Trevelyan Family: The English Witch Part 9

Doubtless he was fretting over his singular lack of success with Lady Honouria last night, for she'd been as stiff and proper with him at the end of the evening as she had at the start. Well, it was about time somebody found him resistible, Alexandra thought morosely. He'd tricked her into admitting she wasn't in love with Lord Arden, said he wanted to help her, then let the marquess monopolise her the entire evening. Mr. Trevelyan obviously couldn't be bothered with her problems when there was a roomful of ladies requiring his attention.

There was no help for her at all. It was either the marquess or Randolph, and no more delay, because Papa was coming-good grief!-this very afternoon. The recollection threw her into a panic, and she was so busy wracking her brains what to do next that she hardly noticed what she was doing now.

Which is to say she answered automatically what was said to her on the ride into the village and hadn't the presence of mind to think of a reasonable objection when Lord Arden insisted that Jess go on to the dressmaker by herself, to be met up with in another hour. Hardly had Jess been deposited at Mrs. Merrill's door and the horses put in motion again, when the marquess announced his intention of speaking to Sir Charles this very afternoon.

Alexandra's panic escalated. Stalling for time, she feigned bafflement about what the marquess might have to say to her father.

"Why, Miss Ashmore-Alexandra-surely it can come as no surprise to you," he said, with the tenderest of looks. "I'd thought I'd made my intentions perfectly plain. And I'd thought-or rather, hoped-that in some small way you might return those feelings."

She looked startled, and then she looked confused, and then she dropped her gaze to her hands which were tightly folded in her lap. She murmured that she had no business having feelings about anyone, as she was betrothed already. In halting sentences, she outlined the Burnham situation.

Lord Arden was, as she'd expected, speechless for a moment. She stole a glance at his face. His expression was composed, if rather tightly so, and the grey eyes seemed darker than usual, like cold slate, telling her he was angry. But whatever he felt, he held it in check, and only asked stiffly, "As to this betrothal-you say nothing of yourself, only of your Papa and this Mr. Burnham. Is it what you wish?"

With some hesitation, she admitted that it was not.

He seemed to relax a little. "Then dare I wonder whether there's any place for me in your wishes?"

She studied her hands again. She couldn't allow herself to think about... such things, she said. In fact-well, she'd been dishonest to keep this matter from others, and yet... She couldn't continue, being covered in maidenly confusion, but not so much so that she couldn't manage another peek at his face. He was mulling it over, she could tell, and must have come to a satisfactory conclusion, for very soon he was smiling again, and the warm light was back in his eyes.

"It seems to me," he said, "that if you had told me from the first, you would have been saying there was no hope for me at all. But as you didn't-well, perhaps it was because you weren't wholly indifferent to me. Or do I presume too much?"

"It's quite impossible, my lord, to be indifferent to you-as no doubt scores of other ladies have demonstrated. Still, I suppose I should have told you. And yet," she looked up to meet his gaze-"it didn't seem so important. How could I think that I, or my family matters, were of any interest to you? That would be a.s.suming that out of all the women you know, I would be anything special to you."

He was stymied. She barely hinted-though she did so tantalisingly enough-at caring for him, which implied that she'd been playing fast and loose with him all this time. Then, in the same breath, she claimed to be the one led on. d.a.m.n Jessica for telling all those tales of his romantic conquests. They had made Miss Ashmore think he was only amusing himself, and now, though he'd courted the woman all this time-two whole weeks, at least-it appeared he must begin all over again.

Meanwhile, she insisted she'd never believed his intentions were Serious. She couldn't be expected to make up her mind on the spot whether she meant to have him, as she'd never permitted herself to think of him in that way. Besides which, she was already engaged, as she'd just told him, and she couldn't blame him in the least if he chose to forget this entire conversation. Certainly there were hundreds of women more deserving of the honour he so kindly offered.

The discussion went on for half an hour, until he finally convinced her that his suit was serious. As to speaking to her father, that-for now at least-was out of the question. Papa was sure to take alarm and ship her off to Yorkshire.

"He's very fixed on Randolph, and under great obligation to Mr. Burnham, and really-"

"And really," he interrupted impatiently, "his debts are the least of my concerns. The trivialities of the marriage settlement." He complained that she was bent on tormenting him.

She declared nothing could be farther from her mind, then looked as though she was about to weep. So he spoke more kindly, with a great deal of the sort of tender nonsense best calculated to soothe the tremulous flutterings of the fragile feminine heart.

Sir Charles arrived early in the afternoon in a state of high irritation. He had not liked to leave Westford so soon, as business with Henry Latham promised to be most satisfactory, but a letter from George Burnham had come to him there that drove everything else out of his head.

Nearly two days' journey in hot weather had only exacerbated his foul mood. Even Randolph had been provoking. The baronet had begun to speak of the Peloponnesian War, thinking to while away the weary hours with talk on Randolph's favorite subject, and got for his pains only a great, agonised groan.

The younger generation was going to the devil, and that was the long and short of it. His daughter was scheming with Clementina's nephew to foist this ridiculous secret betrothal nonsense upon her long-suffering Papa. Even Randolph-always such a steady chap-was in a fit of the dismals from the moment they left Westford. Well, Sir Charles would see about him, later. Right now, he had a few choice words for Clementina.

He could not say those words immediately, however, having only just arrived and been greeted by his host and hostess. Their warm welcome, along with the army of servants who appeared immediately to see to his comfort, the graciously appointed rooms allotted him, a hot bath, and a generous tray of refreshments provided for his delectation, helped control his impatience.

Nonetheless, he was determined to be in a temper, and when some hours later he was finally ushered into Lady Bertram's presence, he burst out without preamble, "I will not have it, Clementina!"

The countess sat perfectly straight in her chair and eyed him coldly as though he were a particularly hideous species of toad, then said with frigid composure, "Indeed?"

"How dare you?" he went on, undaunted by her haughty stare. "How dare you connive behind my back? How dare you attempt to bribe George Burnham?"

"Oh, do stop shouting, Charles. You'll have all the servants huddling by the door."

"I don't care a fiddle about the servants-"

"And I don't care to be shouted at. If you cannot behave yourself, you might as well leave." She gave him a dismissive wave.

"You needn't put on your high and mighty airs with me, Clementina," he retorted, but more quietly. "Though it's of a perfect piece with your interfering arrogance. You tried to bribe George Burnham. There's no use denying it."

"I," said Lady Bertram, with awful dignity, "deny nothing."

"Then you did try!"

"You understand nothing. I did not attempt to bribe George Burnham. I offered to pay your debt to him-"

"To prevent the marriage."

"To pay the debt. I do not see what marriage has to do with it. A financial debt is one thing; a marriage is another. You seem to confuse the two."

"Never mind what confuses me. You had no business."

The countess maintained that she had every sort of business since her G.o.ddaughter was somehow mixed into his business affairs. "As she did not create your financial difficulties, I do not see why she is required to solve them for you."

There was obvious truth in what Lady Bertram said, and that truth rather piqued his conscience than otherwise. Therefore, Sir Charles grew more enraged. "But you could see your way well enough to plotting against me, could you not? You and your scheming nephew."

"I collect you are referring to Basil."

"Of course I'm referring to Basil."

"Then why do you come and pick a quarrel with me? If Basil has offended you, it is Basil you should speak with."

Sir Charles's head was beginning to ache. The woman jumped about from one topic to the next with no logic whatsoever. Sir Charles hated illogic. He hated non sequiturs, and at the moment, he was so little fond of Lady Bertram that he would have liked to choke her. He wondered now why he had bothered to confront her in the first place. He should have known he'd get nowhere. Still, George Burnham's letter had wounded his pride, and Sir Charles wanted to take it out on somebody. He glared at the countess, but forced himself into some semblance of composure.

"That I will do-in good time-but first I wanted you to understand that I won't have you interfering in my affairs-"

"Where they concern my G.o.ddaughter, I cannot help but interfere. I hold it as a debt to Juliet."

"Was it part of that debt to send your nephew to connive with my daughter?"

"I cannot allow you to speak so when he is not here to defend himself." She gestured towards the bell rope. "Ring for a servant, Charles, and we shall send for Basil-and for Alexandra, too. If she has been conniving with him, then let her answer for herself."

Sir Charles rang, grumbling as he did so, and for several minutes after as they waited. Lady Bertram paid no heed to his ill-natured mutterings. She sat, straight as a ramrod, rigidly calm.

At last, the two connivers entered the room. Alexandra, who hadn't seen her Papa until now, gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek.

Angrily he waved her away. "None of your coaxing arts, Miss," he growled. "I've had enough of them."

He then launched into a tirade about make-believe fiances, bribery of friends, and betrayal of Randolph, who was supposedly in the process of breaking his heart. No one but Lady Bertram noticed the flicker of interest in Basil's eyes as this last piece of information was communicated. Meanwhile, the baronet went on to his primary grievance-and here he took a letter out of his pocket-the very upsetting words he'd had from his friend, George Burnham.

"Well, Basil," said Lady Bertram when the baronet paused for breath. "What have you to say to that?"

"I hardly know what to say, Aunt. There's so much of it." He was leaning against the door frame, completely at his ease, wearing his most seraphic expression.

Miss Ashmore, he noticed, looked panicked, and well she should. If her Papa was not quickly brought under control, she'd be whisked off to Yorkshire and married to the wool merchant's son before the week was out.

It would be best if she were married and kept far away, beyond his reach. She was spoiling his fun. Hadn't she disrupted his entertainment last night? And he'd been so determined to find pleasure in other company, had so looked forward to it.

There was the Honourable Miss Sheldon, who'd refused to speak to him in the old days, and Miss Carstone. Even the haughty Honoria had endured a conversation, and her Mama had positively beamed upon him. Yet, they might have been a pack of murdering Hindoos for all the joy he had of them.

Not that he needed to wonder why there should be so little joy in it. The cause was here before him, artful creature that she was. Well then, if she was so artful, let her get herself out of this fix.

He glanced towards her then, their eyes met, and he found himself saying, "Of course, as to the fiance part of your question, the answer is plain enough. She promised herself to me six years ago, and I mean to hold her to that promise."

"You what?" Sir Charles cried.

"I mean to-"

"What kind of fool do you take me for? I know as well as everyone else in this room that was a great piece of nonsense you concocted."

"Are you calling me a liar, sir?" Basil asked quietly.

Alexandra, who'd apparently been struck mute by the previous exchange, now found her tongue. "No, he isn't." She turned to her father. "You know you aren't saying any such thing, Papa."

"I most certainly am. And if this young blackguard wishes to name his seconds-"

"Oh, do be quiet, Charles. He wishes nothing of the sort. But you can hardly expect my nephew to stand quietly by as you denigrate his"-the countess appeared to have got something stuck in her throat, but she quickly recovered-"his tender feelings for your daughter."

"That's it precisely, Aunt. My tender feelings." He glanced again at Alexandra, expecting her to take the cue.

Instead, she crossed the room to Basil's side. "You can't get at me through my Papa, Basil," she said, with a look of deepest pity. "I told you it was a mistake." She turned to her father. "It's as you predicted, Papa."

"What is?" asked the now-bewildered baronet.

"Why, it was only romantic infatuation-as you said-and now-"

"And now," Basil interposed, beginning to grow very angry, "you're infatuated with someone else and mean to throw me over. I should have known I couldn't compete with a marquess."

"A what? What's going on here? Clementina, they're at it again, and I hold you responsible."

"On the contrary," the countess remarked serenely, "they are at each other. But really, Basil, you needn't sulk. After all, it is a compliment to be jilted in favour of a marquess. A future duke, actually."

"Will someone please speak rationally and logically? Because if they do not, I warn you, Alexandra, you'll be out of this house and on your way to Yorkshire in the next ten minutes."

"The situation is quite simple, Charles. Lord Arden, Thome's heir, has evidently succeeded in engaging your daughter's affections."

"But the wretched girl is engaged already. Twice, it seems, if I am to believe all this taradiddle about tender feelings."

"That is neither here nor there. To expect her to marry a wool merchant's son or my black sheep of a nephew"-the nephew, at the moment, had a rather black look about him, indeed-"when the future Duke of Thorne wishes to make her his wife, is perfectly absurd. It is the most illogical thing I have ever heard."

Sir Charles, whose head was now spinning, dropped into a chair. "Thorne?" he uttered faintly. Then he remembered the letter still clutched in his hand. "But what of this? What reply am I to make to this?"

Casting a warning look at Basil, Alexandra took the letter from her father. She read it through, quickly, frowning as she did so. "Why, this is infamous, Papa!" she exclaimed, when she was done. "See how the man insults you. And to go on at such length about injured friendship and in the next breath talk of the money, when he as much as says the money is nothing to him. Oh, Papa, no wonder you were so overset." She spoke with such tender compa.s.sion that even Basil half-believed her-for a moment.

"Well, it was most distressing. Especially when he knows I fully intended-but what reply can I make him now?"

"Why, that I'm to be mar-"

Basil hastily interrupted, "If it's as your daughter says, sir, then perhaps you should make no answer-not immediately. You'll want to frame a suitable reply, will you not?" he added, ignoring Miss Ashmore's look of outrage.

"Basil is right, Charles. The man has no choice but to be patient. And in a week or so, perhaps, you may answer him as coolly and logically as you like."

"Yes, Papa. You'll know exactly how to put him in his place-but later, when you're calmer."

He gazed for a moment at the three faces surrounding him, but all looked perfectly sincere-all seemed, suddenly, prodigious concerned with his peace of mind. He didn't trust any of them, and yet what could he do? A dukedom was nothing to sneeze at. With Thome's patronage, a man might explore the globe for the rest of his life with never a care in the world. And if there were no dukedom, then Alexandra would marry Randolph.

Defeated for the moment, the baronet shrugged and agreed that George Burnham could wait. Exhausted with trying to distinguish between truth and humbug, he struggled up from the chair and out of the room.

"Well, what are you glaring at each other for?" Lady Bertram asked when the door had closed behind him. "You fuddled him well enough, between the two of you, and I should be deeply ashamed of you both if it had not been so very amusing. Well, well. Run along now, Alexandra. I wish to have a word with my nephew."

Alexandra ran along readily enough, not liking the expression on Mr. Trevelyan's face. Whatever was the matter with him? Was this how he meant to help, with that old betrothal farce that Papa plainly didn't believe for a moment? Thank heavens she hadn't counted on help from that quarter. Now what was she to do?

The amount George Burnham referred to in his letter wasn't the "thousand pounds or so" she'd heard Papa mention over the years. She'd read the words again and again, disbelieving her eyes, and hardly noticing the rest of the insulting missive. She couldn't understand how the amount had grown so. But then, what did Papa know of finance? Annuities and percents were as unfathomable to him as his beloved ancient inscriptions were to others. That was why he'd put everything in Mr. Burnham's hands. And how he'd tied the noose about her neck.

She'd have to marry Arden now-if he'd have her. If he wouldn't, Papa would simply shrug and take her away. She could appeal to Aunt Clem-but both conscience and pride recoiled at the idea of begging more help from her indulgent G.o.dmother.

Alexandra went to her room and tried to think. So many lies-to everyone-and matters only grew more muddled and horrible. Arden hadn't turned a hair when she'd mentioned Papa's debt-but what would he think now?

Did he want her badly enough to pay this outrageous marriage settlement? She didn't believe he truly loved her. He struck her less as a man in love than as one pursuing a prize.

Was that what offended her so? Though he said all the right words, she felt he could have been saying them to anybody. He didn't seem to know-or care-who she was.

Not, she reminded herself, that he'd necessarily like who she was: a manipulative, deceitful woman who was only using him to save herself from boring Randolph and his appalling sisters. She had no right to judge the marquess so harshly.

She'd have to think of some way to break the news about the money. That was sure to be awkward. She attempted to compose an appropriate speech, but her mind kept returning to one point in the previous conversation, when Basil had said he meant to have her. He'd sounded as though he did mean it, and her heart had thumped dreadfully, as it was thumping now. Oh, such a fool she was. What was the good of his saying it if he wasn't going to sound as though he meant it?

Chapter 12.

For the next two days, Basil kept well away from her, Aunt Clem having warned him, as she told Alexandra, "to keep his interfering self out of this business." It was most gratifying to see how well he obeyed his aunt, especially, Alexandra thought dismally, when Aunt Clem's orders so perfectly coincided with his own fickle inclinations.

Still, it was odd that he'd taken up with Randolph, of all people. Apparently determined to be Mr. Burnham's bosom bow, Basil stuck to the young scholar like glue, toured him about the estate, and spent hours talking with him. Randolph must have found these discussions uplifting, for he'd come to Hartleigh Hall in a state of tragic melancholy. Now, after only two days, he was actually grinning at the man he'd begged her to beware of.

Oh, well, Alexandra thought wearily, it was nothing to her. She had her hands full with Arden.