"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."
"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 Eighteen
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 then, 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 ass?" 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 gods 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 pawns. 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 inbecility. 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.
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