The Gallant Guardian (10 page)

“He even eats carrots from my hand now, Charlie,” William informed his sister proudly. “Do you think we could have deer here, Charlie?”

“I do not know, dear. I do not think that any live close enough to us for us to tame them.”

“But you would know where we could get some, wouldn’t you, sir?” He turned to his guardian, confident that the man’s obvious authority where horses, tailors, and carriages were concerned, extended to everything else.

Maximilian was touched. Ordinarily, the more people expected of him, the more he resisted their expectations; however, William was different. His expectations arose not so much from a wish to exert control over the marquess as from an absolute faith in his omnipotence, a faith that was as irresistible as it was flattering. He smiled. “I expect I might. I shall have to make inquiries, though.”

“Oh would you, sir? That would be famous!”

It was Charlotte’s turn to smile, as she shook her head, murmuring, “Now you
are
in the basket, my lord, for he will not forget, nor will he let you rest until you discover something.”

“I do not mind. I would like to do something for him. He is a nice lad.” And strangely enough, Max meant every word.

Chapter Eleven

But it was not only William’s wishes that the marquess wished to gratify. The more he saw of William’s sister, the more he found himself wanting to do something that would enrich and enliven her life. Though Charlotte seemed perfectly satisfied looking after her brother and running both the household and the estate, to Maximilian, it seemed a lonely and cheerless existence. He began to observe her more closely. But the more he observed her, the more he realized that Charlotte enjoyed what she did and that he had done her a disservice in thinking her life hard because it seemed so in comparison to the frivolous, fashionable rounds pursued by the rest of his female acquaintances.

In fact, her life was not so very different from his own. She arose early each morning and, usually accompanied by William, rode for an hour or more after breakfast. Then she retired to the library to read and look over accounts. The afternoon was spent dealing with the housekeeper, the butler, the bailiff, and various tenants. In fact, it was a productive and energetic existence, so why did he feel the urge to add some gaiety and more companionship to it or to give her things that would make her life more like those of other women?

Charlotte was already more than grateful to her guardian for having removed what she considered to be the only flaw in her existence. Not very many days after the discussion at luncheon, the Wadleighs had departed, protesting loudly at the irregularity of a situation in which a bachelor of questionable reputation was left to look after a young woman not ten years his junior while blood relatives of the highest respectability were cast off without so much as a by-your-leave.

“For that is what we have been, Cecil, utterly cast off and ignored.” Almeria climbed into their traveling carriage and settled herself huffily against the squabs. “It is a most improper situation for which I hold your mother completely accountable. If she had shown the proper sisterly regard for her brother, he would never have behaved in such a unnatural fashion, leaving his children to the care of…of…well, it does not bear thinking of.”

Cecil, who mourned the loss of Harcourt’ s luxuries more than he did the possible slur on the family name, was left with nothing to say. He was not a strong man, and being pushed around by the combined forces of Lord Lydon and his wife had left him feeling most unfortunate and ill-used. It was bad enough that the idiot boy should succeed to all that rightfully should have been Cecil’s, but to be virtually ordered off by the idiot’s guardian, and then to be blamed for the entire thing by his wife was more than he could bear.

Cecil slumped dispiritedly in the corner of the coach thinking gloomily that life was most unfair. The farther that Harcourt and its magnificent park receded into the distance, the more injured and resentful he grew until at last he could endure it no longer. Crossing his arms in front of him he straightened up and began to think. He would not suffer silently such an unlucky situation, but would stand up for himself, take charge, and take back what he deserved. At the moment he was not precisely sure how all this was to come about, but he was determined that it would, and soon.

Cecil was not the only one whose plans had been severely disrupted by Lord Lydon’s unexpected role as guardian to the Winterbournes. In the silken boudoir of a slim, elegant house in Brook Street, Isabella, Lady Hillyard, was listening intently to the most interesting report brought to her by her maid, Marie. A pert young French woman whose air of
a la modality
was second only to her mistress’s, Marie was far too august a personage to have involved herself in anything so vulgar as espionage, but she had bribed an admiring housemaid who aspired to be a lady’s maid with offers to teach her the art of coiffure if she would become friendly with the grooms who looked after the Marquess of Lydon’s horses.

“Nancy informs me that Lord Lydon has gone into Sussex to a place called Harcourt.” Marie was rhythmically brushing her mistress’s blond tresses.

“Harcourt?” Lady Hillyard’s blue eyes widened in surprise. The very little she had heard of the Earl of Harcourt did not offer any reasonable explanation for Lord Lydon’s sudden departure. In fact, he was so rarely seen at fashionable gatherings that Isabella, who knew the ancient and illustrious title well enough, was hard put to recall the man. Yes, now she had it, a tall man with a serious expression whose only companions were men of politics, hardly the sort of person to offer diversion enough to lure the pleasure-seeking Marquess of Lydon into the country, especially when she, Isabella, remained in town.

The beauty’s delicately arched brows snapped together in an irritated frown. Lord Lydon, skilled as he was in the art of love-making itself, often proved to be a frustratingly elusive lover, frequently failing to show the amount of devotion that Lady Hillyard required. In fact, it was very like him to disappear without so much as a line to her; he was so exasperatingly independent that Isabella sometimes wondered why she put up with him. However, he was so very rich that someone whose widow’s jointure was disappointingly small could not afford to overlook him. Besides, there was no denying that he was devastatingly attractive. Just one sardonic smile or a lazily appreciative glance from those penetrating gray eyes could make her quite breathless with desire.

To be sure, the marquess, both by reputation and by his own admission, was a dedicated bachelor, but Isabella was certain that given ample time and opportunity, she could change all that. After all, it had not been so very long ago that she had taken the
ton
by storm during her first Season. With her golden curls, deep blue eyes, retroussé nose, exquisite complexion, and elegant figure, she had been lucky enough to appear on the scene just as dark beauties were falling out of favor in the fashionable world. Hailed as an incomparable from the moment of her introduction to society, she had had her choice of suitors. Governed by prudence and her parents’ worldly experience, she had selected Sir Walter Hillyard.

Physically, Sir Walter was not nearly so prepossessing as his stunning bride, being an average-looking man of medium stature with an amiable, though undistinguished countenance. However, what he lacked in rank and physical appearance, he more than made up for in fortune. As he owned several prosperous coal mines and held a major interest in several canals, he was reckoned to be one of the warmest men in England. He had fulfilled his young wife’s expectations, catering to her expensive tastes and furnishing her with ample pin money while turning a blind eye to her ever-increasing circle of admirers. Unfortunately, he had been killed suddenly in a carriage accident and thus Isabella, who had failed to provide an heir for her benefactor, was forced to live on her widow’s portion while a distant married cousin enjoyed the full benefits of the inheritance.

Obviously, the thing to do for a woman who found herself in such an unfortunate situation was to remarry, but this had proven to be rather more difficult the second time than the first. It was not that Isabella had lost her looks; if anything she was even more stunning than when she had taken the
ton
by storm her first Season. Her figure had matured into voluptuous curves and her flirtatious smile had grown into a seductive invitation. In truth, more men crowded around her now than had ever before, but none of them was offering marriage. The dashing young widow soon discovered that while men thoroughly enjoyed a delicious dalliance with a sophisticated widow, they preferred to take younger, more innocent, and more biddable women as their wives.

Even Isabella, ordinarily so certain of her charms, had almost begun to feel discouraged when the Marquess of Lydon had appeared upon the scene. Possessed of a rather racy reputation himself, he appeared to pay not the slightest heed to the gossip whispered about Isabella among the town tabbies. Neither was he the least bit disconcerted by the throng of admirers that constantly surrounded her, never even bothering to acknowledge them whenever he sought her out. He always strode up to her boldly in a masterful way that brooked no denial. In any other man, such a calm assumption of his power to charm her would have infuriated Isabella, but where the devastatingly attractive Lord Lydon was concerned, this touch of arrogance only added to his charms and she found herself intrigued rather than annoyed.

His dedication to the bachelor state, however, was not so attractive, but Isabella, fully confident of her own captivating beauty, felt sure that it would only be a matter of time before she became the Marchioness of Lydon. This latest disappearance was something of a blow, but Lady Hillyard was a woman of infinite resource and in a situation where the stakes were high, she stood ready to spare no effort or expense in keeping herself informed. To this end, she had already liberally bribed the servants, both his and hers, but now it looked as though further outlays were called for. Nancy was summoned and questioned thoroughly and it was established that she had a younger brother who, for a handsome fee, would be willing to journey to Harcourt in order to learn more. While it was not unusual for Lord Lydon to disappear without notice, it was not like him to stay away for any length of time, and Isabella was determined to get to the bottom of this mysterious behavior.

It was several days before Ned reported back to Brook Street, and the interval during his absence was most uncomfortable for all members of the household. At best, Lady Hillyard could only be called impatient and, under the strain of her lover’s desertion, her temper deteriorated rapidly until Marie was the only one with enough temerity to face her; even she had had a Sevres figurine hurled at her for venturing to suggest that Madame should perhaps concentrate her efforts on a more susceptible admirer, such as Lord Atwater.

“Lord Atwater!” her mistress had screamed. “What is a mere baron to a marquess?”

“Available.” It was this reply that had brought the Sevres figurine crashing to the wall behind her, and the maid, who ordinarily held herself aloof from the rest of the household, was inspired to remark to the rest of the servants at dinner one evening that Madame was far gone this time. “It is the marquess she wants and the marquess she will have and no one else.”

“Well she won’t get him,” Nancy responded gloomily. “Everyone knows he has never kept a mistress for more than six months and has vowed never to get caught in the parson’s mousetrap. The mistress will not be worth living with if she sets her sights on him.” She sighed heavily, and the rest of them at the table nodded in silent agreement.

Everyone in Lady Hillyard’s household had completely underestimated their lady’s determination. The longer the marquess remained out of town, the more her determination increased until one day she astounded Marie by ordering her to see that things were made ready for a prolonged visit into Sussex.

“Sussex?” The maid echoed blankly. “But what about Madame’s engagements—the Countess of Northcote’s ball, Lady Featherstonaugh’s rout, the Venetian breakfast…”

“I shall have to cancel them. My relative, Lady Marling, writes me that she is rather low and in desperate need of company, so I have decided to pay her a visit.”

Marie, who had never known Lady Hillyard to yield to a humanitarian impulse in her life, gazed at her mistress in astonishment. “Lady Marling?”

Isabella looked just the slightest bit self-conscious. “She is my mother’s second cousin, but we were close…almost as though we were aunt and niece.”

Unable to hide her skeptical expression, the maid bent low over a flounce she was mending. Madame barely had any contact with her older brother, a highly respectable gentleman who refused to leave his estates in the country. That she could suddenly develop a fondness for a distant relation who happened to live in Sussex was as ludicrous as it was transparent.

Though she abhorred the country with the passion of a native Parisian, Marie was forced to admit that the pursuit of the Marquess of Lydon was bound to prove instructive, if not highly entertaining. “Very good, Madame, I shall begin the packing. Shall I alert the rest of the staff?”

Isabella colored ever so slightly under her maid’s ironic gaze. “I suppose so. Though except for the coachman, it hardly seems necessary. We shall be gone for such a short time.”

Chapter Twelve

Totally oblivious of his impending doom, Lord Lydon was discovering for the first time what a delightful companion a woman of sense could be. In fact, he often stopped to marvel in the middle of a morning ride, or as he was doing now, mulling over a move in their nightly game of chess, how comfortable he felt with Charlotte, more comfortable than he had felt with anyone ever before except perhaps Felbridge.

“It is your move, my lord,” Charlotte said, breaking into his reverie.