The Wicked Guardian Read online

  Clare’s expressed wish for an instant demise would have found an echo in the town house of Lord Benedict Choate on Mount Street. His secretary, Ronald Audley, had been in two minds about presenting the fateful letter to his employer.

  Of a certainty, it would cause a tempest. Ronald’s only question was choosing a time to present it when the storm might be minimized. Certainly the morning the letter arrived was not the most propitious time, for Lord Choate had spent the night at Watier’s, and while, being usually lucky at cards, he had apparently won a great deal of money—his valet, Grinstead, had reported a profusion of bills and vowels in his master’s possession—he had also drunk deeply and not wisely.

  So it was not until the next day that Ronald inserted the letter neatly between an invitation from the Countess Lieven, the new issue of The Quarterly Review, and a note from Choate’s betrothed, Miss Morton. Ronald had not opened the latter, but he was astute enough to guess at its contents, and he thought that his employer’s response to it would be wrathful enough to overlook the closely written epistle from Mr. Austin in Dorset.

  Fortunately, before Choate could open his mail that morning, Mr. Ruffin, his legal man of affairs, called upon him.

  “Good morning, Ruffin,” said Choate lazily. “Pray have some of this coffee before you tell me whatever dire news you have.”

  When Choate had fortified himself with a second cup and civilly allowed Ruffin to finish his own, he asked, “What brings you to see me so early, Ruffin? I have not yet opened my mail, as you see. But I shall postpone that delight, since I expect nothing of value in it. There will be no letter from Lady Lindsay. At least ... Is there a letter from my sister, Audley?”

  “No, my lord. You will remember that she is due back in London at any time now.”

  “Yes, yes, of course I remember it. Although I must admit that I am glad Lindsay has Primula in charge now, for a young female can have a devastating effect on one’s own life, you know, Ruffin.”

  Ruffin, well-acquainted with Lord Choate, permitted himself a smile. “Very much so, my lord. Although I might venture to suggest that you find your life without excitement since Lady Lindsay’s marriage?”

  “Ruffin, you know me too well. But I apprehend that there will be further changes in store for me.” Clearly, thought Ronald Audley, seeing the frown between the heavy black eyebrows of his employer, he was thinking of his intended marriage with Miss Morton, a lady whose advent into the household would terminate Ronald’s very pleasant employment. He could not endure the future Lady Choate peering over his shoulder all the time.

  But Ruffin said abruptly, “I collect then that you are willing to accept the charge?”

  Abruptly brought back to ground, Choate gave Ruffin a swift glance and said, more to himself than to his companions, “Is there a choice?”

  Mr. Ruffin shook his head. “I see none, my lord.”

  “After all,” said Choate, “it was arranged when we were both infants.”

  Ruffin looked blankly at him. “I beg your pardon, my lord. It was arranged scarcely a month ago.”

  Choate looked at his man of affairs and then at his secretary, who suddenly looked acutely uncomfortable. “I do believe,” said Choate, “that we are traveling upon different roads. I was referring to my marriage with Miss Morton. And you, Ruffin?”

  “I was referring to this letter from Dorset,” said Mr. Ruffin, producing a paper from an inner pocket. “I collect that this information was conveyed to you at the same time.”

  Choate looked at Ronald Audley, one black brow lifted in inquiry. “The information, Audley?”

  “In your mail this morning, my lord,” said the secretary in a neutral tone.

  There was silence while Lord Choate riffled through the cards of invitation, the short notes, ignoring the one in Miss Morton’s narrow, spiky hand, until he arrived at the letter in question. “Pray forgive me,” he said mechanically, “while I possess myself of the information that both of you seem to know already.”

  He missed the glance that the two men exchanged, a glance of apprehension and anticipation of a storm to break over their heads. They were not disappointed.

  “Impossible!” said Lord Choate. “Ridiculous! I wonder what kind of hen-wit this Austin—is that his name?—is, to think I’d...”

  He rose and in unwonted agitation crossed to the sideboard and poured another cup of coffee for himself. He emptied his cup before he felt himself sufficiently in control to speak again. But while his eyes flashed fire, yet his tone was civil enough.

  “Well, Ruffin? How can you get me out of this coil?”

  “My lord,” said Mr. Ruffin, having anticipated just such a demand, and prepared himself, “it cannot be done. At least with propriety.”

  “Propriety? There can be nothing more improper than to set a bachelor like myself as guardian over that girl!”

  Mr. Ruffin remained silent, and Lord Choate read the signs. He was in many ways arrogant, and often unfeeling, but no one had ever accused him of being unintelligent. With as good grace as he could muster, he said ruefully, “Perhaps you will explain it to me, Ruffin. I myself do not quite see the inevitability of this development.”

  “Well, of course,” said Mr. Ruffin with a deprecatory cough. “No one need point out that you are related to the Penrycks, on your late mother’s side of the family.” Choate nodded impatiently. “And of course, there is no one of that family left.” He thought over his statement, checking it for accuracy, and then added, “Except this child. Miss Clare Penryck.”

  Mr. Ruffin’s life did not lead him into society, and he was unaware that Miss Clare Penryck had indeed come to town, and was in unmistakable fact not a child.

  Choate, for his part, was searching his brain for a fact that had so far eluded him, but now he remembered it. “What about Horsham? He is the guardian of that girl. She told me herself. Horsham! Not me. Ruffin, I have never known you to make a mistake, and we must now lay the blame upon this Mr. Austin from Dorset. Let us hope that his shoulders are broad enough—”

  But Mr. Ruffin was dogged. “It is no mistake, my lord. Lord Horsham was indeed to have served. But of course now he cannot. He died a month ago, just before Lady Penryck wrote her new will.”

  Choate was thunderstruck. “Dead? I had not heard that.”

  Mr. Ruffin’s conservative soul could not refrain from adding, “Just in time too, my lord, else he would have been on the rocks.”

  Benedict took a turn around the room. At length, he came to a decision. “I cannot take the guardianship. Someone else—”

  ‘There is no one else of the family, my lord,” said Mr. Ruffin firmly. “A great pity, but there it is. And of course, when the happy event of your marriage occurs, there would be no suggestion of impropriety. I should imagine Miss Morton would be just the right influence for a child.” Benedict had thought swiftly while his man of affairs was prosing on. A great pity, was it? But nothing as to the consequences that lay ahead. Although Benedict had no very clear vision of those consequences, no man of sense could deny that putting an impulsive and wayward girl into the hands of Miss Morton, whose opinions were well known to him, could lead only to disaster.

  But suddenly Benedict relaxed his grim frown. One corner of his mouth tilted momentarily, and to the surprise of Mr. Ruffin and also of Ronald Audley, Benedict smiled, the rare smile that transformed his face and was part of his unexpected charm.

  “I have the answer,” said Benedict. “Mr. Austin shall receive a letter from you, Ruffin, accepting this charge, as one of the duties I owe my family, and telling him that Lady Lindsay will travel to Penryck Abbey within a few days.”

  “Lady Lindsay!” said Mr. Ruffin, beaming. “Just the thing, my lord. She will know what to do.”

  “At least I am sure I hope so,” said Benedict. “Marriage will have settled her to a degree.”

  However, Benedict was destined to sustain yet another shock. Two days passed, and the letter from Ruffin to Dorset was on
its way. Benedict considered that his problem—which had quite daunted him at first, he admitted privately—had been handsomely solved. Surely Primula, having benefited by the strictest of governesses and a tight chaperonage when she at length came out into society, would curb the wayward tendencies of the slip of a girl from Dorset.

  Only momentarily did Benedict reflect that it might be a shame to subdue Clare’s freshness, turning her into simply another young lady, as like to all the others as peas in a pod.

  When Lord and Lady Lindsay returned at last from their prolonged honeymoon in Italy, the first call they made was on her elder brother, Benedict. He was a half-brother, of course, but Primula loved him dearly, and she greeted him now with an openhearted embrace.

  “Well, Primula,” said Benedict. “You have certainly become more handsome in the past half-year. Lindsay, my congratulations.”

  Lindsay, his eyes holding a secret twinkle, acknowledged the compliment, watching his beloved and her brother settle down to a prolonged visit.

  Sometime later, when he judged the moment propitious, Benedict dropped his bomb. “I daresay you are out of touch with the on-dits of the town,” he said.

  “Very much so,” said Primula. “You are, I collect, about to tell me something shocking. If it is that your wedding is off, pray tell me at once!”

  Benedict repressed a slight grimace. “No, it is not off. Postponed for a while, however.”

  “Her choice?”

  “I suppose not. She had spoken, you know, of a spring wedding, but now she has fixed the date of October. But ... we shall see. However, that is not what I wanted to tell you.”

  “Benedict, I cannot like your marriage to that woman. She will rule with an iron hand—”

  “Are you suggesting,” said Benedict softly, “that I am to submit to petticoat rule without a struggle?”

  “Not without a struggle,” agreed Primula. “But you are betrothed, and you cannot tell me that that is by your own wish. And if not your wish, then whose?”

  “You know very well that the marriage was arranged when we were children...” Benedict caught himself up short. “No reason to rehearse all this. Lindsay, I wonder that you haven’t been able to control your wife?”

  Lindsay laughed outright. “I do, Choate. Just the way you controlled her when you were her guardian!”

  Benedict gave a rueful grin. “Well, this is all not to the point.”

  “But if not your marriage, then what is the point?” said Primula. “Do you want me to insult her so that she cries off?”

  “Good God, no, Primula!” exploded Benedict.

  “Well, I should not like to do so, but if that is the only way...”

  “Primula!” said Lord Lindsay, and the tone of his voice had the desired effect.

  “All right, Benedict,” said his sister. “I collect that you have something of moment to tell me.”

  “Well,” he said in studied indifference, “yes. But it is not as shocking as I suppose you expect. The fact is that you could do a great favor for me.”

  Imperceptibly, Lindsay stiffened. But whatever he might have expected, the fact was far different.

  “I’m a guardian again—oh, no, not to anyone you know. But old Lady Penryck, a distant kinswoman of my mother’s—at least, Penryck was—has died and left her granddaughter to my care.”

  “A mere child? What do you have to do with children? Simply engage a governess.”

  Benedict shook his head. “I would not inflict such a task on anyone. Even your Mrs. Duff—not this young miss.”

  “What is she like? You know her, then?”

  “She came to London to stay with Lady Thane, her godmother. And Lady Thane brought her out.”

  “Well, then?”

  “But she only turned sixteen a month ago.”

  Primula frowned. “And out? What were they thinking of?”

  “I imagine it is old Lady Penryck whom we have to thank for this. She wanted to get Clare settled. And of course it might have worked out. Ferguson was about to offer, I think.”

  “Alexander Ferguson? My goodness, Benedict, would that serve?”

  “At any rate, it didn’t.”

  Primula watched her brother for a few moments, and then in an altered tone said, “What is she like, Benedict? Shall I like her?”

  Benedict said, “I think I may as well tell you. She is the kind of girl who, when an urchin steals her purse on Oxford street, runs after him through the crowds calling ‘Stop!’ ”

  Lindsay said curiously, “Did she catch the thief?”

  Benedict grimaced. “No. She tripped over a cobble and measured her length on the street.”

  Irrepressibly, Primula giggled. “And you saw this?”

  “I picked her up,” said Benedict grimly. “Her foolish maid was screaming at the top of her lungs, and ... well, something had to be done.”

  “And you read her a great scold.” Primula nodded.

  “I pointed out to her...” began Benedict, and then thought better of it. Clare’s flashing eyes still stayed in his memory, and while she had deserved it all, yet he was of the opinion now that he needn’t have been so harsh.

  “But she is not in London now,” suggested Lindsay.

  “No, not after the regent’s fete.”

  “I am not sure that I want to hear,” said Primula reflectively, “but I know I can’t rest until I do. What happened then?”

  “I had to rescue her again—never mind from what. It would do no good to rake that over. But she is the most foolish, green, impulsive, troublesome child I have ever had the misfortune to know!” said Benedict, rising to savage heights.

  Primula favored him with a roguish smile. “I never thought I would see the day,” she said obscurely. “You call her a child, Benedict, and yet I think she has managed something I did not expect.”

  Suddenly suspicious, Benedict frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I think,” she said judiciously, “that Providence works in mysterious ways. And I am beginning to see a bit of hope.”

  Repressively, Benedict said, “I do not understand you.”

  Primula said airily, with a gay smile that revealed her dimples, “You will, one day. And I will say I told you so.”

  Baffled, Benedict turned to Lindsay, but that gentleman shook his head. Benedict turned back to his sister. “So, then, you will do it?”

  “Do what?” she asked, suspicious in her turn.

  “Go down to Penryck Abbey and see about this troublesome child.”

  She glanced at her husband. Lindsay said, “Sorry, Choate. Out of the question.”

  Seeing Benedict’s stricken look, Primula took pity on him. “I’m increasing,” she said gently, “and I am to go directly into Wiltshire.”

  “And stay there,” said Lindsay firmly. “She is allowed to travel as far as Shenton Hall, but no farther. The doctors in Italy were very firm.”

  And Lindsay himself was as firm as any, Benedict realized. His plans were going astray with speed. Lindsay forestalled Benedict. “Nor is she to have any anxieties,” he said. “I will see to that.”

  “Send for the girl to London,” suggested Primula.

  “I fear for the capital,” said Benedict fiercely.

  Surrounded by the shards of his near-perfect scheme, Benedict reflected. At length, watched by his apprehensive relatives, he said grimly, “That infant belongs in the country until she’s grown up.”

  Glancing ruefully at both Lindsays, he said, “You’re right. She is my responsibility. She must stay at Penryck Abbey. I shall go down myself, and believe me, I shall set her straight!”

  12.

  So it was that on a day near the end of July, Lord Benedict Choate was tooling down the road leading from London in the direction of Dorset. His thoughts, gloomy at first, insensibly began to rise with the fineness of the day and the growing perception that he would be free for a short space from the importunities of his London existence.

  Certain of his ha
lf-sister’s representations had struck closer home than he liked. For one, the idea that his betrothed would rule him as with a rod of iron. While he knew that would not be the case—for no man or woman ruled Benedict Choate—yet those of his staff and his household could not escape as easily from the vicinity as their master. And surely it would be too much to place Clare Penryck in the ungentle hands of Marianna Morton.

  Benedict had no illusions about Marianna. But he was strongly aware of the duty he owed, both to his family and to a lady who had long considered herself as the next Lady Choate. But for now, behind his four matched grays, Benedict was responsible only to himself.

  The object of his journey sat in the small drawing room at Penryck Abbey. Clare was not alone, although she longed for solitude.

  Lady Melvin, the squire’s wife, had come to keep her company.

  Lady Melvin viewed herself as of a maternal bent. It was unfortunate that she and Sir Ewald had no children, at least any who lived beyond infancy, and she had a great store of sympathy and advice left unused, until now.

  “What a pity,” she said, not for the first time, “that your grandmother did not live until you had become settled in life. I am sure that you must have had offers in London. After all, you were there for two months and I am sure the beaux are not less attentive today than they were in my time. Why, I hadn’t been there above six weeks when I had refused two offers! Two, of the most eligible kind imaginable!”

  Unfortunately, Clare’s mind had wandered and she spoke absently. “And then you married Sir Ewald.”

  “Well, it was not that I didn’t have other chances, my dear. But of course, I have always had a comfortable feeling about living here in the country. I daresay I should have rubbed along with the baronet. I wonder if I mentioned him?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, you did,” Clare assured her earnestly. “I wonder what Lady Lindsay will be like?”

  Lady Melvin, knowing Clare well, wondered too. The child was in such a state that the slightest curb on her impulses might run into such consequences as Lady Melvin shuddered to think of. Fortunately, it would be a young woman of ton and address who would make what arrangements Lord Choate felt necessary. Lady Melvin set great store on Lady Lindsay’s tact, even though she did not know her at all.