The Gallant Guardian (3 page)

Charlotte had refrained from pointing out the obvious, which was that the estate had been left virtually without a man to look after it for the past decade, certainly for the past five years, and had done rather well in spite of this unfortunate circumstance.

Charlotte had not been fooled in the least. She had watched Cecil surveying the vast green fields of Harcourt, the scores of sheep, the neat tenants’ cottages, and had seen the unmistakably acquisitive gleam in his eye. She had observed Almeria run her hand possessively over the fine Chippendale sideboard and had overheard her quizzing the butler, Mr. Tidworth, about the family plate, and caught a glimpse of her examining the furnishings in her mother’s bedchamber with a calculating expression.

She had also been miserably aware of the disparaging looks cast in William’s direction. It took no great feat of imagination on Charlotte’s part to interpret those glances. To the Wadleighs, William was less than human; he was something more on the order of a well-behaved pet, but a pet that bore an embarrassing resemblance to themselves. She knew that, in the opinion of people such as the Wadleighs, houses, especially magnificent houses such as Harcourt, were no place for pets. It would only be a matter of time before Cecil would be suggesting, in the most helpful and concerned sort of way, that William would be happier somewhere else, a simple sort of place, like a cottage by the sea, where someone could be hired to look after his particular needs and wants and where his connection to an illustrious family could be kept quiet.

“No! Never!” Charlotte muttered fiercely under her breath as she made her way back to the house where she soon located Mr. Tidworth in his pantry lecturing John the footman on the proper cleaning of the silver.

Having informed him of her decision to journey to London, she went next to see Cook and order a hamper for the trip. Charlotte did not intend to spend the night, and if she did not have to stop for a meal at an inn along the way, she would travel all that much more speedily.

Knowing full well that her reputation was already a topic for discussion in some of the drawing rooms around Harcourt among those who felt it was improper for a young woman to ride about the country on her own without a groom, Charlotte wished to avoid the comment that would arise if she were to put up for the night at a hotel in London. An early departure with no stops along the way would allow her to travel to London and back in one day. It was already bad enough that she was traveling to London on business with only a maid and a stout footman to accompany her. No need to risk further censure by putting up at a hotel.

Chapter Three

The journey to London passed pleasantly enough. After a life spent within the confines of Harcourt and its environs, Charlotte was thrilled at the chance to see another part of the countryside. To be sure, the fields and cottages they passed very much resembled those she knew so well, but they were ones she had never seen before and therein lay their charm.

As they approached the metropolis, the traffic increased as did the number of establishments lining the road, a phenomenon that filled her maid, Lucy, with astonishment. “Lawks, my lady, did you ever see so many people! Why they all want to crowd together in such a way is certainly beyond me. It isn’t normal.” The farmer’s daughter could see no allure in a place where one was confined to houses with no gardens and streets jammed with carts, carriages, peddlers selling their wares, and hawkers of every description.

A little better prepared for it all from the prints she had seen by Mr. Hogarth and lesser-known artists as well as the various things she had read, Charlotte was not so overwhelmed as her maid, but she too failed to see what it was that drew people to the place. Now that she had seen it, she was inclined more than ever to think that her father had taken up residence in London to avoid all thought of his family and not because of the charm of the place. Why else, if one had known the peace and quiet, the green spaciousness of Harcourt’s particular corner of Sussex, would one voluntarily leave it for the cluttered, noisy, dusty scene that was London unless one wished to escape from those who made Harcourt their home?

At last the carriage clattered up before the somber building containing the chambers of Mr. Sedgewick, and the footman sprang to open the door. Drawing a deep breath, Charlotte emerged, followed closely by Lucy. Until now, all her thoughts and energies had been focused on getting to the metropolis and she admitted to herself as she scanned the names on the door that she had not truly given a great deal of thought as to how she was to convince Mr. Sedgewick to divulge the address of his noble employer. Any solicitor worth his salt would do his utmost to protect the interests of his client. Certainly she would expect such loyalty from someone in her employ. There was nothing for it but to try. Desperation made Charlotte determined. Squaring her shoulders and assuming an air of cool authority, she opened the door and marched in, head held high.

“May I help you?”

Charlotte whirled around. In the corner at a high desk sat a young man who looked to be no older than William.

“I should like to speak with Mr. Sedgewick, please.”

The young man untangled lanky legs from the stool he was sitting on and approached her curiously. Generally speaking, Mr. Sedgewick’s clients were of such rank and power that the solicitor waited upon them at their convenience in their own establishments.

Charlotte endured his scrutiny with barely concealed impatience. The clerk, with his shock of red hair and ears that stuck out from his head like outspread wings, was not the least impertinent, far from it, he appeared almost awestruck. She wished he would do more than just stand there gazing at her. At last, unable to bear it any longer, she coughed politely.

A vivid red stained the young man’s face. “I b-b-beg, your pardon,” he stammered. “How may I be of service to you?”

“I wish to see Mr. Sedgewick.” Charlotte repeated it politely, but firmly. Really, she
did
wish he would look more lively, for her time was quite limited.

“He…he’s not here.”

“Oh.” Now what was she to do? In her haste to forestall Cecil and protect her brother. Charlotte had never stopped to consider the possibility that Mr. Sedgewick might not be available.

“He has gone to Lord Palgrave’s and is not expected back until tomorrow,” the clerk volunteered helpfully.

Charlotte was silent, thinking furiously. Actually, this setback might be turned to her advantage. In truth, she had been a little nervous about trying to extract her guardian’s direction from his solicitor, but this young man was far more approachable than some respectable gentleman who would surely be bound to protect his noble employer from inquisitive young women. Yes, the awkward young man might do very well.

Summoning up her friendliest smile, Charlotte moved a step closer to him. “Oh dear. That is most unfortunate, but perhaps you might help me instead,” she began in a confiding tone. “You see, he is acting for my guardian and something has occurred that makes it absolutely imperative that I see my guardian today. Ordinarily, of course, he calls upon us, but this is an emergency so I came here. But London is so vast; indeed, it is quite overwhelming, and I have no idea of how to find him, and Mr. Sedgewick has always been so kind to me that…” Charlotte allowed her voice to trail off uncertainly.

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

“Oh, could you? Otherwise my journey will have been quite in vain and I could not bear for that to be the case.”

The clerk was no proof against the pleading expression in the big green eyes fixed so hopefully upon him. He blushed even more brilliantly. “I expect I could give you your guardian’s direction,” he replied, trying desperately to sound offhand, as though lovely young women threw themselves on his mercy every day of the week.

“Oh, thank you. He is the Marquess of Lydon.”

“Ah. Lord Lydon.” The clerk nodded sagely. “Then you must be Lady Charlotte Winterbourne.”

It was Charlotte’s turn to look self-conscious. “Yes. Yes, I am. And who might you be?”

“Jeremy Watton, my lady. At your service. I am clerk to Mr. Sedgewick and, as I have copied some paperwork concerning your guardian, I am familiar with your name. The marquess resides in Curzon Street. I shall furnish your coachman with his direction.”

Charlotte was visibly impressed, and the young man could not help thrusting out his chest with pride. It was not often that one was called upon to render assistance to desperate young women and he was glad to think that he had performed creditably. Certainly the young lady appeared to be more than satisfied, smiling gratefully upon him as she allowed him to escort her back out to her carriage.

“Thank you ever so much, Mr. Watton. I am greatly in your debt.” Charlotte smiled at him again as he helped her in and then sank back against the cushions as the coachman whipped up the horses. They trotted off toward Curzon Street leaving Mr. Watton gazing after them, a beatific grin plastered across his freckled countenance.

Charlotte could not suppress the smug little smile of satisfaction that rose to her lips and congratulated herself on having successfully overcome the first obstacle that had presented itself. Mr. Jeremy Watton was one thing, however; the Marquess of Lydon was quite another. As the carriage slowed and then halted in front of a discreetly elegant building in Curzon Street her newly won confidence evaporated as quickly as it had come. The anger that had fueled her ever since she had received the solicitor’s letter receded before the reality of an imposing front door and the imminent possibility of addressing the perfect stranger whose cool dismissal of her and her brother was the source of her ire.

As she emerged from the carriage and slowly climbed the marble steps Charlotte realized just how narrow and sheltered a life she had led, how few real strangers she had ever encountered. It was a lowering thought, but one she was not prepared to let intimidate her after having come all this way.

Mustering her courage she raised her chin proudly as her footman rang the bell. “Lady Charlotte Winterbourne to see the Marquess of Lydon,” he announced in stentorian tones to the grizzled servant who answered the door.

Secretly blessing John, whom she had been coaching for several days before their journey, Charlotte sailed proudly through the open door as though she called on single gentlemen every day. She had left Lucy in the carriage, counting on the strapping young footman to lend her respectability. Lucy was a dear, and devoted to her mistress, but Charlotte preferred to deal with the marquess on her own without the softening presence of another female.

Gritting her teeth, she met the shrewd gaze of the servant who had opened the door. His face remained impassive, but the piercing blue eyes that assessed her were bright with curiosity. Apparently she met with favor for Charlotte could just discern a sly twinkle, quickly suppressed with a courteous, “This way, my lady.” Well aware of the young lady’s identity, Felbridge did not give his master any warning but turned and led her into a library that was well enough stocked even to impress someone accustomed to spending much of her time happily browsing the magnificent collection at Harcourt.

“Lady Charlotte Winterbourne here to see you, my lord,” the servant announced with what she thought was the faintest undertone of amusement in his gravelly voice. Before Charlotte had time to puzzle over this, however, the tall figure seated at the enormous mahogany desk rose to greet her.

Well, this man will put Cecil in his place. Charlotte thought gleefully as eyes as cold and gray as the sea in winter scrutinized her. The hawk-like face, deeply tanned, with its high-bridge nose and severely sculpted lips, wore the expression of someone accustomed to dominating every situation he might find himself in. The broad shoulders and muscular physique revealed by the beautifully tailored coat and the tight-fitting biscuit-colored pantaloons only added to the power he exuded, and he moved with the grace of a natural athlete.

Everything about the man was likely to intimidate the short, pudgy Cecil. Yes, Charlotte congratulated herself, this man would put paid to any of Cecil’s nefarious schemes.

The gentleman’s words of greeting, however, quickly dispelled this happy vision. “I had thought, Lady Charlotte, that I had made it abundantly clear to you that any concerns on your part were to be addressed to my solicitor.” There was no mistaking the frostiness of his tone or the intense annoyance of his expression. Clearly, the Marquess of Lydon was not about to have any contact with an importunate young female.

Charlotte’s heart dropped to the toes of her kid half boots. The man was daunting enough. Not only would he stop Cecil in his tracks, he was very nearly stopping her. She wanted very much to turn and run from the room, away from the scornful look in his eyes and the disdainful curl of his lip, but she concentrated all her thoughts on William and the misery his life would be if Cecil were allowed to interfere.

Strengthened in her resolve, she stood her ground, lifted her chin defiantly, and looked the marquess squarely in the eye. “To be sure you did, my lord,” she responded sweetly, but firmly. “But it was such a blatant abdication of your duty as guardian that I felt certain you were unaware of the true situation, so I have come to enlighten you.”

Maximilian stared dumbfounded at the young woman in front of him. From Calcutta to Madras he had made men quiver in their boots with the raking gaze he was now directing at Charlotte, but she did not flinch, nor did she drop her eyes in confusion as any normal person would.

Instead, she remained regarding him, matching glare for glare, her green eyes fixed as steadily on him as his were on her. Not only that, but she addressed him in an almost pitying tone as though he were a child lacking in understanding who needed to be set right.

It was indeed an enlightening experience for the marquess. Heretofore the women he had encountered were far more likely to smile coyly at him than glare at him, and there was no doubt that this female was glaring. Nor was this female like the older, more sophisticated females with whom he was accustomed to dealing, for in spite of her determined stance, she looked to be quite young and innocent. There was not a hint of guile in her expression and the delicate flush that betrayed her nervousness drew attention to the smooth skin and softly rounded cheeks that disappeared all too quickly as a girl passed into womanhood.