Trevelyan Family: The English Witch Part 14

When he got to the end, he gave a faint 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 compa.s.sion-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 p.r.i.c.ked 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 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 hopes 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 of 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's wish 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 fiances. 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 old 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 un-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."

"Will all great Neptune's ocean wash you clean of your sins? Come now, Will. After you'd got all my hopes up, you might as well tell me why I'm to be disappointed. Besides, I've beat you fair and square, and you owe me a forfeit."

The marquess bent a withering look upon his sister which she met with perfect equanimity, being immune to the devastating force of his personality. Knowing that she'd plague him until she was satisfied and fully aware that fabrications would be a waste of breath, he gave in and told her. Not everything, but enough to make her understand. When he was done, she gave a little whistle of surprise that made him wince. Plague take her! When would she ever learn to behave like a lady?

"Egad, Will," she cried. "You gave up because you thought she was too much for you to handle?"

"I thought the effort required was excessive," he replied dampeningly. "I don't want a wife who requires so much managing."

"Or one who might manage you is more like it. Lud, you're a greater fool even than I thought, to give up such a jewel for so paltry a reason. But it's just as well, I suppose. It's obvious you never intended to mend your ways on her account, and that would leave me to comfort her while you were out leaping from one poxy bed to the next. Well then, I suppose I should be thankful Basil opened up your eyes, if he spared me that unpleasant duty. Obliging of him, wasn't it?"

Her brother made no reply. He found his sister exceedingly tiresome today. He gave her one last cold, haughty stare and exited from the room.

"Yes, very obliging," Jess muttered to herself as she played absently with a billiard ball. "And what, I wonder, makes him such a philanthropist all of a sudden? Wretched, interfering beast."

"Egad, Maria," said Harry Deverell, as he strolled with his wife along the very same sheltered path two couples had trod several days before. "You haven't any scruples, have you? Half the servants spying for you, the other half spying for Clementina-and then to wring family secrets from Jess after using her brother so unconscionably. Really, my lady."

"But my love, when I saw her out in the garden stomping back and forth in such a temper, I was so afraid she'd catch her gown against the rose bushes and shred it to pieces. I only asked her if she was feeling poorly from the heat when immediately she launched into a perfectly exhausting catalog of her brother's flaws of character. Then, quite on her own-for really, I never prodded her in the least-she told me what Will had told her."

"So Basil frightened him off, did he? Well, I must say your confidence in the wretch proves to have been very well placed. Randolph, Will, even the great debt-all dispatched in less than a week. Amazingly efficient, isn't he, once he sets his mind to something? No wonder Henry Latham speaks so highly of him."

"Yes, dear. But it's the setting his mind in the first place that's so fatiguing. So obstinate, you know."

"Ah, well. He's used to doing just as he pleases. When you think what a way he has with the ladies-why, they're mere clay in his hands-it's no surprise he can't bring himself to settle on one."

Lady Deverell sighed in sorrowful agreement. "Ah, yes. You charming wretches. It is such great sport for you to play fast and loose with our tender feminine hearts."

"Yes, madam. Great sport indeed. Speaking of which, is this the romantic site you told me of? The scene of stolen interludes, jealous hearts, tears, and I don't know what else?"

They had, in fact, reached the site of recent highly charged events-the place, in short, where Lord Arden had attempted to compromise his Intended. Lord Deverell, having been obliquely accused of certain sporting instincts and furthermore seeing that the place was altogether satisfactory in every respect, determined to live up to the accusation and swept his wife into his arms. That vulnerable creature being, as she'd hinted, no proof against such wicked masculine wiles, gave herself with a low chuckle over to the conqueror.

Chapter 18.

If anyone deserved a good night's sleep, it was himself. Yet Mr. Trevelyan was strangely reluctant to take himself to bed. He took another turn in the garden, and then another, but the cool fragrance of the country night did not soothe him. It had, after an hour's aimless pacing, only brought back vividly another garden far away and another night many weeks ago... and a pair of startled green eyes, searching his face.

He'd felt those eyes reproachfully upon him today and had been quite unable to meet them. He should have told her. It had been unkind-at the least-to leave her in the dark. But to see her arrive at that inn on Will's arm... well, in a matter of minutes, Basil had gone from jealous rage to guilt and back again. Yet, he'd been very high-handed with her-the more so because he knew he was to blame. Had he confided in her before he left, she could easily have found a way to put Will off.

But no. He'd been all in a dither men, too-because she'd proved, once and for all, how helplessly besotted he was, and because she'd laughed at him just when he was on the brink of confessing it.

He turned and made his way back to the house. Another long, lonely night then. Only this time he'd better think, and to the point. He'd have to speak to her tomorrow. "And say what, you great a.s.s?" queried a mocking voice in the back of his head. "What do you think she'll believe now?"

Alexandra sat up and pounded her pillow, though her anger was hardly the pillow's fault. It was, however, an inanimate object upon which she might vent her frustrations with impunity-though it would have been ever so much more satisfactory to be pounding upon Mr. Trevelyan's head and tearing out his tawny hair by the clumpfuls.

For the tenth or twentieth time since she'd retired for the night, she flung herself back down upon the bed and closed her eyes. And for the tenth or twentieth time she cursed the day she'd met him.

The fact was that, like a great many other people whose prayers the G.o.ds have answered, Miss Ashmore was wishing she'd worded her orisons more carefully. True, being in love with the man, she must be overjoyed that he'd returned safe and sound. The problem was that, in returning not only unscathed but unchanged and therefore unimproved, he made her feel like an idiot. Virtually everything she'd thought and done from the minute she'd met him had been wrong. She'd driven herself distracted, trying to manipulate her father and Will by turns and had succeeded only in twisting herself deeper into a quagmire. From which Basil had, with hardly a second's thought, extricated her. A snap of his fingers and Randolph, Papa, George Burnham, and Will were all disposed of simultaneously.

There she'd been, plotting and worrying by day, worrying and weeping by night-a prodigious waste of energy. She was a fool. Her brains must have rotted away in the sultry Mediterranean climate.

Look at her prowling about the house and grounds all day today by herself, hoping like a sentimental goose that he'd come to her. Then what? Fall to his knees declaring that he did it all because he loved her? And in some treacly way straight out of a fairy tale, swear always to be faithful because now he'd found his one, his only, his true love at last.

Faithful, indeed. It was all a game to him, to play with others' lives. Hadn't Aunt Clem said it? It was a matter of pride with him to succeed completely in whatever he undertook, "particularly if it is something devious." All of this meant no more to him than what he'd done when he was abroad. Why confide in her? Why bother even to talk to her? She was only another of his p.a.w.ns. Now he'd tied up all the loose ends he'd be gone again. Back to London and his usual dissipations.

If only he could go out of her life as well. But she was going to London herself in another two days, where she'd have to endure a Little Season, catching glimpses of him now and then at some party or other, watching him dance and flirt and reduce other ladies to imbecility. Doubtless she'd hear as well of much worse, for the gossips of London were indefatigable. No matter was too small for their prying eyes and malicious tongues.

That sort of thing she didn't need to witness or be told of. She was already jealous of the hundreds of young women she imagined in his arms because, fool that she was, she wanted him all to herself. How she'd missed him! But when she felt the tears starting in her eyes, she quickly took herself in hand. She would not weep another instant over him.

The clock in the hall struck one. Good grief! Nearly two hours she'd lain here making herself mad. Enough. If she couldn't sleep, at least she could read. There was always the interminable Clarissa, and she had finally got to the last volume. As she was getting up, about to light the candle on her bedstand, she remembered that she'd left the book downstairs in the library last evening. Well, no help for it then. She must either go down and get it or stay here and madden herself all night.

She crawled out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown, stubbed her toe on a footstool, and stumbled against the bedpost, but eventually got out of the room. Quietly and very cautiously-not wanting any more bruises-she made her way downstairs and groped along the hall. Having narrowly missed collision with the heavy table that stood by the library door, she found the door handle and opened the door.

Light. There was light in the room, and it was occupied. A single candle burned in a silver holder upon an elegant mahogany table. The soft candlelight bathed the room in a dreamlike, golden glow, and lounging at his ease on the great leather sofa was Mr. Trevelyan.

He was fully dressed except for his coat, which was draped over a nearby chair. His neckcloth dangled carelessly, and his tawny hair, glinting gold like new-minted coins under the soft light, was tousled-the result, no doubt, of being raked with his fingers. Even now he ran his hand through it as though bedevilled by something.

He looked up from the letter he'd been reading and stared at her for a moment as though disbelieving the evidence of his own eyes. Then a slow smile lit his handsome face.

Really, it was most unfair, she thought crossly. He had no right to be so beautiful, draped upon the sofa like some sly Apollo come down among mortal women to destroy their peace. It was positively cruel what that smile did to her. It made her want to do things a lady must not-like hurl herself at him or, at the very least, run her fingers through that tousled, sun-bleached mane. No. A lady, certainly, had better make a dignified-and speedy-exit.

Grasping the door handle, she turned to leave.

"Why, you've only just come, Alexandra. 'Then flee from me,' " he quoted. "But no, that's not right, is it? For you never 'did the seek,' did you? More's the pity."

"Do be quiet," she whispered. "Do you want everyone to hear you?"

"Why, they're all sound asleep, their consciences clear. Unlike yours and mine. But yes, my guardian angel," he went on, dropping his voice to a low timbre that sent a chill running down the back of her neck. "I take your meaning. And if I promise to be very quiet, will you stay a minute and talk to me?"

Oh, how she wanted to stay, how she'd missed him. For all that he made her uncomfortable physically-and that was mainly the discomfort of trying to bring her desires into harmony with her morals-there was no one else with whom she could talk so easily. Because he knew her better than anyone else did... though she rather wished he didn't know her quite so well.

She looked down at her scanty attire and told herself to be sensible. "No. I only came for my book. I-I couldn't sleep." She glanced around the room, seeking the wayward volume.

"This one?" he asked, taking a familiar tome from the table near his head. "Clarissa? The interminable seduction? You are nearly at the end of it, I see." Idly he turned the pages. "Perhaps, as we're both wakeful, you might read to me."

"Don't be absurd." She was not sure what to do. She could not bring herself to go and take the book from him, nor did she think it advisable that he bring it to her. Nor did she wish to leave the room without it.

"Ah, I see the problem," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "What a thoughtless creature I am, to be sure. For here it is"-he consulted his pocket watch-"nearly half past one in the morning, and there are you in your dishabille, alone in a dim library with an arrant rogue. But see how simple it is? At this hour there's no one to notice the breach of decorum. There is my coat to protect your modesty. As to the rogue part-well, what dreadful thing do you think I'd dare attempt with the circ.u.mstances so very incriminating and my family only a shriek away?"

Putting the book down, he rose from the sofa. He took his coat from the chair, and held it up with a beckoning gesture.

She hesitated.

"Come, Miss Ashmore. Or are you afraid?"

Yes, actually, she was afraid. His effect on her was always unnerving, always dangerous. Still, he'd admitted that the risks were too great even for him. She put up her chin, crossed the room, and allowed him to help her on with his coat. He gestured towards the sofa, and she sat down gingerly.

She could not, however, suppress a gasp of shock when she saw him go to the door and turn the key in the lock. Grinning at her obvious alarm, he tossed the key to her. She caught it with trembling hands.

"That's in case there happen to be other insomniacs," he explained, as he pulled up a chair opposite her. "If we hear anyone coming, I shall crawl out the window while you take your time about going to the door. You would, of course, have locked it for fear of being disturbed by naughty gentlemen."

If she was uneasy at first, she forgot that as soon as he began talking, because immediately he set to telling her the true story of Randolph's elopement. Her surmises, she learned, had been correct. "But why," she asked, when he'd finished describing the elopement arrangements, "did you insist on going looking for him?"

"I couldn't rest easy until I was certain they were both in the coach and on their way. If the smallest thing went wrong, Randolph would have been helpless. Also, I was obliged to keep Henry Latham informed. We'd agreed, you see, that he'd handle the business end while I saw to the romance part of it."

"You mean he knew about the scheme all along?"

"He knew, thanks to my aunt, about your father's debt to George. He guessed about the romance sooner even than I did and must have dropped a hint to Aunt Clem when he wrote to her, for she dropped hints to me. None of which I picked up, I'm ashamed to admit. But when your Papa spoke that day about Randolph's breaking heart... well, to make a long story short, by the day of the picnic I'd not only got the truth out of Randolph, but also, in exchange for devising a workable elopement scheme, some important details regarding his father's practises. So off I dashed to Westford. Henry saw right off that mine was the best solution. It would have taken ages to reconcile his wife, and meanwhile George could have finally torn himself away from Yorkshire to force your marriage to his son. There was no time to be lost."

"So you had everything in hand before you left." There was a note of reproach in her voice.

Basil stared at the carpet, "I know. I should have told you. But the one time we were private-well, it all got driven out of my head. Then I made you hate me... and it was getting late. I should have been on my way hours before... and, well, I didn't tell you. I'm sorry. Truly I am. Because it would have spared you a deal of aggravation. If you'd known, you could have kept Will out of your hair easily enough, I'm sure."

She played with the key as she considered this. "I'd like to think so," she began slowly. "But it looks as though you've taken care of that, too, haven't you?" The green eyes fixed on him. "I should very much like to know what happened when you met up with him."

Mr. Trevelyan was evasive. He even looked uncomfortable, as he gave a highly edited account of his meeting with Lord Arden.

"What did you say to him?" she pressed. "Why did he avoid me all day?"

"I wish you wouldn't look at me that way. It turns my blood quite cold. I only had a serious discussion with him about the responsibilities of marriage, and he finally admitted he wasn't ready for them."

This, considering Will's impetuosity, she found a trifle hard to swallow. But then, was it so important? Basil had solved all her problems, disposed of all her fiances. It was churlish to cavil at the means. "Never mind," she said with a small gesture of impatience. "It doesn't matter what you said. So long as I'm free of him."

"Ah, yes." Basil leaned forward a bit in his chair. "So that you may have your Season."

"Yes." She dropped her gaze to the key she held.

There was silence, and then his hand reached out to cover hers. "Then perhaps," he said softly, "we'll meet up with each other from time to time. Perhaps you'll be kind enough to dance with me now and again."

How easily he held her, his long fingers so lightly folded over her own, and how weak it made her feel. Her voice was brittle as she answered, "Why, yes, of course. I owe it all to you, don't I? And I've sat here all this time and never thanked you. I do thank you-"

He shook his head. "No. None of that. Not when I was only doing the little I know best."

She slipped her hand out from under his and stood up. "Well, I'm grateful all the same. Deeply grateful. I've never been free, not in six years at least. Now I am. I can't forget it. And so," she went on rather nervously, when he didn't respond, "I'll be bound to thank you from time to time, and you must endure it."

When she started to remove the coat, he seemed to collect himself from a daydream. He rose, too, moving to a.s.sist her. His hands touched her arms as the coat slipped from her shoulders, and she trembled slightly.

"Alexandra."

The sound was like a sigh, and she turned to look at him. The coat fell to the floor as he folded her in his arms. He kissed her, gently and briefly, and he drew away again before it occurred to her to make him do so.

He did not draw away entirely, however. His arms still held her, not so very close, but close enough so that she could feel the softness of his lawn shirt through the fragile barrier of her own flimsy garments. Close enough so that she was acutely conscious of the scent of him: clean and masculine and so comfortingly familiar. So comforting after all this time apart that it was quite impossible to break free. She felt so safe, so sheltered, so... right to be there, that any other possibility seemed quite wrong. That thought in itself was wrong, of course. It was only the spell he cast over her, and yet, to remain so... just another moment.

"I suppose," he said, rather sadly, "I'd better let you go."

"Yes, I think so," she answered just as sadly as she stared at the ruffles of his shirt front.

"Otherwise, I couldn't answer for the consequences." He did not release her.

"Yes." She didn't move.

"In another minute it would be too late." He sounded rather short of breath, and this for some reason irritated her.