afraid there is no loophole for escape,” replied Worth. “I am your guardian.” He added kindly: “I assure you, you cannot regret the circumstance more than I do.”
“How can this be?” demanded Judith. “My father did not mean it so!”
“Unfortunately,” said Worth, “your father’s Will was drawn up nine months after the death of mine.”
“Oh!” groaned Miss Taverner, sinking down upon one of the gilt and crimson couches.
“But the name!” said Peregrine. “My father must have written the name down!”
“Your father,” said Worth, “left you to the sole guardianship of Julian St. John Audley, Fifth Earl of Worth. The name was certainly my father’s. It is also mine. The mistake—if it is a mistake—is in the title. Your father named mine the Fifth Earl in error. I am the Fifth Earl.”
An unfilial expression was wrenched from Miss Taverner. “He would!” she said bitterly. “Oh, I can readily believe it!”
Peregrine gulped, and said: “This must be set right. We are not your wards. We had rather be anything in the world than your wards!”
“Possibly,” said the Earl, unmoved. “But the distressing fact remains that you are my wards.”
“I shall go at once to my father’s lawyer!” declared Peregrine.
“Certainly. Do just as you please,” said the Earl. “But do try and rid yourself of the notion that you are the only sufferer.”
Miss Taverner, who bad been sitting with one gloved hand covering her eyes, now straightened herself, and folded both hands in her lap. It was evident to her that this conversation led nowhere. She suspected that what Worth said was true, and they would find it impossible to overset the Will. If that were so this bickering was both fruitless and undignified. She quelled Peregrine with a frown, and addressed herself to the Earl. “Very well, sir, if you are indeed our guardian perhaps you will be good enough to inform us whether we are at liberty to establish ourselves in London?”
“Subject to my permission you are,” replied Worth.
Peregrine ground his teeth, and flung over to the window, and stood staring out on to the square.
Miss Taverner’s fierce blue eyes met her guardian’s cool grey ones in a long look that spoke volumes. “You may, through an error in my father’s Will, be our guardian in name, sir, but that is all.”
“You cannot have read the Will, Miss Taverner,” said the Earl.
“I am aware that the control of our fortune is in your hands,” snapped Miss Taverner. “And I am anxious to come to an agreement with you!”
“By all means,” agreed Worth. “You will not find me at all difficult. I shall not, I hope, find myself obliged to interfere in your lives very much.” He added, with the flicker of a smile: “I am not even going to make myself unpleasant to you on this question of your coming to London against my advice.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Taverner witheringly.
He moved towards the secretaire and opened it. “That was, after all, a piece of advice given to suit my own convenience. I have no real objection to your having come to town, and I will do what lies in my power to see you comfortably established.” He picked up a document and held it for Miss Taverner to see. “I have here the lease of a furnished house in Brook Street which you may move into at your earliest convenience. I trust you will find it to your liking.”
“You are extremely obliging,” said Miss Taverner, “but I do not know that I should care to lodge in Brook Street.”
The smile gleamed again. “Indeed, Miss Taverner? And in which street would you care to lodge?”
She bit her lip, but replied with dignity. “I am as yet wholly unacquainted with London, sir. I should prefer to wait until I can decide for myself where I desire to live.”
“While you are making up your mind,” said Worth, “you may lodge in Brook Street.” He put the lease back into its pigeonhole, and closed the secretaire. “The task of
“How can this be?” demanded Judith. “My father did not mean it so!”
“Unfortunately,” said Worth, “your father’s Will was drawn up nine months after the death of mine.”
“Oh!” groaned Miss Taverner, sinking down upon one of the gilt and crimson couches.
“But the name!” said Peregrine. “My father must have written the name down!”
“Your father,” said Worth, “left you to the sole guardianship of Julian St. John Audley, Fifth Earl of Worth. The name was certainly my father’s. It is also mine. The mistake—if it is a mistake—is in the title. Your father named mine the Fifth Earl in error. I am the Fifth Earl.”
An unfilial expression was wrenched from Miss Taverner. “He would!” she said bitterly. “Oh, I can readily believe it!”
Peregrine gulped, and said: “This must be set right. We are not your wards. We had rather be anything in the world than your wards!”
“Possibly,” said the Earl, unmoved. “But the distressing fact remains that you are my wards.”
“I shall go at once to my father’s lawyer!” declared Peregrine.
“Certainly. Do just as you please,” said the Earl. “But do try and rid yourself of the notion that you are the only sufferer.”
Miss Taverner, who bad been sitting with one gloved hand covering her eyes, now straightened herself, and folded both hands in her lap. It was evident to her that this conversation led nowhere. She suspected that what Worth said was true, and they would find it impossible to overset the Will. If that were so this bickering was both fruitless and undignified. She quelled Peregrine with a frown, and addressed herself to the Earl. “Very well, sir, if you are indeed our guardian perhaps you will be good enough to inform us whether we are at liberty to establish ourselves in London?”
“Subject to my permission you are,” replied Worth.
Peregrine ground his teeth, and flung over to the window, and stood staring out on to the square.
Miss Taverner’s fierce blue eyes met her guardian’s cool grey ones in a long look that spoke volumes. “You may, through an error in my father’s Will, be our guardian in name, sir, but that is all.”
“You cannot have read the Will, Miss Taverner,” said the Earl.
“I am aware that the control of our fortune is in your hands,” snapped Miss Taverner. “And I am anxious to come to an agreement with you!”
“By all means,” agreed Worth. “You will not find me at all difficult. I shall not, I hope, find myself obliged to interfere in your lives very much.” He added, with the flicker of a smile: “I am not even going to make myself unpleasant to you on this question of your coming to London against my advice.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Taverner witheringly.
He moved towards the secretaire and opened it. “That was, after all, a piece of advice given to suit my own convenience. I have no real objection to your having come to town, and I will do what lies in my power to see you comfortably established.” He picked up a document and held it for Miss Taverner to see. “I have here the lease of a furnished house in Brook Street which you may move into at your earliest convenience. I trust you will find it to your liking.”
“You are extremely obliging,” said Miss Taverner, “but I do not know that I should care to lodge in Brook Street.”
The smile gleamed again. “Indeed, Miss Taverner? And in which street would you care to lodge?”
She bit her lip, but replied with dignity. “I am as yet wholly unacquainted with London, sir. I should prefer to wait until I can decide for myself where I desire to live.”
“While you are making up your mind,” said Worth, “you may lodge in Brook Street.” He put the lease back into its pigeonhole, and closed the secretaire. “The task of
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