The English Witch Page 12

  "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.

  "Thome?" 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 bream 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 compassion 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 godmother.

  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 Twelve

  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.

  Today they were sharing a picnic lunch with the Osbornes and another group of neighbours. Determined to have her exclusive company, Lord Arden had borne her off to a spot a little distance from the others. There he treated her to such a series of compliments and affectionate hints and delicate renderings of life at Thornehill—as well as the rest of the Parrington estates, so numerous she couldn't keep them straight in her mind—that he gave her a splitting he
adache.

  Remarking her pallor, he suggested a walk. The meal had been laid out in a cool, shady grove, and he pointed to a path that followed alongside a sparkling stream.

  "Hadn't we better invite the others?" she asked, as he helped her to her feet and drew her arm though his.

  "Whatever for?"

  She cast a furtive glance towards Basil, whose head was now bent very close to Hetty's simpering face. Any excuse Alexandra might have made died on her lips. Gripping the marquess's arm more firmly, she manufactured a shy smile.

  That was answer enough for Will. He smiled down at her in a protective, proprietary sort of way, patted the slim fingers that lay on his sleeve, and bore her off towards the path.

  No one appeared to take any alarm at their departure. Not Sir Charles, certainly, to whom it was comforting proof of the marquess's interest in his daughter. As Alexandra's own Papa did not object to the business, no one else felt required to do so, either.

  No one, that is, but Basil, who took great exception to this impropriety. He wondered, as his hooded gaze followed the departing pair, what the devil Ashmore was thinking of to countenance it. It would have been easy enough to persuade Hetty to stroll in the same direction, but that was risky. Her Mama was bound to expect certain news at the conclusion of the exercise. Nor could Basil look with equanimity upon the prospect of stumbling, with witnesses, upon what was bound to be a compromising situation.

  As the minutes ticked away, the danger of there being a compromising situation to witness increased. Still, if no one else cared, why should he? Consequently, between tormenting himself with imagining what was happening between the pair, and assuring himself of his perfect indifference to the lurid scenes presenting themselves to his imagination, he did not at first notice the parasol that tapped his arm. It tapped again, and a weary sigh floated down from somewhere above his head. He looked up to see Lady Deverell gazing down at him in a very bored sort of way.

  "Dear me, how tiresome I am, to be sure. You did not look to be asleep, Basil, and yet Harry is—" She pointed with her parasol to her husband, who appeared to be dozing, propped up against a tree. "And I had hoped to have your arm for a bit."

  Basil, who'd been reclining upon a cushion Hetty had thoughtfully provided for him, scrambled to his feet, all gallantry. If he thought it odd that Maria, who considered sitting down upon her chaise lounge a calisthenic exercise, wanted to take a walk, he was too polite to mention it.

  "It would be an honour, my lady. I'm yours to be led wheresoever you wish."

  Having been deserted by one swain, Hetty very sensibly turned her attention elsewhere. She had a riddle, she told Lady Tuttlehope, that she was sure even the clever Mr. Burnham couldn't solve. Lady Tuttlehope protested that this was impossible. Mr. Burnham made modest noises that it was not, and Lord Tuttlehope, greatly baffled, blinked in wonder as he watched his friend stroll away with Harry Deverell's wife.

  "I felt so dull," was the viscountess's soft complaint. "And that little path by the stream seems pleasant, does it not?"

  Agreeing that it seemed most pleasant, Basil bore her away in pursuit of the missing couple.

  “It has rather more twists and turns than one would expect," she noted languidly, when they'd walked some moments in silence. "Why, here it branches off. Now I wonder—" She paused at a place where the trail divided into three narrow paths.

  Although it was not one of the sites he'd shown Miss Ashmore, Basil knew the place well, having, in the past, coaxed more than one willing village maiden along the more private of these ways. Yet, strangely enough, it was in this very direction that he proposed they proceed.

  "Oh, well, I suppose you know best, my dear. And yet how easy for one to become lost—it does grow rather a wilderness, does it not? I do hope that Will has not lost his way."

  "Highly unlikely," was the stiff reply. "He knows the place as well as I do."

  "Does he? Then I daresay he will not cause Miss Ashmore to overexert herself."

  "I daresay."

  It appeared that Lord Arden must have expected exertion of some sort, for as the path turned and branched off once again they came upon a pretty, sheltered spot, and upon the marquess with his arms wrapped around Miss Ashmore, treating her to a very interesting sort of exercise, indeed.

  Being fully occupied, the pair were unaware they were observed, though Basil was instantly prepared to bring that matter forcibly to their attention. He was, in fact, about to rush forward and knock his lordship to the ground when he felt a surprisingly firm grip on his arm, and found himself being rugged backwards, out of sight.

  "Scenes," her ladyship whispered, as he opened his mouth to object, "are so very fatiguing." She went on, in more carrying tones than normal, to rhapsodise in her usual weary way about the attractiveness of the spot. "Yes, a charming place, my love. I daresay Mr. Wordsworth would be moved to compose any number of odes upon it—with a perfectly exhausting number of stanzas." As she spoke, she led Basil forward again. "But you know, these noisy brooks do grow rather wearisome to the head after a time."

  He hardly knew what he answered—some incoherent inanity. For all his outward composure, Basil was in a murderous rage, a condition not conducive to clever repartee. He thought of another stream and another private spot, and of how careful he'd been not to offend Miss Ashmore by making improper advances. Now that designing female was locked in an embrace with a man she'd admitted she didn't love. With a man, for heaven's sake, who had a set of twins in his keeping in London. It would serve her right to be shackled all her days to that monster of depravity.

  If he did not stop to recall that Will had done little worse in his lifetime than he had himself, it was perhaps because Basil was not quite himself at the moment. How else explain that he, who'd always thought it great sport to steal kisses as often as he could, should now be filled with moral outrage that another gentleman did so? But it was Miss Ashmore from whom the kiss was stolen, and that, somehow, turned everything upside down.

  Not that he could tell, really, what was upside down or right side up, for he was nearly choked with fury. He was, in fact, vowing to himself that as soon as the ladies could be removed from the vicinity, he would tear the marquess limb from limb. And as to her… There was a warning pressure on his arm, and he tried to collect himself. They were once again in view of the couple, now walking innocently towards them.

  Miss Ashmore, who'd apparently found it unnecessary to lean upon her escort's arm, hurried towards Lady Deverell, and greeted her with a rather set smile.

  "It seems," she said, in a voice as tight as her smile, "that Lord Arden has lost his way—"

  "Has he, my love? Well, that is what we thought, is it not, Basil?" Without waiting for his reply, the viscountess remarked what a confusing sort of maze it was, and how it was no wonder Will went astray. "Yes, very likely, my dear," she told Will as she absently let go of Basil's arm to take that of the marquess. "You confused the spot with that lovely little wood you told me of, at the edges of your place in Scotland."

  The way his lordship leered at Miss Ashmore as he accepted this excuse could not be agreeable to certain of the company. Miss Ashmore, however, resolutely turned her head...only to confront a face that appeared to be carved in stone. Lady Deverell having laid claim to the marquess, Alexandra had no choice but to take the arm Basil stiffly proffered her.

  She no sooner touched his sleeve than she was acutely aware of the taut strength beneath her fingers. A tear pricked her eye, and she struggled to fight it back. It was unfair. Will's kiss had left her profoundly unmoved, and now...oh, Lord, she had only to touch Basil's coatsleeve and she was all atremble inside. It was unfair and cruel.

  And he was cruel as well, hurrying her along ahead of the other two and acting so cold and silent just when she most needed him to tease her out of her misery. If only he'd say something provoking to make her forget Will's embrace and the self-loathing she'd felt in permitting it. She'd felt like a Cyprian, selling herself to
a man she didn't, couldn't love. When it had come to the point, when she'd heard the voices and known that she had only to stay in his arms a moment longer, and all her problems would be solved… she couldn't do it. It had only wanted a moment. They'd have been caught, and Papa would have made her marry the man who'd compromised her. But what had she done? Jerked herself away—because all she could think of was Basil seeing her in another man's arms.

  As if he cared. He was only in a hurry to get back to Hetty and her sisters. Well, who told him to leave them in the first place?

  "My apologies," Basil said in a harsh undertone, "for interrupting your tête-à-tête."

  He'd broken in upon what was rapidly becoming a most satisfying wallow in self-pity. She managed to invent a cold retort, but his accusing tone had made her throat ache and her eyes fill with tears, to her horror, she heard her voice quavering as she answered, "Pray don't tax yourself with it, sir. I daresay his lordship makes his own opportunities for private conversation."

  The tremulous sound made Basil look at her sharply, just as one treacherous tear stole down her cheek. He'd been about to say something brutal, but now found that he couldn't. A tear. He'd tasted a tear once before, eons ago, it seemed. It hadn't then, as it did now—so hurriedly brushed away—aroused in him this frenzy of emotions: pain, rage, sorrow, shame, and he didn't know what else.

  He wanted to pull her into his arms, pull her close to him, as though that would end the turmoil within him—or at least punish her for causing it. She'd driven him to this: made him mad with jealousy and then in the next instant broke his heart in a thousand pieces when she shed a tear.

  Mad with jealousy? Heart in a thousand pieces? Good heavens! That was what one said to women. It wasn't what one felt.

  Mr. Trevelyan was not a stupid man. He knew himself very well. He knew, therefore, that whatever his previous opinions regarding what one said and what one felt, Reality was presenting him with a very different state of affairs. He had better take his hint from Reality for now and work out his opinions on the matter later.