The Wicked Guardian (26 page)

Thinking it was Sir Alexander, she did not look up. In a resigned voice she said, “Are you ready?”

“That is quite an invitation, Miss Penryck,” said Harry Rowse. “If I thought you meant it for me, you wouldn’t be sorry, believe me.”

“What are you doing here!” she cried out, rising to her feet in some trepidation. “How did you know—?”

“Now, that is not quite the welcome I had imagined. But I daresay that when you have heard my news, you will think better of me. Perhaps not welcome me with open arms, as yet—”

He left the sentence tantalizingly in the air, but she did not rise to his bait. He was rushing too fast, he knew, but somehow he couldn’t help it Seeing her again roused some feeling that had long been a stranger to him. It was a feeling such as one might have for a frightened kitten, inexplicably mixed up with a very masculine wish to have her for his own.

“News?” Clare faltered. “But there is nothing you can tell me, I am sure. We have this morning come from Bath, and nothing could have happened since then. Unless ... Is it Benedict?”

Things were going very well, thought Rowse, with a half-smile creeping over his face. “You will be grateful to me of all men,” he pronounced, moving toward her with his hands stretched toward her.

“I wish you will not behave ... in such an unsettling way,” she said, backing toward the window. “I wish you will tell me your news, if you indeed have any, and then leave me.”

He nodded. “Very well, I will play your little game with you. Just now you are the apprehensive maiden. It becomes you very well. I should compliment you upon your performance.”

“Performance?”

“Oh, quite. I imagine it should beguile any man—of lesser intelligence then I. Sir Alexander Ferguson, perhaps.”

“I d-don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean this girlish, innocent role you assume. Of all people, don’t try to cozen me. After all, I know you are on the romp with Ferguson. Of all things, your lack of delicacy is astounding. What do you think people will say?”

“No one knows about it,” she said, her lip trembling. It was bad enough that she had just told herself the same things, without hearing them from Harry Rowse as well.

If only Benedict were here, she thought longingly. She would rejoice if he just now came in the door, drawling in his languid fashion, stripping off his gloves before inviting Rowse outside to plant him a leveler...

“I know about it,” Rowse assured her. “It is a shame that I cannot indulge my desire to rescue you and restore you to your guardian, unharmed. But you see, I am not so well in the pocket as your other friends.”

“You are no friend of mine!”

“How true! And yet, I think you could learn to like me a little better.” He started toward her. “I remember you did not object to me in the regent’s garden.”

“Don’t come near me!” she cried out. She was aware now that her foolishness seemed to have no end. To be at the mercy of a man like Harry Rowse—no one could sink lower!

“Why not? Surely Ferguson is not man enough to appreciate such a delicate piece as you are? You will find me much more to your fancy, don’t you know? And yet, on the other hand ...” His voice dropped into his mimicry of Sir Alexander’s laborious periods. She smiled reluctantly.

“But Lord Choate will take care of you,” she warned him. “If you touch me, I swear he will call you out. He never loses his duels, you know.”

“I know of one that he lost,” said Rowse, coming to a stop and lazily regarding her.

“Oh?” she said, startled.

“The one that has left your wicked guardian
hors de combat.
Somewhere on the road between here and Bath.” The lazy look left his eyes, and he started toward her, this time with strong purpose. “Now,” he said as he grabbed her wrists and pulled her hands up, to rest, clenching helplessly into fists, on his chest, “don’t I deserve some thanks for that?”

28
.

“Thanks!” she echoed, stiff with indignation.

“Of course,” Rowse said smoothly. “How many times have you said you did not need a guardian? How many times, I repeat, did you bridle against Choate’s tight rein?” She backed away from him as he took a step toward her. He stopped now and held out his hand in appeal. “Let us have done with such fribbles as thanks between us. I had hoped at first to encounter Ferguson, for I have some dealings with him, as you might guess.”

“I know of none,” she said sturdily. “But I should like to know what you meant by Choate’s being
hors de combat
?”

“My dear, I thought you were better educated than that.
Hors de combat
means ‘out of battle.’ ”

“I
know
what it means,” retorted Clare furiously. “Where is Benedict?”

“All in good time.” He hesitated. In an altered tone he queried, “Where is your escort? Or has Ferguson gotten tired of you already?”

“Wretch!”

“I had thought that such a little spitfire might intrigue the dogged Scot for more than a day. Not quite a day,” he amended with a judicial air. “I wonder...”

“He is
not
tired of me!” cried Clare.

The gleam in Rowse’s eyes told her she had spoken foolishly. “Not tired yet?” said Rowse silkily. “Then ... But I must inquire into what is, after all, a very private matter between you and Ferguson.” His voice changed abruptly. “Where is he?”

She gestured vaguely. Rowse’s evasiveness was giving rise in her to a deep suspicion. She had no reason, based on experience, to believe him, either when he said Choate was incapacitated or when he said Choate would not come after her.

“Out there somewhere,” she said. “But I wish I knew—”

“I shall tell you all you need to know,” said Rowse, resuming his stalking advance toward her. “You are safe from Choate for now, perhaps forever. I should imagine. Ferguson is not quite the companion for your tender years. You were much misguided—”

“Stay away from me!”

“—to run away from Bath, don’t you know. Everyone there will soon know that you are in such disgrace that you will never recover your credit. Now, it seems to me—”

“I don’t care what seems to you,” raged Clare, more afraid now than she had ever been. “You touch me and I’ll kill you!”

“Strange,” said Rowse, stopping as though caught by the novelty, “that’s just what Choate said to me. Just before the mishap, of course.”

“Mishap! I wish you will tell me, where is my guardian?”

“You forgot something, my dear. It is your
wicked
guardian. I have heard, not from your own lips of course, but from the lips of others, that you have often called him that.”

“Oh, how I wish I had never been so foolish!”

Rowse, for all his vaunted experience with the frailer sex, misread her meaning. “I agree that not every young lady would consider such a very improper escapade. But—if Ferguson can indulge his fancy with you, then I see no reason not to enjoy myself, too.”

He made an unexpected rush toward her. She stumbled backward, but she felt the hard wall of the cupboard behind her back. She was trapped. “Don’t touch me!” she breathed desperately.

“Or you’ll kill me? How brave of you.” Rowse was clearly enjoying the pursuit, she saw, much as a cat delays the kill of a kitchen mouse. Perhaps she could distract him...

Over his shoulder she could see the door. It was opening slowly, and she widened her eyes. Here was her chance!

“Help me!” she cried out, but her voice was too small to carry. “Oh, help me, please!”

Rowse’s eyes darkened. The smile lurking on his thin lips turned cruel. “Don’t try that,” he advised her. He jerked her to him, and sought her lips. She twisted, in vain. Her blood thrummed deafeningly in her ears, and she writhed in torment under his brutal kisses.

“I’ve just got them to hitch up the team again,” said the voice of Alexander Ferguson beyond the door. “Coachman gave me no trouble. I think he fancies you, Clare ... Clare?”

He now stood in the doorway of the small parlor, and Clare, hidden behind the large figure of Harry Rowse, was not at first visible to him.

At the sound of Alex’s voice, Rowse abruptly released Clare and let her fall sharply against the cupboard latch. A sharp pang went through her, but she scarcely noticed in her unbounded relief.

“Oh, Alexander!” she cried out in a strangled voice. “Oh, how glad I am!”

Sir Alexander said hopefully, “Then you are ready to return to Bath! I do think it best.”

Then the situation before him began to penetrate to his slow wits. There was Clare, panting as though she had run a race, wiping her lips savagely with the back of her hand. And there was Rowse, a contemptible person he had thought—if he had thought of him at all—was still in Bath.

Clearly something was amiss. Sir Alexander manfully began to deal with the trouble. “What are you doing here, Rowse? I can’t believe you came to force your attentions on the lady traveling under my protection, as it appears.”

“Oh, stuff it!” said Rowse with great rudeness. He strove to put some order back into his ruffled shirt and his wrinkled waistcoat—the gold brocade vest to which he was partial was in pawn in Bath—and realized that nothing he could say could soften the impression that Ferguson clearly had.

“Remember Miss Penryck!” exclaimed Ferguson, appalled.

“Oh, I do, I do,” said Rowse, recovering his aplomb. “In fact, she has been in my thoughts since I left Bath. Having noticed, you might say, that something untoward was going on ... I must say, Ferguson, that to see you eloping with a well-bred young girl—lass, I suppose you Scots say?—shocked me to the core. And I could not rest until I saw that I was mistaken in your intentions. But, you will see...” He gestured toward Clare, cowering in the corner, still panting for breath. She was regaining her self-control, now that Ferguson had returned, and with the immediate danger past, she turned over the information that Rowse had let drop, or had given out as truth.

She watched with only half her attention as Ferguson and Rowse faced each other. Rowse was increasingly bland, and the little smile lurking at the corner of his mouth boded no good. He was truly a very bad person, she realized, and while she had known enough not to allow him any liberties, yet she had not yet plumbed his depths.

Ferguson—on the other hand—gave every appearance of standing as strong as the Grampian Hills. And she realized, too, that his wavering grasp on events was due in part to her own waywardness. But Rowse was now coming to the point.

“I came to see for myself what dastardly plot you had hatched,” he said, “and I confess, Ferguson, you surprise me with the devious malice of your scheme.”

Ferguson, already badly rattled by the unexpected turn of events, and Clare’s deceit, sputtered, “It’s not my fault! Although I must not put the blame on Miss Penryck. I knew better. But she seemed so—”

“Delectable?” inserted Rowse, purring.

“No, no! Desperate! I vow I did not know ... I must see Miss Penryck back to Bath, to her guardian.”

“Ah, yes, the wicked guardian,” said Rowse. “I do not know just where you will find him.”

“He’s in Bath!” asserted Ferguson stoutly.

“Not.. . quite,” said Rowse. “But then—”

“Ask Mr. Rowse where Choate is,” interrupted Clare. “He won’t tell me. All he says is ...” To her great dismay, her voice choked with a sob, and she could not go on.

Rowse lifted an eyebrow. “I can’t believe my eyes. The poor persecuted ward doesn’t want to be free? Like a bird in a cage, when the door is left open, fearing the world. Like that, Miss Penryck?”

“Oh, never
mind
!”

But Rowse had already forgotten her. His eyes narrowed, and he frowned at Ferguson. “Now, let me ask, how much?”

Ferguson gazed blankly at him. “How much what?”

“How foolish you are! Let me draw you a picture of the future, Ferguson. You move to London for the Little Season, and all goes well, or nearly so. But by Christmas, when all the
ton
retreat to their country houses, and hold great gatherings of all their friends for the holidays—then is when Dame Rumor is a welcome guest, scurrying from one great house to another, with the latest
on-dit
. Your name, I promise you, will figure largely in such tea-table chatter. And when you come back to London after Easter, you will find every door of quality closed to you.”

“But ... why?” asked Ferguson, totally bewildered.

“You ask why?” Rowse placed both hands on the table between them and leaned forward. Clare was completely forgotten now, and she took advantage of the respite to sort out her thoughts.

“You can’t imagine, Ferguson, that ladies with marriageable daughters would spurn you? A man with a very respectable fortune and of well-enough family?”

Sir Alexander was slow-witted, true, but his conscience, clear as spring water, armored him against the unwelcome truth that Rowse was explaining. “Why should they?”

“Because, my friend, you have run away with a child, a miss just out of the schoolroom, against the expressed wishes of her guardian, compromising her beyond repair. And you ask why?”

“But Choate surely couldn’t object to my escorting her to her godmother...” Then the truth began to dawn. Clare had misled him into thinking that her godmother was in London. And only an hour ago she had revealed the depth of her scheming mind. Lady Thane was not in London, and Clare herself planned to elope to Gretna Green to escape Choate.

“I see you understand,” said Rowse, studying Ferguson’s features, for once losing their impassiveness. “Now, I say—”

“Where is Choate?
⁵
’ demanded Ferguson. “I must make amends, I must explain—”

“Don’t worry about Choate,” said Rowse contemptuously. “He ... had an accident.”

“Where?” demanded Clare shrilly, her worst fears realized.

“Back on the Bath Road,” said Rowse. “No matter. He’s likely dead now, Now. Ferguson, I repeat my original question. It has taken us a long time, has it not, to get back to it?’ His voice became savage. “Now, Ferguson,
how much for my silence
?”

“This is blackmail...”
began
Sir Alexander Ferguson, daring impotently at his tormentor. Neither of them noticed Clare leave the room.

She hurried through the hall, to the stableyard. There, in its lumbering majesty, stood the old-fashioned coach with the Ferguson arms on the panel.

The coachman, lounging against the wheel, straightened when he saw her and smiled. He was indeed partial to Clare, and took a dark view of the activities of his employer. He had been gratified at his instructions to make ready to return to Bath that very day, although, if truth were told, he was not as happy as all that about finishing up the journey in the dark. But it was better than stopping overnight along the way, where who knew what might happen to the horses, and besides that, there was young Miss Clare...

“Coachman,” said Clare, “let us go at once. Can you not take me back along the Bath Road? I dare not wait a moment longer. Please hurry!”

“Now, then, miss, Sir Alexander is not the ogre...” coachman began, but she looked at him with such appeal in her eyes, that, despite his better judgment, his loyalty to his employer faded.

“I cannot wait. Don’t you see, Lord Choate is behind us, and he may be in trouble, and I dare not wait for Sir Alexander. Besides...”

“Right and tight, Miss Clare,” said coachman, beckoning vigorously to a groom. “Let down the steps, stupid. I will help the lady in. Hold the horses there, we’re off in a moment!” The name of Lord Benedict Choate worked powerfully in coachman. A lavish man with a tip, was Lord Choate, and the contrast between him and the thrifty Ferguson could not have been stronger.

The coach, swift enough even to suit Clare’s impatience, turned in the innyard, threaded the high gate successfully, and trundled west on the road to Bath.