Louise M. Gouge (7 page)

The countess then whispered to Catherine that the impromptu errand had been a ruse to send her off on a carriage ride with an eligible gentleman. She added that she had left the details up to Providence, so any decisions that missed the mark of perfection could easily be discounted. But she offered no explanation for why she found Catherine worthy of being courted by a peer. Or why she seemed determined to marry off someone who had been hired to keep her company. Was it possible that she and Lord Blakemore knew her true identity? She must seek Mr. Radcliff’s counsel, for perhaps the earl had confided in his secretary about the matter.

“Miss Hart.” Lord Winston’s gentle voice cut into her musings like a sharp blade. “I am your prisoner until you forgive me for not preventing today’s terrible calamity.” His troubled tone exuded just the right degree of pathos. “I beg you to set me free.” His eyes, glistening bright green in the candlelight, held the perfect degree of sadness to emphasize his plea.

How poetic. And how clever of him to effect such a humble attitude, for surely his intention was to force her into admitting her own error in his presence and in front of Lord and Lady Blakemore. While she’d had no trouble telling the earl and countess everything, she had not spoken more than two words to the baron since he arrived hours ago. Surrendering the point to him would gall her, but perhaps losing the battle would help her to win the war.

“I fear you mistake me, my lord.” She noted with satisfaction that his eyes flared at the way she addressed him. “It is shame that prevents me from speaking. The entire incident was my fault alone for wandering away to see how the flowers newly planted by the Serpentine are faring in this summer heat.”

“But, my dear—” Lord Blakemore began. Lady Blakemore cleared her throat, and the earl paused to plunge his spoon into his beef soup and eat a hearty bite. “Needs salt.” He waved to a footman, who quickly produced a crystal saltcellar. The earl then made a great ceremony of measuring out a tiny spoonful and tasting his soup again, seeming to have forgotten his attempt to interrupt Catherine.

Lord Winston eyed the earl uncertainly before speaking to her. “I would have been pleased to escort you to the river, madam. In fact, you must permit me to take you there soon, perhaps even tomorrow.” He glanced at Lady Blakemore, who smiled at her soup bowl.

Even as she felt a hint of victory, Catherine could not dismiss the threads of anxiety winding through her. Once again, she could not comprehend why her employer was so eager to see her in Lord Winston’s company.

“I understand your hesitation, Miss Hart.” The baron must have noticed the countess’s smile, for his voice was firmer, denoting no doubt a return of his confidence. “But the best way to overcome the effects of a harrowing experience is to prove that it was an aberration. Hyde Park is a safe place to visit in proper company and even safer now that those villains are in Newgate Prison.” He looked at Lord Blakemore for affirmation and received a cheerful nod. “To a man, their fellow miscreants will know that such crimes against their betters will not be tolerated.”

Mischief stirred within her, and Catherine gave him a sober look. “Indeed, you are correct, my lord. They must return to their own part of the city and perpetrate all of their crimes upon their own kind.”

Lord Blakemore, sipping his soup at that moment, spewed it across the tablecloth and fell into a fit of coughing and laughing at the same time. “By George, Miss Hart, you have a ready wit. Why on earth are you so quiet all the time?”

As he spoke these words, Lady Blakemore rose and hastened around the table to pound her husband on the back, laughing all the way. “Indeed, my dear, you do come up with the most amusing quips sometimes.”

Lord Winston stared askance from one to the other and back at Catherine, clearly not comprehending her jest. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

* * *

Winston could think of no rejoinder, for he had not the slightest idea why Miss Hart’s assertion was so entirely amusing to the Blakemores. He cast a pleading look at his host, who laughed all the more.

“Sarcasm, my boy. Sarcasm.” Blakemore swiped his linen serviette over his lips and down the front of his white shirt and cravat, seeming not to care that they were ruined by dark brown soup stains.

Enough was enough. Winston would conquer this thing called humor or make a fool of himself trying. “Sarcasm. Yes. It abounds in Parliament between any two men who disagree with each other and hope to defeat their opponent with a scathing set down. But forgive me, pray, if I cannot grasp why you found Miss Hart’s sarcastic comment worthy of such laughter.” He looked across the table at the young lady, who was the picture of innocence. Or did he spy a glimmer of slyness in her dark eyes? Or was that simply the movement of the candle flames reflected there?

“I do not care for cruel or indelicate sarcasm any more than you do,” Blakemore said. “But you must admit your comment invited such a gently done riposte. Permit me to explain why. First, one would not wish the villains to perpetrate
any
crimes, not even upon their own ‘kind.’ No Christian can countenance such behavior, no matter who the victim is. So the comment was utterly ridiculous.” He chuckled. “But for a quiet little mouse like Miss Hart to say it, why, that made it all the more humorous.” Ever paternal, the earl cast Winston a sympathetic smile. “Ah, poor lad. Your father was a fine Christian gentleman, but he never found humor in anything. Almost seemed to view laughing as a sin. I have often thought his sober disposition was the cause of his final illness.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Take my advice, boy, you will be a happier man if you learn how to laugh at life’s absurdities.” Now a wily look passed over his round face. “Miss Hart, would you consider taking Winston on as a student in humor?”

His own pulse quickening at the idea, Winston could not fail to notice a bit of chagrin, perhaps even alarm, crossing her lovely face. He must hand her a reprieve. “Sir, I hardly think Miss Hart would enjoy—”

“Not at all, Lord Winston.” She offered what seemed like a forced smile. “Did you not challenge me earlier today to a duel of wits? While I cannot hold myself up as a proficient humorist, perhaps between the two of us we can find sufficient causes for laughter.” Yet it was not humor he saw in her expression. More like a look of sharp steel. And though she stared into his eyes, he felt she was aiming straight at his heart.

Chapter Seven

“S
urely you can understand my suspicions, Mr. Radcliff.” Seated by a tall, sunlit window in Lady Blakemore’s office, Catherine spoke quietly as she stitched a sampler, a task for her employer that gave her an excuse to be near her friend without generating suspicion. “If Lord and Lady Blakemore believe me to be an impoverished gentlewoman from an obscure family, why would they push me toward Lord Winston? Lady Blakemore has said she and the earl believe without reservation that the Almighty has ordained for kings and nobles to rule and manage the affairs of mankind.” Barely avoiding the needle point, she dismissed the soft prick of conscience that questioned why she no longer thought of God as her heavenly Father, but rather as a distant deity. “If they do not know of my aristocratic birth, why would they seek to taint his
superior
bloodline?” She could not keep the mockery from her voice, though she had never been given to using such a disrespectful tone.

“I must admit I am as curious as you are, my dear.” The gentleman focused on Lady Blakemore’s household ledger, which he customarily examined for possible errors. “But I assure you that his lordship confides everything to me, and he has only the kindest of compliments for you.” He glanced at her, frowned and hastened to add, “Paternal compliments, of course.”

“Of course.” The doubt in his expression provoked suspicion in Catherine’s mind. Lord Blakemore always appeared above reproach regarding moral issues, but why would he grant his countess’s lowly companion such particular favor? Would it come at some future cost?

“Perhaps...” Mr. Radcliff stared toward the window with a frown. “No, never mind.”

“What is it?” She could see further concern on his furrowed brow.

“There may be nothing to it,” he said, “but if so, it should ease your mind...and mine.”

His last two words were spoken in a whisper, and Catherine’s heart warmed that he cared so much for her family.

“Please continue.”

“You are acquainted with Lady Blakemore’s friends, the Dowager Lady Greystone and Mrs. Parton.”

“Yes, of course.” While the dowager viscountess never spoke to Catherine, Mrs. Parton always treated her with kindness.

“You know that the companions of those two ladies recently married quite well—brothers, in fact—and I believe Lady Blakemore and Mrs. Parton’s machinations were responsible for both of the matches.” He spoke softly, as if thinking aloud. “Perhaps they are merely eccentric. Yes.” He gave a decisive nod. “That’s it. They are wealthy beyond counting, their own children are well married, and now they are bored. So they have decided to play matchmakers. Put simply, you and Lord Winston are their next project.” He turned to Catherine, a triumphant grin on his slender face. Even his color heightened, revealing a great depth of feeling in the matter. “I am convinced of it. You and I may ease our minds, my dear. The mystery is solved.” He turned back to his work, making notes in the ledger with a quill pen.

Catherine longed to accept his reasoning, but it still did not answer the question regarding her supposed place in Society. Why would they wish to attach a baron, whose title was hundreds of years old, to someone they believed to be a mere gentlewoman? Did they not wish to foster their friend’s political and social advancement?

“What I am concerned about, my dear,” Mr. Redcliff said, “is your apparent inability to focus on your purpose. In one moment your desire to vindicate your father is all you can speak of. Then next moment, your eyes reflect, dare I say, a weakness of some sort.” He slid a kind but suspicious glance her way. “Have you formed a
tendre
for my cousin?”

She stiffened, and her lips puckered as if she had eaten a lemon. “Most certainly not,” she huffed. “No,” she added for emphasis, determined to erase the doubt from her voice...
and
her heart. “Why, I have known him for only four days and been in his company just two times. Well, three, counting our little meeting at the fencing academy.”

“Hmm.” Staring down at his work again, he chuckled. “One could not blame you if you did admire him, Miss Hart. He is a rather handsome fellow and has impeccable manners, though he’s a bit awkward in social situations, poor lad.”

Recalling Lord Winston’s confusion over her silly remark at supper the other evening, Catherine could only agree with her friend’s assertion. A gentle wisp of sympathy for the baron brushed past her, but she mentally waved it away, as one would a fly, before it could settle upon her soul. He deserved no sympathy, none at all, no matter how lacking his social graces.

“There is nothing awkward about his swordsmanship,” she said, “or his willingness to run a blade of lies through the heart of a good man like Papa.”

“My dear.” Mr. Radcliff placed his quill into its stand and swiveled around to face her. “If you are to win my cousin over so you can discover exactly how he ruined your father, you must set aside your anger and ply him with kindness.”

Catherine longed to ask him why he himself could not simply confront Lord Winston about his campaign against Papa. Perhaps that would put him in some sort of danger. No one must know that he had helped Papa escape imprisonment. And of course, if Mr. Radcliff exposed the baron’s evil lies, it would deprive Catherine of the satisfaction her own revenge would bring. The bothersome fly of guilt buzzed through her mind again. With growing ease, she brushed it aside and hardened her heart against Lord Winston.

“Can you manage to do that, Miss Hart? Can you manage to be kind to my cousin so that you may achieve your objective?”

Mr. Radcliff reached over and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze just as the door opened and Lady Blakemore strode into the room. The countess’s eyes widened, and fear shot through Catherine. Would her employer misunderstand the scene and reprimand or even dismiss her?

Instead, the lady smiled and said cheerily, “There you are, Miss Hart. Lord Winston has arrived to take you to Hyde Park.”

* * *

Winston despised the way his hands and knees shook as he anticipated Miss Hart’s entrance. The last time he had waited in a drawing room for a young lady, she had already surrendered her heart to another gentleman—a soldier, of course—and he had no wish to be disappointed again. At least in this case, he had not come to court Miss Hart, for she had made clear her dislike for him, had even taunted him at supper in this very house only a few nights ago. If not for Blakemore’s ridiculous order that Miss Hart must instruct him in the mysteries of humor, neither she nor he would be in this uncomfortable situation.

Still, in an odd way, he was not entirely averse to the idea of spending the afternoon with her. Something deep within him felt challenged to overcome her dislike, perhaps even convince her to consider him a friend. If humor was the key to softening her feelings for him, perhaps this endeavor would not be in vain. After rescuing her from the brigands in Hyde Park, he somehow felt responsible for her despite the anger she had displayed. No doubt she had been frightened and embarrassed by the incident, as any sensitive lady would be, and had merely lashed out at him because he was there.

In addition to a changeable temperament, she also possessed an elusive and compelling quality that drew him to her, a sweet vulnerability that made him want to defend her whatever the cost. Just this morning, when Edgar reminded him of her inferior birth, Winston found himself protesting the idea, even though he had no clue whether or not it was true. If nothing else, her deportment and grace bespoke elevated origins.

On the other hand, to be fair to both himself and Miss Hart, he must find a way to actually uncover her family connections. He might have been ordered by Blakemore to spend time with her, but he would hold the reins of his emotions securely. As Father had taught him, developing strong feelings for a lady too quickly could result in a lifetime of sorrow.

The drawing-room door swung inward, and Lady Blakemore entered, with Miss Hart following close behind. Winston’s heart jumped into his throat. Great mercy, the young lady was beautiful. He clenched his jaw to keep from gaping at her exquisite face and her tall, elegant figure dressed in a pretty walking gown of green-sprigged muslin. No matter what color she wore, no matter whether it was day or night, no matter her temperament of the moment, her ivory complexion seemed to glow with health and beauty. Such a striking vision!

“Good afternoon, Winston.” Lady Blakemore crossed to him and held out her hand. “How good of you to agree to entertain our Miss Hart.”

With difficulty, he directed his eyes away from the young lady and focused on the countess as he bowed over her hand. “Lady Blakemore, you look well.”

“I must return the compliment. Either London is doing wonders for you, or you are anticipating your outing.” She gave him a sly smile.

He cleared his throat. “Undoubtedly both, madam. I am honored to sit in Parliament, and I have certainly looked forward to this afternoon.” He paid his addresses to the younger lady, noting that, although her eyes appeared guarded, she gave him a slight smile along with her curtsy. “I thank you for permitting me to take your companion from your side. I assure you I shall return her safely.” He gave them both a rueful grimace. “This time.” To his surprise, Miss Hart appeared to smother a laugh, for she placed a gloved hand over her full pink lips. Why did she find his reassurance amusing?

“Of course you will, dear boy.” The countess stepped back to let them pass. “Enjoy yourselves. I shall be occupied for several hours, so you have no need to hurry back.”

They took their leave of the lady and descended the staircase. As they walked out the front door, Winston could not help but wish she had given him a time limit, for he had no idea how long a proper outing might be. He would have to look to Miss Hart for the answer. If nothing else, he knew without doubt no lady wished to be the subject of gossips. More than one peer and MP had asked him about the pretty young lady involved in last Wednesday’s incident, but he had refused to name her.

“Why, Lord Winston, you have a new carriage.” She smiled her approval of his shiny, well-appointed black landau. “It is quite lovely. You must put your family crest upon both of the doors so everyone will know whose it is.”

“I thank you, Miss Hart. I shall order them straightaway.” An excellent idea he should have thought of himself. He handed her into the place of honor and took his own seat behind the driver, brushing one hand over the well-padded, dark red leather upholstery and, at the same time, trying to quiet the pride of ownership the elegant conveyance stirred within him.

He had hastily purchased the landau from Birch’s only yesterday so he would no longer have to depend upon Mrs. Parton’s kindness. While such an acquisition usually took weeks, he learned that an elderly gentleman had ordered it, then died before making payment. Father would have been proud of the bargain he struck with the carriage maker, although he would have found the red upholstery entirely too bold. Father had always preferred plain black carriages bearing no ornamentation whatsoever. Yet some of the ancient vehicles in storage at their estate in Surrey were quite ornate and, though now dusty and faded, had once been painted in vibrant colors and sported gold, red and green shields. Winston could think of no reason at all why this carriage should not bear the family crest on its two doors.

The driveway gravel crunched beneath the wheels as they wended their way to the entrance of the mansion’s grounds. Clouds clustered above them, yet the air held not a hint of rain, a sign that the day would no doubt be fair.

Miss Hart was quiet, but her demeanor was cheerful enough. Perhaps he had mistaken her opinion of him. Would a lady suggest something beneficial, such as his use of the family crest, to a gentleman she disliked? He had no idea.

He supposed it was his responsibility to begin their conversation. The only comment he could think of concerned the pleasant fragrance of Lady Blakemore’s roses that permeated the landscape. However, he did not wish to revive their discussion—disagreement—they’d had at the flower shop. Best to begin a new page in their acquaintance.

“Do you like to read, Miss Hart?”

She tilted her head in a pretty pose, not unlike any other young lady might do, but much more charmingly than anyone he had yet to meet. A slender strand of dark brown hair came loose from her brown straw bonnet and arched across her fair cheek, reminding him of the way it had all flowed down around her shoulders the other day. He clenched his fists to keep from reaching out to brush aside the strand. Lord help him. Did every gentleman have to fight such impulses?

“Yes.” Her cheeks turned pink, and as if she could read his thoughts, she tucked the strand back under the edge of her bonnet. “Why do you ask?”

Ask what?
Now his own cheeks warmed. “Why, I suppose to start a conversation. Do you prefer another subject?” What had he asked her? Where was his mind? In Parliament, he never lost track of a word that was spoken or who had said it.

“No, no. Reading is fine.”

Thank you, Lord.
He released a quiet sigh, certain she noticed his chagrin, if her mild smirk was any indication. “Well, then, whose work do you read?”

“I have recently read and enjoyed a book entitled
Sense and Sensibility
by ‘A Lady.’ Do you know the work?”

“Regrettably, no. However, if it is a lady’s book, I have no doubt my mother and sister have read it.”

“A pity you have not.” She made a great ceremony of raising her white parasol as a shield against the sunlight, then lifted her fan to cool her face. “One can learn so much about human frailties and strengths by reading a well-written novel.” She stared off toward the town houses they were passing along Grosvenor Street, but did not appear to focus on them. Nor did she say anything more.

He would not point out his own town house on the east side of Grosvenor Square, for that could be perceived as an inappropriate invitation for her to visit him. He did wonder whether she would like his cat, whether Crumpet would like her. But the last thing he needed was to say something else wrong, something else that disappointed her.