Louise M. Gouge Page 8

  “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 hi
m 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.

  Why had he brought up the subject of reading? And why was he trying so hard to please her when she appeared to care little for his company? Once they made a turn around Hyde Park and had some refreshment, he would take her back to Lady Blakemore and be done with it.

  *

  Catherine measured the seconds, the minutes before speaking. From Lord Winston’s furrowed brow, she could see he was discomfited. While her natural inclination was always to speak soothing words to any other person in distress, she had to force herself not to console him.

  Why did she have such kind thoughts about this wicked man? The answer came to her straightaway. Because he was devious and had duped everyone into believing in his nonexistent integrity. Well, two could play the game. She could be devious, too. She even had a Scripture verse from Matthew’s Gospel to silence her concerns. “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.” She would play the wise serpent in this charade, but she would be anything but harmless once she had cajoled the baron into making a confession. Only briefly did she admit the verse did not truly apply in this situation.

  After several minutes of pretending to admire the tree-lined streets and houses with window boxes filled with bright red or purple geraniums, she offered him a smile. “Where are my manners? You asked if I like to read. Now it is my turn. Do you like to read?”

  He brightened so quickly that she would have laughed had her stomach not been knotted with guilt.

  “I do, but these days I have little time to read for pleasure. However, upon your recommendation, I shall certainly look for your Sense and Sensibility.”

  She measured out a slight smile and an agreeable nod, after which followed an awkward pause that she refused to fill.

  At last he cleared his throat. “Perhaps to be in compliance with Blakemore’s instructions, we should begin our lessons. You have been charged with teaching me about humor.” The eagerness in his expression lent a youthful look to his handsome face.

  Her feminine sensibilities responded with a wildly racing pulse she could not rein in. Oh, why could this man not resemble an ogre? How much easier to hate him if he were hideous to behold or had loutish manners. But he appeared to be perfect in every way. “Ah, yes,” she breathed out, hoping he would not notice her discomfort. Or if he noticed, would not realize he was the cause of her reaction to his very masculine presence. “But perhaps we can combine reading and humor.”

  Interest lit those eyes, more green than gray in the sunlight, so piercing yet so unseeing of who she truly was. “How so?”

  “First permit me to ask you, do you read Shakespeare?”

  “Of course.” He grimaced, apparently realizing how harsh his retort had been. “I do not intend to sound arrogant, merely to indicate that every English gentleman with any schooling at all has read Shakespeare.” A thoughtful frown crossed his brow, and Catherine could not deny he was every bit as handsome when not smiling. “However, my fat
her encouraged me to read the history plays rather than the tragedies and comedies.” He emitted a rueful chuckle. “As you may have already surmised, I was reared in a rather sober house.”

  Once again sympathy welled up inside of Catherine. Her home had been a merry haven. That is, until this man had destroyed their joy and safety.

  “Well, then.” She managed to sound a bit tutorial, much like her childhood governess. “My first assignment for you is to read the comedy Much Ado About Nothing. The repartee between Beatrice and Benedick is a perfect example of the humor to be found in a duel of wits.”

  “Hmm. How interesting.” His expression grew grave. “I will do as you ask, but please be advised that I have two objections to that particular play.”

  “Indeed?” Catherine searched her memory for any flaws, but could think of none. “Pray tell, what objections?”

  “The jests between Beatrice and Benedick are sarcastic and cruel, striking at the very heart of their opponent. I would never speak thus to a lady and would think very little of a lady who spoke thus to me.” He paused as though considering his next words. “Then in the matter of the love match between Claudio and Hero, the count is entirely too quick to believe evil about his beloved. Should I ever love a lady, as he claimed to love Hero, I shall trust her with every secret of my soul, even with my very life.”

  For a moment, Catherine could not think, could not speak, could not even breathe. Was this not the very thing she hoped to gain? His absolute trust? But while Shakespeare’s Hero was the very picture of innocence, Catherine had only vengeful intentions toward this gentleman.

  “Ah, here we are.” Lord Winston’s mood brightened again as the carriage rolled between the posts of Grosvenor Gate and into Hyde Park. “If you are thirsty, shall we try those strawberry ices again? I seem to recall that last time yours was spilled before you could finish it.”