The Wicked Guardian (5 page)

Through clenched jaws he gritted, “Thank God for that!”

5
.

Upon this tense scene, the two participants glaring fiercely at each other over the small table, entered Lady Thane. She hesitated almost imperceptibly at the sight, before sweeping in with her hand extended to Lord Choate.

“My dear sir,” she exclaimed, “Darrin told me you had called, and I must apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“It is no matter, Lady Thane,” said Benedict stiffly. “I did not expect you to trouble yourself. I merely restored Miss Penryck to you.”

“Restored?” echoed Lady Thane. “How is this?”

Clearly Benedict was seething, she thought, and a feeling of dismay smote her. What had the child done now? The fact that her earlier forebodings looked in a fair way to be justified did nothing to mollify her.

“I am sure Miss Penryck will wish to tell you herself,” said Benedict, looking directly at Clare.

Clare had every intention of doing so, but she would not embark upon her narrative of the afternoon’s doings upon Benedict’s direction, as though she were a delinquent pupil dancing to the tune of the schoolmaster. But Lady Thane just now noticed Clare’s torn dress. “My dear child,” she cried out, in real concern, “what does this mean?”

Outrageously, Benedict said, “Just so, ma’am.” With a few more words, and strongly repressing a wish to box the child’s ears, he took his leave. Not until much later that day, while examining a box of books that had been delivered from Egerton, did it occur to him to wonder just why his anger had flared up to such a pitch. The accident had not been the child’s fault, and he had been gothic in his reaction.

The wide blue eyes that had very prettily looked their thanks swam before his eyes, but memory instantly transmuted them into the flashing sapphire glance that had next put him in his place.

Was it merely the shock of finding someone—a mere chit of a girl at that—who told him to mind his own affairs? He didn’t think so. But no other reason occurred to him. His servant discreetly reminded him that he was due in Mount Street to dine with his betrothed and her mama in an hour. It was a duty he did not relish, considering that a lifetime spent having dinner with Marianna was sufficient, without anticipating. But he sighed, and began to dress.

In the meantime, Lady Thane had succeeded in eliciting from her goddaughter the details of her accident. “And you came home in tatters!” cried Lady Thane. “With Lord Benedict Choate!”

“I am dreadfully sorry if that was wrong, Lady Thane, but truly I did not know quite what to do, with Budge in flapping hysterics, and I could not calm her. I could not even think what to do!” Clare collapsed into a chair, and occupied herself by drawing together the edges of the rent sustained when she toppled to the pavement.

“I wish you would send Budge back to the country,” said Lady Thane crossly, diverted by a subject on which she had strong feelings. “The wench is less than useless, dear Clare, for she does not know the best way to dress your hair, and she trembles when one speaks to her. I daresay that is the way of Penryck Abbey, but I cannot think it is good for her to go in such fear.”

“I agree,” said Clare. For a moment she played with the thought of telling Lady Thane that she too would return to Penryck Abbey, and rusticate in consoling silence. She had not felt so low in her mind since she had come to town. And it was not quite clear whether it was the unaccustomed gaiety or the constant anxiety lest she put a foot wrong that preyed on her so.

But Lady Thane had already forgotten Budge, and moved again to the subject that engrossed her. “Choate is a stickler, you know. And he has such credit—you will not believe this, but I know of three cases where he simply gave
such
a look, and quite put the girls in the shade. Too bad of him, of course, and not quite kind, but ... my girl, facts are facts, and we would be wrong not to face up to them.”

But Clare was listening with only half her mind. “Then there is your ball, Lady Thane, and I must not fail that.”

Lady Thane, unaware of Clare’s brooding upon a return home to Penryck Abbey, where she was known and loved, misunderstood. “Of course you must not. But depend upon me, we will not see Lord Choate in this house that evening. Unless, of course”—she furrowed her brow in thought—“unless he takes pity on your innocence.”

“I do not think him capable of pity,” said Clare firmly.

“No more do I,” said Lady Thane mournfully. “Depend upon it, my dear, you have made a formidable enemy in him.”

Clare’s heart sank to her satin-shod toes. She had not mentioned to her godmother the spirited repartee that had occurred just before her entrance. She could not imagine what Lady Thane’s reaction would be had she known of Clare’s outright defiance of the arbiter of the fashionable world. An enemy, indeed! If Benedict had had his way, Clare had no doubt that she would even now be blasted into a pile of cinders.

There were still several days before the ball. Depend upon it, Lady Thane had warned, we will not see Lord Choate here again. How embarrassing it must have been for that Corinthian to pick up a young lady from the public walk. And escort her home, with a great rent in her gown, and her bonnet sadly alop.

But if he had been the kind of man Clare admired, she thought darkly, he would not have minded that.

Lady Thane’s pessimism did not lie deep. Of a cheerful disposition, but something of a realist, she had not held much hope that Lord Choate would distinguish her goddaughter in any way. Now, upon wishful reflection, she believed that Lord Choate also could not be troubled to exert himself to put down Clare’s possible pretensions.

Marianna Morton had a hint of hardness in her face, thought Lady Thane, that indicated that Lord Choate would find she required all his dutiful attention. And that, Lady Thane decided with satisfaction, would keep him from refining upon Clare’s youthful awkwardness.

In due time the incident dropped from the thoughts of both Lady Thane and Clare. The preparations for the party still took Lady Thane’s attention. One full day was spent with Mrs. Darrin and the man from Gunter’s on the confections to be served. And another day arranging for flowers and a plethora of potted palms.

Clare was glad enough, therefore, to receive an invitation from Lady Warfield to go riding in the park with her and her daughter. Quite likely, Sir Alexander would escort them. “Pray say that I might go,” begged Clare. And Lady Thane, somewhat surprised that Lady Warfield wished to contrast Clare’s pretty face with the plain face of her own daughter, agreed at once.

But she had misjudged Lady Warfield. That lady was not planning to marry her daughter to anyone except a distant cousin in Scotland, who was not of the fashionable world but who had what Lady Warfield considered an indecent number of sheep and five castles, or was it eight? She never could remember. At any rate, Clare’s undoubted fresh beauty stirred no jealousy in Eugenia’s heart, and Lady Warfield smiled benignly on them both as her coachman tooled the black barouche into the park.

It was nearing five o’clock in the afternoon, the most fashionable hour to be seen in the park. She was already acquainted with many of the famous beauties, the Duchess of Rutland, Lady Cowper. Lady Hertford bowed to them both as they met, and Lady Jersey, the regent’s great friend, passed by on the other side.

It was a balmy afternoon, the mildest of breezes lifted Clare’s curls, and soon she began to feel more comfortable. It would be too much, she thought, to expect her to feel at home in this world, but apparently Benedict had not passed the word that she was hopelessly naive. At least the Countess Lieven smiled kindly at her, she noticed, and Lady Warfield, by her countenancing of Clare, gave her as much credit as she could.

“There’s Lord Alvanley,” said Eugenia, her plain face lighting with impish amusement. “Do you know that he likes apricot tart so well that his cook makes one a day, and there is always a fresh one on his sideboard?”

“Doesn’t he get tired of it?” marveled Clare. “I vow I should not want the same taste day after day.”

Lady Warfield laughed. “So one should. But Alvanley, you know, never eats it. And yet he is the most good-natured man in the world and I dote on him.”

“Then why...?”

“Because he might want to,” said Eugenia, “eat it, I mean.”

Lady Warfield demurred. “I think he has simply forgotten to tell them he no longer wants the tart. He’s terribly absentminded, you know.”

Diverting as was the gossip of Lady Warfield, seasoned by the unexpected humor of Eugenia, yet the constant spectacle of dandies and more sober gentlemen, of ladies in their superb carriages, provided much entertainment for Clare. She forgot her own troubles in marveling at Lady Melbourne’s proud demeanor, when everyone knew she had borne children by several different fathers.

Or learning that two gentlemen had wagered five hundred pounds the night before at Watier’s on the outcome of two flies climbing up the wall—the bet fell through when one of the flies buzzed away, leaving behind him an acrimonious dispute as to whether the bet was still valid.

Her enjoyment faded when she saw, with sinking heart, Marianna Morton cantering gracefully toward them. Clare’s glance slid past Marianna to the sober-clad horseman behind her. Choate, of course.

A flush mantled Clare’s cheek as she fell into confusion. What could she say to him? How would he greet her? Like the hoyden that he must have thought her? She clenched her hands together in her lap and waited for the blow to fall.

It did not fall. She heard Lady Warfield and Eugenia greeting Miss Morton, and knew that Benedict spoke to the Warfields. And to Clare. She forced herself to look up, unable to conceal the apprehension in her eyes.

Lord Choate, however, seemed to regard her with indifference, and spoke only the merest commonplaces, and soon she began to believe that she had refined too much upon the incident the other day. More proof, if it were needed, of her
greenness.

Before she could bring herself to answer Benedict’s remarks, Marianna had nodded to them and moved off, Benedict dutifully in her wake.

“She does remind me,” said Eugenia thoughtfully, “of my old governess. Remember Patterson, Mama? Such a disciplinarian, Clare. I was quite afraid of her.”

“Miss Morton has far too much
ton
for you to speak of her thus,” said Lady Warfield repressively.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” said Eugenia. But she gave Clare a glance brimming with amusement, and Clare smiled back. It was helpful, she thought, to consider the splendid Miss Morton in the irreverent light that Eugenia cast on her. Clare decided, suddenly, that she did not like Marianna Morton in the least.

The barouche now turned, on Lady Warfield’s order, and began the return journey. Harry Rowse cantered up and spoke to them, his eyes lingering on Clare. He was a friendly face among many impersonal and indifferent ones, and Clare felt a grateful warming toward him. But Lady Warfield spoke coldly, and did not stop. Toward the corner, just before they were to leave the park, a latecomer to the promenade hurried in on a fresh horse, tit-tupping as it caracoled onto the drive.

“Cousin Alexander!” cried Eugenia. “I thought he would not wish to be late, when he knew who was riding in our carriage,” she added with an arch glance at Clare.

He was an undistinguished man, with a plain but kindly face, and since he knew he could not approach Corinthian sartorial splendor, he chose not to try. Clad in fawn riding breeches and a black coat, he managed to look unexceptionable, which, to do him justice, was all he wished.

Now, reining in beside the Warfield barouche, he doffed his top hat and spoke pleasantly.

“I was delayed,” he said importantly, “because Catalini was arriving at the opera house just as I went past. By the stars, there is a fine woman, and they say she has a voice that could charm the angels. I should wish to hear her, for you must know that I have heard the greatest singers in Italy, and I consider myself no mean judge of the voice, you know.

“While I feel that
bel canto
is by far the most delightful sound, yet I must confess there is something about the impassioned drama that impels one to continue listening, no matter what the music.”

Turning to Clare, he made a bow. “Perhaps, if Lady Thane would like it, I could make up a party to view the opera. Should you like that?”

“Of all things!” cried Clare, suddenly enthusiastic. “Shall it be soon?”

“I will see whether my sister, Mrs. Totten, will come with us. Totten has a box, you know, and he has offered it to me any number of times. I think I shall certainly take advantage of the opportunity, don’t you know.”

Leaving him with many expressions of civility, the Warfield carriage moved on, past the corner and through the streets until it arrived in Grosvenor Square. Entering the house, Clare glanced behind her to the park in the center of the square. Behind the iron fencing, several children played a game with a brightly colored ball, and a barking dog capered, delirious with excitement.

Life here in London was beginning to take a turn for the better, she thought. The great ball of Lady Thane’s was approaching, Sir Alexander was being very attentive, and she truly liked him, even though she had dark thoughts about his prosiness, and Lord Benedict Choate had not deliberately snubbed her, this first meeting after the incident Cousin Benedict—she thought with amusement. How he would hate for her to call him that—the connection being remote, but unmistakably there! She resolved not to yield to the temptation to sting him further.