The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  Purvis was at hand, as she knew he would be, and she presented him to Lord Choate. Benedict, making the best of it, engaged Purvis in conversation, which soon turned more technical than Clare could understand. Choate was surprisingly knowledgeable about agriculture and livestock, and Clare stood amazed until she remembered that he had vast lands of his own, and he was not a man to overlook necessary duties.

  When at length they left Purvis and walked again to the house, Clare felt her spirits soaring. It would turn out better than she had at first expected, she thought, and she was almost in charity with her guardian by the time they reached the small morning room again.

  “Purvis is a good man,” pronounced Choate. “You may safely leave your farm management to him. I have promised to put my own man in touch with him. There is a possibility, Purvis thinks, of improving your strain of sheep, and it would be well to look into it.”

  Benedict, too, was pleased with his morning. It looked to him as though his ward had come to her senses, after all, and decided not to kick against the pricks of fortune. In a year or two, he would see about a suitable marriage for her, and then she would be off his hands. So he devoutly hoped. And misled by his sanguine prospects, and by his ward’s demure charm, he blundered.

  “I have written the letter I spoke of yesterday,” he announced, almost with geniality.

  “The letter? I don’t remember that we spoke of a letter,” said Clare, feeling a tightening in her throat. He could not mean what she thought.

  But it seems he did indeed. “The letter to Mrs. Duff, my sister’s old companion. She will, I am sure, come to you at once.”

  Clare’s hands clenched and unclenched before she spoke again. What could she do? The morning had been a rainbow dream, and all was as it had been at first—ruined.

  “I believed we had settled that, had we not? I will not receive her.”

  “You must.”

  “If I must, I must,” Clare said in a dangerously quiet voice. Panic swept over her. She fought down the tide of anger that threatened to overwhelm her, and added in a voice that didn’t sound like her own, “But I promise you, she will not stay.”

  “But ... you cannot live here alone!”

  “My Uncle Horsham would not have treated me so!”

  “I quite agree,” said .Benedict smoothly. “However, your Uncle Horsham was never unlucky enough to be charged with the responsibility of a badly spoiled, totally irresponsible child. For my sins, I find myself in the unenviable position of having to decide what is best.”

  “And you, of course, know what is best for everyone in the world!”

  “Let us not exaggerate wildly,” said Benedict, seething. He was quite as angry as she was, but being more experienced, had more control over his emotions. But this child had tried him far more excessively than anyone else in his recent life, and he was hard put to hold a tight rein on his tongue.

  “Very well,” she said after a long moment. “I bow to your authority. For the moment. But I cannot like this scheme. To set a woman over me, one I do not know, and one I am sure I will dislike—it is infamous!”

  Her lower lip quivered in spite of all her efforts, and Benedict was quick to notice. With a laborious attempt at fairness he said, “What, then? You have not informed me what you wish to do, that is true. And perhaps I was wrong not to consult your wishes first.” He came to where she stood at the window. “Tell me what you wish.”

  His sudden gentleness left her without the support of the anger that she had been leaning on. She had no answer for him.

  “Perhaps you would go to stay with my sister? It might be just the thing.”

  Clare said, “Certainly I would not wish to be an added burden on her. Nor especially since she is so newly wed.”

  Benedict agreed. And indeed he was glad she refused the suggestion, for while he had every confidence in his sister’s generosity, yet to burden her with a total stranger for some months was not the thing.

  “Well, then,” said Benedict, “pray tell me if you wish to go back to Lady Thane in London. I believe I could persuade your godmother to accept you into her household.”

  Clare reflected. Nothing he suggested recommended itself to her. Nor could she think of anything she truly wanted of her own. She was sadly torn, not knowing what she wanted, only knowing what she didn’t want And the latter category embraced a wide variety.

  If she went to Lady Thane, she would hear more and more strictures upon her behavior, and she was quite sure that nothing she could do would quite meet with that lady’s approval. And an obscure part of Clare longed, quite strongly, for at least one word of approval, for a word that denied that she was a spoiled brat, that she was overly ambitious, overweening in her impudence...

  “I cannot go back to London,” she said sadly. “You must see that, Lord Choate. I could not show my face in society again, after that last evening there. You of all people should know that!”

  “I do know that,” he said. He found that her sad little voice worked powerfully on him, and of all things, he knew he could not afford to have pity on her. She was a legal obligation, and that was the only way he could handle her. If he gave in once to her, he felt strongly that he would continue to give ground on the most reasonable of excuses.

  The determination to do what was best for her turned him grim. Every way he turned, she put an obstacle in his path, and he was not accustomed to such rebellion. For although her demeanor was demure, yet she was inwardly defiant. She had not fooled him at all, he told himself, and it was time to put an end to any pretensions she may have had.

  “But,” he said, returning to the attack, “I think that I know how it can be carried off. You were worried about your grandmother, and such commendable anxiety led you into an emotional excess.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “But I didn’t know about Grandmama until I got home that night.”

  Nettled, he said sharply, “You would do well to go along with my suggestion.”

  She sensed her advantage. Quickly she smiled. “I should indeed be glad to do so, Lord Choate. How kind you are to arrange all for me! But I am such an addlepate that I cannot promise not to let the truth slip out. And then ... I am persuaded I would not do you credit!”

  “No matter,” he said. “I had quite forgot you are in mourning. I confess it does not show in your demeanor, but it would be wrong to appear in London.”

  “You are quite right. But then, all will think I am too young, just a nuisance,” she said hotly. “I would no doubt cast disgrace on the family name, wouldn’t I?” Warming to a sense of her wrongs, she continued, “I wonder that you would consider letting me loose in London—I think that is the term, is it not? You must refresh my memory!”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about!”

  “Oh, you must know! For I have been the subject of many a conversation where you have calmly torn apart my character, and done all you can to cast me down. You cannot deny it!”

  “I do deny it! And where you got these nonsensical notions, I do not know! It is quite illogical of you to remember that, more than once, to my own discomfort, I extracted you from one mess after another, and then tell me I have wronged you.”

  If she were to speak, she thought darkly, she would quite simply burst into tears. And that, she vowed, she would not do—not where Benedict could see.

  Benedict, however, was a man of considerable intelligence and a certain amount of experience with the female variety of logic. He thought he could discern, now, a deliberately planned ambush, where he might become enmeshed in the toils of accusation and counterattack, and lose his way. That, he vowed, would not happen to Benedict Choate.

  “I consider that you have solved my problem. I confess I had not seen my way so clearly until now, but it is just the thing.”

  She looked up hastily at the altered note in his voice. Apprehensive about what was to come, she hastened to divert him. “You do consider me a nuisance and a disgrace, you know. Miss Morton said
so.”

  The sudden revelation came as a shock to him. “She could not have told you so!” he exclaimed.

  “Then it is true,” she said. “You do not deny it, I notice.”

  Too late he saw the pit beneath his feet. “I did not quite say that, you know. You should not believe all you hear.”

  “She was not speaking to me,” said Clare. “But it is clear that you have discussed me, quite unnecessarily, with Miss Morton. And since I know that you have so little honor as to talk about me—long before you were my guardian—I see that I cannot depend upon your setting all straight in London. No, I think I shall not go to London.” She looked absurdly young, under the dignity that she wore like an adult’s cloak on a child. But yet, beneath it all, he could see that the dignity was not something she donned for the occasion. She was a well-bred young lady, old beyond her years in some things. And he remembered with a twinge his own first year in London, acquiring some town bronze while his fond parent believed he was at Oxford, engrossed in his study of Greek.

  He had been wrong in talking to Marianna, of course. But he had been mistaken in her, too, if she had repeated his words to anyone else. He must be more careful, and as a prospect for a harmonious married life ahead, it lacked appeal.

  But Clare—strangely!—was smiling. “I have the answer, Lord Choate. You asked me what I wanted to do, and I know now. I’m going to go and live with my own old governess. Miss Peek lives with her sister, and I know she will be glad to have me. You can rest assured—”

  “Where does this Miss—Peek, is it?—live?”

  “It will be such fun, and nobody will care that I am in mourning. For they won’t heed that, you see. Not in Bath!”

  Aghast, Lord Choate could only echo, “Bath?”

  14.

  Benedict took a grip on himself. “Not to Bath!”

  “Oh, it will be delightful!” she said, as though he had not spoken. “I cannot think why I did not think of it before!”

  “Disabuse your mind of the plan,” said Benedict grimly. “It will not do.”

  “Miss Peek is quite as good a governess as your sister’s, I am convinced. And surely if I am to have a companion, then I do not see why I am not to have my choice in the matter. She will be glad to see me, and the salary you would give your sister’s companion will surely be welcome to Miss Peek. For I think they are perhaps a little pressed.”

  “You will not go to Bath,” said Benedict, and she recognized with satisfaction the note of final authority in his voice. “That town is a hotbed of intrigue and even vice, and it is totally out of the question that you set foot there without a better chaperone than a governess.”

  “Do you think it is really wicked?” she demanded, and then artlessly added, “I suppose you are right, for I am persuaded that you would know about such things.”

  He laughed harshly. “You suppose right. Not that I have indulged in all the lower forms of activity, but I know enough to steer my way clear of them. But to go to live in Bath without a woman of some credit in the world to show you how to go on is totally ineligible. Do not think that I will relent, for I warn you, on this point I am adamant.”

  She sighed hugely. “And I had so hoped to see Peeky again.”

  He reflected momentarily. “I am glad to hear you say so, for I feel that all may be settled comfortably after all. Suppose Miss Peek were to come here to live with you? She has the advantage of having your regard, and until your period of mourning is over, you will wish to lead a retired life.”

  Benedict was uncomfortably aware that he was spouting fustian, but if Clare did not feel as he suggested, she ought to feel so, and he was not ready to countenance any vagaries on her part.

  His ward was just now looking at him as though he had produced a vision of angels for her entertainment. “How marvelous!” she cried. “Just the thing! I wonder how you came to think of that!”

  He had an uneasy recognition that he was losing control of the situation. He had had a severely trying few days since Ruffin had come to bring him the dire news of his guardianship, and he had never felt so like a chip adrift on the waves as now when he tried to cope with the ceaseless changing of his ward’s mind and moods.

  He thought automatically of the quiet backwater he expected of his marriage. His duty by the family and his duty toward Marianna, who had been promised to him from her cradle, weighed heavily on him, and he had thought that, in wedding Marianna, he could rejoice in the quiet security of duty well done, of heirs assured, of freedom to live, as so many of his married acquaintance did, in the clubs of Brook Street or in the outdoor sports that lay to his hand on one or another of his estates.

  He had not truly thought of the quality of such a life. Suffice it to say, he had considered it as inevitable, and with certain advantages. Marianna would not be importunate, bewildering, devious, scheming—as this girl before him clearly was. She was a challenge, this girl, and he would rise to the occasion. She smiled at him, transforming her face enchantingly.

  “How good you are to me!”

  The sound he gave then could be described as a snort, or even a bark of laughter. It held a wealth of skepticism in it. “I wonder,” he said wryly, “what I have done this time.”

  “You have straightened all out for me,” said Clare sunnily.

  “I have the strangest feeling that I have somehow blundered. But I suppose that I must await the unfolding of events to tell me where I erred.”

  Clare favored him with a sidelong glance, in which he was startled to see a totally mature female peeping out of the kittenish face.

  “I cannot understand what you mean, sir,” she said innocently, “but I shall do my best to cause you no discomfort. You will be anxious to return to Miss Morton,” she added, “and I will watch the journals to have news of your wedding.”

  “The happy event is to take place in October, I believe,” he said briefly. “I shall convey your compliments to Miss Morton.”

  “Pray do!” Clare urged. “I am sure you will do famously together.”

  “Thank you,” said Benedict repressively as he took his leave.

  His next stop was at the office of Mr. Austin. Mr. Austin was overwhelmed at the dazzling appearance of Lord Choate. Dressed correctly in country buckskins, with high top boots, and a simply folded cravat, he contrived to make all pretenders to elegance fall into the shade.

  “Now, then, Mr. Austin,” said Choate, “I must tell you what I have arranged. I have sent for Miss Penryck’s former governess, a Miss Peek, I think. She is to reply to you, and I trust you will send her traveling funds.” He spoke further about salary to be paid, and directions to Purvis.

  “Lord Choate, if you will permit me,” said Mr. Austin, beaming upon his visitor, “you have done a magnificent job. I confess I did not see how it would work out, since Miss Clare...” His voice died away. He thought better of bringing forth any doubts he might have as to Clare’s surprising acquiescence in what would be, after all, a dull existence.

  “... is accustomed to making her own decisions,” Lord Choate finished for him. “It was a great shame that Lady Penryck was such an invalid. The child has grown up beyond her years.”

  “Just so, my lord. But her father was just such another one. Couldn’t wait to spend his money. He had a pair of grays in his stable—not the ones that ran away on the Bath road, but some that were sold after the breakup. They were real goers!”

  “Well, we must between us see that his daughter does not have an opportunity to spend her money. I rely upon you, Mr. Austin, to keep me informed of any events that you think I should know of.”

  With many an expression of goodwill, Mr. Austin ushered his elegant visitor to the street and stood watching after him as he walked the few steps to the coachyard of the White Swan. He shook his head dolefully. He recognized his responsibility toward Clare’s small inheritance, but in no way was he going to be held responsible for what that young lady did.

  As long as her grandmother was
alive, he reflected, Clare had done nothing to reflect discredit upon her. In fact, she had often astonished him by her grasp of business details. He had sometimes felt that he was the child and she the efficient director of affairs. No wonder Lady Penryck had judged her mature enough to venture upon a London season. And from all he had heard, she had reflected great credit on the family. At least, no other rumor had reached him.

  But he remembered her father, and he shook his head dubiously as he watched Clare’s guardian walking innocently down the walk. But if anyone could make her see reason, it would be Lord Choate. And Mr. Austin envied him not at all.

  Miss Peek, leaving Bath behind her without a qualm, rode toward Penryck Abbey. She would be so happy to see her dear Clare again, to say nothing of the abbey, which she had loved during the years she had presided over Clare’s schoolroom. Clare would be quite the young lady now, having the elegance that only London could provide, and it was with great gratification that she touched, inside her reticule, the letter that Lord Choate had written to her: “Miss Penryck tells me that her dearest wish is that you come to share her life at Penryck Abbey...

  And she was on her way. Her sister, left behind in Bath, had prophesied mournfully, “That girl always could turn you around her little finger. You had better watch your step with her.”

  But Miss Peek knew Clare far better than Sara did, and while Clare had often been unpredictable, yet she had never, never done anything the least improper. One phrase in Lord Choate’s letter did lend itself to a feeling of misgiving. “Miss Penryck is to lead a retired life while she is in mourning.” Miss Peek hoped that Clare had agreed. Otherwise...

  Her arrival at Penryck Abbey was all that she could have wished. Clare flew out of the door when the carriage stopped, and threw her arms around her governess.

  “Dear Peeky! How good of you to come! Here, let Budge take your bandbox—bandbox—Budge! Peeky, I’m sure you will want tea. Come into the living room—no, no, I know you will want to take off your bonnet first You are to have your old room, and I am in mine! What fun this will be!”