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From then on, he'd travelled the globe as an obscure sailor, never crossing paths with any who might recognise him. It was only when he finally settled in India—some five years ago—that he had contact with any of his class. But by then, Harry Deverell had been so long thought dead that even those noting a family resemblance would not connect him with the retired Captain Williams.
And then it happened that one who had seen him commented on this resemblance to an acquaintance about to assume a post in the same Indian town. Upon arriving, Sir Philip Pomfret had promptly looked up Captain Williams, remarked the resemblance himself, and instituted an inquiry into the captain's history. The timing of the accident at sea, coupled with the physical evidence...All the evidence pointed to one conclusion. But when confronted with this information, Captain Williams joked it all away, saying that dozens of men had been lost off the Cornish coast in one endeavour or another, and he was as likely the son of a low smuggler as of the late viscount.
Yet there was nothing low or common about Captain Williams. And when word eventually reached Sir Philip that the two eldest Deverell sons had been killed in a carriage accident, he took the captain aside and made a passionate appeal to his sense of duty: "If you are not Harry Deverell, then you have nothing to gain or lose. But if you are, it is your duty to see to the welfare of your brothers' widows and daughters, who have next to nothing to live on."
Thus Captain Williams was persuaded to write to the family solicitor. That dedicated old gentleman, struck by the familiar handwriting, promptly embarked on a long and grueling voyage to India. He recognised Harry immediately. And his persuasions, coupled with those of Sir Philip, at length convinced the captain to assume his rightful identity and the title. Commitments in India made it impossible for the new viscount to return home with the solicitor, but he was to follow in some months. And the Deverells—what was left of them—were expecting him back anytime now.
Handsome, dashing—so Aunt Clem had described Harry Deverell, dwelling at such length on his fair hair and captivating blue eyes, which darkened or lightened with his mood (not to mention his tall, slim, muscular physique), that Basil had to tease her about nursing a secret tendre for young Harry. But Aunt Clem had only smiled wickedly, and reminded her nephew that she'd had her own handsome devil to reform.
Yet this attractive fellow had never married. Too wily to be caught in the parson's mousetrap?
"Maybe too honourable," Aunt Clem had replied. "For how could he know he was not already wed?"
"In that case, he does not seem to have exerted himself to discover his supposed widow—or anything at all about his lost past."
Aunt Clem had shrugged, saying that one did not know all the circumstances.
No, thought Basil, one did not. But it would be amusing to find out about Mrs. Latham's former playfellow. At the very least, it would be a diversion from this, so far, unsuccessful assault on Isabella Latham's heart. And after all, there may be other ways to win her golden guineas than by winning her heart.
Chapter Five
About the time a certain Bond Street tailor's troubled spirit was being soothed by an injection of guineas, Lord Hartleigh (his own tailor in a permanently ecstatic state) was strolling in the park with a most fetching unmarried young lady. No groom or maid trailed behind the attractive couple, and one or two persons, who had ventured into the park at this early hour for interesting purposes of their own, stopped to stare.
Lord Hartleigh was feeling rather foolish, for his companion did not seem to find him stimulating. Nor did her new cherry frock, brilliant with ribbons and lace, cheer her. Her dark curls tumbled about a most lachrymose visage, and she plodded sadly and silently along beside him, looking up obediently from time to time as he pointed out various sights.
"Are you tired, Lucy?" the earl at length inquired.
"No, Uncle Edward," she murmured.
"Perhaps you'd prefer to visit another place?"
"No, thank you, Uncle Edward."
Blast! There was no pleasing the child. In response to Aunt Clem's scathing remarks regarding "that suffocating house," he had begun trotting his ward from one London sight to another. But nothing had lifted her spirits—not the balloon ascension, not Astley's Circus, not even the British Museum with its odd assortment of curiosities. In every case, she accompanied her handsome guardian in the same obedient but sad, limp manner.
"Perhaps you'd like to play with the other children," he suggested in desperation, gesturing toward a distant section of the park where several nurses stood guard over their small charges.
Lucy dutifully looked in the direction he indicated, and was about to utter another polite refusal when she spied a young woman sitting, sketching, beneath a tree.
"It's Missbella!" she exclaimed, looking up eagerly at her guardian. She began tugging at his hand. "May we see her, please, Uncle Edward? It's Missbella!" With unexpected strength, the tiny hands were pulling him in the direction of the tree, and he found himself obediently following.
When they were yet several yards away, Lucy broke free of her guardian's grip and raced toward the young woman. She flung herself upon the startled Isabella, nearly knocking the wind out of her with the eagerness of her hugs as she cried, "I found you! I found you!"
"Why, Lucy," the lady gasped, "what a lovely surprise."
"Lucy, I'm afraid you are crushing Miss Latham."
Isabella looked up from the mass of tumbled curls and cherry ribbons to see the earl frowning down at her. Her pulse quickened, and she blushed. "Lord Hartleigh. Good morning."
In prompt response to her flushed cheeks came the odd sensation in his chest again. As if this affliction were not bad enough, it was now aggravated by the fierce tweak of Envy. Lucy's face glowed as she held on tenaciously to her friend. She loosed her embrace only enough to begin an animated cross-examination. She asked a hundred questions and answered them all herself. She demanded to know where Isabella had been and why she had not come to see her. And she repeated for Isabella's enlightenment all that the earl had taught her about the park and its environs. The child's sudden loquaciousness and uninhibited display of affection toward Miss Latham was most surprising—and not altogether flattering to Lord Hartleigh.
Isabella seemed to sense this. After responding as well as she could to this barrage, she suggested that Lucy release her so that she might converse with her guardian, who was, she noted, being rather impolitely ignored. Thus gently chastised, Lucy let go. As Isabella began to struggle to her feet, Lord Hartleigh waved her back.
"Pray do not rise on our account, Miss Latham. I see you had been working most comfortably until our somewhat precipitate arrival.” That said, he gracefully dropped down to sit beside them, careless of the grass stains and dirt that would later torment his valet.
"I'm afraid it is not work, precisely," Isabella explained, greatly flustered by the proximity of his long, lean body. "Usually I ride in the morning. But my groom could not be spared today. So here I am, making ladylike little sketches. It offers a change." In response to his quizzical look, she went on, nervously, "We are in a turmoil with preparations for my cousins' debut, you see, and I occasionally must come away, to escape the servants and restore my sense of perspective."
"And no doubt to escape the press of morning callers," he added ironically, and then promptly regretted it. He wished she would not blush so easily. It had a mischievous effect on his breathing apparatus, which seemed to have suddenly shut down.
"I—I believe I mentioned that I am unused to fine company," she stammered. There was that stern gaze again. Why must he look so very disapproving?
"I beg your pardon, Miss Latham. I did not mean to imply..." But he didn't know what he didn't mean, and found himself at a loss to continue.
Fortunately, Lucy was subject to no such hesitation. She was oblivious to the grown-ups' discomfort and had grown impatient for the lady's attention.
"I missed you so much," she announced, once more flinging her arms a
round Isabella's neck. "Uncle Edward takes me to see so many things." She went on, to her guardian's amazement, to list every sight and repeat, virtually word for word, all that he had told her. He never believed she'd been attending to his commentaries at all. Yet his face did not betray his surprise; it seemed only to grow more stern.
"And now you must come, too," the child insisted. "You will come, won't you?"
Since the earl did not appear nearly so eager as his ward, Isabella was puzzled how to respond.
"Well, you see, Lucy," she began, hesitantly, "we are very busy at home just now, and I am not quite sure when it would be possible. Perhaps in a few weeks..." Her voice trailed off, her cheeks pink again. At this, the child's eyes began to glisten dangerously, and Isabella hugged her closer. "And besides," she added softly, "you did not think perhaps that your guardian would like to have you all to himself?"
The hazel eyes looked out from beneath the curls to that gentleman's stern visage, and then turned back to gaze at Isabella in incredulity. Her expression did not escape her guardian, who managed to force out, past whatever inside was trying to strangle him, that he would be honoured if Miss Latham would consent to accompany them one day; and that if there were time in her busy schedule, perhaps she would join them in their visit to an exhibition of landscapes.
"I thought the scenes would be more interesting to Lucy than fashionable portraits," he explained. "I—I know she misses the country." His expression softened as he regarded his ward, and Isabella glimpsed something in his eyes that made her feel a twinge of sympathy.
