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Basil lying cold and lifeless on the ground. Basil dangling from the end of a gibbet. Such visions were not conducive to rest. She lay awake, frightened and sick at heart and, yes, angry as well. It was bad enough to have fallen in love with a libertine. To be besotted with a villain—a criminal—well, that was the very acme and pitch of stupidity.
It cannot be expected that even one of so philosophical a turn as Miss Alexandra Ashmore could wait placidly for the denouement. She wept a great deal more than she liked when she was private, though she was able to behave rationally enough in company. She was used to pretending, after all. The past three months, it seemed, had been spent in one performance after another. It was only in the loneliness of her bedroom that she let herself give way.
So it went: a performance by day and misery by night, as the days and nights passed and there was no word.
Chapter Sixteen
"Have what, my dear?" the gentleman asked mildly, removing his spectacles.
"That horrid creature is back again, and I'm sick of the sight of him. Wherever he goes trouble follows." Mrs. Latham collapsed into a chair, her ample bosom heaving. "Was it not he who came with that wicked man in the first place? Was it not he, back again just a few days ago? Now Marianne is ruined. Ruined! And the beast dares to show his face again, smiling and preening himself like a sneaky tomcat."
Her husband, who'd been thoughtfully polishing his spectacles during this tirade, now put them back on again. "But my dear, he's not the tomcat who made off with your daughter. So hadn't you better have him shown in?"
There were ominous signs that his calm assessment of the situation would drive his wife into one of her hysterical fits. Happily, he was able to forestall this dangerous prospect by means of quiet but firm words. In another five minutes, Mrs. Latham was herself again. She haughtily bade Mary show the gentleman in to Mr. Latham's study and then see speedily about some refreshment.
"Well then, Basil, it is just as we thought." Mr. Latham spread out a pile of papers before his guest.
"Actually, it's as Randolph thought. He was certain that Sir Charles's travel accounts had been well received though in a quiet way. My own experience with them showed that the baronet is a frugal traveller. Yes, his so-called patron had ample return on his small investment."
"Well, your aunt suspected as much, you know."
There was a brief silence—hardly more than a few seconds—before Basil answered, easily enough, "Did she now?"
"Or did I neglect to mention that she'd written to me after George returned her bank draft? Yes, it troubled me from the first," he went on, running his eyes over the sheet he held in his hand. "Until you got Randolph talking, I was stymied. George keeps his affairs mighty close. Fortunately, Randolph made a few accurate guesses about his father's business associates, and once I tracked them down it was a simple matter. Their records did not match with what George reported to Ashmore. He'd kept two sets of ledgers, you see. Such a pity, when Ashmore never bothered to examine the accounts."
"Our irascible baronet cares only about the work itself, difficult as that is to believe. He wants a better keeper, Henry." Basil lounged back in his chair and smiled. "At any rate, between Randolph's defection and our evidence, I doubt Mr. George Burnham will care to give any more trouble."
"If he thought to, I expect he'll think again when he gets my letter. Marianne and Randolph will be enjoying their honeymoon by then, no doubt."
"Oh, yes. They had less than two full days' journey to Gretna Green."
"Good." Mr. Latham nodded with satisfaction. "My wife is still a tad overset. She wanted titles for all the girls, you know. Wants them all to do the same as Alicia."
"Still, she has two more unwed daughters."
"If they make matches one half as satisfactory as their older sisters', I shall count myself the most fortunate of Papas. Randolph is a good, honest man, and we must make shift to tolerate his family's frailties. If Marianne is content, that's all that counts." The genial businessman looked over his spectacles at his companion. "And what of you, sir? All this hard work and trouble—and no reward in it for you? Perhaps you'd have done better to have stayed in India or Greece. Certainly there'd have been more profit in it, eh?"
Mr. Trevelyan's smile faded. "I wish to heaven I'd never gone to Greece," he muttered, half to himself. Noting his friend's uplifted eyebrow, he went on quickly, "But then, I'd never have stumbled upon this Burnham business, and Randolph would never have come here—"
"—and fallen in love with my daughter. Well, how fortunate you did stumble upon this Burnham business, as you put it. Come," the older man said briskly, "let us give you a proper meal. May we offer you a bed this night?''
Basil accepted the offer of sustenance but declared his determination to go back to Hartleigh Hall. "I can get there sooner than a letter can and will enjoy breaking the news myself."
"The news. Ah, yes, so you will. So you will."
"But first, Henry, I believe there is some information you wish to share with me."
Mr. Latham looked over his spectacles at his guest. "Is there, sir?"
"My aunt, Henry. What exactly has my aunt to do with all this?"
***
For all that he hadn't had more than one night's sleep in three, and for all his eagerness to be back at Hartleigh Hall, Basil did have some consideration for his beast. He stopped several times to rest his horse. Hunger had finally caught up with him, if weariness had not, when he reached the Dancing Pig.
While the hostler saw about his mount, Basil made his way into the tiny inn and ordered a little light refreshment from his hostess, the plump owner of the place.
He was just swallowing his last morsels of bread and cheese when the door to the snuggery opened and Lord Arden burst in.
"You—you bastard!" the marquess shouted, as he launched himself upon his startled victim. His attack was so unexpected and immediate that Basil had no time to react. As Will's fingers closed around his throat, Basil tumbled backwards helplessly in his chair onto the floor.
It was not the first time, however, that an irate gentleman had attempted to throttle him. Basil's survival instincts quickly taking over, his knee shot up. In an instant Lord Arden had rolled off him onto the floor and was curled up in a fetal position, gasping in agony as he clutched at certain parts of his aristocratic anatomy.
"Good heavens, Will," Basil told the writhing form of his childhood playmate. "What a turn you gave me." He picked himself up, dusted himself off, and straightened his cravat. He'd just restored the chair to an upright position when the hostler came stomping through the door with the hostess behind him, brandishing a broom.
"Here now," the man growled. "We won't have any brawling here. This is a respectable place."
"Why so it is," Mr. Trevelyan calmly agreed. "And as you can see, there's no brawl. Only that his lordship has been suddenly taken ill."
His lordship groaned.
"Now," Basil continued, "if you'd be so kind as to bring in a bottle of your best brandy, perhaps we can help restore the gentleman to rights."
The phrase "his lordship" had a magical effect, and the coins Mr. Trevelyan dropped into a plump, feminine hand an even more miraculous one. The two respectable persons took themselves off, bowing and curtseying as they went. A few moments later, the required bottle of brandy was carried in by the beaming hostess.
"Now, Will," said Basil, as he helped his companion to his feet. "Come sit down and have a glass with me. Tell me what on earth you were thinking of to pounce on me in that savage way."
If the marquess thought of pouncing again, the sight of the golden beverage being poured into a glass must have distracted him, for he did sit down dazedly and take the drink offered him.
