The Wicked Guardian (25 page)

27
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The little settlement that Rowse soon spied as he stumbled along the pavement was no more than a wide place in the road. But Harry Rowse’s memory stirred, and he recalled a worn building, roofed with unhealthily aged thatch, where the ale was unsafe, but, upon application of certain funds, a glass of French brandy could be obtained.

Thanks to Benedict Choate, Rowse had brandy money. He did not quite like the idea of leaving Benedict unconscious on the highway, but his thoughts ran more along the line of his victim’s recovering and talking. The way his affairs had been going recently gave him every encouragement to think the worst.

Balked by Benedict Choate of a simple little flirtation in the grounds of Carlton House, Harry had developed a sizable desire for revenge. Riding out of Bath in a hired rig, he had seen the chance both for Clare and for revenge on her guardian. But Benedict had again overtaken him.

He stopped along the road and looked behind him. No one followed. Not even a sign of the job-rig he had rented could he see. But he forgot that at once. He had the dibs to do better than a horse who went lame at the first opportunity.

With the prudence engendered by years’ experience of necessary shifts to make do, he counted the money again, selected a small note, and tucked the rest away in an inner pocket. It was a fool who revealed money in any public place, especially one so ill-visaged as the ramshackle inn just ahead.

The small note was large enough to obtain a glass of the brandy, and he took his drink to a table before the dead hearth. He was the only occupant of the taproom, besides the surly owner, and uneasily he shifted his position to a place nearer a window. At worst, he could smash the grimy pane and be away.

“Thee came a-walkin’,” said the owner, “and ask for my brandy? You look like a London toff, not one of those hereabouts.”

Rowse did not rise to the bait. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a horse I can buy?”

“Buy, is it?” The host rubbed his unshaven chin. “Aye, I’ve got one. But it’ll cost you!”

He had made an error, thought Rowse. He would have concealed his new wealth better had he suggested renting. He made amends now. “Of course it’ll cost me!” he countered. “I didn’t think to steal it. But you’ll want twice the value for half of the beast, and I think I won’t buy a horse that’ll go lame just out of sight down the road.”

At length, the innkeeper having sworn that the horse the ostler led out would be a prize at Tattershall’s—“except that I like to keep a good bit of horseflesh meself, don’t you know”—Harry cantered down the road in pursuit of the Ferguson coach. He had toyed, while feeling the brandy that he owed to Benedict warming his throat and heartening his mood, with the idea of sending help back to his unwitting benefactor. But he feared the innkeeper would, quite rightly, suspect him of having a hand in the affair, and even set the sheriff on him.

He thought he had already given rise to sufficient suspicion to give the innkeeper quite enough to think about. With the ease of long practice, he put all unpleasant things out of his mind, and Benedict Choate was forgotten.

Harry, finding the horse a better goer than he expected, gave his thoughts over to what he would do when he overtook Clare.

Miss Penryck was a puzzle to Rowse. She had seemed to be glad to see Choate in the garden, but shortly after that she had run out on him. Then she defied him—rumor was exact enough on this point—and ran off to Bath. Rowse had not overlooked the forbidding frown of the black Penryck eyebrows when Choate spoke to Clare on the street in Bath.

But she had fled, and Benedict had come in hot pursuit, and there must be a reason. Summoning up all he had heard in Bath, Rowse came to a conclusion that satisfied him. She hated her guardian and feared him as well. She was taking any means to flee from her guardian, and Harry began to smile. She surely could not be eloping with Ferguson. No girl in her right mind could take Ferguson for even as long as the coach ride from Bath to London, let alone Gretna Green. If he were not wrong, Clare would be heartily sick of Ferguson long before they reached Reading, where they could take the road to the north.

Harry had decided, by the time the spire of Newbury Church appeared above the horizon, on his approach to Clare. He had now the infallible key to winning Clare’s gratitude, if not affection, and he was a poor man if he could not work all to his advantage.

Harry, while not of formidable intellect, yet was shrewd in his assessment of people. As he had predicted, the inn at Newbury housed two people at great odds. Sir Alexander, always careful of his cattle, had stopped to bait, and Clare, remembering that she had been too excited to eat breakfast, was ravenous.

In a private parlor, she was served strong coffee and a fine pink slice of ham, and Alex and Benedict alike were forgotten until she had demolished her meal.

Then she set herself to cajoling her escort into a better humor. All would be lost—even more than lost—if she did not now escape Benedict, and Sir Alexander was her last hope.

She smiled sunnily upon her protector and said, “We turn north here, Sir Alex, or in Reading? I do not quite know my way in this region, except that I once heard that the Lindsays live not far away. Near Hungerford, I collect. That is not far, I think. I inquired most carefully at Bath about Shenton, you know, Choate’s sister’s place.”

“Why do you not go there,” inquired Ferguson heavily, “instead of this madcap trip to town? If you are tired of Bath, as you say.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t!” said Clare. “Lady Lindsay is in her brother’s pocket, you know, and besides, I have never met her.” Looking sideways at her escort, she perceived, as she should have before, that Sir Alexander was looking more sober than usual. In fact, one might have called him glum with some accuracy.

Her fears were realized as he said, “I do not like this journey. It is against all regular behavior, and I do not like to think what will be said of me for consenting to it.”

“But we will not need to hear what people say of us,” she said winningly, picking up her bandbox. “Are your horses rested now? I vow I feel much better myself.”

Sir Alexander was not quick-witted, but he was dogged. He did not like the journey, that was true, and even if its purpose were to transport Miss Penryck to her godmother in London, an unexceptionable goal, yet he now remembered her question about turning north here or at Reading.

London, as even Miss Penryck would know, was not to the north. “North?” he said ponderously. “Why should we turn north?”

“To get to the Great North Road,” said Clare, eyes wide. Behind her look of innocence, she was swiftly revising her scheme. She had not meant to explain to Sir Alexander that they were eloping to Gretna Green until after they were well on the way. She had expected to talk privately with coachman, but Sir Alexander was about to foil that hope.

Sir Alexander did not even look startled, she noted. It was as though some deep lurking suspicion, hidden away until now, were surfacing, and his worst fears emerged into the light.

“I should have known,” he said heavily. “The Great North Road. I do not like to appear stupid, Miss Penryck, but can it be that you believe we are eloping?” His voice rose almost to a squeal.

With calmness that covered her thudding heart, she said, “I thought you wished to marry me. You did say you were going to ask Choate for my hand. That was only this morning! But I see I have been sadly mistaken.”

“Good God, no! At least, I mean, yes ... I mean ... I suppose I want to marry you.”

Eyes blazing, she glared at him. “Well, if that isn’t outside of enough! Such a lukewarm proposal, if that is what it was, which I very much doubt. Lady Thane certainly mistook your intentions, and what she will have to say to you doesn’t bear thinking about!”

Goaded, Sir Alex burst out, “But we’re not going to Lady Thane’s—not if we turn north!” Then, aghast at his own words, he turned a fierce eye on her. “But we’re not going north. I promise you that!”

“You don’t want to marry me?” she said in a wee voice.

“No, I didn’t say that. Don’t cry! I can’t stand to see a lady cry! I’m willing to marry you, don’t worry! I think you would want to wait till you’re out of mourning!”

“I ... I can’t!” Her voice was muffled in her handkerchief.

Alex might have taken her up on that, but his thoughts were solely turned toward himself, in a state of trance over the impending change in his status. “Married. Well, I suppose it would come to that. After all, a man’s got to marry
some
body...”

As a reassuring remark, it lacked a good deal. Clare’s temper flared like a torch in the night, but she swallowed hard and hung on to it. She could not afford to alienate Sir Alex, and in all fairness she had to admit he had gone along with her plans against his better judgment, and she must make allowances for him.

But more than anything else the realization came to her that she was heartily sick of Sir Alexander. In fact, she was weary of the whole escapade, and longed to be back in the maroon salon of Lady Thane’s establishment in Bath. Even to hear Benedict ringing a peal over her would be better than this!

But she was not one to refuse her fences. She had started this, and she would see it through.

“Well, then”—she smiled at Alex—“it’s all settled. I’ll try to be a good wife to you, believe me.”

“Well, well,” said Sir Alex, restored to a semblance of good temper, “it’s not so bad after all. We’ll be married, but we’ll do it in the right way, and not this havey-cavey elopement.” He crossed to her and chucked her under her chin. “Come, now, smile at me. That’s better.”

She managed a watery smile. Perhaps it would all turn out all right after all. Benedict scorned her, Lady Thane abandoned her, but Alexander Ferguson wouldn’t. She could do worse...

“But why can’t we be married at once!” she cried.

“Why should we?” Ferguson said bluntly. “You’ll want clothes, I suppose, and ... and all those things that are customary.”

“Because! Because Benedict wants me to marry somebody else!”

Sir Alexander was startled. “You mean ...? You don’t mean—?”

“Oh, for goodness, sake! Say one thing or another!” she cried out, losing her temper in one magnificent burst. “Yes, I mean—Benedict wants to betroth me to some idiot relative of Miss Morton’s, and I won’t do it! I’ll die first!”

The courage of his Scottish forebears at last came to his rescue. He said bluntly, “But you don’t intend to die. You intend to elope in a way I cannot imagine anyone who still wants to hold her head up in society could do. I am glad I found this out before it was too late.”

She had done it now. Woefully she raised a tearful face to him. “You’re going to cry off?”

“Certainly not,” said Ferguson. “We Fergusons always do what we say we will do. But I meant before Choate gets here. I must think how I should explain to him that I knew nothing of this.” He lapsed into reverie.

“Choate? Benedict? He’s coming?” She took a few running steps toward the door. She turned back then and fixed her tormentor with a steely gaze. “You have betrayed me, Sir Alexander.”

Cheeks reddening, he exploded. “I have done nothing of the sort! Do you know what you are saying? I suppose you’ll put the entire blame on me! I’m seeing a side of you, Miss Penryck, that I am not happy about.”

“Nor am I with your sniffling, canting ways! You were glad enough to leave Bath with me
in a closed carriage,
and now you’re crying off! I should have known better than to trust such a ... such a
reed!
A spineless, good-for-naught reed!”

She was growing up, she thought later. Even in the height of her anger she did not reach for something to throw. She turned her back on him and glared, unseeing, out of the window. Her thoughts milled in confusion. She must do something, but she did not have the slightest idea what would be best. It was not left to her to decide.

“Well, we’re both out of temper,” said Sir Alexander in a mollified voice, “and we’ll see what can best be done when we get to Grosvenor Square. I think we should go on to London, and let Choate catch us up.” And I will be relieved, he thought, to have you off my hands until I can think straight, and another few hours to think what to say to Choate. More and more he was of the opinion that contemplating marriage to this spitfire was a great folly.

To his surprise, Miss Penryck burst into a laugh. “Lady Thane is not in London,” she informed him. “She has gone to visit her daughter, Harriet, who is dreadfully sick with the plague!”

The scales falling from his eyes, Sir Alexander said merely, “I suppose that’s another of your inventions, Miss Penryck. On the other hand, I dare not take a chance. I must go and make arrangements to return to Bath at once. I do not envy Lord Choate,” he added with feeling, and left Clare alone in the parlor.

She sank into a chair, fiddling with the handle of her . bandbox. Endlessly tracing the braid, she thought only of, the mull she had made of it all. She had been so headset on following her own desires that she had alienated all in her life, first Choate, then Lady Thane, and now Sir Alexander. But it was Choate who stayed in the center of her darkling reflections. Strangely, it was not what he might say, but how he might say it that bothered her most. She could—after today—nearly welcome the stern Mrs. Duff.

The door opened, and closed again.