The Wicked Guardian (3 page)

But in spite of herself, she grew conscious of a stirring of excitement as the time for Clare’s arrival drew near.

It would be fun to take a young girl again to all the
ton
parties, to Almack’s—where she hoped the girl wouldn’t disgrace her. She could get vouchers. Lady Thane was adroit in her planning. There were several ladies who owed her favors, and she herself might give a ball...

And this time, Lady Thane thought with a flash of realism, it would be more fun than dragging that serious Harriet around, a sour-faced girl like her paternal grandmother. Lady Thane had blessed the fate that had kept her from meeting her husband’s mother often—but Harriet was as like her as two peas.

She must get home quickly, and accept the invitations that had come in, and get word to other prospective hostesses that her goddaughter was coming into town...

Lady Thane’s optimism bubbled once more to the surface as, with a lilt in her voice, she directed Potter to turn the horses and return to Grosvenor Square to await Clare’s arrival.

The carriage drawn up in front of the house facing the square looked horrifyingly familiar to Lady Thane. It could not be Clare’s carriage. But even though she allowed herself to hope for a moment that she was mistaken and that the carriage stood before another door, she knew with a sinking feeling that her first impression was right.

The coach had just arrived, clearly, for Darrin sailed down the steps of Lady Thane’s house, dispatching footmen in all directions, and Lady Thane’s daughter, Harriet Cromford, descended to the pavement.

“Now, what on earth is she doing here?” said Lady Thane under her breath. “She’ll spoil everything!”

But when Lady Thane in her turn descended from her carriage, and both vehicles were rattling away to find shelter in the mews at the back, she greeted her daughter as blandly as ever. “Do you come alone?” she asked dutifully. “How is Cromford? And the darling baby? You surely did not leave him alone in Buckinghamshire?”

“Yes,” said Harriet grimly. “I left him alone, for I had heard rumors that made me, I do not hesitate to tell you, very uneasy.”

“Rumors?” said Lady Thane, dismissing Darrin with a request for a dish of strong tea. “What rumors?”

“Do not pretend not to know what I am talking about, dear Mama. It’s all over town. That you are taking on some total stranger to foist her upon society.”

“Stranger? My own goddaughter? That is not the case at all!” protested Lady Thane. “Where did you get such a ridiculous notion? I am sure you cannot have had it from me.”

“No,” said Harriet grudgingly. “I heard nothing from you, so when Lady Cromford...”

Harriet stopped short. She had not intended to make her mother privy to the source of her information, for Lady Thane had little use for old Lady Cromford, considering her a great prattler with feathers for brains. She had pointed this out to Harriet many times before her marriage, mentioning, with deep feeling, that sometimes the grandchildren took after the grandparents—“and always just the qualities that one wishes they wouldn’t, you know!”

Harriet (the picture of the departed Lady Thane, her grandmother) had characteristically overridden all objections in favor of twenty-five thousand a year and a title. Nor, to give her credit, had she ever complained about living in the wilds of Buckinghamshire, her mother-in-law in the dower house, built distressingly close to the main house. But Harriet had sufficient sense not to mention her mother-in-law unless it was necessary.

Or unless it slipped out, as it had just done.

Lady Thane’s eyes kindled. “So you came to town at
that woman’s
behest to check up on me? I tell you, Harriet, I will not tolerate this!”

Harriet set herself to soothe her mother, with the same determination that had led her to hasten to London to protect her easygoing mother from the darkling designs of some rustic female who was so much a stranger to the family that Harriet had never heard her name.

At length, after two cups of very strong tea, Lady Thane’s indignation dissipated, and once more she felt in charity with her only child.

“But you know she has led a sadly restricted life,” said Lady Thane sometime later. “I wonder how she will go on. Although, as I remember Lady Penryck, she was a high stickler. But with her illness, I just don’t know what to expect.”

Harriet had been watching her mother closely, and now came to a conclusion. She was at heart extremely fond of her mother, and bethought herself of a way to ease her mother’s tribulation.

“I shall send word at once,” she said briskly, setting down her teacup and reaching for the last of the tiny cakes that Mrs. Darrin made so well. Answering her mother’s uplifted eyebrow, she explained, “I shall tell Cromford that I wish to stay here with you, at least until the girl arrives.”

“There’s no need,” said Lady Thane, knowing her protest was futile.

“You may be glad of my presence,” said' Harriet, conscious of a glow of pleasure at her own self-sacrifice. “She may be totally unsuited to company—if, as you say, Lady Penryck has been ill for years.”

Lady Thane had no time to repent of her incautious letter to Harriet, nor to wonder which of the carefully selected hostesses in London to whom she had confided the news of her goddaughter’s arrival had spread the news as far as Buckinghamshire so quickly.

Harriet said, “I shall write at once to Cromford.” She left the room at once on her errand, so Lady Thane was alone when the Penryck coach drew up in the square.

Lady Thane’s emotions had been badly cudgeled by her bout with Harriet, and now that the moment of Clare’s arrival was here, Lady Thane found herself momentarily unable to move. Pressing her snowy handkerchief to her lips. In a futile effort to stop them from trembling, she started to her feet and stared at the door.

Then, a lifetime of training impelled her forward, and she started across the Blue Saloon. She reached the foyer to see Darrin inviting in a slender girl not quite of average height, with gold ringlets and a modish traveling bonnet Her traveling coat was dark and of severe cut. But the smile trembling on her lips, the apprehension in her dark blue eyes, had already won over Darrin, Lady Thane noticed, and was conscious of a warm spreading feeling in the region of her own sensibilities.

“Clare, my dear!” Lady Thane hurried across the foyer to clasp the girl in her arms, kissing her on both cheeks, and wiping a tear away from her own. “How very welcome you are!”

3
.

London was as far removed from Penryck Abbey, Clare decided, as though she had unaccountably been flown to the moon. Penryck Abbey was an almost forgotten backwater in Dorset, the Penrycks long out of the swim, mostly, of course, because of the aging Lady Penryck’s painful infirmities, but even before that, because of the failing fortunes of the family.

The most excitement that Clare remembered was when the squire and his wife, Sir Ewald and Lady Melvin, came to call, bringing their house guests from Northumberland, a maiden lady of mature years and her inarticulate brother.

But London! It seemed to Clare that she had never heard such noise. When her coach had rumbled into town, over the cobbles and into the square, she had been too excited to notice, but now, a week later, as she stood in the square portico at the top of the front steps of Lady Thane’s house, she could hear in the far distance a hum as of innumerable hiving bees. Closer there were cries, rumble of carriages, sharp
clop
of horses’ hooves—the immensely varied sounds of a busy city at work.

There was so much to do in London! Clare stood for a moment trying to realize that she was at last there. The hub of the universe—and although Clare’s education had been impeccable, including the elements of natural sciences and the use of the globes, and she was aware that there were other worlds beyond London, yet she was realist enough to suspect that the city would engross her sufficiently without worrying about the rest of the world.

There was much that she wanted to see. She had on her mental list the Tower, with its lions and certain other animals in the menagerie that she darkly suspected existed only in hearsay. A Greenland bear, for example—all white, so it was said. A small ant bear, too, and a creature listed in the guide as a “White Fox from Owhyhee.” Most intriguing!

There was the great river, that in her grandmother’s time had furnished much transportation for ladies and gentlemen, but was now populated mostly by freight barges.

There was the prince regent’s residence, Carlton House, looking out over St James’s Square, only a short distance from where she stood this moment And out of sight but not out of mind, lay the park, the rendezvous of the fashionable world, and the most exciting, colorful spot in the world!

She must remember, she told herself, not to give way to her enthusiasm. It was not quite the thing, she had already learned, to let one’s feelings show, at least very much. And Lady Thane’s strong injunctions to her to watch her decorum, lest she betray her extreme youth, had made an indelible impression.

She sighed deeply. There was so much to learn in the fashionable world, and she dreaded putting her foot wrong. Lady Thane’s advice had included the dire warning that one mistake could easily mean the end of her pretensions to a place in this world.

“But surely they are not so uncharitable?” protested Clare, unwilling to believe that such unkindness existed, particularly in the glittering world of England’s aristocracy.

“Fashion, my dear. That is all it is. But if you experienced a breath of criticism, you would be sadly out of fashion, and there would be nothing more I could do for you.”

But Clare’s misgivings, while lurking just out of sight in her thoughts, nonetheless had to give way to the tremendous activity that began to fill her days. She was used to riding, and Lady Thane’s stables provided an unexceptionable hack for her to mount With Wells, the groom, discreetly behind her, she rode nearly every morning in Hyde Park. The morning was reserved, so it seemed, for those on horseback, while the late afternoon found carriages of all descriptions joining the outing.

Lady Thane, usually rising just before noon, .managed to restore her vitality in time to ride out in her barouche, the top laid back, to allow the fashionable world to catch a glimpse of her pretty protégée. The tactics had worked when she was presenting Harriet three years ago, and while Harriet’s generous but meddling offer to stay and help chaperon Clare had been promptly and decisively vetoed by her indignant husband, Lady Thane was convinced she knew well enough how to go on without her daughter.

Lady Thane’s efforts were rewarded with a decided increase in invitations, and Clare soon found that the wardrobe that had been made and packed with such care to accompany her to London was not nearly sufficient for the round of parties that was her lot.

So, taking her small hoard of money with her, she and Lady Thane repaired to the silk mercer’s, the dressmaker’s, and the milliner’s, where she fell in love with a wide-brimmed bonnet of straw, the brim bordered with a ruching of pink satin ribbon, which extended to allow a big bow to be tied under her chin. On their way home, they passed by Covent Garden, where Lady Thane promised to take her to the theater one night.

Clare had not been in London above a week when she realized one of her childhood ambitions. At Penryck Abbey, the long gallery held portraits, of varying quality, of members of the family. They were by artists of uneven ability, but one feature all had painted clearly. The Penryck eyebrows.

Black and straight, like bars across the face of both lady and gentleman, giving the Penrycks as a family an air of stern foreboding. And Clare, from the time she had first glimpsed them, could not believe that such eyebrows existed.

“I shall believe them when I see them,” she had told grandmama brightly.

There were few enough Penrycks left, so Grandmama had once told her. “Your poor papa was the last. Except for a distant cousin, and she died young.”

This particular day, Lady Thane found she had exhausted her supply of reading material. Repairing to Mr. Lane’s library in Leadenhall Street, she explained to Clare, “I know I shall not have much time to read now that you are here, but I do like to settle down in the afternoon after lunch with one of Miss Burney’s novels. I have read all that she has written, I believe. And some, more than once. I do believe I have read
Clarentine
—one of her books, you know—three times. Do you read a great deal?”

“We do not have a bookseller near us,” said Clare. “But I did borrow from Lady Melvin a novel called
The Fated Revenge
.” She laughed a little, and added, “I have never cried so much in my life.”

Lady Thane nodded approvingly. “You show great sensibility, my dear. I do not blush when I say that I have wept more at Maria Edgeworth’s hands than I did when my dear husband died.”

The carriage turned into Leadenhall Street, to find they were not alone in seeking the latest from the Minerva Press. There were two barouches ahead of them, and by the time that Lady Thane’s carriage reached the door, and her footman, Charles, leaped to the ground and disappeared inside with his mistress’s list in his hand, the owner of one of the vehicles was emerging from the door of the library.

It was, so Lady Thane announced, Miss Marianna Morton, one of the brightest lights of society, betrothed a year since to Lord Benedict Choate.

But Clare had eyes only for the exceedingly well-dressed gentleman who followed Miss Morton toward her carriage. He was dressed in trousers of gray, a morning coat of impeccable fit and quiet cut, and a top hat. His “highlows” were polished till they outshone the sun, and, if Clare had known it, they were among Hoby’s newest creations.

The gentleman had a distinct curl to his lip, and the glance full of faint contempt with which he swept the street could have daunted the brashest person. But Clare bounced in her seat and said, “I know him!”

Lady Thane looked at her with unveiled surprise. “You do? Lord Benedict Choate? How can that be, child?”

The conversation had not taken into consideration the open window of the carriage. Clare’s voice had carried as far as the nonpareil standing on the sidewalk. Lord Choate turned in their direction, and then, recognizing Lady Thane, descended the steps and crossed the sidewalk to speak to her.

Somewhat flustered, Lady Thane managed the introductions, including Miss Morton, who joined her affianced husband.

“But then,” she said in a rush, “I needn’t have introduced you, should I? For my goddaughter, Lord Choate, tells me she knows you!”

Lord Benedict bowed civilly. “I fear I have the wretchedest memory,” he murmured.

“Of course you don’t remember,” said Clare, seeing that she had made a mull of things. “It is only your eyebrows...”

Lord Benedict lifted one of the items in question, and Clare rushed on. “In the long gallery at home, you know,” she stammered. “All the portraits of the Penrycks...” Her voice died away, as enlightenment dawned on Lord Choate.

“My mother was a Penryck,” he said musingly. “But I fear I am not acquainted with her family. She died, you must know, when I was very young.”

Clare thought of several things she wanted to say to him, but before she could decide upon one of them, she met the quelling eye of Choate’s betrothed. Miss Morton was dressed in a simple elegance that reduced Clare to dumbness. Her gown of gray, with the new full sleeves, was topped by a bonnet of primrose yellow, setting off her raven curls. Clare felt at once dowdy and awkward. Miss Morton’s kindling eye did nothing to put her at ease.

“So you are related to Choate?” said Miss Morton in a tone calculated to fob off pretenders to intimacy. “I don’t believe I knew much of your connections, Benedict. At least I do not know the Penrycks.”

Clare was moved, injudiciously, to fence with Miss Morton. “An old family,” she said innocently, “from Dorset. Of course, we prefer our own quiet life to the tumult you have here in this city. You don’t find London dirty? I must confess I am moved to dust everything I see.” Realizing that her words could be interpreted to mean that she herself plied the duster, she added, even more unfortunately, “My own staff at the abbey would be struck with horror.”

Lady Thane said with a suggestion of tartness, “I am sure, my dear, that you have not found a mote of dust in my house.”

“Oh, no, dear Lady Thane, but you have such hardworking servants.”

“But,” said Lord Choate suddenly, “this is your first season in London?”

“Yes,” said Clare languidly. “I wished not to come at all to London, but I was told that I should come before I grew too old to enjoy it.”

Miss Morton, who had decided at first that Clare was an importunate, childish connection of her affianced, whom she would make sure to see very little of in the next years, now decided that Clare must be older than she looked. Miss Morton, an only child, had little humor, and a strong tendency to take a literal view of all things.

Enough of this was certainly enough, she thought, turning to Benedict But her betrothed had a queer look in his eye, one that she had not as yet been privileged to see, and could not decipher.

“I must regret that our families have grown apart,” he said soberly. “Perhaps Lady Thane will permit me to call upon you one morning next week. I should enjoy pursuing the ramifications of our relationship.”

Lady Thane, overcome, said faintly, “Of course, Lord Choate.”

But Clare, conscious of a strong surge of dislike for the mocking light she discerned in his dark eyes, objected. “I fear, Lady Thane, that we will find it difficult for some days to come to find time. With much regret, Lord Choate.”

Miss Morton’s eyes took on a glitter. Benedict, catching sight of her tucked-in lips, thought better of baiting the girl in the carriage. She was far out of her depth, he realized, if she wished to tilt with Marianna. And he himself, surprisingly, did not wish the child to be publicly shamed.

And, he thought ruefully, Marianna could do it!

“Come, Benedict,” said his beloved. “I cannot think why we stand here on the street, when I have told you I wished to go to Botibol’s. Countess Lieven says he has a new shipment of ostrich feathers, and I must see them at once.”

Bowing civilly to Lady Thane and to Clare, Benedict followed his Marianna to the fashionable black barouche just ahead of them.

“For all the world,” said Clare, nettled, “like a small lapdog.”

Lady Thane was horrified. Even more, she was stirred to the bottom of her conventional soul. “Do you know who he is?”

“A cousin, I daresay,” said Clare. She was beginning to realize now that she had made an error: one of the ever-present pitfalls of the world of Mayfair had sucked her in. She would have, if she could, crawled into a small hole. But she was open to the world in Lady Thane’s barouche, and must of necessity put a good face on things.

“He is,” said Lady Thane in a stifling manner, “a nonpareil. A notable whip, an arbiter of fashion...” Words failed her, not surprisingly, and she fell back upon the cushions. “Well,” she said finally, as the coachman began to draw ahead, “perhaps all is not lost. I doubt that Choate himself will talk, and Miss Morton, I wager, has already forgotten you. But, child, do not be so
forward.
It does make you look very young, you know.”

In part, Lady Thane was mistaken. Marianna Morton had not forgotten Clare. She, like her late father, was well-versed in the ramifications of every family of consequence in the kingdom. She knew to the fourth cousin all of Benedict’s family, meaning, of course, the Choates. But she became conscious now of a lack in her information. The Penrycks had nearly dropped out of sight Nothing derogatory was known of them—in fact, little at all was known of them. Benedict’s mother faded gently from the scene, after presenting her lord with the heir, and the lord’s subsequent remarriage, to a Fenly from Derby, and the regular succession of additions to the nursery had obscured the Penryck connection.