousin, sir. Or I should say," he corrected with a gentle smile, "with her husband."
"That scheming—you conniving thief!" Basil shrieked, jumping up. "I'll have the law on you. Assault. Kidnapping." He went on with a list of various criminal complaints, punctuated at intervals with curses on his perfidious fiancée and cousin and their families, all of which Henry Latham bore patiently—benignly, in fact— as though it were an outpouring of good wishes.
"Yes," he responded, as Basil paused to catch his breath, "I can see how very disappointing it is for you, Mr. Trevelyan. But you must see that Isabella's happiness must come first with all of us."
"Happiness," Basil snarled. "We'll see how much joy she has of her marriage. And the rest of your wretched, conniving family. What kind of a life do you think she'll have when all of London learns of her mother's hasty, bigamous marriage—and of your brother's part in Harry Deverell's disappearance?"
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"Why, as to that," said Henry, calmly, "there's no telling how the wind will blow. Mayhap they'll make out Maria as the victim of my unscrupulous brother. And if so, 'tis only my family that must bear the shame. Alicia will simply have to come home with me and make the best of her prospects among her own kind."
"And give up her baron?" Basil sneered.
"She's no business with such. A plain 'Mrs.' is all the title she needs."
"You think to convince me that the scandal doesn't matter?"
"No, Mr. Trevelyan. For the plain fact is, much as I think my daughter was encouraged to look too high above herself—well, we'd all rather keep the shameful story quiet. And that is why I appeal to your better nature. Isabella has married your cousin. What's done is done."
"No, Mr. Latham. It is not done. You've stolen my last chance from me, and I will not go down to destruction without some revenge. And if it is only the satisfaction of bringing misery and shame down on your whole miserable family, then I will have it." But even as he spoke, Basil knew he was defeated. What good would it do him? Driving Alicia from society would not pay his debts—and it would alienate Freddie. Dragging Isabella's family through the mire of scandal would not keep him from debtors' prison. The amber cat eyes were bleak with despair. Debtors' prison.
But as his gaze fell upon the open, kindly countenance before him, he realised that he had lost more than a fortune. Somewhere in the place where his heart was supposed to be had been a faint, unacknowledged hope: that Isabella would somehow make things right for him. Perhaps he'd even imagined she'd one day come to love him, and thereby prove that he'd done no wrong; had acted in her best interests, in fact. But he'd deluded himself. It was only now, as he contemplated his dismal future, as he thought of the friends who'd fall away when the prison walls closed around him, that he realised how completely alone he was. And if any suspected the level to which he had sunk...well, who would come to his aid?
