Teaching His Ward

Chapter 1 Marcus Harlington, Earl of Southwell swore under his breath when he opened the letter. Written in his Aunt Hortensia’s crabbed hand, it informed him that his ward had disappeared without warning. "She left a note to inform me that she was leaving for Ireland to visit 'old friends'. You can imagine what this must mean, a girl of her age. It is quite insupportable and I cannot think who may have influenced her. To travel unchaperoned, to bring certain disgrace upon herself and this family! Something must be done at once. I trust that you will appoint the necessary people to bring about her swift recovery, after which I can only imagine that she must be accepted into a convent." Marcus was not convinced that such a drastic solution would be needed, but if the girl had attempted to elope, her prospects might be bleak. The type of man who would induce a young girl to abscond was hardly a man who would make any kind of husband. It could not have come at a worse time. He was due to be leaving for Spain on a highly delicate diplomatic mission, which he could not now embark upon until the girl was found. A man of considerable intelligence and charisma, Marcus’s diplomatic skills had been in increasing demand following his successful military career. He hated to be idle, and was fearless in accepting even the riskiest of assignments. Once breakfasted, he set off for his club. On the way he recalled the letter that had unexpectedly come from the girl some weeks ago, and pondered at a connection. After sending his reply it had crossed his mind that he may have been too curt in response, even harsh. Though really, she was but a child. Far too young to be exposed to the roués and rakes that frequented the gatherings of the season. Even the sharpest-eyed mamma was little match for their predatory guile. George Gresham, one of Marcus's oldest friends, was seated in his usual chair. Marcus sank down opposite him, having requested his preferred refreshment from the servant in attendance. "Southwell, and at a far earlier hour than customary. I had not expected to see you this morning." George Gresham knew that the Earl was bound for Spain, but had the tact not to voice such sensitive information in the club. "Indeed." Marcus made no comment, and George saw a thundercloud across his face. Hoping it was not yet another complication with Lady Caroline DeClere, an alluring and ambitious widow who was angling for Marcus’s suit, he made a careful inquiry. "All is well, I trust?" "All is far from well," Marcus informed him. George made no comment, knowing that Marcus would disclose further information if he were able to. If the problem pertained to his diplomatic work this would not be possible. The two men sat in silence. The manservant returned bearing a glass on a tray, which Marcus received. After downing the entire contents in a single draught, he spoke. "You recall I have a ward, Gresham?" "I do recall such." "My father’s sister writes to inform me that she has absconded." This was an unexpected piece of news. "Absconded?" "Apparently gone to Ireland. Though there is no proof of that, save a note she left. She may well be headed to Scotland." George understood the implication of this. The village of Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border, was notorious for elopements. Scotland's marriage law made it much easier for young couples to marry without parental consent. "Is she of marriageable age? What kind of a girl is she?" George asked. Marcus shrugged. "She is still in the schoolroom. There has never been any issue with her conduct before, so far as I am aware." He had felt little interest in his ward over the years. When she had first come into his responsibility he had been too caught up in matters relating to his father’s death and his own affairs to think much about her or even meet her. He had placed her in the care of Hortensia Harlington and provided some instructions regarding her education. And these only because his aunt had appeared to expect them. Without sisters or daughters, Marcus had no real notion of what a young woman’s education should be. "Engage a tutor in Latin, Greek and history," he had said to his aunt. "At least she may not bore a future husband utterly, if there is something in her head other than gossip and novels." Marcus continually had such empty-headed females thrust upon him by matchmaking hostesses and hopeful mammas. Rich, young, handsome and now the Earl of Southwell, he was in high demand on the marriage market. Accepting diplomatic engagements in Europe had been one way to escape this nuisance. In the years following his father’s death, Marcus had spent considerable time abroad and thought very little further of his ward or of any other young chits. Thus it was hard to answer George’s question with anything of substance. As far as Marcus was aware, Jemima Carlow was a regrettably dull girl. He received two dutiful and unimaginative pieces of correspondence from her each year, which he no longer even bothered to read. He had only opened her most recent letter because it had come at an uncustomary time. "If she is not of age, and the worst happens, it may be possible to annul it," George said. "It will be annulled regardless. She is but seventeen years old." George chuckled. "You have been too long out of society, Southwell. London is full of young women of such tender years, angling for a matrimonial prize. Why, my own mother was betrothed at sixteen." "Regardless, she must be found and returned. It is a highly annoying business." George was privately entertained. For Marcus, the master of diplomacy, to be confounded by the behaviour of a teenage girl, caused his friend no little amusement. "What will you do?" "I will appoint inquiry agents, and if necessary, ride to Scotland." It meant the end of the Spanish business for now. Saving the girl’s honour would require the swiftest of actions, which additional travel time from Spain would jeopardise. "A trip to Scotland may be no bad thing, if word gets out that you are in town for the start of the season," George remarked. He was well aware of the many matrimonial designs upon his friend. He privately hoped that Marcus would accept any of them rather than the wily Lady Caroline. At least if Marcus was determined to do his duty and beget an heir for Southwell. Marcus grimaced. "This continental business will have to be postponed, at any rate." "You might kill two birds with one stone and marry this ward yourself," George suggested. "Don't be absurd." Marcus's reply was curt. "Green maidens fresh from the schoolroom have hardly ever been my preference." "They don't remain so. Green, I mean." But Marcus was resolute. "If and when I feel the need to establish a wife at Southwell, it will be a woman of culture and intelligence. Someone who will not drive me to distraction with chatter about her dressmaker and tawdry social gossip." George laughed. "You are too hard on the fairer s*x, Southwell. If they have not the minds of men, it is because they are instructed in nothing but maidenly matters. Let a girl be taught alongside her brothers, and you will see far more sense and much less silliness." Marcus doubted this, since his experience of young women had not so far impressed him. He considered that Lady Caroline's own sophistication was due to the influence of her late husband, a wise and worldly man. Marcus did not for a moment imagine that Lady Caroline had possessed sufficient wiles of her own to land such a husband, deliberately choosing one both rich and titled, and in fragile health. He was not yet determined on matrimony with the widow, but from the brief time he spent in the company of women, she had thus far irritated him the least. And Southwell needed an heir, lest the estate and title pass to a distant cousin. "With all you say, I wonder you don't follow your own advice," Marcus said to George. George was one of London's most confirmed bachelors. As a younger son, he had faced less pressure to take a bride, and could enjoy a life of delight rather than duty. George remained equanimous. "Perhaps I shall, one of these days." He liked women, and saw no reason not to marry, if and when the time came. He regarded Marcus, noting his friend's dark, currently scowling brow, his tall, soldierly physique, and the strong and well-cut features that the ladies were evidently so enamoured of. It would have been a good thing for Marcus to have been raised with a few spirited sisters. They might have knocked some sense into their brother, George thought. But Marcus's mother had died giving birth to him. The late Earl, stricken with grief and fury at the callousness of Fate, had never remarried. George attributed some of Marcus's attitude to his father's embittered example. "There are some fine women out there, if one has the patience and discernment to find them," he said. Marcus looked at his friend with mild derision, and commanded another drink from the attendant who had just entered. O, to be on his way to Madrid, far from all this nonsense. The Spanish sun, the political intrigue, sipping a cup of sack in the shade of an orange grove. If only his ward had been a boy, Marcus could have had him soundly whipped and sent into the military. What he would do with a wayward girl, he had no idea.