Authors: A Lady of Quality
“You must forgive my tears.” She dabbed at them with her linen handkerchief. “I am not usually so emotional, especially when I am happy.”
“If you are happy, that is all that matters.” Lord Hartley gave her a crooked grin. “I am beyond happy. I am transported with joy.”
Pasting on a smirk, she gave an artificial sniff. “If you are transported, I am on the moon.”
Now his laughter rang out so loudly that even the guests who were dancing the Sir Roger de Coverley turned to look in their direction. “My dear Miss Hart, when it comes to wordplay, I refuse to duel with you. You will surely win.”
She managed a demure smile. “You have made a wise decision not to cross swords with me, Lord Hartley, for I would have every intention of winning the duel.” The double meaning behind her words should have made her feel clever. All it did was increase her guilt.
Lord Blakemore strode across the room toward them, a broad grin on his round face. “Ah, there you are, my boy.” Lord Hartley stood to greet him, and the earl pumped his hand vigorously. “Good news, good news. I have spoken to the Foreign Office, and we are to leave next week for Paris.”
“Very good, sir.” The boyish happiness on Lord Hartley’s face did not match his calm response.
Catherine forced a smile to her lips, but black dread spread through her. If he was to leave for Paris that soon, she must make all haste to ensnare and expose him.
Chapter Twenty-One
T
he carriage rumbled over the rutted roads toward Dover, but Hartley barely felt the bumps. Since his elevation and celebratory ball the previous week, he had begun to feel increasingly better. Even in the flurry of preparations, he had not suffered another relapse. Perhaps Dr. Horton should revise his treatment of invalids to include exercise instead of constant bed rest.
He had left Mother in charge of the town house with instructions that her decorating must stay within the budget he had arranged with his steward. Sophia was more than a little annoyed at being left behind. She forgave Hartley when he assigned her the care of Crumpet and left her a clothing allowance from his own coffers so Mother would not have to use funds from the miserly annuity Father had left her.
Like Sophia, Edgar had come close to pouting over being left behind, yet Hartley thought his complaint did not ring true. His cousin despised the French, so it was just as well that Blakemore would not bring him along on a diplomatic endeavor.
The nearly seventy-mile journey to Dover would take at least three days, easily borne in such good company. Blakemore sat beside Hartley, their backs to the front, and Lady Blakemore and dear Miss Hart faced them. He had feared his departure from London would threaten the future of his courtship. However, Lady Blakemore had dispensed with her social calendar, saying they could celebrate Napoleon’s defeat just as well in Paris as in London. She would join her husband for the journey, which meant, of course, that Miss Hart must also accompany them.
Some fifteen miles out of London, the young lady appeared to doze in the over-warm carriage. He longed to brush back the damp strands of hair that had escaped her straw bonnet to drape across her flawless ivory cheeks. More than that, he had felt an increasing temptation to kiss those fair lips, puckered as they were in her sleep.
No, he would not think of it. Such displays of affection must wait until the proper time, so he would not needlessly torture himself by dwelling on them. Still, it was a challenge to be so close without picturing some sort of future with her, especially when her rose perfume tickled his senses in the most delightful way. With some difficulty, he forced himself to evaluate Blakemore’s convoy, for in the future he would be devising such expeditions of his own.
This coach embodied the height of luxury, with excellent springs and plush upholstery. Heavier than most such conveyances, it was well suited to the coming trip over the notoriously rough French roads, but the excess weight that made it so sturdy also required it to move more slowly.
The two coaches that followed them held their servants, including the young assistant secretary, whose inclusion had further irked Edgar. Behind the servants’ coaches came a massive fourgon. Formerly used as an ammunition wagon in the war against Napoleon, it now served as a handy conveyance for the great amount of luggage required by so large a party.
The coach jolted suddenly and came to a stop, tilted toward the front. The ladies awoke with a start as they tumbled forward.
“What in the world?” Hartley caught Miss Hart by her shoulders and helped her back onto the seat. Blakemore likewise assisted his wife.
“Oh, my!” Miss Hart blushed charmingly.
“Good gracious.” Lady Blakemore sat back and fanned herself furiously.
“What on earth?” Blakemore peered out through the window on his side.
Hartley looked from his side to see the coachman, tiger and footmen staring at the front of the carriage. The driver’s bleak expression did not portend good news.
“What do you see over there?” Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Blakemore nudged Hartley.
“We shall have to get out.” Hartley gave the ladies a reassuring smile, then opened the door to climb out, turning to offer Blakemore his assistance. Once on the ground, the older earl gaped at the damage.
“A broken axle!” He scowled at his liveried coachman. “How could this happen? This is a brand-new coach.”
Stiffening under his employer’s harsh tone, the burly middle-aged man tore off his tall black hat and swiped a hand through his thinning hair. “Milord, I checked every detail afore we took possession of it from Hatchett coachmakers. Wouldn’ta accepted it without it were perfect.” He knelt down on the dusty road and peered beneath the coach. He uttered some unintelligible words, then stood to face Blakemore and whispered, “Milord, the axle’s been sawed near in two since I last seen it.”
“Sawed!” Blakemore’s face reddened so fast, Hartley feared the earl would suffer an apoplexy. “Great mercy and thank the Lord we were not traveling at a gallop.”
“What is it, my dear?” Lady Blakemore had scooted across the carriage to look out the window.
Miss Hart appeared beside her, her worried gaze focused on Hartley. It warmed his spirits considerably to see her look to him in this difficult time, and he sent her a reassuring smile.
“Help the ladies out,” Blakemore barked at the footmen. “We shall have to go on in one of the servants’ vehicles.” He beckoned to Hartley. “Do not mention the deliberate damage to the ladies,” he whispered.
“Of course not, sir.”
“We have the misfortune of being on the road at a time when highwaymen have begun to ply their trade once again. Sadly, some of our returning soldiers are desperate enough to turn to such thievery in order to survive.” The earl glanced again at the damaged vehicle. “Go to Mr. Fleming and instruct him to ride in the jump seat with Ajax on the carriage we take.”
“Yes, sir.” Hartley could not imagine why his mentor would send him on a footman’s errand, but he respected the gentleman too much to refuse him. As to taking Fleming along, perhaps the earl felt the need to have a secretary with him at all times.
After completing the deed, he returned to the larger carriage, where Lady Blakemore stood beside her husband clutching a small valise to her bosom as if it held the crown jewels. He arrived in time to assist Miss Hart as she stepped down. In the fading daylight, he could see the color had left her face. “Are you well, madam?”
She clasped his hand like a lifeline, another endearing gesture. “Yes. But this is the second time a mishap has occurred while we two were riding in the same carriage. What can it mean?” Fear combined with confusion in her eyes.
“I cannot guess, dear lady. Axles break all the time. No doubt the wood was inferior.” He prayed she would believe that simple explanation, but he would not rest until he found out exactly who had made one or both of them a target.
* * *
Until an hour ago, Catherine had been delighted to accompany this party to Paris, for it meant she would not have to rush Lord Hartley into revealing his scheme against Papa. But the broken axle changed everything. For one thing, this older, smaller carriage they now rode in hit every rut and bump in the road. Lady Blakemore seemed able to endure it, so Catherine would not complain. But the other matter consuming her thoughts was the damaged axle. Had it truly broken by accident, or had someone caused the calamity? In either case, she lifted a silent prayer of thanks that no one was hurt, as Lord Hartley had been the last time.
At last Lady Blakemore exhaled a long sigh. “Must the horses run so fast, my dear? It makes for such a bumpy ride, and we have entirely outrun the other coach. How can we manage without servants and baggage?”
“I should like to get you ladies to the inn before dark, my love.” Lord Blakemore spoke through gritted teeth, but whether from the jarring ride or anxiety over the axle, Catherine could not discern.
She looked across the darkened coach at Lord Hartley. His mild expression gave her no indication of his assessment of the incident. Yet if someone had deliberately caused it, she had little doubt that he was the target. She had no enemies. No one even knew who she was.
“Hold!” a deep voice shouted outside.
A gun fired.
The coachman cried out, and the carriage came to a lurching stop.
“Everyone out! Now!”
Another gun fired. Another man cried out.
“Stay here.” Lord Hartley’s order seemed directed at all three other inhabitants of the carriage. He reached behind the seat, where he had earlier deposited a long, slender satchel, and pulled out a pistol and a rapier. Then he kicked open the door and sprang out.
Terror ripped through Catherine as she saw him aim at someone and fire, then charge away with rapier raised.
Lord Blakemore retrieved another rapier from behind the seat and jumped from the coach with a vigor that belied both his age and his bulky form.
“No, Blakemore!” The countess grabbed for her husband’s jacket too late. “Blakemore!”
Catherine could not sit still. She searched for another rapier behind the seat to no avail. Lord Hartley had left his cane on the seat. If it was like the one he had brandished in Hyde Park, it would have a hidden sword. Though much shorter than a rapier, it would still provide a weapon with which she could defend Lady Blakemore. She found the cane’s tiny latch, twisted it and pulled out the gleaming blade.
“What are you doing?” Lady Blakemore cried. “Put that away, foolish girl.”
“They shall not have your jewels, my lady.” Gathering her skirts, Catherine crouched in the door and surveyed the brawl.
The giant footman named Ajax was living up to his namesake, for he was fighting several ruffians with the valor of the mythical Greek warrior. Even the mild-mannered secretary, Mr. Fleming, had engaged a villain in a sword fight. In the dimming daylight, she sought the one person whose welfare she prayed for the most and located him, his rapier at a man’s throat. But another sight caused her heart to stop.
Not ten feet from her, one of the ruffians aimed a musket directly at Lord Hartley.
“Stop!” Catherine sprang from the carriage, sword raised, and raced toward the villain. A tiny voice within her head whispered that she had never killed so much as an animal. Another voice shouted that Lord Hartley must not die.
She slammed the sword, blade downward, onto the man’s raised arm an instant before the musket exploded. The shot blasted into the dirt. The man bellowed in pain. Blood poured through the gash in his sleeve.
“’Ere, now, missy.” Another man rushed toward her, sword raised. “Best leave the fighting to yer gentlemen.” With a leer, he postured in a mocking fashion, as if daring her to fight him.
His longer sword gave her pause, but at this moment, she was fully engaged in the conflict. “And you should send your womenfolk to fight in your stead, you coward.”
He blinked in surprise. A mistake, for she took advantage and skewered his sword hand. He dropped the heavy weapon and clutched at his wound. Oddly, sickeningly, pride and satisfaction surged through Catherine as she pulled back the sword. What had she become?
“’E said it would be a easy job. I ain’t takin’ no more from a blasted woman.” The man ran toward a thicket where horses were held by an accomplice.
Others of the gang made haste to disengage and flee. Only one remained, and Ajax held the much smaller man by the scruff of his neck while his arms flailed and his legs dangled in the air.
“Lord, help us!” Lord Hartley raced toward a figure on the ground.
“Blakemore!” The countess echoed his plaintive cry as she scrambled from the carriage to kneel beside her unconscious, bleeding husband.
Chapter Twenty-Two
T
he second coach rumbled to a stop, and the coachman and servants quickly disembarked. Blakemore’s valet dashed to his master’s side, where Lady Blakemore knelt and struggled to regain her composure. Although he was unconscious, the earl’s injuries did not appear life-threatening, so Hartley took charge of the larger scene.
“We have no other option than to continue to the inn.” He addressed Mr. Fleming. An employee rather than a servant, the secretary seemed to be the most appropriate person to help him make decisions. “Tell the servants to make ready to leave.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The hesitation in his voice unnerved Hartley. “What is it?”
“Nothing, sir.” He shook his head, then strode over to the two coachmen to give the orders.
Ajax and the footmen gathered the pistols that had been flung aside once their single charge had been fired. Swords were returned to their scabbards, pistols and muskets reloaded, and the captured highwayman was trussed up like a roasted goose and tied to the top of the coach.
Hartley returned to Blakemore, where Miss Hart and the valet knelt over the earl across from the countess. To his shock, he saw his short sword in Miss Hart’s hand, and a memory surfaced. In the heat of the battle, he had seen her engage one of the highwaymen in a sword fight. Involved in his own skirmish, he’d not had wits to think of her danger, but now it came back to him full force. She could easily have been murdered by that ruffian, yet she bravely faced him, mocked him and won. Instead of admiration, fear poured over Hartley. How could he bear it if she had been killed? The thought paralyzed him.
“He is awakening.” Lady Blakemore gently dabbed her handkerchief over the blood on her husband’s head. “Oh, my love, do return to me. Hartley, we must get him into the coach and leave this place before those ruffians return.”
“Yes, of course.” He was failing his friends. He must shake off this madness and deal with the present.
“I say.” Blakemore coughed and sputtered. “Do help me up.”
Unruffled by the rebuke in his master’s voice, Blakemore’s valet murmured encouragement while he and the countess helped the earl to a sitting, then standing, position. Grimacing as he cradled one hand in the other, he wobbled between them as they led him to the coach. But, thank the good Lord, he would survive.
Likewise, Hartley helped Miss Hart to her feet, longing to pull her into a reassuring embrace. Instead, he patted her shoulder. “I see you are a lady of action.”
“I beg your pardon?” She frowned and tilted her head.
He wanted to laugh at the pretty confusion in her eyes, but this was hardly the time for gaiety. “Um, my sword?”
She held it up and stared as if seeing its dripping red sheen for the first time. “Oh.” She held it out to him, and tears sprang to her eyes. “I—I have never drawn blood before.”
This time he could not resist teasing, “And do you often engage in swordplay, madam?”
She closed her eyes, sending those silver tears splashing down her cheeks. “We must go.” Shoving the hilt of the sword into his hand, she strode toward the coach.
He should not have teased. Another failure. All he could do was follow her.
Once the party was tucked back into the coach and the valet wedged in with them, Hartley gave the order to continue the journey. In the morning, they would have to return to London, of course. Strangely, he felt not the slightest disappointment over the delay in his diplomatic career. These friends might have been murdered by the highwaymen, and that put everything into perspective.
He could not stop thinking about how fearless his lady had been. Something about her posture as she faced the highwayman stirred a memory, but he could not grasp the elusive thought.
The inn’s ostlers helped the grooms with the horses and coaches while Mr. Fleming secured accommodations for everyone. Hartley helped his friends from the coach and sent them inside, then beckoned to Ajax. “Did you get anything out of the prisoner?”
“Aye, sir.” The bodyguard’s crooked grin and gleaming eyes revealed how much he had enjoyed the fray. “Says they wanted her ladyship’s jewels. Ha. About like old Nappy wanted his vacation on Elba.”
“What do you mean?”
“Milord, I ain’t too smart, but I know a killer when I see one. ’Twas you they was all aimin’ for with those guns. Had the young lady not struck down one fellow—near to cut off the blackguard’s arm, she did—we’d be carryin’ your body back to London right now.”
This double shock almost undid him. If Miss Hart had almost severed a man’s arm, no wonder she was so overset by her actions. He had never known any female, especially one gently bred, who would engage in a man’s fight, no matter the cause. Oddly, rather than repulse him, it made him love this remarkable lady all the more.
The other matter should not shock him at all, for somehow he knew it. Some instinct had warned him that he was the target of these attacks. But who would want to murder him?
* * *
Catherine listened to the soft patter of rain on the roof of the Red Rooster Inn. Her lady’s maid and the other female servants had long ago fallen asleep in the room they shared, and the sounds of their breathing blended with the rain to compose a soothing melody. Still, she could not sleep.
Lady Blakemore insisted upon staying in a private bedchamber with her husband, and Catherine could not blame her. Would that she could remain in the company of the gentleman who had caused her such turmoil. If he had embraced her after helping her up, she would have been completely undone. But oh, how she had longed for the comfort of his arms after their terrible ordeal.
She had overheard the bodyguard telling Lord Hartley about her actions. What on earth must he think of her? Even now, the memory of feeling the blade slicing into human flesh made her stomach turn. She could never kill anyone, nor had she ever truly wanted to do harm to Lord Hartley. If only he would explain why he had schemed against Papa. If only this entire matter were finished so they could all go back to their ordinary lives, whatever ordinary might be.
Perhaps the time had come for her to confront him. She would have to wait until they returned to London, of course, for she would rather confess her duplicity to Lord and Lady Blakemore first and in private. They had been so kind to her. How would she ever make up for her lies?
* * *
Back in London late the next day, Hartley left Blakemore in the countess’s care at their mansion. The earl had suffered a blow to the head, but no dizziness followed, which eased much of everyone’s concerns. His right forearm appeared to be broken and caused the earl much pain, so they would send for Dr. Horton. Mr. Fleming promised to watch over Blakemore, and Hartley had every confidence that the man would do that job as well as he performed his duties as a secretary.
Although he wanted very much to have a private audience with Miss Hart, he could see how weary she was from their misadventures. Tomorrow when they were both fresh would be soon enough to tell her how much he loved her, how he would be honored if she would become his wife.
After instructing Ajax to deliver the highwayman to Newgate Prison, Hartley rode a borrowed horse back to his town house. Ajax was not pleased with being separated from him, but for this short time, with no one expecting him to be in town, Hartley had no fears for his life.
The house was dark, and only Crumpet greeted him at the front door. He remembered this was Llewellyn’s day off, and no doubt Mother and Sophia were out visiting, making up for all the quiet years in the country. He chuckled to think of their delight when they came home and discovered he had not abandoned them after all. Sophia would demand an accounting of the adventure. Mother would be beside herself with worry. Of course, he must call it all an accident, but she might not accept that label this second time.
Carrying his pet up the stairs, he looked in vain for a footman, but the house appeared deserted. Perhaps they were all in the kitchen enjoying some of Cook’s pastries.
At his office, he found the door slightly ajar. Strange. Llewellyn could never abide an open door. Hartley peered through the small space, and his stomach tightened. Edgar sat writing at his desk, a smirk on his thin, lined face. He wrote with a flourish, shook sand over the letter to blot the ink, then sat back to study it.
“Read it aloud.” Hartley nudged the door open and sauntered into the room. In his arms, Crumpet stiffened.
“Cousin!” Edgar gaped and jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here?” His pale face grew even whiter.
“No,
cousin.
The question is, what are
you
doing here at my desk?” He had always trusted Edgar, but his cousin had never had the nerve to usurp his office this way.
“Why, I am looking out for you, of course. You left things in quite a mess.” Edgar fluttered a hand over the papers lying on the desk. “I assumed you would want me to organize all of this.”
“If I wanted a secretary, I would hire one.” Hartley set Crumpet on top of the papers and snatched up the vellum sheet Edgar had just written. A chill went down his spine. The script looked exactly like his own. “‘Be advised that in my absence, my trusted representative, Mr. Edgar Radcliff, is to be the executor for all of my affairs.’” He clutched the page, crumpling the edge. “What is the meaning of this forgery, Edgar?”
“Forgery? How can you say that?” Edgar slumped into a servile posture, and his voice became a whimper. “I was merely looking out for you, as I said. Lady Winston has gone wild with spending, and I merely wanted to curtail her extravagance.” He wilted even more, and his eyes took on the sad look of a hound. “I have always looked out for you, even when my uncle questioned whether or not you were actually his son.”
“Silence.” Hartley trembled where he stood, forbidding himself to leap across the desk and strangle his cousin. “You will never question Lady Winston’s character again. Is that understood?”
“Well, you need not get all upset. I am merely reporting what happened.” Oddly, he smiled, a snakelike expression that narrowed his eyes and sent another shiver down Hartley’s spine. “By the by, you surely know by now that your Miss Hart is also not the lady everyone thought.”
“What are you talking about?” He should not listen, should not let this man speak another lie.
“Why, Miss du Coeur, of course.” Edgar’s malevolent laughter echoed throughout the room. “Did you not know you were falling in love with the daughter of the French
comte
who conspired to assassinate the French king? The man you exposed? Do you really believe she loves you? Wake up, silly boy. The girl planned to murder you. She was the ‘youth’ you fought at Monsieur’s academy.” He emitted another evil laugh. “She was just testing you to discover your weaknesses. I do believe she has succeeded, has she not?”
Yes, she had. And yesterday her expert handling of his sword had reminded him of that boy, although the memory had not become clear until now. Why had he not seen it before? She used both hands with equal skill, whether in writing, eating or using a sword against him. What a fool he was.
“Get that beast away from me.” Edgar backed away from the desk, where Crumpet was trying to snatch his silk watch fob with a bared claw. “If you do not get rid of it, I shall kill it.”
This time Hartley did not try to stop himself. He strode around the desk and grasped his cousin by the front of his shirt, cravat and all. “Get out of my house and never come back.” He pulled Edgar around and shoved him toward the door.
Surprisingly agile for his age, Edgar whipped back around. “And what will you do with your pretty little assassin,
milord?
Marry her?”
Hartley raised a fist to strike, but again, better sense claimed him. “Get out.”
Once Edgar had gone, he slumped at his desk and put his head in his hands. Indeed, what would he do with his pretty, ambidextrous little assassin?