As soon as the carriage door was shut by the majestic Rickshaw, the horses moved forward at a trot. Margaret 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 of their futures had taken. Imagine having a guardian like that!
Although surprised at being redirected from the Twyford House to Delmere House, she had still expected to meet the vague and amenable gentleman who had so 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 fat too perceptive for her living. 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, Margaret would have said that, with the present Duke of Twyford, managing women was a specialty. 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 Margaret 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 eyes 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 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 Margaret Fleming’s departure from Delmere House, Felix has issued a succession of orders, one of which caused Mr. Robert Bailey, son of Mr. Joseph Bailey, the patriarch of the firm Bailey and Brown, Solicitors, of Chancery Lane, to present himself at Delmere House just before eleven. Mr. Bailey 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 Rickshaw showed him into the well-appointed library, he breathed a sigh of relief, not for the first time, that it was Felix Cambridge who had inherited the difficult Twyford estates. Unknown to Felix, Mr. Bailey 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.
Felix was frowning. “Of course,” Mr. Bailey went on, consulting the documents on his knee, “You would only be responsible for the three young girls.” Instantly he had his client’s attention, the blue eyes oddly piercing. “Oh? Why is that?” “Under the terms of their father’s will, the Missed Fleming were given into the care of the Duke of Twyford until they attained the age of twenty-five or married. According to my records, I believe Miss Fleming to be nearing her twenty-sixth birthday. So she could , should she wish, assume responsibility for herself.” Felix’s
After Mr. Bailey left, Felix issued a set of rapid and comprehensive orders to his majordomo Gibson. In response, his savants flew to various corners of London, some to Twyford House, others to certain agencies specializing in the hire of household staff to the élite of the ton. One footman was despatched with a note from the Duke to an address in Half Moon Street, requesting the favour of a private interview with his paternal aunt, Lady Hillsborough. As Felix had intended, his politely worded missive intrigued his aunt. Wondering what had prompted such a strange request from her reprehensible nephew, she immediately granted it and settled down to await his coming with an air of pleasurable anticipation. Felix arrived at the small house shortly after noon. He found his aunt attired in a very becoming gown of purple sarsenet with a new and unquestionably modish wig perched atop her commanding visa
Knowing this was an attitude he was going to meet increasingly in the next few weeks, Felix sighed. In an even tone suggestive of long suffering, he pointed out the obvious. "They weren't left to me but to my esteemed and now departed uncle's care. Mind you, I can't see that he'd have been much use to 'em either." Wiping the tears from her eyes, Lady Hillsborough considered this view. "Can't see it myself," she admitted. "Harry always was a slow-top. Who are they?" "The Misses Fleming. From Hertfordshire." Felix proceeded to give her a brief résumé of the life history of the Flemings, ending with the information that it transpired all four girls were heiresses. Amelia Hillsborough was taken aback. "And you say they're beautiful to boot?" "The one I've seen, Margaret, the eldest, most definitely is."&n
When he called at Guile's promptly at two, Felix was relieved to find Miss Fleming alone in the foyer, seated on a chaise opposite the door, her bonnet beside her. He was not to know that Margaret had had to exert every last particle of persuasion to achieve this end. And she had been quite unable to prevent her three sisters from keeping watch from the windows of their bedchambers. As she had expected, she had had to describe His Grace of Twyford in detail for her sisters. Looking up at the figure striding across the foyer towards her, she did not think she had done too badly. What had been hardest to convey was the indefinable air that hung about him—compelling, exciting, it immediately brought to mind a whole range of emotions well-bred young ladies were not supposed to comprehend, let alone feel. As he took her hand for an instant in his own,
They had reached the gates of the Park and turned into the carriage drive. Soon, the curricle was bowling along at a steady pace under the trees, still devoid of any by the earliest leaves. A light breeze lifted the ends of the ribbons on Margaret's hat and playfully danced along the horses' dark manes. Felix watched as Margaret gazed about her with interest. "I'm afraid you'll not see many notables at this hour. Mostly nursemaids and their charges. Later, between three and five, it'll crowded. The Season's not yet begun in earnest, but by now most people will have returned to town. And the Park is the place to be seen. All the old biddies come here to exchange the latest on-dits and all the young ladies promenade along the walks with their beaux." "I see." Margaret smiled to herself, a secret smile as she imagined how she and her sisters would fit into this scene. Feli
"Oooh, Maggie! Isn't he magnificent?" Maribella's round eyes, brilliant and bright, greeted Margaret as she entered their parlour. "Did he agree to be our guardian?" Asked the phlegmatic Sophia. And, "Is he nice?" from the youngest Emma. All the important questions, thought Margaret 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 Sophia, with her dark brown hair and dramatically pale face, settling herself on one arm of her chair. Maribella on h
Thup, thup, thup. The tip of Lady Hillsborough's thin cane bear 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 organized 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. Gibson 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 beat 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 in the street door. A moment l