Page 93 of The Rake's Daughter
“You don’t wish to rest after your long journey, ma’am?” Clarissa asked.
“Good gad, no. Clothes are far more important than rest,” their new chaperone declared, setting down her empty cup and rising. “Now, I’ll go and see if Olive is ready for company. We have so much to catch up on.” She turned back to the girls. “She still doesn’t leave the house?”
“Mostly not, but we’ve persuaded her to attend a literary society,” Izzy said. “Traveling in a closed sedan chair.”
“Clever notion. I gather you mean Bea Davenham’s literary society. Excellent. I’m looking forward to renewing my acquaintances there. Many men attend?”
Clarissa shook her head. “Not many.”
“Oh well, you can’t have everything.” She sailed off, leaving Izzy and Clarissa looking at each other, bemused.
“She’s not at all what I expected,” Clarissa said.
“No indeed,” Izzy said with a chuckle. “I wonder what the Grumpy Guardian will make of her. Did he have any idea of the kind of woman he was hiring?”
Clarissa gave her a troubled look. “Are you still calling him that? I thought you two were getting on much better these days.”
Izzy had thought so, too, but...I think it best if we distance ourselves from each other in future.
“No, he’s still impossible,” she said lightly. She’d decided not to tell Clarissa what had happened. Her sister had such a soft heart she didn’t want to upset her. Besides, Izzy was still trying to sort out her own feelings.
***
On being informed that the girls’ chaperone had finally arrived, Leo went to call on her immediately. Aunt Olive had assured him her old friend would make a perfect chaperone, being widowed and wellborn, and that, despiteher years in Wales, Mrs. Price-Jones had kept in touch with all her old London friends and would know exactly how girls making their come-out should go on.
He had to admit he was relieved. Having a chaperone in charge of the girls would define his role more clearly to society and lessen any gossip about him and Isobel. And with a chaperone taking care of things, he could keep his distance more easily—until the gossip died down at least.
He also needed to have a private word with Isobel. He had the feeling she’d quite misinterpreted his suggestion about distancing themselves from each other in public.
He found all the ladies in the sitting room, drinking tea. Treadwell fetched another cup for him. Isobel was sitting on the sofa with her sister. She didn’t even look at him when he entered, just murmured a polite greeting in his general direction.
Yes, he’d offended her. Or upset her. Or something. Blast.
“So, dear boy, you’re in charge of these delightful gels,” Mrs. Price-Jones said after they’d been introduced. “My, my, how time does fly.”
Noticing his expression at her calling him “dear boy” so familiarly, she laughed. “You won’t remember me, but I knew you before you were breeched, young man. I was acquainted with both your parents. My condolences on their passing. Now, what eligible young men have you found for these gels so far?”
Leo blinked. “ ‘Eligible young men’?” he repeated. He was still adjusting to the spectacle of the entirely black-clad woman sitting among Aunt Olive’s bright possessions like a large chunk of coal.
And Isobel’s unsettling demeanor.
He’d known Aunt Olive’s friend was a widow, but this woman was not at all what he’d imagined. Or hoped for. He wanted someone strict enough to control the more outrageous impulses of the girls—well, Isobel—but also tobefriend and guide them. This woman looked as though for two pins she’d pull out a whip.
“The gels are in search of husbands,” she reminded him bluntly. “And as an eligible young man yourself, you must know plenty of others to present to them.”
Playing for time, because he couldn’t think of anyone suitable, Leo picked up the teapot to top up his aunt’s cup. As he did, the chaperone woman leaned across to the young ladies and said in what she must have believed was a whisper, “He’s very handsome. Why haven’t one of you set your cap for him?”
Leo almost dropped the teapot. He plonked it down and glared at the woman and the young ladies sitting demurely side by side on the sofa. “I am their guardian,” he said repressively. “It would not be appropriate.”
Miss Clarissa’s eyes danced. Isobel set her jaw and looked away. Something was definitely wrong.
Mrs. Price-Jones, quite unembarrassed at being caught in her indiscretion, laughed. “Oh piffle, you men and your notions of honor. As if love doesn’t trump everything. Still, if we can’t match you up with one of these charming young ladies, one of your friends might do. Who have they met so far?” She looked at Leo expectantly, her eyes twinkling like boot buttons.
“My friend, Lord Randall, has taken the young ladies riding several times,” he said stiffly. This woman was outrageous. Mocking his honor and discussing him with the girls like that in his presence. Talking of his friends as if they were shopping at the market.
And Isobel still hadn’t met his eyes once.
“Quite inappropriate,” Aunt Olive said scathingly from her peacock chair. “Randall is arake!”
