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"But if it was so serious, why elope?" Jess asked.
"One assumes that they believed their respective families would object. Mrs. Latham, you see, wanted Marianne to have a London comeout with Alicia as chaperone."
"Oh, dear," said Alicia in sudden comprehension. "Mama and her titles."
"So, obviously, she wouldn't look kindly upon a wool merchant's son. Moreover, it appears that Randolph's parents also had other plans for him." This was communicated with nary a glance at Sir Charles, who sat speechless, gazing at Basil as though he were Lord Elgin's caryatid suddenly come to life.
Miss Ashmore stared at her plate.
"At any rate," Basil continued, "our two young lovers must have decided it was futile to attempt to bring their respective parents around. Randolph leaves Westford in despair. Then letters are secretly exchanged. The plot is hatched...and the two took the only course open to them."
At this point, several at table recollected Randolph's misery upon his arrival and how his spirits had miraculously undergone improvement.
“I thought it was because he'd taken a fancy to Hetty,” Alicia admitted ruefully. “They were so cheerful together at that picnic.”
While the others carried on noisily about this startling news, Miss Ashmore occupied herself with the story between the lines. No wonder Basil had been so friendly with Randolph. Having wormed his way into the young scholar's confidence, thereby learning of the hapless romance, Basil must have persuaded Randolph to elope. Certainly it wasn't the sort of notion Randolph would conceive on his own.
Now all made sense. The Blue Swan—the nearest mail coach stop on the road north—the night of the gala when, in the great crush of people, the disappearance of a guest or two was less likely to be remarked. And Basil, helpful as always at the inn to see that everything went according to plan. Randolph had only to board the coach, meet Marianne, and travel on with her to Scotland. Yes, Basil must even have arranged how the young woman was to meet her lover without arousing suspicion. No wonder he'd been so adamant about getting the other elopers back to Hartleigh Hall. Only one wedding was required to scotch George Burnham's scheme.
She stared unseeing at the eggs congealing on her plate. For her, he'd said. He'd done it all for her. He could have let her go off with Will if he didn't care...but no. Her disappearance would cause more of an uproar than Randolph's. She and Will might easily have been caught and stopped, for Will's disguises had only made them more conspicuous. She, Will, Randolph, and Marianne, all on the same coach. Good heavens, what a farce. Everything would have been ruined just as Basil had said.
Yet he could have told her. He could have taken her into his confidence instead of leaving her to make herself miserable over him for five whole days.
Fortunately for her fraying temper, the group broke up at last. While the others were filing out of the room, Basil took Sir Charles aside. "Mr. Latham asked me to put this into your hands," Mr. Trevelyan explained sotto voce as he slipped the baronet a letter. "You'll want to read it in private, I daresay."
Alexandra, who'd been hovering nearby, overheard the exchange and saw the envelope. Consumed with curiosity, she followed her father to the library. He sat down at the small study table where Mr. Hobhouse's Ihivels in Albania lay open awaiting his perusal. She sat down across from him and watched as he unfolded the paper and read, apparently oblivious to her presence.
When he got to the end, he gave a feint whistle in surprise and then began at the beginning again. This made Alexandra very impatient indeed. When he'd finished for the second time, she burst out, "For heaven's sake, Papa, what is it? What does it say?"
As the baronet returned from someplace apparently far away, she saw the familiar furrows settling into his forehead. "What does it say? What does it say? Only that I've been played for a fool these ten years and more. George Burnham has been cheating me. Cheating me, Alexandra. I can scarcely credit it. Yet the evidence is there, Mr. Latham says. He's talked to those with whom George dealt and seen their records for himself."
His daughter snatched the letter from his hands and read it. "Good grief!" she exclaimed softly. When she was done, she dropped the letter onto the table and looked at her father. Her eyes were filled with compassion—though what beat in her breast was great relief. "Oh, Papa. How disappointing for you. You trusted him—with everything."
"The more fool I," her father muttered. "Who'd have thought there could be so much deceit in this world?"
Her conscience pricked her. "Why you know there is, Papa, as there has always been, because men are greedy for money and power. Without greed, very likely there would have been no Peloponnesian War. No wars at all, probably. No civilisations toppled and rebuilt. All history an open book. No mysteries. Then think how bored you'd be."
He mustered up a wan smile. He was not, after all, entirely without a sense of humour, though it had been cruelly tried in recent months. "Still, it is not pleasant to contemplate how I've been taken in," he growled.
The accusing look he bent upon Alexandra made her a tad uncomfortable. Hastily she replied, "You must look on the bright side. I know you think highly of Mr. Latham. Didn’t you once tell me you wished it was he who had the care of your troublesome finances? And doesn't he say in his letter that he took the liberty of looking into these matters in the hope of discovering some means by which he might act as your partner in future? Does he not offer to do so now in the kindest and most gentlemanly way? And his reputation is the highest. Why, half the peerage has dealings with him."
It took some time. The baronet persisted in grumbling about deceit and trickery. Mr. Trevelyan's name was mentioned more than once with doubt and suspicion. Alexandra’s own lack of forthrightness was remarked upon, but at length Sir Charles grumbled himself into a state of weary resignation. Consequently, when she mentioned Lady Bertram was to take her to London for the Little Season and the generous offer to take charge of her until a suitable husband was found the baronet offered no objection.
He would be glad, he told his daughter bluntly, to have her off his hands now that he was free of his obligations. Yes, she might go with Clementina for as long as she liked. He was tired of keeping track of her suitors and fiancés. He wanted to go back to Albania where a man might do his work in peace. Dead civilisations and the dead who'd belonged to them were not nearly so troublesome as one unmanageable daughter aided and abetted by an interfering, overbearing woman and her unspeakable nephew.
Alexandra listened patiently to his complaints, and when he was bored with them at last she took herself away. Putting aside Henry Latham's letter, he turned to Mr. Hobhouse’s work, and in a very little while the furrows erased themselves from his brow.
***
"Eloped, did they?" Lady Jess said to her brother. She'd followed him to the billiard room where she was in the ladylike process of soundly trouncing him. "Just like that. And I suppose Basil never had a hand in it."
"If he had, he hasn't confided it to me."
"Hasn't he? And you two suddenly the best of friends." One more stroke was sufficient to dispatch her brother. She stood back, surveying the domain of her triumph while absently rubbing the tip of her billiard cue against her temple, smudging it with chalk. "What happened, Will? One minute you can't bear to have her out of your sight for an instant. Today you can't get far enough away from her. What happened when you met up with him?"
Lord Arden only shrugged and put his own cue away.
"You've given up, haven't you?" she persisted.
"You know, Jess," he said, taking her cue from her and putting it away as well, "you really oughtn't to play billiards at all. But if you must, you certainly should not win against a gentleman."
"Then there's no problem beating you, is there? Come, tell me. Have you given up or what?"
Her brother gazed down disapprovingly at her. Really, such a hoyden she was. All of twenty-three, and still unmarried. Well, that wasn't surprising was it? What chap wanted a wife who acted like another
chap?
"I have decided," he said coldly, "that we shouldn't suit."
"Oh, you have, have you? Well, who do you think will suit you, you inestimable treasure? One of your ballet dancers? Or perhaps one isn't enough. Perhaps you want a matching pair like those redheaded sisters—"
"Your mouth wants washing out with soap, sister dear."
