The Wicked Guardian (23 page)

She put her hand on his arm. “Nor do I, Sir Alexander.” She smiled up at him. “Then you will help me?”

“Be assured that I will do whatever I can do for you,” he said handsomely. “But first I think I should talk to Choate on your behalf.”

“Oh, no!” she cried out in alarm. “You must not! Promise me that you will not trouble him!”

“Why, what is this now? Surely you must see that he is the proper person—”

“Oh, no, he is the last person!” she interrupted. “He is so stern, you know.” Seeing Sir Alexander still doubtful, she improvised hastily, “Besides, I have asked his permission.”

Sir Alexander was assailed by real and valid doubts. But he was in a fair way of losing his heart to the minx before him, a sensation new to him. He strongly suspected that were he to marry her, his life would be changed from the orderly routine he cherished to an existence of strong currents and uncomfortable riptides. But no man could resist such an anxious look, could he? Sir Alexander, for one, could not.

“I don’t think,” he said, “that I can assist you in making your arrangements.”

“You can’t!” she cried. “Then I’ll go alone!”

“On the other hand, I see that neither can I allow you to go alone to London. So I shall accompany you. I shall get my traveling chaise ready, and by Monday, I think—”

“Monday!” she cried out in anguish. “I must go today.” She had succeeded in startling her rescuer. She could read mutiny in his features, but before she could be sure of that, his face softened and he said, “Well, well. Now, don’t cry, not here in public! I shall take you today.”

“Oh, wonderful, Sir Alexander!” she cried out sunnily. “Now, at once?”

He temporized. “Let us say directly after luncheon. We shall soon be on the way to London!”

He doffed his hat and went on his way to make the necessary arrangements. Budge came up to her mistress after his departure.

“Be it he is going to take us to London?” she demanded, her ruddy complexion paler than usual. “Today?” “Yes, he thinks so,” said Clare, too elated by her success with Sir Alexander to be cautious. “But on the way, I’ll see about diverting him. My real aim, dear Budge, is Gretna Green, and I cannot go without you.”

“Oh, then that’s all right,” said Budge, vastly relieved. “I feared it was going to be Lunnon, and I couldn’t abide with that.”

25
.

Sir Alexander Ferguson knew, humbly, that he was in general considered a dull dog. The blood of his Scottish forebears ran sluggishly in his veins, and much as he longed to emulate the feats of derring-do of others of his name—a Ferguson fought at Fontenoy, and a Ferguson’s name appeared on the rolls of the Black Watch—he had become resigned to the idea that never would such opportunities come his way.

But now, he realized he was pleasantly titillated at the thought of a hasty departure from Bath, traveling with the young lady he already thought of as the future Lady Ferguson, for all the world as though they were eloping to Gretna Green! His proper soul cringed at the lengths his romantic heart contemplated. Never mind, he consoled himself—never in the world would I suggest to that delicately nurtured girl that I even thought of Gretna Green!

However, he moved with unaccustomed haste as he returned to his lodgings and gave instructions to Angus, his groom, for his traveling chaise to be ready in an hour, and for Mackie to pack sufficient clothing for three days in London. There was an hour before he must leave to meet Clare. The time weighed heavily on his mind, and at last his conscience told him the right thing to do.

He could not break his word to Clare. But now the entire scheme, no longer supported by the evanescent romance in his iron-bound spirit, looked havy-cavey to him. He wished he had not lost his head in the aura that surrounded that winsome miss. But it was too late to back out now. There was a small part of his mind that suggested that he did not exactly wish to support a lifetime of alarums and excursions—it would not suit him at all. But he had given his word to Clare, and he must keep it

But caution, plus a very real respect for Lord Choate’s powerful temper, led him to shore up his defenses in advance. He found that he had not exactly believed Miss Penryck when she said she had obtained Lord Choate’s permission for this trip. He now doubted it completely, for Choate was too much of a stickler to countenance such a hasty trip to London.

He sat down at his desk and penned a missive to Lord Choate. Surely he could do no less. It took some hard thinking to word the note properly. In fact, the more he reduced the journey to writing, the more he realized that it was a distinctly rum tale. But at last he was satisfied with his note, and gave it to the page in his lodging house to take to Lord Choate. And with a clear conscience, if not a light heart, he ascended into his chaise, totally unaware of a pair of eyes bright with curiosity and a certain amount of speculation watching him from across the street.

Harry Rowse, possessed of a jaunty, devil-may-care attitude as part of his considerable social assets, was just now at a low point in his fortunes. He had almost come to agreement with a baroness in her own right, possessed of wealth and little else, but she had at the last moment cried off. The hag, so Harry thought of her, had shied away at some untoward rumor that had come her way.

The gossip, Harry learned, was spread by Miss Morton, that paragon of young ladies, who had spread far and wide the tale of Harry’s attempt on the Penryck child’s virtue the night of the regent’s ball. Miss Morton could have possessed herself of the details of the episode only from her betrothed.

Harry nursed his burning resentment. Not only had he been balked of the culmination of his advances toward Clare, but also of the more lasting, if less delectable, benefits of marriage to the wealthy baroness. The blame for Harry’s misfortunes—so Harry believed—was to be laid directly at the feet of Lord Benedict Choate.

Harry had not before felt such a scalding rage, an unholy desire for a toppling revenge on anyone as he now felt it for Lord Choate.

It was not by chance, as Clare had thought, that Harry Rowse was in Bath. He, too, had heard rumors that Choate was having difficulties with his ward, and where there are difficulties, Harry had often found there were often ways to reap advantages. So Harry, partly to escape his creditors, and partly as a questing adventurer, came to Bath.

The diligence of his inquiries and personal surveillance at last, so it seemed, was to bear fruit. Ferguson and Miss Penryck, thought Harry with a gleam of hope. They had seemed mighty serious as he had watched them converse. And now clearly something was astir. For Ferguson’s men were readying the coach, and his groom was giving agitated orders. Harry was not close enough to hear Angus’ words, but the air was full of hurry and urgency.

If Ferguson were to leave town, directly after talking so long with Choate’s ward, then Harry would take the road in his wake. He dared not try to remove his own curricle, for he had a strong suspicion that the stableman would insist first upon payment for stabling and board for his pair. Harry slipped away on his errands—first to find a livery where he was not known, and then to pick up Ferguson’s trail. It should not be difficult!

The Ferguson coach lumbered out of Bath at a speed that boded ill for the stated desire of Sir Alexander to reach London by the evening. Since Clare’s intentions were not to reach London at all, her only fear was that they would be observed in their departure and overtaken before she could divert Sir Alexander to the north.

Clare had now, in the coach, time to consider the consequences of her impulsive venture. She had only one goal in mind at first, to show Benedict that she did not need him to arrange her own marriage. She was not
precisely
pleased with Sir Alexander, but she believed her own choice was better for her than Choate’s candidate, especially if the bridegroom were in any degree related to Marianna Morton.

It was no use to speculate on a future that might include a London season, with all the gaiety that accompanied the search for a marriage mate.

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” she said aloud to Budge. “I could stand going back to Penryck Abbey if it were only until next fall.”

“But we ain’t going to the abbey!” Budge reminded her with some satisfaction. Budge was seeing more of the world than she had ever dreamed of, and while Lunnon was still the den of the evil Old Nick, and the dregs of the world, all waiting for Budge to set one foot awry to pounce upon her, yet she was becoming inured to this junketing around the countryside with Miss Clare.

Miss had said Gretna Green, and Budge, while she may have guessed that the coachman, with whom she had a word or two as they left the Crescent, had no intention of leaving the Bath Road to London, she nursed an inner superiority at her privy knowledge. If miss said Gretna Green, then Gretna Green it was! Wherever that might be!

Sir Alexander, riding his hack ahead of the coach, ignored an ill-favored inn at a village whose name he did not know. He was intent on traveling as far along the road from Bath as he could. He, too, had time to think as he rode through the brilliant fall sunshine. He had greeted the adventure with expectations and a feeling that he was up to snuff, rescuing a maiden in distress, and ready, armed to the teeth, to do battle with all comers.

But the long ride gave second thoughts a chance to work powerfully in him, and as the day wore on, the force of logic pointed out his errors. There could be no real reason, he believed, for Miss Penryck to fly to Lady Thane’s arms in London. If he had refused to take her, as reflection told him he should have done, he now thought she would not have gone alone, regardless of her threat.

He covered a few more miles, thinking slowly, but to the purpose, and a good bit beyond Woolhampton he came to a decision. He turned back to the coach. At a sign from him, coachman drew the carriage to the side of the road and waited.

Clare thrust her head out of the window. “Oh, what is the matter? Why have we stopped?”

“I do not wish to speak in front of your maid,” said Sir Alexander in a manner she could only consider as ominous. “But I think it would be advisable were we to return to Bath.”

“Return!” shrieked Clare. “Oh, no, you could not be so cruel as to think that. You would not turn around, would you? To take me back to ...” She stopped short. She had ' not informed Sir Alexander of the nature of Benedict’s threat. She bit her lip. She was positive that Sir Alexander would make no bones about taking her back if he knew that she was fleeing from Choate.

“Well, I do not think it a good idea to continue on to London. There is no chance that we will be able to arrive before nightfall, and what Choate will say when he finds out we have had to stop at an inn overnight, even with your maid, I dare not think of.”

“Choate will not know of it,” she said with vigor.

He had developed a mutinous streak of which she had previously been unaware. She was sorely in a cleft stick.

She was determined not to go back. Nor did she truly want to go to Gretna Green. Her head ached, and she had a lurking suspicion that she was behaving in such a ramshackle way that her grandmother, could she see her, would have been horrified.

She could not quarrel with Sir Alexander. She had not thought clearly ahead, and if she needed more proof that she was too inexperienced to face the world alone, she now had it. If only Benedict were not already arranging for her marriage with a stranger!

She did not give up. “Perhaps we could stop for a bit and talk about this?”

“It’s no use,” said Sir Alexander. “But I confess I would be glad of a bit of mutton. Always think better when I’ve got a full stomach.”

They moved on at a slower pace toward the next town, where there would be a respectable inn, so Sir Alexander said. He had been on the verge of telling his charge that her guardian by now was apprised of her flight Perhaps he would do so at the inn. He had been beguiled, he saw now, by the appealing look in her wide eyes, and he had been led astray by his wish to appear in the light of a knight-errant in her regard. Folly! All folly! he thought, and did not quite see his way out of it all.

In truth, Sir Alexander would have been far more worried had he been able to look with far-seeing vision down the road from Bath, on which they had traveled.

A good way back, delayed by the need to argue forcefully with a reluctant Bath liveryman, who at length was overborne in the matter of hiring out a gig and a single horse to a man whose cut he did not at all like, drove Harry Rowse. He was putting the horse to it, fearing that he would come upon the Ferguson coach too late for his purposes.

If Clare was eloping with Sir Alexander, thought Harry, by this time she would be heartily sick of him, and would welcome a bit of gallantry. He had no clear idea of what he was about—it would depend upon what he found when he came upon them.

If Clare was tired of Sir Alexander, it would take little to turn her in his direction, willingly. Or if she had already given in to Sir Alexander’s importunities, then there was no reason why Harry Rowse should not also enjoy Clare’s wantonness. So he thought. He was much of an opportunist, and he would wait upon events to instruct him. But in any case, he drove in great satisfaction at his own enterprise. For whatever happened, he would be able to serve the high-and-mighty Choate a bad turn. He began to whistle as he laid the whip upon his horse.

In the meantime, Benedict, having the night to think over his interview with his young ward, was, this Friday morning, having second thoughts. He recalled unpleasantly her stricken face when he told her that he had sent for Mrs. Duff. It was not his intention to be cruel, and the realization that she considered him wicked and unfeeling moved him more than he liked.

His entire intention was simply to see her settled. His own life was in pawn to a woman he had little feeling for, but he was determined that his ward would not be doomed to such a life as his own.

Unfortunately, he was expected to lunch with Marianna and her mother. He had been unpleasantly surprised when he learned that they had come to Bath in his wake. He had more than a suspicion that his betrothed was pursuing him out of curiosity and a possessiveness that he did not like. But there was no way out of it, and he sighed, dressing with his usual meticulous care for a luncheon that he looked forward to as one does to a visit to a tooth-drawer.

He formed the intention of cutting short his luncheon with the Mortons and making his way to Laura Place to see Clare Penryck, to reassure her about Mrs. Duff, to whom he would privately give instructions to treat the girl with kindness.

So he hardly listened as Marianna set herself to beguile his interest, thinking ahead with surprising pleasure to the afternoon meeting with Clare.

“You must know that although we have been here only since yesterday, already there is more going on in Bath than in a week in London!” cried Marianna gaily. “Lady Courtenay is here, and can hardly walk, so they say. But the baths are doing her such good. And the Duchess of Argyle. I haven’t seen her since I can’t remember when. Do you remember, Mama?”

Mrs. Morton, thus appealed to, said she didn’t remember either. She had been watching Benedict with a speculative eye since his arrival. Her visit to Clare yesterday had given her much to think on, and she was struck by Benedict’s attitude. It did not seem more than usually aloof, but, instructed by Clare’s emotional reaction, she could see that he must appear nearly godlike to a girl of Clare’s limited experience. She was quite sure of Clare’s feelings, but she could not detect how Benedict felt.

If Benedict had a
tendre
for Clare, it was not visible even to Mrs. Morton. But she made a resolve to speak firmly to Marianna about curbing her great propensity for gossip, lest it turn Benedict away from her in disgust, for she thought she detected an absentmindedness in him that must not be allowed to continue.

When she attended once more to the conversation—or rather to Marianna’s monologue, for Benedict responded only in monosyllables—Marianna had reached Harry Rowse. “Under the hatches, you know, since Lady Lancer turned him down. I fancy that was quite a blow. At any rate he is here in Bath. I confess I should worry about your Miss Penryck, except that she is totally out of society now. I did hear that they had been seen together.”

“Miss Penryck will be returning to Dorset shortly,” said Benedict. “I am convinced that the rumor you speak of was no more than that. She has been with Lady Courtenay, or Lady Thane, most of the time she has been here.”

“Of course,” said Marianna, withdrawing to a safer position. “When we are married, you will have no further worries about her. I can say with all sincerity that I will be most happy to take her charge upon myself. I fancy I shall be able to instruct her, and surely when she returns to London...” She stopped short. Benedict had quite clearly forgotten her, for he stared across the table at a figurine on the side table with great concentration.

His mind’s eye filled his thoughts, however, with a clear picture of a girl with coin-gold ringlets and clear blue eyes brimming with tears that she was gallantly determined not to shed.

“I’m sorry,” said Benedict. “I have quite forgotten an engagement that I made before I knew you were in Bath. I must beg to be excused.”

He stood up and bowed to Mrs. Morton. “Do not trouble to see me out. I fear I am almost too late, as it is. Do forgive me.”

He left without apparent haste, but Marianna, looking from the window, remarked, “He’s almost out of sight already. Where do you think he is going?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Morton astringently. “But you will be well-advised not to ask when you see him next. In the meantime, my dear, I should like to speak to you about what I fear may become a grave fault in you.”

Mrs. Morton drew her chair close to her daughter’s and began to speak in great earnestness.

If she had known where Benedict was heading, she would have been even more dismayed. For Benedict was hurrying on his way to apologize to his ward.