Isabella by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

genuinely tousled. He did wish Aunt Clem would leave off scolding. For here was a tailor's bill in his pocket which, if not paid up by tomorrow, would render his current wardrobe his final one. And in frayed collars, limp neckcloths, and threadbare waistcoats, one could not expect to charm wealthy young ladies or allay the fears of their relatives. He offered his aunt a lazy smile.
    "Ah, her mother. But you know, Aunt, I suspect she hadn't the energy to make a mull of things. They must have simply mulled themselves."
    "You know nothing of it. She was quite a lively girl in her youth. But her life in later years wore her down. As it will, you know." Lady Bertram spared her nephew a meaningful look before returning to her reminiscences. "What a pity she and Harry Deverell couldn't have made a match of it. You know," she mused, partly to herself, "I never did understand what made her run off with Latham."
    Basil was all curiosity, the tailor momentarily forgotten. "You mean there was something between Mrs. Latham and the new viscount? The one everyone thought dead all these years?"
    The sharp brown eyes considered him, and a sad, patient look passed briefly across the aristocratic features. "No, that's not what I meant at all. They grew up together and were like brother and sister. And even if their feelings had been more romantic, it would have been impractical, of course. Neither family was well off."
    "You see, Aunt? Even you realise that one can't live on affection alone. The grocer must be paid..."
    "And the tailor, too, I suppose. Don't play the innocent with me, you villainous boy," she went on, in response to his upraised eyebrow. "My sources tell me that Mr. Stutts refuses to extend you any further credit."
    "Aunt Clem sees all, knows all," replied the villainous boy, with some relief.
    "Of course I do, you young jackanapes. Well, then, what will it take to pacify him?"
    Now this was interesting, Basil thought, as he strolled down Saint James's. Harry Deverell and the languid Mrs. Latham had grown up together. And yet, when the story about the mysterious viscount had come up in conversation, she had barely attended. But then, whenever she did put in one of her rare appearances, she seldom seemed to attend to anything. And every time Basil saw her, he was hard put to connect her darker, striking beauty with her daughter's pale, nearly nondescript features. Must take after the father , he thought. And yet that side of the family, too—if Alicia was the rule, rather than the exception—certainly was more strikingly handsome. Well, one could not always rely on family resemblances. Although that had sealed the mysterious viscount's fate, hadn't it? Basil cast his mind back, trying to recall the story that had had London in such an uproar...when was it, a year ago?
    Harry Deverell, youngest son of Andrew, Viscount Deverell, had gone to sea. Evidently, he was not the clerical type of younger son, for he had decided on a distinctly hazardous mode of getting his living. But his career was cut short when he fell overboard in a sudden storm off the Cornish coast, and he was presumed drowned.
    It turned out, however, that he'd been able, by some miracle, to make his way to shore, where he was rescued by some folk or other—smugglers, no doubt, as they all were thereabouts. Severely weakened by his efforts, he'd fallen seriously ill, and when the fever and delirium finally left him, several weeks later, he could remember nothing, not even his name. Only his sailor's garb offered any clue, and he returned to his trade, hoping this would help him recall his lost past.
    From then on, he'd travelled the globe as an obscure sailor, never crossing paths with any who might recognise him. It was only when he finally settled in India—some five years ago—that he had contact with any of his class. But by then, Harry Deverell had been so long thought dead that even those noting a family resemblance would not connect him with the retired