Isabella (2 page)

When another quarter hour had passed and Polly had not yet returned, Isabella determined—despite Madame Vernisse's vociferous Gallic protests—to escort the child back to the earl's house herself. So it was that she emerged from the mantua-maker's shop with Lucy's hand in hers and nearly collided with a very tall, very well-dressed, and very angry gentleman.

"I beg your—" he began, irritated. His eyes then fell upon Lucy, who was attempting to hide in Isabella's skirts. "Lucy! What is this?" He glared down at Isabella from his more than six-foot height. "That child is my ward, miss," he growled. "I assume you have some explanation."

Stunned by this unexpected rudeness, and not a little cowed by his size, Isabella stared, speechless, at him. She felt Lucy's grip on her hand tighten. This was the girl's guardian? The poor child was terrified of him.

"Perhaps you would be kind enough to release her," Lord Hartleigh continued, reaching for Lucy's free hand. Lucy, however, backed off.

At this Isabella found her tongue. "I will be happy to— if in fact you are her guardian, and if you would calm yourself. You're frightening her."

Hearing the commotion, Madame Vernisse hurried to the entrance. "Ah, Milord 'artleigh. You have arrived at the
bon moment.
We have found your ward!" she cried triumphantly.

"So I see," he snapped. "Then perhaps you would be kind enough to tell your assistant to let me take the girl home."

Madame Vernisse looked from one to the other in bewilderment. "But Milord—"

"Never mind," said Isabella. She was shaking with anger, but endeavoured to control her voice as she bent to speak to the little girl. "Now, Lucy, your guardian is here to take you back home."

"I don't want to," Lucy replied. "I escaped."

"Yes, and you have worried Lord Hartleigh terribly. You see? He is so distraught that he forgets his manners and blusters at ladies." This last caused the earl's ears to redden, but he held his tongue, sensing that he was at a disadvantage. "Now if you go nicely with him, he'll feel better and will not shout at the servants when you get home."

"You come, too," Lucy begged. "You can be my mama."

"No, dear. I must go back to my own family, or they'll worry about me, too."

"Then take me with you," the child persisted.

"No, dear. You must go back with your guardian. You don't want to worry him anymore, do you? Or hurt his feelings?"

The notion of this giant's having tender feelings which could be hurt was a bit overwhelming for the child, but she shook her head obediently.

Isabella stood up again. Reluctantly, the little hand slipped from her own, the brown curls emerged from their hiding place, and Lucy allowed her guardian to take her hand.

"I'm sorry I worried you, Uncle Edward," she told him contritely. "I'm ready to go home now." As they began to walk to his carriage, she turned back briefly, to offer Isabella one sad little wave good-bye.

The missing Polly reappeared in time to see the earl lift Lucy into the carriage and then climb in himself. "Oh, miss," she gasped. "Do you see who that is?"

"Yes. It is Lord Hartleigh. And it is time we went home."

"A spy, you know, miss," Polly went on, hurrying to keep up with her mistress, who was clearly in a tizzy about something. "They say he was a spy against those wicked Frenchies. And they caught him, miss, you know, and threw him in prison, and he nearly died of the fever there, but he got away from them. And then came back half-dead. Laid up for months, he was. And all for his country. He's a real hero—as much as my Lord Wellington—but it's a secret, you know." She sighed. "Lor', such a handsome man. The shoulders on him—did you notice, miss?"

"Handsome is as handsome does," snapped her mistress. "Do hurry. I promised to be home for luncheon."

Lord Hartleigh had ample time to consider his behaviour during the silent ride home. After all, one could not expect Lucy to speak. She was always sad and withdrawn, and speaking to her only made her sadder and more withdrawn. It was only at Aunt Clem's that the child had shown any sign of animation. But Lucy had not been the least shy with that strange woman at the dressmaker's. Good heavens, she'd even asked her to be her mama! As he recalled the scene, he was filled with self-loathing. What an overbearing bully he must have looked!

His behaviour that day had been abominable: Cold and impatient with Miss Carter, he had gone on to make a complete ass of himself at the modiste's. But he had been turned inside out by worry—and guilt. That hour he'd spent searching the shops had seemed like months. Robert had trusted his child to him. And after less than a month, this trusted guardian had proceeded to misplace her.
I take better care of my horses
, the earl thought miserably.

He glanced again at Lucy. She was the image of her father, with her hazel eyes and curling brown hair, but she had none of his spirit. Not that her recent losses weren't enough to stifle the spirit of even the liveliest child. Pity for her welled up in him, and he felt again the same frustration he'd felt for weeks: He could not make her happy. Why had she run away? And what was so appealing about this dowdy young woman that Lucy wanted to go away and live with her?

Of course, that fair-haired young woman had
not
been the dressmaker's assistant; he should have known it as soon as she opened her mouth. He'd seen her somewhere before...at one of those dreary affairs to which Aunt Clem was forever sending him in search of a suitable wife? Or had it been somewhere else? No matter. He should have known by her dignity and poise that she was a lady. But he'd been too distraught to think clearly. He smiled ruefully. Distraught and blustering. Just as the young lady had explained so patiently to Lucy. He had simply reacted—out of fear for Lucy's safety and, it must be admitted, hurt pride. It was not agreeable for a man who'd taken responsibility for the safety of whole armies to discover that he could not adequately oversee the care of one little girl. Nor was it agreeable to see the way the child had clung to that woman, or the reluctance with which she had come to him.

But it was to be expected, was it not? Lucy wanted a mama; so badly that she would pick up strange women on the street. Well, if a mama was what was required, he would supply one. It was not pleasant to think of, but when before had he shunned a dangerous mission?

Dangerous. That was it.
The woman he'd seen early the other morning, dashing across the meadow on that spirited brown mare.
Good God! Lord Belcomb's niece.

Looking up timidly, Lucy saw that her guardian's face was turning red. Fearful of a scolding, she shrank farther into her corner.

"Do my eyes deceive me, Freddie? Or has a new face actually entered this redoubt of redundancy, this mansion of monotony?"

Young Lord Tuttlehope looked toward the doorway where Lord and Lady Belcomb had just entered, accompanied by a nondescript blonde young woman in a modish blue gown. Blinking away his friend's literary flourishes, he responded to the few words he understood. "Matt Latham's daughter. Belcomb's niece. Got a few thousand a year."

Basil Trevelyan lifted an eyebrow.

"How few?"

"Ten or twenty. Maybe more. Matt blew up most of what he had in one scheme or another. But Henry took them in hand. Clever man, Henry. Shrewd investor."

Basil's interest increased. His topaz eyes half-closed in apparent boredom, he nonetheless watched the trio make their way through the room until they settled in a corner with Lady Stirewell and her daughter.

"Indeed. Charming girl, don't you think?"

Freddie blinked uncomprehendingly at his friend. The two had been at Oxford together and maintained a friendship ever since; yet it may safely be supposed that Lord Tuttlehope understood only a fraction of what his companion said or did. However, he made up for his slow wit with a strong loyalty.

"Barely met the girl myself," he replied. "Introduced at the Fordhulls' dinner. Sat the other end of the table. Never said a word. Don't blame her. Meal was abominable. Fordhulls never could keep a good cook."

"My dear Freddie," Basil drawled, still watching the young woman, who had embarked upon a lively conversation with the youngest Stirewell daughter, "it does not require an intimate relationship to ascertain that a young woman with an income of more than ten or twenty thousand a year must perforce be charming. And to those already considerable charms, one must add the mystique of scandal. Didn't her mother up and run off a week after her come-out?"

"Heard something about it. Never said whom she'd run off with. Six months later sends word she's married the merchant—and breeding," Freddie added with a blush.

"I thought Belcomb had washed his hands of his regrettable sister and her more regrettable spouse and offspring. Or hath ready blunt the power to soothe even the savage Belcomb beast?"

His speech earning him two blinks, Basil translated, "Is his lordship so sadly out of pocket that he's reconciled with his sister?"

The light of comprehension dawned in Lord Tuttlehope's eyes. "Thought you knew," he responded. "Bet at White's he'd be down to cook and butler by the end of the Season. Staff got restless—hadn't paid 'em in months. Then the Lathams turned up."

"I see." And certainly he did. No stranger to creditors himself, Basil easily understood the viscount's recent willingness to overlook his sister's unfortunate commercial attachment. Though he was barely thirty years old, Basil Trevelyan had managed to run up debts enough to wipe out a small country. Until two years ago, he'd relied on his uncle—then Earl of Hartleigh—to rescue him from his creditors. But those halcyon days were at an end. Edward Trevelyan, his cousin, was the new Earl of Hartleigh and had made it clear, not long after assuming the title, that there would be no further support from that quarter.

Basil had remained optimistic. Edward, after all, regularly engaged in extremely risky intelligence missions abroad, and one could reasonably expect him to be killed off one fine day soon—and, of course, to leave title and fortune to his more deserving cousin. Disappointingly, upon his father's death Edward had dutifully ceased risking his life on England's behalf, and had taken up his responsibilities as a Peer of the Realm.

"Not in the petticoat line myself, you know," Freddie remarked, "but she ain't much to look at. And past her prime. Closer to thirty than not."

His friend appeared, at first, not to hear him. Basil's attention was still fixed on the viscount's party. It was only after Lady Belcomb finally let her glance stray in his direction that he turned back to his companion, picking up the conversation as though several empty minutes had not passed.

"Yes, it is rather sad, Freddie, how the uncharming poor girls look like Aphrodite and the charming rich ones like Medusa."

Lord Tuttlehope, whose own attention had drifted longingly toward the refreshment room, recalled himself with a blink. After mentally reviewing the stables of his acquaintances and recollecting no horses which went by these names, he contented himself with what he believed was a knowing look.

"Always the way, Basil, don't you know?"

"And I must marry a Medusa. It isn't fair, Freddie. Just consider my thoughtless cousin Edward. Title, fortune, thirty-five years old, still a bachelor. Should he die, I inherit all. But
will
he show a little family feeling and get on with it? No. Did he have the grace to pass on three years ago, when the surgeons, quite intelligently, all shook their heads and walked away? No. These risky missions of his have never been quite risky enough."

"A damned shame, Trev. Never needed the money either. Damned unfair."

Basil smiled appreciatively at his friend's loyal sympathy. "And as if that weren't exasperating enough, along comes the orphan to help spend his money before I get to it. And to ice the cake, I now hear from Aunt Clem that he's thinking to set up his own nursery."

"Damned shame," muttered his friend.

"Ah, but we must live in hope, my friend. Hope of, say, Miss Latham. Not unreasonably high an aspiration. Perhaps this once the Fates will look down on me favourably. At least she doesn't look like a cit—although she obviously doesn't take after her mother. Aunt Clem said Maria Belcomb was a beauty—and there was something odd in the story...oh well." Basil shrugged and turned his attention once more to the pale young lady in blue. Seeing that the viscount had abandoned his charges for the card room, he straightened and, lifting his chin, imagined himself a Bourbon about to be led to the guillotine.

"Come, Freddie. You know Lady Belcomb. I wish to be introduced to her niece."

Miss Stirewell having been swept away by her mother to gladden the eyes and hearts of the unmarried gentlemen present (and, possibly, to avoid the two ne'er-do-wells who seemed to be moving in their direction), Isabella Latham tried to appear interested as her aunt condescended to identify the Duchess of Chilworth's guests. Her grace's entertainments were famous, her invitations desperately sought and savagely fought for, with the result that anyone of the ton worth knowing was bound to be there, barring mortal illness.

"Even the Earl of Hartleigh," Lady Belcomb added. "For I understand he's given up those foreign affairs and is finally settling down."

Isabella's cheeks grew pink at the mention of the name. Though a week had passed since that scene at the dressmaker's shop, she still had not fully recovered her equanimity. True, the earl had called the day after the contretemps to make a very proper, though cool, apology—to which she had responded equally coolly and properly. Lady Belcomb had absented herself for a moment (to arrange for Veronica's "accidental" appearance), and Mama, as usual, was resting. Thus none of the family had been privy to their conversation. However, the footman who stood at the door guarding her reputation had heard every syllable, and Isabella wondered what exaggerated form the drama would have taken by the time it reached her aunt's ears.