One way or another, he would break the ties of guardianship. A short silence fell, punctuated by the steady ticking of the long case clock in the corner. Max took the opportunity afforded by Miss Twinning’s apparent fascination with the rows of leather-bound tomes at his back to study her face once more. A fresh face, full of lively humour and a brand of calm self-possession which, in his experience, was rarely found in young women. Undoubtedly a woman of character.
His sharp ears caught the sound of carriage wheels in the street. He rose and Caroline perforce rose, too. “Come, Miss Twinning. Your carriage awaits.”
Max led her to the front door but forbore to go any further, bowing over her hand gracefully before allowing Hillshaw to escort her to the waiting carriage. The less chance there was for anyone to see him with her the better. At least until he had solved this guardianship tangle.
AS SOON AS the carriage door was shut by the majestic Hillshaw, the horses moved forward at a trot. Caroline lay back against the squabs, her gaze fixed unseeingly on the near-side window as the carriage traversed fashionable London. Bemused, she tried to gauge the effect of the unexpected turn their futures had taken. Imagine having a guardian like that!
Although surprised at being redirected from Twyford House to Delmere House, she had still expected to meet the vague and amenable gentleman who had so readily acquiesced, albeit by correspondence, to all her previous suggestions. Her mental picture of His Grace of Twyford had been of a man in late middle age, bewigged as many of her father’s generation were, distinctly past his prime and with no real interest in dealing with four lively young women. She spared a small smile as she jettisoned her preconceived image. Instead of a comfortable, fatherly figure, she would now have to deal with a man who, if first impressions were anything to go by, was intelligent, quick-witted and far too perceptive for her liking. To imagine the new Duke would not know to a nicety how to manage four young women was patently absurd. If she had been forced to express an opinion, Caroline would have said that, with the present Duke of Twyford, managing women was a speciality. Furthermore, given his undoubted experience, she strongly suspected he would be highly resistant to feminine cajoling in any form. A frown clouded her grey-green eyes. She was not entirely sure she approved of the twist their fates had taken. Thinking back over the recent interview, she smiled. He had not seemed too pleased with the idea himself.
For a moment, she considered the possibility of coming to some agreement with the Duke, essentially breaking the guardianship clause of her father’s will. But only for a moment. It was true she had never been presented to the ton but she had cut her social eyeteeth long ago. While the idea of unlimited freedom to do as they pleased might sound tempting, there was the undeniable fact that she and her half-sisters were heiresses of sorts. Her father, having an extremely repressive notion of the degree of knowledge which could be allowed mere females, had never been particularly forthcoming regarding their eventual state. Yet there had never been any shortage of funds in all the years Caroline could remember. She rather thought they would at least be comfortably dowered. Such being the case, the traps and pitfalls of society, without the protection of a guardian, such as the Duke of Twyford, were not experiences to which she would willingly expose her sisters.
As the memory of a certain glint in His Grace of Twyford’s eye and the distinctly determined set of his jaw drifted past her mind’s eye, the unwelcome possibility that he might repudiate them, for whatever reasons, hove into view. Undoubtedly, if there was any way to overset their guardianship, His Grace would find it. Unaccountably, she was filled with an inexplicable sense of disappointment.
Still, she told herself, straightening in a purposeful way, it was unlikely there was anything he could do about it. And she rather thought they would be perfectly safe with the new Duke of Twyford, as long as they were his wards. She allowed her mind to dwell on the question of whether she really wanted to be safe from the Duke of Twyford for several minutes before giving herself a mental shake. Great heavens! She had only just met the man and here she was, mooning over him like a green girl! She tried to frown but the action dissolved into a sheepish grin at her own susceptibility. Settling more comfortably in the corner of the luxurious carriage, she fell to rehearsing her description of what had occurred in anticipation of her sisters’ eager questions.
WITHIN MINUTES of Caroline Twinning’s departure from Delmere House, Max had issued a succession of orders, one of which caused Mr. Hubert Whitney, son of Mr. Josiah Whitney, the patriarch of the firm Whitney and White, Solicitors, of Chancery Lane, to present himself at Delmere House just before eleven. Mr. Whitney was a dry, desiccated man of uncertain age, very correctly attired in dusty black. He was his father’s son in every way and, now that his sire was no longer able to leave his bed, he attended to all his father’s wealthier clients. As Hillshaw showed him into the well-appointed library, he breathed a sigh of relief, not for the first time, that it was Max Rotherbridge who had inherited the difficult Twyford estates. Unknown to Max, Mr. Whitney held him in particular esteem, frequently wishing that others among his clients could be equally straightforward and decisive. It really made life so much easier.
Coming face-to-face with his favourite client, Mr. Whitney was immediately informed that His Grace, the Duke of Twyford, was in no way amused to find he was apparently the guardian of four marriageable young ladies. Mr. Whitney was momentarily at a loss. Luckily, he had brought with him all the current Twyford papers and the Twinning documents were among these. Finding that his employer did not intend to upbraid him for not having informed him of a circumstance which, he was only too well aware, he should have brought forward long ago, he applied himself to assessing the terms of the late Sir Thomas Twinning’s will. Having refreshed his memory on its details, he then turned to the late Duke’s will.
Max stood by the fire, idly watching. He liked Whitney. He did not fluster and he knew his business.
Finally, Mr. Whitney pulled the gold pince-nez from his face and glanced at his client. “Sir Thomas Twinning predeceased your uncle, and, under the terms of your uncle’s will, it’s quite clear you inherit all his responsibilities.”
Max’s black brows had lowered. “So I’m stuck with this guardianship?”
Mr. Whitney pursed his lips. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. The guardianship could be broken, I fancy, as it’s quite clear Sir Thomas did not intend you, personally, to be his daughters’ guardian.” He gazed at the fire and solemnly shook his head. “No one, I’m sure, could doubt that.”
Max smiled wryly.
“However,” Mr. Whitney continued, “should you succeed in dissolving the guardianship clause, then the young ladies will be left with no protector. Did I understand you correctly in thinking they are presently in London and plan to remain for the Season?”
It did not need a great deal of intelligence to see where Mr. Whitney’s discourse was heading. Exasperated at having his usually comfortably latent conscience pricked into life, Max stalked to the window and stood looking out at the courtyard beyond, hands clasped behind his straight back. “Good God, man! You can hardly think I’m a suitable guardian for four sweet young things!”
Mr. Whitney, thinking the Duke could manage very well if he chose to do so, persevered. “There remains the question of who, in your stead, would act for them.”
The certain knowledge of what would occur if he abandoned four inexperienced, gently reared girls to the London scene, to the mercies of well-bred wolves who roamed its streets, crystallised in Max’s unwilling mind. This was closely followed by the uncomfortable thought that he was considered the leader of one such pack, generally held to be the most dangerous. He could hardly refuse to be Caroline Twinning’s guardian, only to set her up as his mistress. No. There was a limit to what even he could face down. Resolutely thrusting aside the memory, still vivid, of a pair of grey-green eyes, he turned to Mr. Whitney and growled, “All right, dammit! What do I need to know?”
Mr. Whitney smiled benignly and started to fill him in on the Twinning family history, much as Caroline had told it. Max interrupted him. “Yes, I know all that! Just tell me in round figures—how much is each of them worth?”
Mr. Whitney named a figure and Max’s brows rose. For a moment, the