They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. “Twyford!”
Max glanced down as both carriages started to move again. “My lady.” He nodded and then they were swallowed up in the traffic.
Glancing back, Caroline saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. “Who was she?”
“That, my ward, was Sally, Lady Jersey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she’s kindhearted enough. She’s one of the seven patronesses of Almack’s. You’ll have to get vouchers to attend but I doubt that will be a problem.”
They continued in companionable silence, threading their way through the busy streets. Max was occupied with imagining the consternation Lady Jersey’s sighting of them was going to cause. And there was Ramsleigh, too. A wicked smile hovered on his lips. He rather thought he was going to spend a decidedly amusing evening. It would be some days before news of his guardianship got around. Until then, he would enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the mirth of his friends when they discovered the truth.
“OOOH, CARO! Isn’t he magnificent?” Arabella’s round eyes, brilliant and bright, greeted Caroline as she entered their parlour.
“Did he agree to be our guardian?” asked the phlegmatic Sarah.
And, “Is he nice?” from the youngest, Lizzie.
All the important questions, thought Caroline with an affectionate smile, as she threw her bonnet aside and subsided into an armchair with a whisper of her stylish skirts. Her three half-sisters gathered around eagerly. She eyed them fondly. It would be hard to find three more attractive young ladies, even though she did say so herself. Twenty-year-old Sarah, with her dark brown hair and dramatically pale face, settling herself on one arm of her chair. Arabella on her other side, chestnut curls rioting around her heart-shaped and decidedly mischievous countenance, and Lizzie, the youngest and quietest of them all, curling up at her feet, her grey-brown eyes shining with the intentness of youth, the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose persisting despite the ruthless application of Denmark lotion, crushed strawberries and every other remedy ever invented.
“Commonly held to be well to pass.” Caroline’s own words echoed in her ears. Her smile grew. “Well, my loves, it seems we are, incontrovertibly and without doubt, the Duke of Twyford’s wards.”
“When does he want to meet us?” asked Sarah, ever practical.
“Tomorrow afternoon. He’s opening up Twyford House and we’re to move in then. He resides at Delmere House, where I went this morning, so the properties will thus be preserved. His aunt, Lady Benborough, is to act as our chaperon—she’s apparently well-connected and willing to sponsor us. She’ll be there tomorrow.”
A stunned silence greeted her news. Then Arabella voiced the awe of all three. “Since ten this morning?”
Caroline’s eyes danced. She nodded.
Arabella drew a deep breath. “Is he…masterful?”
“Very!” replied Caroline. “But you’ll be caught out, my love, if you think to sharpen your claws on our guardian. He’s a deal too shrewd, and experienced besides.” Studying the pensive faces around her, she added. “Any flirtation between any of us and Max Rotherbridge would be doomed to failure. As his wards, we’re out of court, and he won’t stand any nonsense, I warn you.”
“Hmm.” Sarah stood and wandered to the windows before turning to face her. “So it’s as you suspected? He won’t be easy to manage?”
Caroline smiled at the thought and shook her head decisively. “I’m afraid, my dears, that any notions we may have had of setting the town alight while in the care of a complaisant guardian have died along with the last Duke.” One slim forefinger tapped her full lower lip thoughtfully. “However,” she continued, “provided we adhere to society’s rules and cause him no trouble, I doubt our new guardian will throw any rub in our way. We did come to London to find husbands, after all. And that,” she said forcefully, gazing at the three faces fixed on hers, “is, unless I miss my guess, precisely what His Grace intends us to do.”
“So he’s agreed to present us so we can find husbands?” asked Lizzie.
Again Caroline nodded. “I think it bothers him, to have four wards.” She smiled in reminiscence, then added, “And from what I’ve seen of the ton thus far, I suspect the present Duke as our protector may well be a distinct improvement over the previous incumbent. I doubt we’ll have to fight off the fortune-hunters.”
Some minutes ticked by in silence as they considered their new guardian. Then Caroline stood and shook out her skirts. She took a few steps into the room before turning to address her sisters.
“Tomorrow we’ll be collected at two and conveyed to Twyford House, which is in Mount Street.” She paused to let the implication of her phrasing sink in. “As you love me, you’ll dress demurely and behave with all due reticence. No playing off your tricks on the Duke.” She looked pointedly at Arabella, who grinned roguishly back. “Exactly so! I think, in the circumstances, we should make life as easy as possible for our new guardian. I feel sure he could have broken the guardianship if he had wished and can only be thankful he chose instead to honour his uncle’s obligations. But we shouldn’t try him too far.” She ended her motherly admonitions with a stern air, deceiving her sisters not at all.
As the other three heads came together, Caroline turned to gaze unseeingly out of the window. A bewitching smile curved her generous lips and a twinkle lit her grey-green eyes. Softly, she murmured to herself, “For I’ve a definite suspicion he’s going to find us very trying indeed!”
THUP, THUP, THUP. The tip of Lady Benborough’s thin cane beat a slow tattoo, muffled by the pile of the Aubusson carpet. She was pleasantly impatient, waiting with definite anticipation to see her new charges. Her sharp blue gaze had already taken in the state of the room, the perfectly organised furniture, everything tidy and in readiness. If she had not known it for fact, she would never have believed that, yesterday morn, Twyford House had been shut up, the knocker off the door, every piece of furniture shrouded in Holland covers. Wilson was priceless. There was even a bowl of early crocus on the side-table between the long windows. These stood open, giving access to the neat courtyard, flanked by flowerbeds bursting into colourful life. A marble fountain stood at its centre, a Grecian maiden pouring water never-endingly from an urn.
Her contemplation of the scene was interrupted by a peremptory knock on the street door. A moment later, she heard the deep tones of men’s voices and relaxed. Max. She would never get used to thinking of him as Twyford—she had barely become accustomed to him being Viscount Delmere. Max was essentially Max—he needed no title to distinguish him.
The object of her vagaries strode into the room. As always, his garments were faultless, his boots beyond compare. He bowed with effortless grace over her hand, his blue eyes, deeper in shade than her own but alive with the same intelligence, quizzing her. “A vast improvement, Aunt.”
It took a moment to realise he was referring to her latest wig, a newer version of the same style she had favoured for the past ten years. She was not sure whether she was pleased or insulted. She compromised and snorted. “Trying to turn me up pretty, heh?”
“I would never insult your intelligence so, ma’am,” he drawled, eyes wickedly laughing.
Lady