My Fair Guardian

by Suzanne G. Rogers

  She handed the doublet to Minerva, smoothed her hair, and brushed a streak of dust from her clothes. It was time to end things with her former suitor forever.

  ∞∞∞

  Nick stood, hat in hand, when Bethany joined him in the drawing room. “Miss Christensen—Bethany—I was worried when you didn’t attend the ball last night.”

  She sank into a chair and he did likewise.

  “I would have liked to attend, but Lady Hearst saw fit to withdraw her invitation.” Bethany kept her tone deliberately light. “I’m surprised you weren’t informed of the scandal.”

  “I-I heard a rumor, of course, but I wasn’t sure if I should put much credence in it.” He leaned forward. “Is it true that Mr. Winter took liberties with Miss Urban?”

  “No, but her mischaracterization of events to her brother seems to be a pattern of hers. Was it Mr. Urban who extracted your proposal to Magenta last Season?”

  His face flushed. “That is scarcely a topic I wish to discuss with you.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  Nick plucked at the brim of his hat. “You and I were supposed to talk about our courtship last night at the ball. I was wondering what your feelings were on the topic.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “And I’m wondering why your loyalty to Magenta continues unabated.”

  Nick gave her a hurt frown. “I’ve no loyalty to her.”

  “No? You told her I intended to perform “La Campanella,” didn’t you?”

  His jaw dropped. “Why would I do such a thing?”

  “I’ve been trying to work that out for myself. Perhaps it’s because you are still in love with her.”

  He jumped to his feet. “I can see you are in no mood for serious conversation, so I’ll take my leave.”

  Nick’s defensive posture confirmed Bethany’s suspicions and she rose. “Yes, leave and don’t come back. I have no interest in a man who does another woman’s bidding.”

  His handsome features became twisted. “Your chief attraction, Miss Christensen, has always been your fortune. Everyone knows you are as cold as ice and without any passion of any sort. It was no wonder I turned to Magenta.”

  Bethany covered her hurt with a smile and gestured toward the door. “I’m glad you found someone at your level, Mr. Masters. Perhaps Magenta will take you back if you grovel. You’re quite good at that.”

  Fury lit his eyes for a moment before he strode from the room. Once Bethany heard the front door slam, her knees gave way and she collapsed into a chair. Even though she knew Nick had spoken out of anger and disappointment, his insults still rankled. Did everyone really feel she was cold and without passion? Certainly Mr. Gerard had said as much about her writing. Nevertheless, even if it had been true before, her feelings for Mr. Winter had transformed her into a different woman entirely. Hadn’t her heartfelt playing of “Sonate au Clair de Lune” brought people to tears?

  She crossed over to the piano, and began to play the sonata. If Nick truly thought so poorly of her, why had he attempted to renew his courtship so ardently? Since he had mentioned her fortune, she could only conclude he had been motivated by money—even though she knew his family was well off. Thank heavens their relationship was now severed.

  “For that, at least, I owe Magenta a debt of gratitude.”

  ∞∞∞

  As Will approached Summerland on foot, a hansom passed by with a scowling Nick Masters inside. Had he just come from speaking with Bethany? Will hastened his footsteps, wishing he had not stayed away so long. When he entered the house, music was coming from the drawing room. Bethany was seated at the baby grand piano, playing a dirge. She broke off when she spotted him.

  “Hello, Will.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but what is that you were playing just now?” He removed his hat and coat and deposited his portfolio on a table.

  Her voice and expression were flat. “Handel’s “Slumber Dear Maid.””

  “Why is a song about a sleeping girl so mournful?”

  “She’s not sleeping. She’s dead.”

  “Ah. That would do it.”

  Bethany sighed. “I expect I’m playing it more mournfully than it’s written because of my mood.”

  Will frowned. “I noticed Masters leaving just now.”

  Bethany rose from behind the piano. “Yes, and won’t be returning. When I confronted him about the other night, I didn’t like his response.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  He averted his gaze. “You care for him, then.”

  “Not in the least, but his parting remarks were hurtful.” She approached, an earnest expression on her beautiful features. “Do you regard me as cold and passionless?”

  His mind drifted to their late-night conversation in the library. “Quite the contrary, I assure you.”

  Bethany drew a long breath. “Thank you for that.” She blotted her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Mr. Masters thinks otherwise.”

  “He doesn’t know you like I do.” Will felt a flush spread across his face. “What I mean is, he’s a silly little boy and unworthy of your affection.”

  Bethany gave him a smile, even as she took a deep shuddering breath. “I can’t prove anything, but I believe he’s still in love with Magenta.”

  “If so, he’s in for a world of pain. She’ll lead him a merry chase and he’ll wish he’d never been born.”

  Her smile broadened. “Indeed, they deserve one another.” Her gaze darted to his portfolio. “Have you any news from your meetings?”

  “In fact, I do. Mr. Gerard, Mr. Marston, and Mr. Swallow would like for you to submit the first three chapters of Wylde Eyes for their consideration.”

  “What?” Her lips parted. “Are you perfectly serious?”

  “Of course. They thought the premise of your new novel was intriguing and they want to see more.”

  “Oh, Will!” Bethany threw her arms around him. “Your illustrations made all the difference.”

  She relaxed into his embrace. Will’s arms tightened around her body and he closed his eyes. Only the sound of footsteps pounding down the stairs caused him to relax his hold and step back.

  Jane bounded into view. “It’s tea time, isn’t it? I’m starving.” She studied Will and her sister a moment. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.” Bethany beamed. “Everything is wonderful, in fact. Mr. Winter has convinced three different publishers to read my work.”

  “Excellent!” Jane’s eyes shone. “What about you, Mr. Winter? Did you receive an offer?”

  He forced a smile to his lips. “Nothing immediate, I’m afraid, but I shan’t give up hope.”

  “Perhaps if my novel gets published, your illustrations will be published as well,” Bethany said.

  “That would be good news.” Eager to change the subject, Will gave Jane a wink. “Did you say something about tea?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Change of Course

  When Will entered his bedroom, he found Mr. Pace with a needle and thread, mending what looked like a spectacular theatrical costume. He had a doublet across his lap and a cape lay across the counterpane on his bed.

  Will peered at the plumage on the cape, intrigued. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s your Oberon costume for Lady Calloway’s ball.” Mr. Pace gestured toward the doublet. “I’m just repairing a bit of the quilting that has come undone.” He nodded toward the bed. “All the other pieces are there, except for the boots.”

  When Will moved the cape aside, he discovered a feathered crown, a loose fitting, open shirt, and a pair of hose. “Er…where are the trousers?”

  Mr. Pace shook his head. “No trousers.” He held up the doublet. “This peplum covers your modesty, and the hose is quite opaque.”

  Will frowned. “If it has no trousers, I won’t wear it. Furthermore, this shirt leaves a broad section of my chest bare. Since I’ve already been painted unfairly as a rake, this won’t do at all.”

  “I daresa
y some women like their men a trifle devilish.” Mr. Pace rose. “Well, Miss Christensen will be disappointed, but perhaps she can locate another costume in the attic.”

  Will sank into a chair, suddenly feeling the effects of the lengthy walk he had taken from Mr. Gerard’s place of business. Truth be told, physical discomfort wasn’t the only thing weighing on his mind. He and Bethany had reached an accord of late, but his residency could not go on much longer. With each passing day, her morning post contained cancellations, and her stream of afternoon visitors had become almost nonexistent. Bethany could add the ruination of her social standing to his other faults. Furthermore, although he was grateful for her assistance, any work he had sold was due more to her efforts, not his. He could scarcely gain her respect in that fashion.

  He glanced at Mr. Pace, who was folding up the costume neatly. “I must rent an art studio here in London—something suitable for a living space as well.”

  “Have you consulted the advertisements in the newspaper? These things are often listed by neighborhood.”

  “If I could read, I would have a look. I had a studio when I lived in London before, but the neighborhood wouldn’t be suitable for me now.”

  The valet stood. “I’ll see if I can find a copy of the Times in the kitchen.” He paused. “You’re not considering a permanent change of residency, are you?”

  “I’m afraid I must, but you needn’t worry about your position. You’ll always have a place at Lansings Lodge.”

  Mr. Pace’s head was bowed as he left the room and Will sighed. The man enjoyed his duties as a valet thoroughly, but Will had no further need of his services if society had decided to ostracize him. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing his headache would abate.

  As he contemplated his future, his spirits flagged even further. Losing Mr. Pace’s guidance and support would be a horrible wrench, but even worse would be the loss of Will’s newfound family. He’d grown used to domesticity quickly after being on his own for so many years and he was not looking forward to a future of loneliness.

  He glanced at the costume stacked on the bed. He certainly didn’t want to be stodgy about it, but he’d long been self-conscious about the scars on his back. Still, even though the shirt would reveal his chest, his back would be covered by the doublet and cape, wouldn’t it? And as to the rest…well, it wouldn’t hurt to try the doublet on to see how it looked.

  He slipped off his jacket, and slid into the embroidered garment. As Mr. Pace had promised, the peplum fell mid-thigh. Although the doublet was shorter than a kilt, the quilted fabric meant he was in no danger of any embarrassing flaring at least. Indeed, he had worn something quite similar in a production of Romeo and Juliet, as a bit player. Will sketched a bow as he examined his reflection in the mirror to make sure the peplum did not inadvertently reveal his backside.

  Mr. Pace entered the room with a newspaper folded under his arm. Embarrassed, Will immediately straightened. “Oh, hello there.”

  The valet regarded him with raised eyebrows. “Dare I hope you have reconsidered your refusal, Mr. Winter?”

  Will gave him a crooked grin. “You may. If this costume is good enough for a king, it’s good enough for me. Besides which, if my name is to be black as pitch, I might as well look the part.”

  Mr. Pace applauded. “Bravo.”

  “I must learn to lead with my strengths, in other words.”

  The valet chuckled. “Just so.”

  As Will shrugged off the doublet, he felt almost as if he were shedding a weight from his shoulders. If the day had taught him anything, he’d learned he was far more comfortable acting the maverick than behaving in a stultifying manner as a gentleman. Perhaps it was time to change course in more ways than one.

  ∞∞∞

  Angela hovered nearby as the surgeon wrapped the last of Garrison’s bandages. The injured man was resting for the moment on the chaise lounge in the drawing room, where the early morning light made the space look more cheerful than it had in a long while.

  “How is he, Dr. McNair?”

  “Mr. Wylde is very fortunate the bullet passed through the soft tissue without shattering the bone. With a proper amount of rest, he will heal right enough.”

  Garrison opened one eye. “I would like a brandy.”

  The surgeon chuckled. “No imbibing, Mr. Wylde. You’ve lost too much blood for that.” He peered at Angela’s forehead. “It seems you’ve had an injury yourself.”

  She waved away his concern. “It’s just a small cut. One of the vicar’s bullets chipped off a bit of rock when we were in the tunnel.”

  The constable strolled in from the entrance hall. “That man was no vicar, Miss Ware. We suspect he’s a pirate by the name of Shifty-Eyed Jake, who was posing as a vicar to escape the law.”

  “He’ll escape no longer,” Garrison mumbled. “I confess he was rather hard to kill.”

  The constable chuckled as he put Garrison’s knife on a table. “I’m returning this to you, and there’s a reward coming your way, Mr. Wylde. Shifty-Eyed Jake is responsible for the murder of shiploads of people, men, women, and children alike. You’re a hero.”

  As the surgeon and the constable left the house, the housekeeper appeared with a cup of broth. “Drink that down, lad. It’s from a recipe handed down for five generations.” The elderly woman gave him and Angela a misty smile. “I’m glad you are both safe and the trouble is past. As old Mr. Quimby used to say, ‘There’s a pot of gold waiting once your troubles are behind you.’”

  She nodded and left the room.

  Angela gave Garrison a sidelong glance. “I believe that’s the first pleasant thing Mrs. Shawshank has ever communicated to me.”

  “You’ve gotten on her good side now.” He sipped the broth and shuddered. “Heavens, but this has a nasty flavor. No wonder it’s five generations old.”

  Angela laughed. “Drink it down. I suspect Mr. Shawshank knows of what she speaks.” She paused. “‘There’s a pot of gold waiting once your troubles are behind you.’”

  Garrison frowned. “The knock on my head is making everything echo.”

  “No, I was just thinking how funny it is that there is a series of adventure books in the library entitled Troubles. It seems a strange coincidence.”

  He peered at her. “That cannot be a coincidence.” Garrison set the cup of broth aside. “Show me those books, if you please.”

  Angela let him lean against her as they made their way across the hall. Garrison peered at the bookshelf where the Troubles books were lined up in a row.

  “Hmm.”

  As he reached up to touch the molding on the shelf, pushing and prodding, Angela shook her head in confusion.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I can’t help but think this bookshelf is actually a doorway. See if you can’t find the latch.”

  They spent several minutes trying to discover the secret, to no avail.

  Angela finally gasped and whirled around. “We’re looking in the wrong place.”

  Garrison leaned against the wall, pale and drawn. “What do you mean?”

  “Mrs. Shawshank said, ‘Once your troubles are behind you.’” Angela pointed to the bookcase on the opposite wall. “The doorway must be over there.”

  She hastened across the room and ran her fingers over the decorative molding, feeling a tingle of excitement when her fingers finally encountered a small wooden niche. She pushed down and the bookshelf popped open.

  “That’s it.” Garrison chortled. “You’ve solved the riddle.”

  “Don’t get too hopeful. We haven’t seen what’s behind the door yet.”

  Angela pulled the panel open, revealing a small room within. Although the illumination from the library was dim, the glint of metal caught her eye. She darted forward to grab a handful of gold doubloons from a bucket, returned to the library, and dropped them into Garrison’s palm.

  “You did it, Mr. Wylde. You’ve managed to save the estate!”
<
br />   Garrison gave her a crooked grin as he let the doubloons slip from his fingers. “Hang the gold. All I want is you.”

  He slid his one good arm around her waist and pulled her into a never-ending kiss.

  Bethany finished reading and glanced up at Jane and Will. “The end, I should add.”

  Jane jumped to her feet. “I love it! I think it’s wonderful. What do you think, Mr. Winter?”

  “It’s splendid.” Will nodded. “I can think of a half dozen illustrations right now, but what’s truly important is the story. You’ve really hit the mark, Miss Christensen.”

  Bethany breathed a long sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you feel that way. As I wrote Wylde Eyes, I truly had no idea how I was going to bring my hero and heroine together.”

  “In the end, their passion for one other must have guided your muse.”

  Bethany blinked. “Did you just say ‘guided your muse’?”

  Will laughed at Bethany’s wide-eyed expression of amazement. “I heard that from a playwright in the theater once.”

  Jane went over to give her sister a hug. “I’ve decided I want to learn how to play the piano. I want to make people cry…and be happy at the same time.”

  Bethany gave her a squeeze. “You can do that with any instrument.”

  “But I want to be like you.”

  “Your sister sets the standard for excellence, Miss Jane.” Will nodded. “You could not have chosen a better example to follow.”

  Jane grinned. “Well, when it’s time for me to get married, Mr. Winter, I want to find a husband just like you.”

  Bethany giggled when she saw a pink flush spreading up from Will’s collar. “Indeed, gentlemen like Mr. Winter are exceedingly rare.”

  “I’m sure you can do far better, Miss Jane.” Will cleared his throat. “But I thank you for the compliment nevertheless.”

  ∞∞∞

  After Bethany took Jane up to bed, Will crossed into the library and set to work on the final sketch for Wylde Eyes—an illustration of Angela and an injured Garrison standing in front of the secret panel. He chuckled when he remembered the hidden panel in Frederick’s desk in Lansings Lodge. Clearly, Bethany had used that as a clever plot device in her book, and he did not have to wonder overmuch how the vicar had become the villain. Indeed, he could draw many parallels between the novel and Bethany’s life, although he didn’t flatter himself that Garrison Wylde was based on Willoughby Winter. Well, perhaps a very little, but ever since he’d tried to improve himself, the similarities had ended early on.