The English Witch by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online

lively conversation—Alexandra gave Mr. Burnham a dazzling smile and asked him what he meant.
    He was not in the habit of eliciting warm acknowledgement from Miss Ashmore. When she regarded him at all, and when he noticed, both of which were rare happenings, she did so mainly with profound weariness. So taken aback was he by this display of warmth that he smiled automatically in return.
    It occurred to Alexandra that he wasn't a bad-looking man. Randolph's clear blue eyes, when not glazed over in their customary scholarly abstraction, were, at least, honest ones. You could believe what you saw there.
    "I only hope he will not deceive you," said Randolph, coloring slightly.
    "What makes you think he will, Randolph? I thought you'd never met him before."
    He hesitated briefly then admitted that he hadn't.
    "Then to what do you ascribe your concern?"
    "I shouldn't have brought it up. I'd rather not speak ill of a man behind his back."
    Well then, Alexandra thought, glancing at Mr. Trevelyan, who seemed to find Papa inordinately amusing today, let us by all means call him to us so you can speak ill to his face.
    Aloud she said, "It isn't kind to drop such alarming hints to me, Randolph, and then say nothing more. Surely you must have some basis for what you claim."
    As a scholar who prided himself on his logic, Mr. Burnham wasn't about to own he had no foundation for his remarks. On the other hand, it went against his gentlemanly grain to trade in gossip. The scholar won out.
    "I was in London some two years after you left, as you know. While we did not travel in the same circles, I did hear of Mr. Trevelyan, and, I'm sorry to say, nothing to his credit. When I heard this story of six years trying to make his fortune, I was astonished. Knowing what I did, I could not imagine that he had got his money any other way than by gambling."
    Well, this was of a piece with everything else—and surely Randolph wouldn't say such a thing if he didn't have reasonable evidence. Gambling, too. Add that to the rest and it made a pretty sort of blackguard.
    What of it, then? She certainly wasn't going to marry the fellow. Fortified by this comforting certainty, she rose—as she must—to Mr. Trevelyan's defence. "That would be very distressing news, indeed. But he was in low spirits when I last saw him," she lied, "and I understand that some men will turn to vice—temporarily—when they're in low spirits. Besides, he does say he's partners with Henry Latham, and we could always find out the truth of that."
    Randolph nodded gravely. "Mr. Latham is a distant acquaintance of my father. It won't be difficult to ascertain the facts once we are home. Perhaps I wrong the man. I don't mean to. It is only that I cannot like to see you misled."
    He was sincere, of course. Honest as the day is long: that was Randolph. He made her feel guilty. A little while in Mr. Trevelyan's company and she'd deceived her father, Randolph, and even Dhimitri. But when men persisted in being such blockheads, what else could one do? Still, maybe she'd been overhasty in rejecting Randolph. Charm and clever conversation weren't everything. Better to be a little bored occasionally than to be forever worrying what one's untrustworthy spouse might be up to.
    Dear heavens! Whatever had led her into that train of thought? What unworthy spouse could she possibly be thinking of?
    Randolph was still making apologetic murmurs. Alexandra collected her wandering thoughts and made him a soothing reply—exactly the sort of thing his wife would have to say every now and then when some bit of stone puzzled him or when he lost one of his sketches. Well, he was kind and sincere, but there were other men in the world. Nothing on earth—except perhaps her stubborn father—obliged her to choose between these two alone. Not that they were, she chided herself, willing to be chosen from. Had not one of them made that very clear the first night she met him?

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