The Wicked Guardian Read Online Free PDF Page A

the time she had first glimpsed them, could not believe that such eyebrows existed.
    “I shall believe them when I see them,” she had told grandmama brightly.
    There were few enough Penrycks left, so Grandmama had once told her. “Your poor papa was the last. Except for a distant cousin, and she died young.”
    This particular day, Lady Thane found she had exhausted her supply of reading material. Repairing to Mr. Lane’s library in Leadenhall Street, she explained to Clare, “I know I shall not have much time to read now that you are here, but I do like to settle down in the afternoon after lunch with one of Miss Burney’s novels. I have read all that she has written, I believe. And some, more than once. I do believe I have read Clarentine —one of her books, you know—three times. Do you read a great deal?”
    “We do not have a bookseller near us,” said Clare. “But I did borrow from Lady Melvin a novel called The Fated Revenge .” She laughed a little, and added, “I have never cried so much in my life.”
    Lady Thane nodded approvingly. “You show great sensibility, my dear. I do not blush when I say that I have wept more at Maria Edgeworth’s hands than I did when my dear husband died.”
    The carriage turned into Leadenhall Street, to find they were not alone in seeking the latest from the Minerva Press. There were two barouches ahead of them, and by the time that Lady Thane’s carriage reached the door, and her footman, Charles, leaped to the ground and disappeared inside with his mistress’s list in his hand, the owner of one of the vehicles was emerging from the door of the library.
    It was, so Lady Thane announced, Miss Marianna Morton, one of the brightest lights of society, betrothed a year since to Lord Benedict Choate.
    But Clare had eyes only for the exceedingly well-dressed gentleman who followed Miss Morton toward her carriage. He was dressed in trousers of gray, a morning coat of impeccable fit and quiet cut, and a top hat. His “highlows” were polished till they outshone the sun, and, if Clare had known it, they were among Hoby’s newest creations.
    The gentleman had a distinct curl to his lip, and the glance full of faint contempt with which he swept the street could have daunted the brashest person. But Clare bounced in her seat and said, “I know him!”
    Lady Thane looked at her with unveiled surprise. “You do? Lord Benedict Choate? How can that be, child?”
    The conversation had not taken into consideration the open window of the carriage. Clare’s voice had carried as far as the nonpareil standing on the sidewalk. Lord Choate turned in their direction, and then, recognizing Lady Thane, descended the steps and crossed the sidewalk to speak to her.
    Somewhat flustered, Lady Thane managed the introductions, including Miss Morton, who joined her affianced husband.
    “But then,” she said in a rush, “I needn’t have introduced you, should I? For my goddaughter, Lord Choate, tells me she knows you!”
    Lord Benedict bowed civilly. “I fear I have the wretchedest memory,” he murmured.
    “Of course you don’t remember,” said Clare, seeing that she had made a mull of things. “It is only your eyebrows...”
    Lord Benedict lifted one of the items in question, and Clare rushed on. “In the long gallery at home, you know,” she stammered. “All the portraits of the Penrycks...” Her voice died away, as enlightenment dawned on Lord Choate.
    “My mother was a Penryck,” he said musingly. “But I fear I am not acquainted with her family. She died, you must know, when I was very young.”
    Clare thought of several things she wanted to say to him, but before she could decide upon one of them, she met the quelling eye of Choate’s betrothed. Miss Morton was dressed in a simple elegance that reduced Clare to dumbness. Her gown of gray, with the new full sleeves, was topped by a bonnet of primrose yellow, setting off her raven curls. Clare felt at once dowdy and awkward.