Louise M. Gouge Read online

  “Tell me, Lord Winston—” Miss Hart accepted a dish of cream-covered pastry from the footman, thanking him with another of her pretty smiles “—what think you of the scandal regarding Lord Cochrane’s fraud against the Stock Exchange? Will he be sufficiently punished with only a year in prison and the loss of his naval rank?”

  Winston caught himself before barking out his indignation over Cochrane’s wicked scheme to defraud his fellow Englishmen. “Why, Miss Hart, should a delicate lady concern herself over politics and crime?”

  Those dark eyelashes batted in pretty confusion several times. “Oh, my. I do not wish to venture upon ground unfitting for a lady.” She glanced down the long table toward where her employer sat. “I would grieve to cause embarrassment to Lady Blakemore.”

  Her innocence touched a spot in Winston’s heart that he never knew existed. “Well, no harm is done.” A chuckle escaped him. No doubt she longed for reassurance in the Cochrane matter. “My dear lady, have no fear. The House of Lords has dealt appropriately with Cochrane and his associates. Do not give it another thought. All is well.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gazed down at her gloved hands, which rested in her lap. The slight lump near her right wrist reminded him of their earlier conversation.

  “Miss Hart, a while ago, you asked me a question. Now I must ask you one.”

  Her perfect brown eyebrows arched. “Oh, yes. Ask what you will, and I shall answer.”

  Inexplicably, his pulse began to race. With some difficulty, he cleared his throat and managed to croak out, “Do you like cats?”

  Now her expression turned impish. “Why, yes, of course.” She glanced around, as if checking to see whether or not anyone else was listening, then whispered, “I am convinced that only evil can come from a person who does not like cats.”

  Now he laughed as an agreeable sensation swept through him. “Madam, I concur with your premise wholeheartedly.”

  What a delightful lady. What extraordinary wit and intelligence. But he would not quickly surrender his heart as he had seen several of his peers do, to their ruin. No, entirely too much depended upon his having the right connections. Perhaps Lord Bennington could advise him regarding which items he could safely strike from his list of requirements for a wife. But until he managed to secure an appointment with his busy mentor, he would find as many proper ways as possible to spend time with the lovely Miss Hart. He did have an appointment with Lord Blakemore on the morrow. Perhaps he would see her then.

  *

  All the way back to their Mayfair mansion, Lord and Lady Blakemore laughed as they shared harmless bits of gossip. Lady Drayton had declared the night a success after no fewer than three marriage proposals had been offered. A conceited lord deep in his cups boasted that he would race his finest thoroughbred against all challengers, and a dozen or more gentlemen agreed to the contest. Their host, the Marquess of Drayton, announced that Prinny would attend the theatre with Louis, the French king, sometime during the coming week.

  Catherine paid particular attention to this last bit of news. Papa had been accused of being a Bonapartist and conspiring to assassinate Louis so they could prevent the Bourbons from reclaiming the French throne. Which, of course, was ridiculous. Papa had no cause to do such a thing. He utterly disdained Napoleon Bonaparte, and his allegiance to England, his country of refuge, was unwavering.

  Regarding the rest of Lord and Lady Blakemore’s gossip, Catherine listened with moderate interest. At any time she might be called upon to participate in a conversation about the marquess’s ball. Ignorance of the latest on-dits among the haute ton was unforgivable, even for a companion, for that would make her employer look bad.

  “And what have you to say for yourself, Miss Hart?” Jolly Lord Blakemore, with his fringe of graying hair around his balding pate and his short, plump stature, made for an odd pairing with his tall, slender wife. But their temperaments seemed perfectly suited, and their household was a haven of peace in noisy, smelly London. “Did you enjoy the evening? I saw you with Lord Winston, which, I must say, is quite startling. One does not expect Winston even to speak to those outside of his small circle, much less to dine with them.”

  Before this evening, that description of the baron might have suited her very well. But after dancing and dining with Lord Winston, she saw no hint of his former arrogance. Instead, she had found his manners faultless and his conversation charming. Even poor Aunt Beckwith had received his kindest attentions. Where was the crack in his facade? What would prove him worthy of her revenge when added to his lies about Papa?

  “You have Lady Blakemore to blame, my lord. She forced me upon the unsuspecting baron, poor man.”

  The Blakemores traded a look and laughed in their jovial way.

  “Ah,” said Lady Blakemore, “but one did not observe Winston trying to escape your company.”

  “But why should he wish to escape?” Lord Blakemore wiggled his wiry eyebrows in a comical fashion. “What more charming company could he ask for?”

  The countess nodded agreeably. “No, he was more than pleased to spend his evening with our Miss Hart.”

  The familiar benevolence in her smile struck a deep chord within Catherine. No matter what her true station in life, these good people should regard her as just above a servant. And yet they had risked Society’s censure by taking her to one of the most important social events of the Season, even providing an exquisite gown from Lady Blakemore’s talented modiste. And what did Catherine offer in return for their generosity? Lies and deception and the risk of being accused of harboring a traitor’s daughter, something that could ruin Lord Blakemore, no doubt in more ways than Catherine could imagine. Guilt ate at her until her eyes stung, and she prayed her employers could not see her tears in the dim light of the closed carriage.

  “What’s this?” Lord Blakemore’s gentle tone did nothing to help Catherine’s self-control. “Why tears, my dear? Did Winston insult you? Did anyone?” The jolly little earl’s eyes narrowed. “You must tell me the truth, now. I insist upon it.”

  “Gracious, no.” Catherine managed a dismissive laugh. “I am thinking only of how grateful I am for all that you have done for me.” Not a lie at all. “You have taken me to the theatre several times to enjoy Shakespeare’s wonderful plays, and tonight you escorted me to the marquess’s ball. You have honored me far more than a mere companion deserves or should expect.”

  The earl waved his hand dismissively, but in his pleased smile she could see her gratitude was not wasted. Yet somehow she must turn this conversation back to the baron to uncover his weaknesses.

  “Your comment about Lord Winston surprises me. Does he truly not mingle with anyone but a small circle of friends?” The baron had behaved quite pleasantly toward her despite his apparent assumption that she was born of the gentry.

  Again the couple traded a look, and the earl nodded to his countess.

  “I would not say he is overly proud,” she said. “Of course, he holds to our views regarding the classes. We know God has ordained that the aristocracy should rule and manage the affairs of mankind. But we are expected to do so benevolently.” She patted her husband’s hand and gazed at him fondly. “Why, just these past weeks, Lord Blakemore has joined with Lord Greystone and Mr. Wilberforce to propose laws restricting the use of small children as chimney sweeps.”

  “That is most commendable, my lord.” How could Catherine return the conversation to Lord Winston without exposing how deeply she was interested in him or causing them to think that interest was romantic? “Surely not every aristocrat is so benevolent.” She had seen sufficient poverty in London to know the wealthy could and should do more to help them.

  “Ah, but we were speaking of Winston.” The earl chuckled in his endearing way, almost as if he could read her thoughts. “You may be interested to know, Miss Hart, that earlier this month he accompanied Greystone to a disreputable tavern on the Thames and helped to rescue two kidnapped climbing boys. Just think of it. Two peers
taking on such a dangerous adventure to save chimney sweeps, the lowest of the low.”

  “Indeed?” Catherine’s heart warmed briefly before she dismissed such a favorable emotion. Perhaps the baron could be kind to poor children and elderly ladies, but that did not excuse his evil lies about her father.

  “Indeed,” Lady Blakemore said. “Quite commendable.”

  “Tell me, my dear.” The earl addressed his wife. “What did you hear from Swarthmore about the Cochrane affair?”

  Catherine watched with interest as the countess detailed Lord Swarthmore’s opinions regarding the complicated scheme Lord Cochrane and his cohorts had perpetrated against the Stock Exchange. Like Papa, not only did Lord Blakemore listen attentively to his wife, but he respected her opinions, which she sprinkled liberally throughout the discourse.

  And yet Lord Winston had refused to discuss the affair with Catherine. Apparently, he found her too naive to be informed about important matters of the day, as though she had no intellect or fortitude. That suited her plans quite well, for if her enemy underestimated her, so much the better.

  “By the by, my dear.” Lady Blakemore addressed her husband, but something in her tone alerted Catherine and interrupted her musings. “At what hour is Winston arriving tomorrow? I should like to be at home and have tea with him. You do not mind, do you, Miss Hart?”

  Catherine’s thoughts raced. She would have to enlist Mr. Radcliff’s help to arrange an encounter with the baron during his visit. For now, she schooled her face to suggest polite indifference. “My lady, you do not require my approval to entertain whom you will.”

  Lady Blakemore traded another of those conspiratorial glances with her husband. “But my dear, he does require my permission to have tea with you.” She laughed softly. “I do hope you are not disappointed that I granted it.”

  How hard it was for Catherine not to smile, not to crow with victory. The path to bringing Lord Winston down was proving to be all too easy.

  Chapter Three

  “Come in, Edgar.” Winston beckoned his cousin Radcliff into the sunny breakfast room of his Grosvenor Square town house. “Have you eaten? My cook has laid out far too much food for one person.” He selected eggs, rolls and sausages from the oak sideboard and moved toward the head of the table. Last night at Lord Drayton’s ball, he had been too occupied with Miss Hart to have much appetite. Now his stomach rumbled in complaint over such neglect.

  “Good morning, Winston.” Radcliff’s tone, always cheerful, sounded particularly good-humored this morning. “Did you enjoy last evening?” He took a plate and studied the selection of food.

  “A very grand affair.” Winston hesitated to mention Miss Hart, lest nothing come of his interest in her. As charming as the young lady had seemed last night, this morning his father’s admonitions came to mind, warning him against haste in forming any alliance. Still, he looked forward to this afternoon when he would visit Blakemore and have tea with his wife and her companion. He considered asking Lady Blakemore’s permission to take the young lady for a drive, but decided such a move would have to wait until he learned of her family connections. And he really must do that today.

  “Meet anyone interesting?” Edgar took the chair adjacent to Winston’s and laid a linen serviette across his lap. He leaned toward Winston and arched his eyebrows to punctuate his question, as if he knew the answer.

  Winston almost choked on his buttered roll. Edgar had always seemed able to read his mind. To deflect the question, he eyed his cousin’s plate, which held a single sausage and one roll. “Is that all you want?” As sanguine as he felt this morning, he would gladly feed the world. After months of fruitless searching for a wife, perhaps he was close to achieving his goal.

  Edgar accepted a cup of coffee from the footman. “I never know whether Blakemore will invite me to join him for breakfast or not.” He sipped his beverage. “It’s always best to arrive for work a little hungry so as not to offend him. Unfortunately, I cannot depend upon his feeding me, so I must eat something.” He emitted a rueful chuckle.

  “Indeed?” Winston grimaced at the thought. His cousin was as thin as a banister spindle and could ill afford to miss a meal. As Blakemore’s secretary, surely he had the liberty to nourish himself in the kitchen in the course of a day’s work. “Well, you must eat your fill here as often as you like before going to work.”

  “I thank you for your generosity. But let us not dwell upon my eating habits. Must I repeat my question, cousin?” Edgar gave him a knowing smirk. “Did you meet anyone interesting last evening? A young lady, perhaps?”

  Winston bit into a sausage to avoid answering, savoring the blend of spices with which his chef had seasoned it. How annoying that Edgar was so persistent. But then, this was his dear cousin, who had known him all his life. Surely he could confide in him.

  “Very well, yes, I did meet a young lady.” He waved to the footman to refill his coffee cup, then made a great ceremony of adding sugar and cream before taking a sip. Then adding more sugar.

  Edgar laughed. “You know I will not leave until you tell me everything.”

  Winston’s heart lightened at this prompting. Edgar cared deeply for him, even though his birth had displaced his cousin as Father’s heir. Any other gentleman might resent it, but Edgar had never appeared to covet the title or the wealth, even though he had been relegated to the edges of Society and forced to earn his living, a shame for any aristocrat.

  “Her name is Miss Hart, and she is Lady Blakemore’s companion.” There. He confessed it. Now he sat back and waited for the honest opinion that would doubtless be forthcoming.

  Edgar gaped at him for a full ten seconds. “That chit? Why, my dear, naive cousin, I never would have imagined that quiet little mouse would dare to set her cap for a peer of the realm.” He snorted out his disgust. “Why, she has no family to speak of. No name, no dowry. Why would you permit some scheming girl like that to engage your heart?” He rose from his chair and paced the length of the table and back. “Well, then, go ahead. Fall in love with her. But do not speak of marriage. Set her up in her own house and…you know.”

  For several moments, Winston could only watch his cousin in stunned silence. Then heat blasted up his neck and into his face. He stood and slammed his serviette down on the table. “You will not speak of her in that manner. I am convinced she is a lady. Do you even know her?” Hands fisted, he took a step toward his cousin.

  Edgar blinked but did not move. Then his breath seemed to go out of him. “Forgive me, cousin.” He set a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “She and I are employed in the same house, but we have barely spoken two words to one another. And I must admit that I have never observed anything but proper comportment on her part.” He gave Winston a sad smile. “Please permit me to explain myself. I wish only the best for you. With your ancient and well-respected title, you could marry an earl’s daughter, even a duke’s, someone to advance your position in Society and give you connections and influence in that diplomatic career you aspire to. Perhaps even snare that earldom Old Farmer George promised your father. Why choose a girl who is doubtless a mere gentlewoman and can provide none of that?”

  Despite his disapproval of Edgar’s impertinent reference to their poor, mad sovereign, Winston’s anger evaporated, replaced by gratitude for his cousin’s concerns. “I cannot disagree with what you say. Be assured that I am not in any hurry to marry Miss Hart after chatting with her for a single evening. I merely find her appealing. And, after all, one does hope to possess some degree of affection for his wife, as you feel for Emily.”

  Edgar’s expression seemed to twist into disgust, and he turned away. Had Winston been mistaken about Edgar’s love for his wife? Yet when his cousin faced him again, his genial smile had returned. “Yes, one does wish to love and be loved. So what is your plan to woo this little…this young lady?” His words dispelled Winston’s concerns.

  “After my appointment with Lord Blakemore, for which I thank you, dear cousin—” h
e punctuated his gratitude with a nod and received one in return “—I will take tea with Lady Blakemore and Miss Hart. If all goes well and Miss Hart’s family connections prove acceptable, I may ask the countess for permission to take her for a carriage ride. That is, if you do not think it too soon…or improper…for such an outing.”

  “You may be certain that Lady Blakemore will decide what is proper regarding Miss Hart. But you must remember that ladies hire companions to keep at their sides for their own convenience, not to marry them off.” Edgar blew out a sigh of apparent frustration, and Winston felt for a moment like a foolish schoolboy. “But if you insist upon this plan, which carriage will you take? What have you purchased since coming to London?”

  Consternation swept over Winston. “I never thought to purchase a new carriage for town. Father’s old ones stored in the mews could use some repair, but—” He had already spent a large sum to replace the roof of this town house, which had languished uninhabited for six years during Father’s final illness.

  “But nothing!” Edgar huffed with indignation. “How can you take a young lady out for a drive in a shabby conveyance? You would become Society’s laughingstock. No, no, you must postpone your outing until you have a new one. A landau, a barouche, a coach. No, not a coach. It must be an open carriage to protect the young lady’s reputation. You must have a landau. And a matched pair of horses, of course. You do have a matched pair?” He clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his pacing across the parquet floor, as if the fate of England depended upon the matter.

  “Yes, of course. Some of Father’s best cattle from home.” Winston scratched his chin, partly amused by Edgar’s antics, partly chagrined by his own lack of forethought. “But there’s no time to order a new landau. My appointment with Lord Blakemore is in a few hours, and Lady Blakemore will expect me to stay for tea, as I promised. Perhaps I can borrow Mrs. Parton’s new landau.”

  Edgar chewed his lip. “Yes, that’s just the thing. You must send her a note straightaway, and I’ll wager she will give you whatever you wish. All of our relatives have always done that, have they not?” A hint of pain clouded his thin features, a haunted look that often appeared when they discussed their family.