"Ashmore? Not Sir Charles's daughter?" Lord Arden asked in some surprise. Surely that walking piece of antiquity had not produced this Incomparable? "I’ve read your father's accounts with the greatest pleasure, Miss Ashmore."
The melting look he bent on her belied entirely his private opinion that it was the most boring stuff he'd ever had the misfortune to come across and that even sermons were better by half.
Not having expected quite so sudden or so intense an assault, Alexandra was momentarily disarmed. However, having never been easily melted—well, perhaps with one exception—she was able, quickly enough, to school her features into a polite smile before turning to be introduced to someone else.
It was a small group. In addition to the Deverells and Lord Arden, there was Major Wells, an old friend of Lady Bertram, and Sir Philip Pomfret, an old friend of Lord Deverell, with his wife, and Lord and Lady Tuttlehope. The latter was Henry Latham's eldest daughter.
While civilities were being exchanged, Alexandra tried to sort out what Aunt Clem had told her about the Deverells and their affairs. Lady Deverell had been secretly married to Harry Deverell some thirty years ago. Not long after, Harry had drowned, and the then-pregnant Maria had married Matt Latham, Henry's brother. Only Harry hadn't drowned, after all. Three years ago, he'd resurrected himself and come back to England to claim his title and reclaim his wife and daughter.
Half of Society, according to Aunt Clem, had decided that Lady Deverell had been a bigamist. The other half, apparently, had decided that Harry was two people: the one who'd drowned nearly thirty years ago, and the one who was now a fair-haired, handsome man in his early fifties and very much alive. At any rate, regardless which half of the ton had decided what, virtually all its members somehow found themselves accepting the languid Maria into their midst, her scandalous history dismissed as little more than another one of her eccentricities. As to Isabella, she was not only Harry's legitimate daughter, but Countess of Hartleigh as well, and even the highest sticklers could not exclude her.
It was Isabella that Basil had schemed to marry. Alexandra wondered what she was like. She must be handsome since both her parents were. But was she languid and absentminded like her mother or energetic and blunt like her father?
While Miss Ashmore was at her wondering, she was also curious about Lord Tuttlehope. Obviously devoted to his lovely blond wife, obviously not a rogue of even the mildest sort, and so inarticulate and shy he could hardly put a whole sentence together—how could he be, as Aunt Clem had asserted, Basil's very best friend?
Alexandra had little opportunity for further speculation because the friendly, talkative Lady Tuttlehope pounced immediately upon her, drawing her away from the others.
"Oh, how pleased I am to meet you at last!" the baroness burst out. "What an exciting time you must have had. I haven't been abroad once, you know, because Freddie wouldn't stir from England while that dreadful Napoleon was about. I can't monopolise you now, I know," (though she showed every intention of doing so) "because that would be monstrous rude. But you must come to tea one day soon."
Not that her ladyship could wait for that happy time. Even as Alexandra smiled acquiescence, her companion went on chattering like an eager schoolgirl. Wasn't it an odd coincidence how they'd run into Basil so far away? And wasn't it amazing that Basil was a hero now and practically reformed—or so her Papa claimed, while Freddie maintained that Basil was quite the same as ever, and her ladyship must debate this with herself at length. "But here," she said, pausing to catch her breath, "I'm running on frightfully. What did you think?"
Alexandra didn't know what to think and was somewhat taken aback by both the barrage and the sudden question. Not that this incommoded her interlocutor in the least. Lady Tuttlehope went on about Basil and about how Harry Deverell had wanted to shoot him, but his wife had convinced him otherwise, saying that it was a very long way back to India, and Harry had only just gotten home, and it was bad enough that he had drowned, but then to get himself hanged for murder was too tedious for words. While Alexandra struggled to keep in countenance—her companion's imitation of Lady Deverell was uncanny—the baroness was telling her how terribly disappointed Freddie was that Basil would not be joining them for dinner.
"Oh. Then he was invited?" Alexandra asked in the most offhand way.
"Well, actually, I don't know. Aunt Maria made such a mystery of everything. She's so clever, you know, though one would never think it. They're all clever—at least they were clever enough for Basil," she added, meaningfully. "But then, you know about that. I'm sure Aunt Clem has told you." Without giving Alexandra a chance to reply, she artlessly confessed that she was not clever at all. "And it's a good thing, too, or Freddie would never know what to say to me."
As Lady Tuttlehope went on to tell what Freddie did say, Alexandra, feeling rather giddy, let her attention stray occasionally to the others in the company. She noted that Lord Arden had turned her way more than once, as though about to approach. Each time, Lady Deverell called his attention back to herself. Thus, when they sat down to dinner, Alexandra had still not formed any sort of opinion about him beyond the fact that he was a most attractive man whose attire could not be faulted.
Lord Arden, who found himself seated on the opposite side of the table from Miss Ashmore and down at the other end on Lady Deverell's right, was beginning to wish his languid hostess at the devil. Maria had placed him there deliberately to torment him. There was no way he could converse with Miss Ashmore at this great distance. He must perforce be content to hear Maria sigh at him now and then between sighs at Sir Philip, or to talk with Lady Pomfret, who only complained interminably of India when she wasn't complaining that there wasn't a cook in London who knew how to make a proper curry.
Well, if he couldn't talk, he could look, and there was feast enough for the eyes to make a man never eat again, although it must be admitted that Lord Arden did honour to his dinner, nonetheless. She was even more beautiful than he'd thought. What wicked chestnut curls, to tease themselves loose from their pins and make her look ever so slightly but oh so provocatively dishevelled. And those eyes. Quite emerald green—or darker even—with naughty gold specks that danced when she laughed. She was delicious. Though she hadn't said more than two words to him, he knew she was perfection, which obviously meant that she must be his wife.
This knowledge must console him as he lingered with the gentlemen over port—and they did linger, an unconscionable long time. When they'd finally done and moved on to the drawing room to join the ladies, Lord Tuttlehope drew him
"I say, Will, odd tiling, ain't it?"
"What is?" the marquess asked impatiently.
"Couldn't say a word back there—Harry, you know. But he ain't here, is he?"
"Who isn't here?" Really, Freddie could be the most exasperatingly slow fellow. A small crowd was forming around Miss Ashmore, and that made Lord Arden unhappy. Crowds were inimical to private conversation, and besides, they blocked his view of her form, so tantalisingly outlined by the elegantly simple, sea-green gown she wore.
"Why, Trev." Lord Tuttlehope blinked in some surprise that Arden hadn't worked this out for himself. "Don't seem right when he went out of his way on her account. Could have come straight from Greece weeks ago. Least they could do is feed him, what?"
This was amazing eloquence from the inarticulate Freddie and it seemed to have a point. "On whose account was he delayed, Freddie?"
"Her. Ashmore's girl."
Lord Arden patiently questioned Freddie more closely and learned that Basil knew Miss Ashmore and had travelled with her all the way from Albania. The sly devil had never even hinted at it through all the bottles they'd shared this afternoon. But then, why should the man make anything of it? Even Trev wouldn't dare toy with his aunt's goddaughter. He'd said nothing about the matter because there was nothing to say. They'd travelled together with her Papa and others, and that was all there was to it.
Having thus reassured himself, the marquess proceeded to ease Freddie's troubled feelings. "As to Trev not being asked, what did you expect? Harry must still bear a grudge for that business three years ago."
Lord Tuttlehope blinked at him in surprise.
"Come now, Freddie. All Society knows Lady Hartleigh is Harry's daughter. They've made no secret of it, and any number of us know that Basil was up to some nasty business concerning her that got him packed off to India."
With several more blinks, Lord Tuttlehope stoutly denied that this was so and then in the next moment contradicted himself by insisting that Harry didn't bear a grudge. At least, so his beloved Alicia had assured him.
"Then," said Lord Arden, glancing at Lady Deverell, who was smiling lazily at something Miss Ashmore was saying, "it must be Maria."
Leaving Lord Tuttlehope to puzzle out for himself what the languid Lady Deverell had to do with the matter, Will made his way to Miss Ashmore's side.
At the moment she was explaining to the assembled group some of the pitfalls into which the subtleties of Albanian had led her. He had leisure, therefore, to admire—in addition to everything else he'd noted before—her low, husky voice. It thrilled him.
"And so," she was saying, "to pronounce it one way was to call him a boy—and yet to accent it only a bit differently was to call him a fiend. And the poor thing, who'd been so kind to find the goat for us, could not understand why I scolded him."
“But as it was a little boy, surely he could think of a reason for being scolded," Lady Tuttlehope responded. "They are always up to some mischief or other."
Lord Deverell added, with some pride, "Why, my grandson's only a year old, and already a prodigy at crawling into devilment."
Interesting as such conversation must be for doting Grandpapas, it eventually came to an end, and the party broke off into smaller groups. In time only Lord Arden, Lady Tuttlehope, and Lady Deverell remained with Miss Ashmore, and soon, to the marquess's unutterable relief, even this number dwindled. Maria, bored finally with standing between himself and Miss Ashmore, making conversation impossible with her sighs and lazy drawls, took herself languidly away to chat with Lady Bertram. That left only Lady Tuttlehope to thwart him.
The baroness, who had a romantic heart, was torn between leaving these two stunning creatures alone and wanting to hear what they'd say to each other. The choice was made for her when she saw her husband trapped into conversation with Lady Pomfret. She exclaimed softly, "Oh dear. Freddie is blinking terribly. Please excuse me." And off she went to his rescue.
Smiling a little at Lady Tuttlehope's ingenuous ways, Alexandra looked up to find herself the object of a very appreciative gaze. He was, just as Aunt Clem had promised, devilishly handsome. His hair was dark as a raven's wing, gleaming blue-black in the candlelight. The strong, ragged angles of his face were softened by grey eyes that managed to look boyish and innocent—though his manner was too polished to be boyish, his gaze too warmly appraising to be innocent. His manner, in fact, reminded her very much of someone else.
"I daresay, Miss Ashmore, that all of Society will be interrogating you about the mysterious country you visited. In a week you'll be sick to death of it and must swoon at the mere mention of the place.''
The killing look he bent upon her would have invited a weaker-minded female to swoon in any case, but Alexandra was made of sterner stuff. "Surely there's no danger of that, my lord. My simple reports cannot compete with Lord Byron's romantic tales, and Society, I am sure, has got those by heart."
"You credit Society with longer memory than it possesses—at least on any matter not fraught with scandal. And even if people had got the stories by heart, they would prefer—at least the gentlemen would, I know—to hear of the place from the lips of a beautiful lady."
"Would they? How odd." She looked up at him in a puzzled way. "Oh," she said in soft surprise, as though she'd only then caught his meaning. "You meant that as a compliment."
"It's the simple truth, Miss Ashmore. Byron himself would second me. That cannot surprise you, surely. I daresay that even Basil required you to spin tales for him by the hour—and he likes nothing better than to hear himself talk."
She looked puzzled again, and he explained hastily, "I thought you and your father travelled with Mr. Trevelyan. Perhaps I misunderstood?"
"Oh. Why, yes, he did accompany us on our return." Lord Arden looked rather sly, she thought, and she wondered what Basil may have said about her. Surely he wouldn't have boasted of stolen kisses. And was the marquess another such? Did he mean to work his arts upon her, too? She looked away from him, seeking a polite means of escape from this suddenly depressing exchange. But the others were engrossed in their own conversations, and Lord Arden was talking again.
"Yes, well, I couldn't be sure. Basil never said a word. It was only Freddie who mentioned it just a moment ago. As a matter of fact, Miss Ashmore, no one would say a word. They've all contrived to make a mystery of you, as though you'd dropped from out of the heavens into London."
The slyly inquisitive look disappeared, and with it her discomfort. They could not all be Basil Trevelyans. Besides, Aunt Clem would never have specially arranged for her to meet a scoundrel. Smiling at her unwonted timidity and mistrust—although his lordship took the smile as intended for himself—she answered, "Well, I'm not at all mysterious. I was abroad for six years with my father—and not in the most civilised places. Most likely I was such a ragamuffin upon my return that no one wanted to admit my existence until I could be made to look respectable again."
Lord Arden opened his mouth to contradict, eagerly, this slight upon her charms but was prevented by the reappearance of Lady Deverell, who had drifted back to them.
"How tiresome of me," she announced, with inexpressible ennui. "I had quite forgotten what I meant to ask you before, Will. It was that recipe for curry Lady Pomfret explained at such length that distracted me, I'm sure. It was so absorbing, was it not?"
Lord Arden agreed soberly that it was most absorbing.
"And if I'd realised it troubled her so, I would have asked Auguste to make it—although it is likely Harry would have left the house. He declares he cannot abide to see another curried anything again for as long as he lives. My husband," she explained to Miss Ashmore, "spent many years in India. But what was I about?" She stared thoughtfully at her diamond bracelet and must have found the answer there, for in a moment she told them, very wearily indeed, "Oh, yes. Isabella. How tiresome she is, Will."
"Not a bit of it. She's perfectly delightful."
"Yes, that is what I meant. She is so determinedly delightful that it quite wears me out to contemplate it. But she insists that I come to Hartleigh Hall at last, and so I must go, I suppose. And she declares she must have you, too, Will, and Jess—for if you don't bring your sister, you can't come at all, poor dear. The children will never forgive you, such hard-hearted creatures they are."
Lord Arden was delighted to accept and promised less delightedly to bring his sister.
"It will not be a very large party—such a pity your parents are in Scotland, though I daresay it's more comfortable for them. At any rate, Lady Bertram comes, of course, with Miss Ashmore." She did not appear to notice Miss Ashmore's little start. "And Freddie and Alicia. Oh, yes. Lady Bertram promises to write your Papa, Miss Ashmore—and that young man who assists him. She said he was very pleasant."
Lord Arden's eyes might have been perceived to narrow ever so slightly.
"Though where to write them is the great question. If he has gone on to visit the Burnhams in Yorkshire, he will hardly wish to travel so far in this heat for a quiet house party among so many strangers. Yet I was positive Henry Latham meant to have him to Westford. At any rate, that is all, I suppose, though one cannot be certain with curry uppermost in one's thoughts."
The prospect of meeting her father at Hartleigh Hall with Randolph in tow was not pleasant to contemplate. Very sensibly, then, Alexandra put it out of her mind. It was not sensible, however, to feel so very disappointed that a certain name was conspicuously absent from the guest list. She forced a smile as she told her two companions she was looking forward to making so many new acquaintances.
"Well, I only hope we do not wear you out, Miss Ashmore. You have just got to London"—a perfectly heartbreaking sigh—"and now you must be dragged off again. You have only had a very little respite from Basil and now must be thrust into his company once more." Lady Deverell shook her head sadly over this, as one who could not account for the naughty behaviour of Providence.
"Then Basil is coming as well?" Lord Arden asked with a covert glance toward Miss Ashmore.
"Why yes. Didn't I say so? Well; perhaps I didn't. That curry plagues me so." And with another tragic sigh, the viscountess floated away.