Caroline assumed the question to be rhetorical. She was stunned. He had not known they existed at
nine this morning. How could he have organised all that since ten?
Thinking he may as well clear all the looming fences while he was about it, Max added, "As for funds,
I presume your earlier arrangements still apply. However, should you need any further advances, as I now hold the purse-strings of your patrimonies, you may apply directly to me."
His last statement succeeded in convincing Caroline mat it would not be wise to underestimate this Duke. Despite having only since this morning to think about it, he had missed very little. And, as he held the purse-strings, he could call the tune. As she had foreseen, life as the wards of a man as masterful and domineering as the present Duke of Twyford was rapidly proving to be was definitely not going to be
as unfettered as they had imagined would be the case with his vague and easily led uncle. There were, however, certain advantages in the changed circumstances and she, for one, could not find it in her to repine.
More people were appearing in the Park, strolling about the lawns sloping down to the river and
gathering in small groups by the carriageway, laughing and chatting.
A man of slight stature, mincing along beside the carriage drive, looked up in startled recognition as
they passed. He was attired in a bottle-green coat with the most amazing amount of frogging Caroline
had ever seen. In place of a cravat, he seemed to be wearing a very large floppy bow around his neck.
"Who on earth was that quiz?" she asked.
"That quiz, my dear ward, is none other than Walter Millington, one of the fops. In spite of his absurd clothes, he's unexceptionable enough but he has a sharp tongue so it's wise for young ladies to stay on
his right side. Don't laugh at him."
Two old ladies in an ancient landau were staring at them with an intensity which in lesser persons
would be considered rude.
Max did not wait to be asked. "And those are the Misses Berry. They're as old as bedamned and know absolutely everyone. Kind souls. One's entirely vague and the other's sharp as needles."
Caroline smiled. His potted histories were entertaining.
A few minutes later, the gates came into view and Max headed bis team in that direction. Caroline saw
a horseman pulled up by the carriage drive a little way ahead. His face clearly registered recognition of
the Duke's curricle and the figure driving it. Then his eyes passed to her and stopped. At five and twenty, Caroline had long grown used to the effect she had on men, particularly certain sorts of men. As they drew nearer, she saw that the gentleman was impeccably attired and had the same rakish air as the Duke. The rider held up a hand in greeting and she expected to feel the curricle slow. Instead, it flashed on, the Duke merely raising a hand in an answering salute.
Amused, Caroline asked, ''And who, pray tell, was that?"
Max was thinking that keeping his friends in ignorance of Miss Twinning was going to prove impossible. Clearly, he would be well-advised to spend some time planning the details of this curious seduction, or
he might find himself with rather more competition than he would wish. "That was Lord Ramsleigh."
"A friend of yours?"
"Precisely."
Caroline laughed at the repressive tone. The husky sound ran tingling along Max's nerves. It flashed into his mind that Caroline Twinning seemed to understand a great deal more than one might expect from a woman with such a decidedly restricted past. He was prevented from studying her face by the demands of successfully negotiating their exit from the Park.
They were just swinging out into the traffic when an elegant barouche pulled up momentarily beside them, heading into the Park. The thin, middle-aged woman, with a severe, almost horsy countenance, who had been languidly lying against the silken cushions, took one look at the curricle and sat bolt
upright. In her face, astonishment mingled freely with rampant curiosity. "Twyford!"
Max glanced down as both carriages started to move again. "My lady." He nodded and then they
were swallowed up in the traffic.
Glancing back, Caroline saw the elegant lady remonstrating with her coachman. She giggled. "Who
was she?"
"That, my ward, was Sally, Lady Jersey. A name to remember. She is the most inveterate gossip in London. Hence her nickname of Silence. Despite that, she's kind-hearted enough. She's one of the
seven patronesses of Almack's. You'll have to get vouchers to attend but I doubt that will be a problem."
They continued in companionable silence, threading their way through the busy streets. Max was occupied with imagining the consternation Lady Jersey's sighting of them was going to cause. And there was Rams-leigh, too. A wicked smile hovered on his lips. He rather thought he was going to spend a decidedly amusing evening. It would be some days before news of his guardianship got around. Until then, he would enjoy the speculation. He was certain he would not enjoy the mirth of his friends when they discovered the truth.
"Oooh, Caro! Isn't he magnificent?" Arabella's round eyes, brilliant and bright, greeted Caroline as she entered their parlour.
"Did he agree to be our guardian?" asked the phlegmatic Sarah.
And, "Is he nice?" from the youngest, Lizzie.
All the important questions, thought Caroline 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 Sarah, with her dark brown hair and dramatically pale face, settling herself on one arm of her chair. Arabella on her other side, chestnut curls rioting around her heart-shaped and decidedly mischievous countenance, and Lizzie, the youngest and quietest of them all, curling up at her feet, her grey-brown eyes shining with the intentness of youth, the light dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose persisting despite the ruthless application of Denmark lotion, crushed strawberries and every other remedy ever invented.
"Commonly held to be well to pass." Caroline's own words echoed in her ears. Her smile grew.
"Well, my loves, it seems we are, incontrovertibly and without doubt, the Duke of Twyford's wards."
"When does he want to meet us?" asked Sarah, ever practical.
"Tomorrow afternoon. He's opening up Twyford House and we're to move in then. He resides at Delmere House, where I went this morning, so the properties will thus be preserved. His aunt, Lady Benborough, is to act as our chaperon-she's apparently well-connected and willing to sponsor us.
She'll be there tomorrow."
A stunned silence greeted her news. Then Arabella voiced the awe of all three. "Since ten this morning?"
Caroline's eyes danced. She nodded.
Arabella drew a deep breath, "Is he…masterful?"
"Very!" replied Caroline. "But you'll be caught out, my love, if you think to sharpen your claws on our guardian. He's a deal too shrewd, and experienced besides." Studying the pensive faces around her, she added. "Any flirtation between any of us and Max Rotherbridge would be doomed to failure. As his wards, we're out of court, and he won't stand any nonsense, I warn you."
"Hmm." Sarah stood and wandered to the windows before turning to face her. "So it's as you
suspected? He won't be easy to manage?"
Caroline smiled at the thought and shook her head decisively. "I'm afraid, my dears, that any notions we may have had of setting the town alight while in the care of a complaisant guardian have died along with the last Duke." One slim forefinger tapped her full lower lip thoughtfully. "However," she continued, "provided we adhere to society's rules and cause him no trouble, I doubt our new guardian will throw any rub in our way. We did come to London to find husbands, after all. And that," she said forcefully, gazing at the three faces fixed on hers, "is, unless I miss my guess, precisely what His Grace intends us to do."