The Wicked Guardian (9 page)

“I did not want him,” said Clare, through a lump in her throat that threatened to overset her.

Lady Thane affected not to hear. “But perhaps a life in the country might appeal to him. Surely to be Lady Ferguson would be a pleasant state, and no one in Scotland will care about your decorum,” said Lady Thane, dismissing an entire nation out of hand.

“I won’t see him,” said Clare. “Even if he were so ... kind as to forgive me, I won’t see him. I couldn’t!” She turned a tear-streaked face to Lady Thane.

“Well, well,” said Lady Thane, falling a victim to unjustified hope, “perhaps it will all look better in the morning. We’ll just have a good night’s sleep. I find that a glass of hot milk often calms one’s nerves, and we’ll see what is to be done.”

Such a restorative plan was destined not to take place. For inside the foyer there was bad news. Swann, the coachman from Penryck Abbey, waited on the chair usually occupied by the stripling footman, and sprang to his feet when the door opened.

“Miss Clare...” he began, and then could go no further. Darrin took pity on him and said with oppressive solemnity, “I fear this is bad news, and cannot wait until the morning, my lady. Lady Penryck has died.”

It was too much. Clare sank to the floor in a swoon. When she came to herself, she was in bed. Lying propped up against pillows dampened with her unstemmed tears,

she thought, with meager consolation: Now at least Grandmama will never know how I’ve failed her. How I’ve disgraced her and the family name, as Miss Morton said. How right Marianna was! The thought did nothing to raise her spirits.

She would leave for home tomorrow morning, and never, never show her face in London again. She was a failure, a disgrace, a hopeless country clod, and a chit too soon out of the schoolroom.

But at least she would not have to marry Sir Alexander, she thought. She would go home to Penryck Abbey and live a quiet, retired life, doing what Great-Uncle Horsham told her to do, and minding everything that she was bid. And I won’t regret London for even one minute! she thought fiercely, just before she fell asleep.

1
0
.

Penryck Abbey stood on an eminence overlooking the River Stour and bore little resemblance to the monastic establishment which gave it its name. The monks had lived in what was now a disused wing until Henry VIII’s time, when they found their ordered life in shambles.

Later Penrycks had added to the original structure, none daring to tear it down, even though they would not have admitted to the least superstition. Yet the monks’ cells had fallen into ruin, as had the fortunes of the Penrycks themselves.

Made of mellow brick, the main part of the new building had been erected in Queen Anne’s day, and it was these spacious rooms that Clare loved the best. She had now been home for three days and had settled back into the old familiar life as though she had never been away. The strenuous days in London were only a memory already, and even though in the middle of the night Clare would wake suddenly with the scene at the regent’s ball vivid in her mind, it too was losing its urgency.

Her own bedroom looked down across the hills toward the river, past the little clumps of trees and the sheep upon the grassy slopes. Far below was the church spire, where bells were rung on Sunday, and if the wind were right, she could hear them from here.

She wandered aimlessly those first days from room to room. Budge was happy, back in the land she loved, and put on airs in the servants’ hall. For the first time in a long time, Clare longed for her parents. She had learned from Lady Thane that her mother had been a great beauty, a girl of biddable temperament, and sweet of disposition.

But Clare herself knew that she partook more of the Penryck heritage than she did the Tresillian. Her father, the late baron, was improvident, and optimistic, and a gambler. This had often been pointed out to Clare as a bad example. But yet he had been full of charm, and laughed a lot, and suddenly she longed for him with all of her heart. She had been only five when her parents
had been
killed and she had come to live with her invalid Grandmama. But the portraits in the upper gallery had served to keep her memory green.

She had not gone up to the gallery since her return. She knew why, too, although she would not quite put it into words. She kept away from any reminder of Benedict Choate.

There was one thing she could rejoice in, she told herself. Never again would she need to see that tattling, superior, arrogant, and thoroughly unlikable man!

But still, until she heard from Uncle Horsham, she could not settle down at Penryck Abbey. He might hail her up to Wiltshire, where he lived in some grand state, according to what Grandmama had told her. “My own brother,” said Grandmama, “my only relative, one might say, and I hate to say it of him, but he is living up to the limit of his income. There will be little enough left, and no doubt what he will leave you is small enough, but added to what I can give you, there will be a respectable dowry.”

The dowry didn’t matter to Clare. But Uncle Horsham’s wishes did. Well, she would soon enough find out what Uncle Horsham wanted her to do, for Mr. Austin was coming to the abbey this morning to tell her how she was to go on.

She was sitting in the salon, her thoughts vacant, when he was announced. He came into the room with his curious crablike gait, almost as though his wish was to turn around and leave at once. But he was a kindly man, mostly bald, with a gray fringe around his shiny dome, and an air of mustiness that invaded his chambers and seemed to have become part of the man himself.

She rose to greet him warmly, and ordered tea for him. Setting down his empty cup, he looked around him.

“My, my,” he said with a sigh, “it surely doesn’t seem right not to see Lady Penryck sitting in that green chair, her little dog at her feet, and holding her cane.”

“I suppose you will miss her nearly as much as I,” said Clare. “I feel sorry that I was not here when she died.”

“Now, now, young lady,” said Mr. Austin, wagging a square-tipped finger. “It was her wish to have you go. And she was so pleased with the reports that Lady Thane sent back. An invitation to the prince regent’s ball, I think she told me. Is that right? My, my, I surely envy you. Tell me, is the regent as ... well, obese ... as they say?”

Upon Clare’s assurance that he was indeed as portly as rumor had it, Mr. Austin moved smoothly on to her own future.

“Now, just let me find my spectacles, and we will get down to business. I know that you have a head for this kind of thing, not like most females, I am sure. But Lady Penryck could not take care of all things here, and I know she relied much upon you.” He put on his spectacles and at once peered at her over the top of them. “Is Lady Melvin here? Would you like me to call her for you?”

“No, Mr. Austin,” said Clare, puzzled. “I cannot imagine why I should wish her here. This is, after all, my business, is it not? Perhaps you can tell me at once what my great-uncle wishes me to do?”

“Your great-uncle.” Mr. Austin let the words rest in the air. “Now, I fear, that is just what I can’t tell you.”

“I wonder why not?” said Clare. “Hasn’t he been in touch with you?”

“Actually, my dear,” Mr. Austin sputtered, “I have not been in touch with him.”

Clare looked her puzzlement. “But I don’t understand...”

“Of course you don’t,” he said heartily. He seemed to be in two minds—one was to pat Clare on the head as one does a small tot and go on his own way, and the other was the necessity to deal with her as a reasoning person. He swung pendulum-like between the two.

“You remember your great-uncle?” he said.

“No, I never saw him. He was Grandmama’s half-brother, I know that.” Clare eyed Mr. Austin with skepticism. There was something odd about Mr. Austin’s manner, and she wished he would get to the point. But he was off again on another tangent.

“Lady Penryck was the daughter of the second wife. This made Lord Horsham—your great-uncle—her half-brother. A man of great eccentricity, you know. Lived on his capital,” Mr. Austin said, gamely exposing the iniquity of Lord Horsham. “Why the estate wasn’t entailed, I don’t know. Or—do I remember?—he was able to break the entail. At any rate, there was nothing left.”

His odd phrasing struck Clare. “You say
was
.”

‘That was why your grandmother wrote her new will.”

“New will?” Clare echoed faintly.

“Just three weeks ago, she gave me the instructions,” he said, “and she signed it one week before she died.” He beamed in satisfaction that at least one loose end was neatly tied up.

“So,” he added, “you must not count on much of a dowry. There will be money enough to keep the abbey going as it has been.
If
you exercise strict economy. But of course that won’t matter, since from what I hear, you will not be living here long, is that right?”

Archly smiling, he waggled his finger again. “A certain wealthy man has been charmed by your pretty face, your grandmama told me. But I am far from surprised,” he added, “for you must have set the world of London a-reeling with excitement.”

A shadow crossed her face. Reeling, perhaps, but not with admiration. And Sir Alexander’s offer was as good as whistled down the wind. Mr. Austin’s perambulations were disconcerting, to say the least.

“Not quite,” she said with a faint smile.

“Well, your guardian will see to your swift wedding, I am sure. He is a man of great integrity, and of the highest ton, I am told, so we needn’t worry about that, need we?”

“But what about Uncle Horsham?” she persisted, trying to get at least one end of this bewildering skein into her hands. “You said there was nothing left. Does that mean he died?”

“Oh, yes. A month ago. Just after you went to London. Didn’t your grandmother write to you about it? No, I can see she did not. Well, it is not fitting for me to say what I think, but females in business...” He left his thought unfinished, but it was clear to Clare.

“Well, then, if Uncle Horsham is gone, there is nobody else to turn to,” said Clare. “But I don’t understand. You did mention my guardian. Please, Mr. Austin, I must beg you to tell me at once how I am left. If I have a guardian, then I am not on my own?”

“Oh, no, no. It would be most improper for that to be the case, you know. I could not have approved a will leaving you without a legal guardian. He must sign the papers, you know, for your marriage settlement, when it comes time for that. And I must expect that any moment, mustn’t I? And your guardian will have full control of the funds and of the farms here at the abbey, and of course of the household here, until your husband takes over. And I am sure that he—your guardian, that is—will see that you have a proper establishment here.”

“But I have an establishment here!” said Clare, resorting to a barely concealed mutiny to cover her growing dismay.

“But not quite
comme il faut,
as they say. But then, it is not my province to instruct you on this. It will be your guardian’s obligation, and I am sure he has a strong sense of responsibility toward his duties.”

Clare rose to her feet and took a turn around the room. “Mr. Austin,” she said, turning to face him, “it would be best, I think, were you to tell me directly what my grandmother’s will provides. I collect there have been great changes in her plans since she made me acquainted with them a few years ago.”

“Oh, my, my, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Austin. “And I confess that I am much more pleased with them than I was before. I could not quite like, you know, a man of Lord Horsham’s age, so unsuitable, you know, so—so to speak—out of tune with a young person.”

“Then who?” demanded Clare. Something in the tone of her voice must have warned Mr. Austin.

“You will be pleased to know that you will be subject to the guardianship of a member of the Penryck family instead of your grandmother’s.”

Even a growing suspicion did not prepare Clare for Mr. Austin’s fateful announcement.

“Your guardian is Lord Benedict Choate!”

The room tilted and straightened again.

“Now, what do you say to that, young lady?”

Stonily Clare answered him. “I wish I were dead!”

1
1
.

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.”