Louise M. Gouge Page 11

  Weary of her inner conflict, she closed the leather-bound volume and returned it to the bookshelf. Better to spend the evening in her chambers practicing her swordsmanship than to waste time planning to fence with Lord Winston using mere words.

  *

  Winston chided himself for imagining his cousin might open his desk drawer. Even if he did, his search would no doubt be harmless and his discovery of the documents accidental. Edgar was Blakemore’s secretary and saw many such important papers and could certainly be trusted with state secrets. Perhaps he had even written those confidential letters for the earl. Winston dismissed the matter without another thought.

  To the waiting butler, he said, “Send in Mr. Grenville and bring tea.”

  “Of course, my lord.” As he strode from the room, Llewellyn lifted his chin and sniffed, clearly offended.

  Despite his insolence, Winston could not fault him. As Father’s butler for more than twenty years, Llewellyn knew to bring tea for guests without being told. Winston would have to show him due consideration in the future.

  He met Mr. Grenville at the door and shook his hand. “Welcome, sir. I have been looking forward to your visit.” He waved him toward two chairs near the back corner of the room, where they could talk without being overheard by the footman now in attendance.

  “As have I,” his guest said as they walked across the room. The tall, well-formed gentleman looked very much like his brother, Lord Greystone, except that his hair was lighter brown. He wore a dark blue jacket and gray trousers, not the usual somber black attire worn by men of God. The minister had no more than eight and twenty years on him, yet his blue eyes exuded a mature intensity that suggested he could search the very depths of a man’s soul. Winston valued that same quality in his vicar at home. Perhaps that was why he felt so drawn to Mr. Grenville.

  After they discussed the usual pleasantries about the weather and the newly won war against Napoleon, the minister accepted a cup of tea from Llewellyn and focused his gaze on Winston. “Would I be correct in assuming you invited me to call so that we could discuss the young lady who accompanied you the other day?” His tone held only interest, no insinuations, as Edgar’s had.

  Relaxing at last with his cup of tea, Winston stirred in his usual three lumps of sugar. “An hour ago you would have been correct in that assumption.” He prayed it was not a mistake to confide in this gentleman. If he was as upstanding as his brothers, surely he could be trusted. With that thought—and a sip of hot tea—a warm peace flooded his spirit, and his concerns seemed to wash away. “However, just before you came, my mother arrived unexpectedly, and at the moment, she is my main concern.”

  He proceeded to explain how Father had decided years ago that Mother could no longer come to London and how he’d not yet had time to investigate the reasons. With some hesitation, he also told the minister about Edgar’s implied accusations, although he did not name his cousin. Even as he spoke the words, deep emotion welled up inside him, and he choked out, “It is no small thing to doubt my mother’s—” Virtue. Morality. His sister’s paternity.

  Mr. Grenville reached out and gripped his shoulder. “I can well imagine that it causes you great pain.”

  “Yes.” Winston expected immediate advice, but none was forthcoming. Yet Mr. Grenville’s presence in itself gave him comfort, not to mention a desire to purge his soul of many troubling issues. He would begin with one that had distressed him for some time. “In addition to that concern, I find my responsibilities weighing heavy upon my shoulders. I have been Lord Winston for just over a year and have been in London since late January. Yet I can find no firm footing on this road. How did your elder brother learn to manage his duties to both king and family? Did your father guide him?”

  “My brother was elevated to his title at the age of six, upon our father’s death.” A sad smile graced Grenville’s lips. “Our mother taught Greystone—in fact, taught the three of us our responsibilities. She was assisted by Lord Blakemore and the late Mr. Parton.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” Winston should have remembered that. “I fear my father’s lengthy final illness left him little energy to teach me many of the required lessons.” Regret was quickly displaced by a realization. “Blakemore does excel in mentoring younger peers. I am fortunate to have his direction and his interest in my political ambitions.”

  “I would say so.” Mr. Grenville nodded agreeably, then grew silent again, a silence that nonetheless invited confidence.

  “One thing Father did advise was that I should marry as soon as I found a suitable lady.” Winston frowned and shook his head over the enormity of such a decision. “Blakemore says a diplomat must have a wife.”

  “I fully understand. It is the same for a minister of God.” Mr. Grenville’s expression grew tender. “I am blessed with a godly wife and an infant daughter, so I understand the value of a happy marriage.” He focused again on Winston. “When I saw you at the flower shop on Wednesday, you appeared to be enjoying the lovely Miss Hart’s company.” Again, no insinuation tainted his tone. “Do I sense a hesitation on your part in regard to her?”

  “I have known her but a few days, yet I find her company agreeable.” More than agreeable. “Yet I cannot help but wonder why she is employed as a mere companion. I know nothing about her family, which must be entirely unimpeachable if I am to pursue her. Marriage to the wrong lady could destroy my career.”

  “Ah, yes.” While Mr. Grenville seemed to understand, a question remained in his eyes.

  “Tell me what you are thinking.”

  “Only that my brother would have missed his greatest happiness if he had permitted Lord Melton’s reputation to prevent his marriage to Melton’s sister.” He took a moment to sip his tea. “Sometimes the Lord surprises us. Why not ask Lady Blakemore who the young lady is? If her pedigree is unsuitable, do not see her again. If you find her family acceptable—” he leaned forward “—begin your pursuit.”

  Winston chuckled. “You, sir, are a romantic.”

  “Guilty as charged,” he said with a laugh. “I cannot deny the truth. After watching my two brothers agonize over their choices, I would wish for less drama for every gentleman seeking a wife.” He sobered. “Do you desire my counsel regarding your mother, as well?”

  “I do.” Winston held his breath, fearing the worst.

  “First, if Lady Winston bears any guilt in the matter you mentioned, remember that we have all sinned and come short of the glory of God.” Mr. Grenville recited one of Father’s favorite passages of Scripture in a conversational manner, not at all like Father’s somber, warning tone that often crushed Winston’s spirit, even when he had done nothing wrong. “Yet through Christ, our heavenly Father has forgiven us, as Scripture tells us. And of course that means we must forgive one another.” He gave Winston a reassuring smile. “Perhaps Lady Winston is faultless in regard to the rumors you have heard. You must confront her in love and discover the truth about why the late Lord Winston required her to remain in Surrey all these years.”

  This was exactly the advice he had feared. How could he manage such an encounter? Did he even want to know the answer? “Pray I will have the courage to do it.” He could imagine the pain in Mother’s eyes if he misspoke and she was entirely innocent. “And pray that my words will not wound her.”

  “Gladly.”

  To Winston’s surprise, Mr. Grenville slipped down to his knees by his chair in the posture of prayer. He found himself following suit while the minister voiced his petitions.

  When they had reclaimed their seats, Winston persuaded his guest to have another cup of tea. They chatted about inconsequential matters, the sort of things that nonetheless increased their friendship and understanding. At last, claiming the late hour, the minister stood to take his leave.

  “And I shall ask Mrs. Grenville to call upon Lady Winston early next week. That is, if it will please you.”

  “Indeed it will.” Winston had not thought of the advantages of having Mother wi
th him. With a lady in the house, he could also invite Miss Hart to call. The thought stirred a feeling of hope and anticipation. And in preparation for his own next encounter with the young lady, he would send a footman to purchase a copy of Sense and Sensibility first thing Monday morning.

  As they walked from the drawing room to the staircase, Winston glanced back down the hall, where Edgar appeared to be exiting the same room through the side door. He could only wonder whether his cousin had come looking for him or had been listening to the conversation with the minister the entire time. And if so, why?

  *

  Catherine had always enjoyed the services in the village church near her home, but today she could barely keep from squirming like a child in Lord Blakemore’s box pew in St. George’s Church. Vicar Hodgson, robed in ecclesiastical splendor, stood in his exquisitely carved and canopied pulpit high above the congregation. He preached on the text “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.” Halfway into his sermon, Catherine relaxed, for his examples made clear that his message was meant not for her, but for those who wished to see Napoleon executed rather than exiled to the island of Elba.

  She permitted her gaze to wander from Mr. Hodgson to the brightly lit church’s beautiful furnishings: the glowing candelabra, the stained-glass windows, the double-decked reading desk to the left of the altar and the enormous Holy Bible thereon. She especially admired the painting above the altar. Surrounded by a finely carved mahogany frame, it depicted the Last Supper in brilliant colors and detail. In the center, Christ glowed with holiness, while his disciples gazed at him with adoration. On the left, the artist had added the shadowy figure of Judas making his escape through a side door to complete his evil deed.

  Thoughts of Judas brought Lord Winston to mind. Just as Catherine could never understand how a disciple who had walked with Jesus could betray him, she could not comprehend why the baron would falsely accuse a gentleman he did not even know.

  “‘Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him,’” the vicar read from the smaller Bible in front of him. “‘If he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.’”

  Lord Winston is my enemy, but this does not apply to me. No, her enemy was more like the dragon slain by the patron saint of this church and all of England, and she was St. George, wielding the avenging sword. Yet the more she tried to convince herself, the more her stomach ached from her inner battle. The only thought that could soothe her was the memory of Mama’s terror when Papa had been forced to flee.

  The service ended, and the congregation began to file out of their pews and toward the rear of the church, accompanied by a thunderous Handel composition played on the fifteen-hundred-pipe organ in the western gallery. At the door, Mr. Hodgson greeted his parishioners, the Geneva bands of his clerical collar rippling in the wind. He modestly deflected compliments about his sermon and kindly spoke to even the humblest of congregants. Of late, Catherine had taken to hiding behind Lady Blakemore or one of the white columns of the portico to escape his notice. Unfortunately, her height equaled her employer’s, and the vicar always found her out.

  “Miss Hart, I hope you are well.” He extended his hand, and she had no choice but to curtsy and reach out to shake it. Of modest height and graying at the temples, the minister extended kindness even to a companion.

  “I am, sir.” To her relief, he released her and turned to the person behind her.

  “Lord Winston, I am pleased to see you attending St. George’s.”

  Catherine whipped around to see the baron shake hands with the vicar. To her knowledge, he had never before attended this church. Why was he here?

  “It is my pleasure, vicar. I have been advised by my mother that St. George’s is the parish church for all of Mayfair, so it should have been my choice all along.”

  Mr. Hodgson chuckled. “We are blessed to add you to our congregation.”

  “I thank you, sir,” the baron said. “And I thank you for a very fine message. If all Christians would obey the Lord’s admonitions regarding revenge, what a better place this world would be.” He turned to two well-dressed ladies behind him. “Mother, may I present Mr. Hodgson. Vicar, my mother and my sister.”

  The vicar bowed to them. “Lady Winston. Miss Beaumont.”

  While they exchanged pleasantries, Catherine studied the baron’s family. Of medium height and elegant carriage, the baroness did not look old enough to have a son in Parliament. Her unlined face was framed by blond curls pushed forward by a black satin bonnet. Miss Beaumont, dressed in yellow and her eyes wide with liveliness, caused a stirring of jealousy, not for her beauty but for her innocence. Six months ago, Catherine had enjoyed that same cheerful disposition before her world was shattered by this girl’s brother. Their presence complicated her plans, for her revenge would harm them as well as the baron.

  Trembling inside, she struggled to appear calm as she moved toward the Blakemores, who had descended the several steps of the church. Perhaps as surprised as she at the baron’s appearance, the earl and countess stood watching the scene with interest.

  At last Lord Winston donned his hat, and he and his family stepped out from under the portico into the sunshine. Catching sight of her, he smiled. “Miss Hart.” He glanced beyond her and bowed. “Lady Blakemore. Blakemore.”

  “Good to see you here, my boy.” The earl shook Lord Winston’s hand as if they had not seen each other in a month.

  Introductions were made all around. Lord Blakemore offered his condolences on the baroness’s loss and stated that the late Lord Winston had been a fine gentleman. The countess and baroness announced their long-ago acquaintance, which they were eager to renew.

  “You must come visit me,” Lady Winston said to the countess. Her eyes darted to her son. “That is, with your permission, Winston.”

  He drew back a little at her question and frowned. “But of course, Mother. Lady Blakemore is always welcome in my…our home.” He gave Catherine a slight bow, and his gaze softened. “And Miss Hart, as well.”

  “Oh, Miss Hart.” Miss Beaumont practically skipped to Catherine’s side. “Did you make your debut this year? You must tell me all about it. Winston has not yet told me whether he will sponsor my debut, but if he does, we shall need all the advice we can gather. Mother has not been to London since before I was born, so she has no idea what the latest customs are. You will help us, will you not?”

  For the first time in her life, Catherine experienced utter mortification. Although she was fully worthy of having a debut among the haute ton, she had never aspired to such a spectacle. Had never wanted Papa and Mama to announce to the world that they were offering her up like some show horse to be auctioned off to the wealthiest titled bidder. And now, with Lord Winston and the Blakemores staring at Miss Beaumont askance, with pretty, uninformed Lady Winston gazing at her daughter with a delighted smile, Catherine could find no words with which to explain that she was a mere companion. But worse than her own embarrassment, this sweet young girl would be devastated by her faux pas in front of the earl and countess.

  Chapter Eleven

  Winston’s heart ached for dear Sophia, but he could find no words to repair the damage her error had caused. Even he knew that one did not call attention to a companion, or any employee, or suggest that she should be elevated to aristocratic privileges. The poor child’s face fell, and she stared around the circle, eyes wide with fright, as if searching for someone to explain her faux pas.

  “I—I…” Miss Hart, bless her, gave Sophia an uncertain smile, elevating the lady considerably in Winston’s regard. She clearly wished to console his sister, but seemed to have the same trouble as he did in not knowing what to say.

  Lady Blakemore’s laughter rang out, perhaps a trifle too loudly for the front of a church where other parishioners milled about. “Why, my dear girl, not every young miss is as lively and outgoing as you are.” She reached out to pat Sophia’s che
ek, prompting from the girl a small, hopeful smile and forestalling the tears on the brink of falling. “Our Miss Hart is quite shy, you see, and she could not be persuaded even to attend a ball with us until last week, so one doubts she could ever endure the rigors of a debut.”

  Miss Hart nodded soberly, and Winston wanted to thank her profusely for her sweet humility. And he would forever be grateful for the countess’s generosity. In this small company, it would have been her duty to correct Sophia. He had seen more than one older lady deliver a cruel set down to some green young girl and crush her spirits.

  “Oh. I see.” Sophia was now all kindness and benevolence. She clasped both of Miss Hart’s hands. “Why, as pretty as you are, Miss Hart, I am sure you would be all the rage.” Her brightest smile now returned. “I have never been afflicted with shyness, but—” She blinked and once again searched the group to see if she had made another blunder. “I mean to say…”

  Annoyed with his own social ineptitude, Winston could no longer remain silent. “No, dearest, no one would ever accuse you of being shy.” To his delight, she rolled her eyes, while everyone else chuckled in a kindly way. “But we love you all the more for your—what did Lady Blakemore say? Your liveliness.”

  “And with that all settled,” Blakemore said, “I propose that you all join my wife and me for a midday repast. You and your family are free, are you not, Winston?”

  Nothing could have pleased him more, but he would not gush out his feelings like dear little Sophia. Instead, he gave Mother a slight bow. “Your decision, madam.”

  She beamed her delight. “Of course we are free, sir.”

  With all the enthusiasm of a party of picnickers, they scrambled into their carriages, and orders were given to the drivers. While they rolled through the streets of Mayfair toward the mansion, Winston considered Lady Blakemore’s warm welcome to Mother when they were renewing their acquaintance. As generous as the countess was, he doubted even she would be so kind to a lady whose character bore some stain, even from years ago. On the other hand, Edgar had sent an urgent message early this morning advising Winston not to permit Mother to renew her acquaintance with Lord Morgan or even to socialize in the same circles with the known rake. He had not explained any further. Whom could Winston believe?