The Wicked Guardian (21 page)

Clare tucked in the corners of her lips in a secret smile. Benedict felt a sudden surge of panic. A vision assailed him, of a man tottering on the edge of a stretch of deadly quicksand, and then the impression was gone. But it was enough to warn him away from the spell his ward was unconsciously weaving. He was a man of wide experience, and he knew only too well what havoc this slip of a girl might wreak, were he to give in to his overwhelming impulse.

Because he dared not allow full rein to his compassion, he spoke harshly. “I shall send at once for Mrs. Duff. Miss Peek is clearly ineligible. My sister’s companion will escort you back to Penryck Abbey, and I do not wish to hear any more about your not allowing her to stay. Believe me, Mrs. Duff is the least of the restraints that I
c
an use.”

Tears brimmed and spilled down Clare’s cheeks. “You could not be so
wicked
!”

“Mrs. Duff will be here to take up her new position at the end of the week. So steel yourself to say farewell to this sojourn in Bath. The end of the week, not one day longer!”

23
.

Mrs. Duff! The threat that Benedict had held over her head for weeks had now descended and would become reality by the end of the week. She had no more than three days left of freedom, of being Clare Penryck of Penryck Abbey, instead of schoolgirl Clare, to be guarded and tutored by a termagant of a governess.

While Clare had never met the famed Mrs. Duff, yet she knew instinctively that if Benedict thought that lady could be the answer to what he considered his ward’s waywardness, then she was a lady that Clare wanted nothing to do with.

Miss Peek returned after Benedict had left, her light blue eyes round with apprehension. “My dear,” she began, “what has he said that has put you into such a dreadful pucker?” She eyed askance the ominous signs of mutiny in her charge, and thought with a sinking heart that she was no longer able to sustain such constant alarms. I’m just too old, she thought with more rebellion than she had ever experienced. I must just tell her I will not stay with her.

Almost as though reading her mind, Clare said, “Peeky, you will not believe this. But that wicked man is bringing a horrible woman to take care of me!” She was so intent upon her own injustice that she failed to discern the momentary relief that leaped in her dear governess’s eye. “As though I needed a dragon to watch me!”

Miss Peek, galvanized by the realization that she was not going to have to live with Clare for the next year, took her courage in her hands and said mildly, “But my dear, you know that he has his duty to perform, and I must say he is doing just right. It is really walking on the brink to stay here in Bath. While dear Lady Thane sponsored you, of course there could be no question of propriety, but now, you must admit that it is ineligible for you to be here alone.”

There was time enough during Miss Peek’s representations for Clare to lose the peak of her anger. She was still rebellious, but reason came in to lay its cold hand in hers. “I do know,” she said at last with a huge sigh. “Between you and Grandmama I have been brought up to know what is proper. But why is it, Peeky, that everything I want to do is ineligible, and everything that is proper is so utterly repressive!”

“My dear, you would not wish to be disrespectful to your grandmother’s memory,” suggested Miss Peek.

“Of course, I wouldn’t And I do not chafe against the year of mourning, even though it must seem so to you. No, what I cannot like is that odious man telling me what to do in that very contemptuous way!”

“My dear, I hadn’t noticed anything other than his very polished manners.”

“So, you have fallen under his spell!” railed Clare, but Miss Peek’s acute ear could detect that soon Clare would be more amenable, and she could then tell her a few things that, while unpalatable, could be most helpful to her.

“I wish that he would go off and marry his Marianna,” scolded Clare, “and both of them leave me alone!”

Miss Peek was startled. There seemed more heat in the complaint than was justified. But oddly, Miss Peek was abruptly reminded of an episode in her own youth—one that she had not thought of for years. There had been a young curate whose attentions had become marked, and her father disliked him intensely. Just so had Miss Peek railed against her fate. The memory cast a brilliant light upon her dear Clare, an enlightenment which did nothing to cheer her. Clare was destined to have a very bad year, she feared.

In a hasty attempt to apply oil to troubled waters, Miss Peek blundered. “Perhaps Lord Choate will arrange for you to come out in London again next year. Probably the Little Season would be most appropriate. You will have the summer to prepare your wardrobe, and then what a fine swath you will cut!”

“And come out” said Clare, dangerously gentle, “under the wing of Marianna Morton? I shall not do it!”

“But that would not serve!” cried Miss Peek. Then, reflecting, she understood Clare’s remark. “You mean, Miss Morton will be Lady Choate by that time. But, my dear ...” She thought better of her remarks and concluded lamely, “Time enough for that next summer. But whatever happens, my dear, you must remember that Lord Choate is a man of great honor and integrity, and he will do nothing to damage your prospects.”

“My prospects!” repeated Clare darkly. “I wish I may know what they are.”

Miss Peek, realizing that she could say nothing that Clare would heed, turned the conversation into other channels, where it limped along, prodded by Miss Peek, ignored for the most part by Clare.

That night Clare turned over every word that Benedict had spoken to her, much as an intent scientist turns over a stone, marveling at the revelations beneath.

Benedict had, she determined, two main streams of thought that he followed. One was to immure her at Penryck Abbey, like a gothic heroine, with a dragon of a chaperon whose repressive ways would kill her own spirit. And the second was to get her off his hands as quickly as possible. The second was, of course, responsible for the first. But there had been hints dropped by Lady Melvin, by Miss Peek, and even by Lady Thane, to the effect that Benedict would take the earliest opportunity to marry her off. True, they had not said so in so many words, but they certainly expected that he would arrange a marriage for her, and then all would be solved!

Not likely! thought Clare.

But until she was married, or until she reached the age of twenty-five, she would be a millstone around Choate’s neck.

There was quite simply no place to turn. She had escaped from Penryck Abbey with the muddled idea of forcing Choate to take notice of her. He had, and she was learning just how formidable an opponent he was. All the advantage was his. There was nothing she could do, no one to turn to, no place to go. Benedict Choate had, very cleverly, stopped all the bolting-holes.

To top it all, he was importing a perfect stranger to watch his prey to see that she did not escape.

She would, quite simply, give anything in the world to escape the position that Benedict had placed her in. However, she was devoid of helpful ideas.

The sleepless night she spent added nothing to her acuteness of mind. She woke up lethargic after the doze she fell into toward dawn, and her head throbbed. Perhaps I am falling ill, she thought hopefully, regarding her tongue in the mirror. She could see no sign of illness, and she took her continued good health as another sign of doom.

That afternoon—Thursday, one more day on the way to the dreaded Saturday—callers were announced by the housekeeper, Mrs. Bishop. When Clare entered the maroon salon, she stopped inside the door in amazement. The two women standing in the center of the room were known to her, but she had certainly not expected Miss Marianna Morton and Mrs. Morton to call on her.

“G-good afternoon,” said Clare, suddenly overcome by shyness. She felt unusually dowdy, in the face of Miss Morton’s fawn pelisse, buttoned from throat to hem, and topped by lavish furs. “I am sorry that Lady Thane is away, for I know you wish to see her.”

“No,” said Miss Morton crisply. “I—that is, we—came to see you. But I wonder whether we might not sit down? Or perhaps you do not trust the furniture? I am quite aware that sometimes rented rooms are not as we should hope them to be.”

“Marianna, my dear,” said her mother, “I am sure Lady Thane’s arrangements are not to be questioned. My dear child,” she added, advancing upon Clare with outstretched hand, “how glad I am to see you. And how sorry I was to hear of your grandmother’s death. But then, she was quite ill, I believe?”

“Oh yes, she was, for many years,” said Clare. “But pray be seated. I shall ring for tea, or perhaps you would prefer coffee?”

“Nothing,” said Mrs. Morton, “thank you. We are engaged at the Assembly Rooms in a half-hour, so we must deny ourselves the pleasure.”

Miss Morton had been fidgeting with her gloves, an unusual gesture for a lady who was considered the first stare of elegance. Her mother glanced speculatively at her. She had not wanted to come, first to Bath in the wake of Lord Choate, and then, more especially, to the house that Lady Thane had taken. But Marianna was as determined in her own way as her father had been, and Mrs. Morton had long given over any hope of abating her daughter’s headstrong ways.

She longed for Marianna’s marriage quite as much as her daughter did, for it represented to her an unaccustomed access of freedom from a nagging supervision, but she recognized her duty, and accompanied Marianna this far.

But now Marianna was exhibiting a frenetic nervousness that her mother did not like. Mrs. Morton sat silently in the satin-striped chair where she could watch the two young ladies.

“Well,” began Marianna, “I half-expected to find you not receiving company.”

“Oh, not at all,” said Clare doggedly. “I must always be at home to you, Miss Morton. And Mrs. Morton, of course. I am sure my guardian would wish it.”

“The story is current in London that a certain man of low reputation—I am sure you will know to whom I refer—has been taking up much of your time.”

A dull flush crept slowly upward from Clare’s throat into her cheeks. Miss Morton said, “I see that you understand my reference.”

“I assure you,” said Clare stoutly, “that Lady Thane was always present whenever I received anyone.” Clare knew very well that Harry Rowse was the subject of Miss Morton’s conversation, but she was conscious of a growing detestation of Benedict’s fiancée, and since Benedict had already brought her to the lowest point of her existence, she was not quite willing to submit equally to Miss Morton. She was too young, they said? Very well, she would
be
too young!

“I must tell you,” she added innocently, “that my guardian has given permission for me to receive in Lady Thane’s absence. For you must know that she has been called away. A sad occasion, I fear.”

“Her daughter?” suggested Mrs. Morton.

“Oh, yes, ma’am. The grandson too, I believe. Dear Harriet was sadly upset when she wrote, and Lady Thane left at once. I have not heard how the patients are faring.”

Marianna fumed, “I cannot believe that Benedict was so lost to his duty!”

“You doubt my word?” said Clare with just the right touch of submission. “But I am sure Lord Choate will confirm it, if you really need to be assured of his care of me.”

“Now, Marianna,” interrupted Mrs. Morton. “I am sure, my dear, that Marianna means no reflection upon your honesty.”

Clare said nothing. She was beginning to
understand that
Marianna loathed her quite as much as Clare disliked her.

“I cannot believe,” said Marianna, reluctant to cease worrying the subject, “that Benedict would admit Harry Rowse to your company! Especially after what happened at Carlton House!”

“I wonder,” said Clare, “how it is that you are informed as to what happened at Carlton House?”

Marianna looked startled, and then had the grace to bite her lip in chagrin. “Of course Benedict told me. He also told me why he had to come down to Bath. To take care of his ward, he said. But I understand that he feared Rowse’s advances to you.”

Mrs. Morton took a hand. “Marianna, I am sure Choate did not say anything like that.”

Marianna turned on her mother. “But you do not know what transpired when Choate and I were alone.”

Mrs. Morton said bluntly, “You were not alone. You received a note from him saying he must hasten out of town.”

Clare’s perception was quick. So Marianna and her mother were at odds! Also, she understood that Marianna’s curiosity was overweening, urging her to follow Benedict to Bath to check up on his activity. And, too, she knew that Marianna would simply die rather than confess it.

“But then, are you to take the baths?” said Clare innocently. “For you must know that Lord Choate does not plan to stay in Bath above a few days.”

“Benedict told me,” said Marianna repressively, “in his
note
, that he wished me to come to Bath. After all, I am his fiancée, you know, and he has the utmost confidence in my discretion.”

“Betrothed, but not wed,” said Clare, suddenly allowing her resentment full sway. “And since he can count upon your discretion, how is it that I overheard you spreading his remarks far and wide? And that, too, at Carlton House.”

“Marianna, you didn’t!”

Marianna looked discomfited, but recovered rapidly. “An eavesdropper! Now I have heard everything. No wonder that Choate is so anxious to get you off his hands!”

Mrs. Morton sat in a state of shock. Her daughter was exhibiting some unpleasant traits that reminded her forcefully of the late Mr. Morton, and doubts began to stir in her as to the wisdom of allowing Choate to hear any of this. If word got to him of Marianna’s excessive ill temper and manifest indiscretion, he might cry off.

And then, she began to remember, Marianna had already set the date twice, and Choate had deferred what he called, without obvious emotion, “the happy occasion.” And while Mrs. Morton would not advocate a marriage solely for material benefit, yet forty thousand a year was not lightly to be cast aside. By the time Mrs. Morton had decided to make some strong representations to her daughter, in private, on the subject of curbing her tongue and her temper, the conversation had advanced a step. Clare was now appearing beleaguered, and Mrs. Morton decided to put an end to this futile exercise.

“It is your fault,” pursued Marianna, “that Choate has postponed our wedding.”

“My fault!” A strange light leaped in Clare’s eyes.