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.
"Indeed," that lady continued, "it was most astonishing, his coming to call. But he is rumoured to be seeking a wife. And Veronica was looking well Tuesday, was she not?"
"She is always lovely, Aunt," Isabella replied. She had not missed the increased warmth in the earl's manner when Veronica entered the room. Nor, when those haughty brown eyes had been turned upon herself, had she failed to notice how he'd sized her up, appraising her head to toe and, in seconds, tallying her value at zero. Not that it mattered. It was her cousin's Season to shine. At the advanced age of twenty-six, Isabella Latham need not trouble her head with the appraisals of bored Corinthians.
"It is a pity their come-out had to be put off so late," Isabella continued, forcing the handsome and haughty earl from her mind. "For Alicia and Veronica might have been here to enjoy this with us."
"Well, well. Alicia could not be presented to society in a wardrobe made by the village seamstress."
"That is true, Aunt."
"And after all," Lady Belcomb went on, not noticing the irony of her niece's tone, "there will be festivities enough. Although this is quite a brilliant assembly—did you notice Lady Delmont's emeralds? I was not aware her husband...but then, never mind." Reluctantly, she turned from contemplation of the jewels on Lady Delmont's bosom. "Veronica will have plen
ty of time to shine, along with your other little cousin. It is but two weeks until their little fête."
Her niece looked down to hide the smile quivering on her lips. While the viscountess had accepted the exigencies of fate and graciously agreed to oversee preparations for the come-out ball, she was compelled to reduce the situation to diminutives. Thus the come-out for Veronica and Alicia, costing the Lathams many hundreds of pounds, was a "little" party, and Alicia herself, though three inches taller than Lady Belcomb, a "countrified little thing."
"That reminds me; we must be certain Lord Hartleigh has been sent an invitation. It would be mortifying, after his thoughtful visit, to discover he had not been included."
Isabella, who had, purely on her cousins' account, resisted the temptation to hurl said invitation into the fire, assured her aunt that all was well. With the coming ball, Lady Belcomb's responsibilities would cease, according to the agreement. It would then be up to Isabella to accompany her cousins on their debutante rounds, for Mama was bound to be too tired, or too bored. Idly, Isabella wondered where she would fit in. Would she be required to sit with the rest of the gossiping duennas and attempt to converse with them? Did chaperones dance? The music had just begun, and Isabella looked down to see her white satin slippers tapping in time, as though they had nothing to do with respectable chaperones. Were chaperones allowed to tap their toes to the music? Smiling at the thought, she looked up to meet a pair of glittering topaz eyes gazing down at her.