The Gallant Guardian (2 page)

“Charlotte is a bright, capable little thing, but she has her hands full with William. Cecil, pompous fool that he is, would not be of the slightest use to either of them should something happen to me,” he mused aloud as he and Maximilian were taking each other on in a game of piquet one afternoon.

“Mmmm,” Lord Lydon murmured vaguely as he studied his hand.

This was all the encouragement Harcourt had needed, his customary reticence momentarily overcome by his very real worries and the opportunity to lay them before someone whose advice he could rely on. “There is no one else in the family, you see, and after William, Cecil is the heir. A more self-righteous prig you could never hope to see, and yet…” The earl paused to scrutinize the card Max had just laid down on the baize-covered table. “And yet, there is something I do not quite like about the man. He is a havey-cavey sort of fellow for all his mealy-mouthed ways.”

“Ah.”

“Then you see what I mean. It would never do to leave the children in his care should I meet an untimely end. I can do nothing about the entail, but I do have some control over their guardianship and naturally I shall designate someone whose integrity I can rely upon, someone who can stand up to Cecil.”

“Naturally,” Lydon echoed as he laid another card on the table.

Max’s noncommittal reply was not entirely discouraging and Hugo, who possessed little or no faith in the intelligence of most of his fellows and had already mentally cataloged and rejected everyone else he could think of, was becoming so desperate that even this lukewarm response was enough to encourage him. “Would you be so kind? I’m sure there will not be the least need because I am strong as a cart horse, but of course one never likes to tempt fate.”

“Of course.” And that had been the extent of the conversation that had landed Maximilian in this muddle. Obviously the earl had not been as strong as a cart horse and now here he was, saddled with—how many children was it? The marquess glanced uneasily at a heap of unanswered correspondence piled high on a corner of his desk. Undoubtedly the full particulars of the case lay buried somewhere in there, thoroughly explained in an official document from Harcourt’s solicitor. For the past several weeks Lydon had been too involved in raising capital for his newest venture to pay much attention to anything else and now he was being suitably punished for this lapse.

The marquess sighed as he pulled the pile of letters toward him and began to sort through it. “Thank you, Felbridge. You were quite right to bring this letter to my attention, though I wish you had not, for now there is nothing to do but attend to it.” Max pulled out a heavy sheet of crested stationery, scrawled a few lines, and handed it to the waiting Felbridge. “Here, take this to Mr. Sedgewick in his chambers at Gray’s Inn, if you would, please. He will take care of it.”

Having consigned the welfare of Lady Charlotte Winterbourne and her brother to the care of his solicitor. Lord Lydon returned to his own more pressing business concerns without a second thought for the wards he had inadvertently gained.

Chapter Two

The wards, or at least one of the wards, was not about to be so easily dismissed. Hastily perusing the content of a letter from the estimable Mr. Sedgewick some days later, Charlotte Winterbourne frowned mightily and dashed it to the floor with a most unladylike expression of annoyance. The extremely civil tone of this particular letter did not deceive her for a moment. Once again she and her brother were being fobbed off, their care entrusted to the minion of a man too busy to concern himself with their welfare. She should not have been surprised at such a state of affairs, she told herself angrily. After all, her father had been ignoring his children for years, turning them over to an army of well-paid nurses and tutors so that he could forget their very existence while he immersed himself in his own affairs. Why should things be any different when he was dead?

Undoubtedly this Lord Lydon, someone close enough to the Earl of Harcourt to be chosen as guardian of his children, shared the earl’s distaste for familial obligations. Oh, she and William had been well enough looked after while her father lived in town. They had lacked for nothing in the way of creature comforts; any wish they had expressed had been granted and they had been given more than ample allowances. In fact, she and her brother William had lacked for nothing, but love. During his exceedingly infrequent visits to the home of his ancestors the earl had made it abundantly clear that his children held no more meaning for him than his vast estates. They were his duty and nothing more, part of the ancient heritage of the Earls of Harcourt that was to be administered and passed on to succeeding generations as his father had done before him. He lavished no more attention on them than he did on pointing the bricks of the chimneys or repairing the fences around the pastures. They were all exquisitely maintained, by her father’s servants, but that was the extent of the earl’s concern for them.

Well she, Charlotte, was not going to suffer such cavalier treatment. She might be passed off and ignored, but she was not about to allow such a thing to happen to William. As a young man of fifteen and the new Earl of Harcourt, he needed more guidance than an occasional letter from some solicitor in London.

Charlotte tucked her legs up under her, rested her chin on her hand, and stared out through the French doors that opened from the library onto the terrace. The park beyond stretched as far as the eye could see. Frowning, she tugged abstractedly at one stray dark curl as she concentrated on her next move. Obviously, mere correspondence was not going to accomplish what she had hoped it might. Now there was nothing for it but to journey to London herself and set this Lord Lydon straight. Let him try to fob her off on his solicitor when she appeared on his doorstep. Ignoring her while she was buried in the country was one thing, but face-to-face was quite another matter altogether.

Charlotte sighed and the frown deepened. She had not the slightest wish to visit the metropolis, with its crowds and dusty traffic-filled streets, but there was nothing for it; her duty lay clear before her and she had never been one to shirk her responsibilities. Ever since her mother had died, she had looked after the household and her younger brother, taking on tasks that were far too difficult for a child. To be sure, a five-year-old could not do much, but there had been a housekeeper, nursemaids, governesses, and an army of servants to carry out the actual work. Then, two years after William had been born, it became apparent that the protracted and difficult birth that had killed his mother had also retarded his development and Charlotte’s father had deserted them for good, abdicating to all intents and purposes his role as head of the household in favor of his slip of a daughter.

The Earl of Harcourt had never been around a great deal after his wife’s death, but following the discovery of his son’s diminished capacities he no longer bothered to return at all, preferring to reduce his contact with the family to the written word.

Feeling lost and deserted by a parent whose visits had been infrequent at best. Charlotte had lavished all her attention on her younger brother, resolving that he should never lack the love and affection that she had craved so desperately after her mother had died. She had been amply repaid for her troubles. Slow though he might be intellectually, William was a handsome, affectionate lad who adored his older sister. He followed her everywhere and hung on her every word. Charlotte had become both mother and teacher to him, devoting hours to coaxing his mind through its painstakingly slow development and fiercely rejecting the opinions offered by her own governess and a score of tutors that he would never be able to read or write.

At last, when she had mastered all that her own governess could teach her. Charlotte had turned in desperation to the local vicar. The Reverend Doctor Joseph Moreland was a gentle, learned man, devoted to his little flock of parishioners, and quite content to eschew the high positions to which his education and abilities entitled him in favor of active involvement in his community. He had welcomed the opportunity to share his scholarship with a pupil as quick and eager as Charlotte and had taken on the challenge of teaching her brother with such enthusiasm that William, at the age of fifteen, was able to say his letters, do his sums, and read and write as well as any eight-year-old.

In
fact, thanks to the Herculean efforts of Charlotte and the vicar, William appeared to the casual observer to be a healthy, good-natured easygoing lad with all the energy and interest of a normal sporting-mad fifteen-year-old. It was not until one engaged him in any sort of a discussion that one noticed that his words were simple and often slow to come to him and that his conversation was confined to such basic topics as horses, dogs, and anything else that might engage the attention of an eight-year-old.

The local villagers accepted him and loved him as much for his own sake as for his sister’s and he was a familiar sight as he haunted the blacksmith’s and the stable at the inn, plying the men with questions about horses, which were his passion.

A common sight in the village, the tall blond boy and his diminutive dark-haired sister offered quite a contrast with one another. He was big-framed and loose-limbed like his father, with bright blue eyes and a smiling, open countenance, while she was small and slim. Her wide green eyes, set under delicately arched brows, were thoughtful and observant, her expression serious. The full lips of a mouth too generous for perfect beauty rarely smiled, but when they did, her face was transformed, allowing the rare observer to see that under the reserved exterior lived a more whimsical, fun-loving creature that had been stifled by responsibilities assumed too early in life. It was a lively face, withal, and her entire being radiated energy and purpose.

It was this energy that prompted her to shake herself, much to the dismay of the spaniel sleeping peacefully in front of her chair. “If I must, I must,” Charlotte muttered. Uncoiling her legs from underneath her, she rose and went in search of her brother.

As usual, William was to be found in the stables currying Duke, his own horse, seeing to the care of Charlotte’s Brutus and the carriage horses, and exchanging a few words with the lads who were cleaning out the stalls and filling the feed troughs. Ever since babyhood William had been fascinated with the animals, always wanting to pat them whenever he saw them and never showing the least sign of unease with even the largest or most spirited mount. In turn, the horses seemed to sense his fascination and curbed their restiveness or ill temper whenever he was around.

Almost as soon as he could walk, William had escaped to the stables where he seemed to be equally at home with the powerful carriage horses and huge plow horses as he was with his own pony. The grooms and stableboys soon recognized his strange affinity with these animals and left the lad to his own devices when they saw he knew what he was about. They even allowed him to brush out the manes and forelocks of the more docile creatures and feed them bits of apple or lumps of sugar that he had cajoled Cook into giving him.

“Hello, Charlie.” William turned to welcome his sister with a wide, endearing smile as he let go of the hoof he had been examining with some concern.

“Hello.” Charlotte could not help smiling in return. No matter how lonely and abandoned she might feel, she never failed to be restored by the light in her brother’s eyes which told her that one person, at least, not only needed her, but loved her very much.

“I thought Duke had a stone in his shoe, but I cannot find one.” He patted the horse, who butted him lovingly and sniffed his pocket in search of any stray delicacy that his master might have overlooked.

“I am glad he does not. William, dear, I am afraid that I have to go to London. I hope to be gone only for the day. Mrs. Hodges will see to it that you are looked after, and of course you will continue your lessons with Dr. Moreland,” Charlotte hastened to reassure him.

“But Charlie, may I not come with you?” The big blue eyes regarded her anxiously and there was just the slightest tremor discernible in her brother’s lower lip.

“Not this time, dear, for I am very much afraid I shall have to spend the entire day doing boring old business.” Then, unable to bear his look of disappointment, she added brightly, “But perhaps some time we may go together and see the Tower and Mr. Astley’s performing horses.”

“Oh I should like that.” Excited by the prospect of such adventure, William immediately forgot any doubts he might have had and turned his attention back to Duke.

Charlotte shook her head, smiling ruefully. She was glad he was so easily reassured. Certainly she had intended for it to be that way, but the instant transition from fear of her leaving to forgetting all about it was disconcerting, nevertheless. Her brother’s simplicity could be exasperating at times as it allowed him to forget or ignore problems that kept her awake at night—problems such as her cousin Cecil’s impending arrival. Charlotte had been introduced to Sir Cecil Wadleigh and his family briefly many years ago at her mother’s funeral, and she had not particularly cared for him or for his interfering wife, who had overwhelmed her with false sympathy and even falser protestations of affection. Nor had she liked Cecil’s son, Basil, a slimy young man who kept pulling her curls and poking her when no one was looking. No, Charlotte had not the slightest use for any one of them, not then when young as she was she had mistrusted their air of sanctimonious officiousness, and not now when they were threatening to descend again like a thick fog: dense, cloying, and suffocating.

During her father’s funeral and afterward, Charlotte had done her best to act politely toward them, but when Cecil’s wife, Almeria, insisted on overriding the instructions Charlotte had already given to the housekeeper for taking care of the funeral guests she had held her tongue with difficulty. Cecil and his family were now back in Somerset at Wadleigh Manor, but not for long. Her cousin had reassured her of that as he had climbed into his carriage. “Once I give the proper instructions to my agent, I shall, of course, return, my dear Charlotte, for it is unthinkable that the estate be left without a man to run it.”