Louise M. Gouge (12 page)

With Lady Blakemore now treating her more as a ward or protégée than a companion, he could only surmise that she came from a reputable family. And although the young lady had declined to address him in a more familiar way, he could see from her many friendly smiles that she found his company at least somewhat agreeable. In fact, her humorous rejection of his veiled, and no doubt improper, invitation served as a warning to him not to be as impulsive as Sophia. He had already learned through the examples of others that Society frowned upon anyone failing to give due honor to another person’s rank.

After they adjourned from the dining table, Blakemore led the way to the drawing room, with everyone voicing their enthusiasm for the upcoming activity. Like Sophia, Winston had never played charades or any other game. He felt confident, however, that under Miss Hart’s tutelage, he could master any such harmless entertainment.

He managed to sit beside her on a settee in the furniture grouping near the hearth—not that he had much competition for that particular spot. Mother and Sophia sat opposite, as they had at dinner, only now Sophia kept grinning and blinking, clearly teasing him. He sent her a menacing glower, which only made her laugh. He could only surmise that his attempts to appear as severe as Father among his peers would be scuttled by his mother and sister.

Once everyone had found a place, Lady Blakemore stood in the center of them all to announce the rules for the game. “First, you must decide upon a word, such as
ball
or
bonnet
or
glove.
”

“How like a lady to begin with those suggestions, my dear.” Blakemore gave his countess a fond smile. “Now, a gentleman would say
horse
or
hound
or
boot.
Would you not agree, Winston?”

“Um, well—” Winston had no idea how to answer. Without thinking, he questioned Miss Hart with a raised eyebrow. She gave him a noncommittal shrug. As she turned her attention back to the countess, the fragrance of roses wafted from her dark brown hair toward him. His next breath was an entirely agreeable experience.

“My dear.” Lady Blakemore glared humorously at her husband. “You have asked me to teach the game to our guests. I beg you, permit me to do so.”

Their good-natured teasing refocused Winston’s attention. He glanced at Mother, whose pleasant expression held a hint of sadness. Was she thinking of Father? Missing him? Winston had never observed any form of teasing between his parents, nor any affection, at least not on Father’s part. His manner toward Mother had been cool and formal. Had it been the vast difference in their ages that had prevented either of them from being happy in their marriage? Or had it been something else?

In that moment, he knew he wanted a marriage exactly like the Blakemores’, one in which happiness and good humor abounded. But if a man found fault with his wife, something so dreadful that he could not trust her to go out into Society, how could they be happy together?

He was weary of worrying over Mother’s failings. Somehow he must find out what had happened all those years ago so he could avoid marrying someone with the same fault. But he had no idea where to begin.

His gaze turned unwittingly to Miss Hart, and something shifted within his emotions. Was his future already sealed?

Chapter Twelve

E
veryone else was enjoying the bantering between the earl and countess, so Catherine could not account for Lord Winston’s sudden sobering. Perhaps he had mistaken her shrug as another rebuff. She should have smiled instead of turning away, but it was not too late to make up for it. She tilted her head and sent him a pleasant look. His solemn expression barely lightened, yet his gaze remained on her, as if he were searching for something. She broadened her smile, and at last he returned one that seemed to bespeak more than simply good manners. Was he already falling in love with her? Good. All the better for her plans.

“Yes, yes, my dear.” The earl waved a hand at his wife. “Do go on with your instructions, or I shall fall asleep for my Sunday-afternoon nap.”

“Gracious me.” The countess beckoned to the butler, who stood by the door. “Do bring coffee for his lordship, Chetterly,” she chirped in a high, mocking voice. “We must have his participation.”

Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont snickered, and Catherine gave herself leave to echo their gaiety. Even the baron chuckled. Poor Chetterly, newly raised from footman to a senior staff position, bustled about serving coffee and tea as if he were serving the Prince Regent.

“Now, where was I?” Lady Blakemore placed a finger against her cheek in a thoughtful pose. “Ah, yes. You must think of a word that you wish the rest of us to guess. Then you must give us clues. Of course, the best clues are given in the form of a poem, but if you have no talent for poetry, you can devise some other method of hinting.”

While his mother and sister expressed their delight over the challenge, Lord Winston groaned. “I have already lost the match. When I attempted to write poetry at Eton, my professors wept over the clumsy results.”

“Come, come, my boy,” Lord Blakemore said. “This is not Eton but a friendly gathering of amateurs. None of us is Shakespeare.”

Catherine had played charades at home just last Christmas. The game was a family favorite, and she often won. Should she help Lord Winston or try to best him? Offering to help him might flatter his ego, but her competitive nature would not approve such a plan.

“I agree, Lord Winston.” She gave him her sweetest smile. “And remember that the best humor comes by accident. Perhaps your clumsy poetry will give us the most enjoyment.”

As she hoped, he sat back and gave her a long glare. “Am I to assume, Miss Hart, that you are challenging me?”

“Do not assume at all,
my lord.
” She grinned when he winced comically at her choice of address. “You may take it as a fact.”

As the room rang with even more laughter, the earl beckoned to his butler, who seemed unable to keep up with the various beverage choices. “Paper, pens and ink, Chetterly. And bring out a card table so we each have a writing surface.”

The beleaguered butler at last strode to the door and summoned footmen to help him. They brought the required supplies, and soon all was in order.

Catherine moved to the collapsible mahogany card table, the sides of which had been raised to accommodate four players. She had taken off her gloves before dining and now saw her mistake. After five days, the bruised lump on her right hand where Lord Winston had struck her during their fencing match was still a little sore and quite visible. She tugged at her sleeve to cover it, then picked up the quill pen with her left hand.

Across from her at the table, the baron watched with concern. “Have you had another encounter with the countess’s cat, Miss Hart?”

“What?” Lady Blakemore approached the table and took the injured appendage in hand to inspect it. “I have no cat. My dear, whatever happened? This looks more like the result of a blow. Did you strike your hand?”

“You have no cat?” Lord Winston’s eyes narrowed. “Then how were you injured?”

“Well, you see...” Catherine swallowed hard. She was not accustomed to lying, in fact, despised lies. “You and I had just met at the ball when you inquired about my injured hand. I was embarrassed by my clumsiness while simply walking through a door earlier in the day, so I asked if you liked cats and let you assume...” No need to force a blush this time. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. But she refused to feel guilty for her dissembling. Was this any worse than Lady Blakemore’s clever deflection of Miss Beaumont’s error in front of the church?

On either side of Catherine, Miss Beaumont and Lady Winston studied the bruise and cooed their sympathy.

“Poor dear.” Lady Blakemore gently set Catherine’s hand back on the table. “How fortunate that you are ambidextrous and can write with your left hand as well as your right.”

“And eat with it, too.” Plump Lord Blakemore, who always enjoyed a hearty meal, chimed in from his desk across the room. “Now, may we get on with our charades? I need silence if I am to compose an interesting rhyme.”

With everyone back at their tasks, Catherine took a few moments to gather her wits. She could feel Lord Winston’s stare boring into the top of her head as she bent over her page. If he determined that she was the “youth” who had fenced with him only last week, that he himself was the one who had wounded her, what would he do? Feel guilty for hurting her or expose her? Oh, if only Mr. Radcliff were here to advise her.

“I am all astonishment, Miss Hart,” he whispered. She looked up sharply to see his gray-green eyes exuding kindness and sympathy. “All this time, you have borne your pain without complaint. How fortunate that you are ambidextrous. One rarely meets a person who possesses such a talent. You never cease to surprise me.”

The relief flooding through Catherine’s entire body brought tears to her eyes and made her knees go weak. Had she been standing, she surely would have fallen to the floor.

* * *

Winston tried to resume his awkward attempts at poetry but could not concentrate. He thought of the many times over these past few days of their acquaintance when he had taken Miss Hart’s hand or she had rested it upon his arm, and all without a word of complaint from her. Poor lady! He should have inquired about it. Another failure on his part, so he could easily forgive her for misleading him regarding the nature of her injury. After all, they had just met and neither of them had had any idea they would become friends. Indeed, he’d had some mild hopes of it, should her pedigree prove acceptable, yet now their friendship had exceeded every expectation.

How curious that within the space of a week, he should encounter two of the rare people who could use both hands with equal skill. Over these past days, he had not thought much about the youth he had fenced with at Monsieur Angelus’s academy, for all of his contemplations had been taken up with the young lady now seated across from him. Nor had he thought to inquire of the fencing master about the boy’s identity. When he returned for practice this next week, he must find out who he was. Perhaps he could befriend him, for the lad seemed unconnected to anyone there that day.

“Have you completed your poem, Lord Winston?” Miss Hart bent forward to examine his page, which contained very few words.

Nevertheless, he quickly covered it. “Now, now. No cheating.”

Beside him, Sophia giggled and also leaned over to try to read his poor attempts. “Shall I help you, James?”

He shielded the page with his shoulder. “Ha. What help would you be, infant? I want to win the game.”

“Ha, yourself.” Smirking, she tucked a loose curl behind her ear, looking at once like a child and a lady. “You are a novice, the same as I.”

Winston caught the bemused look in Miss Hart’s face as she watched their playful argument. “Do you have a bothersome younger sister, Miss Hart? Perhaps a brother who bedevils you when you are trying to concentrate on creating a literary masterpiece?”

Her lips parted, as if she would answer, but then she clamped her mouth shut. After a moment, she said, “I believe your constant chattering is bothersome enough to hamper my creativity.” Staring decisively down at her page, she began to write again.

Although she was the one who had broken their silence, he chuckled at her spirited response, even as he noticed how she had avoided answering his question. Did she have something to hide? Or was he merely suspicious because of his doubts about Mother? In both cases, he would have to tread carefully as he sought the answers, or he would risk losing the regard of the mother he dutifully loved and the mysterious lady who was rapidly capturing more and more of his heart.

* * *

Catherine willed her hand to stop shaking as she continued to write her verses, scratching out entire lines as better ones came to mind. Impulsively, she had chosen
lies
as her word to be guessed, and now all of the hints she devised came dangerously close to revealing her mission to expose the baron as a liar.

When he’d asked whether she had a sister or brother, she’d been caught off guard and almost said yes. That would have led to more questions, and all would be lost. Her quick response proved that dissembling was growing much too easy for her. Yet the spiritual convictions she had possessed since childhood seemed to fade in the light of Lord Winston’s crime against Papa. How she wished she could talk with Mr. Radcliff. He would help her reason it out.

“Are we ready?” Lord Blakemore stood from his desk and beckoned them all back to the grouping of chairs and settees.

Far from finished, Catherine had no choice but to join the others. This exercise would require more misleading statements, but at least it was a game, not a gentleman’s very life.

The earl first called upon his countess, and she took her place before the large white marble hearth with all the elegance and grace of an actress portraying Queen Gertrude in
Hamlet.

“Ahem,” she began in a high-pitched voice, and everyone laughed. Lady Blakemore had never before revealed this playful side.

Catherine loved her all the more for it. Would the countess despise her once the truth was out?

“‘If I should bay at the moon some bright midnight in June,’” the lady read from her page, “‘would you bring me a bone so I will not be alone?’”

“Oh, come now, Grace,” Lord Blakemore scolded merrily. “You have always bested me at charades, but that is far too easy.” He glanced around the group. “Surely you all know the answer. Winston?”

The baron gave the countess an apologetic shrug. “Madam, I do believe you have borrowed from your husband’s list and have chosen
hound.
”

“Of course she did, James.” Lady Winston, so pretty despite her black mourning gown, nodded approvingly at Lady Blakemore. “As hostess, she has generously given you and Sophia an easy example so you can learn to play the game.”

“Ah. I see.” Lord Winston’s face brightened with appreciation. “I thank you, Lady Blakemore. I can see I labored too strenuously in my attempt to be clever.” He crumpled his page and crammed it into his pocket.

“Really, sir.” Catherine sniffed her disdain. “Giving up already?”

“I bow to your superior wit, Miss Hart.” He dipped his head accordingly. “Oh, wait. You have not yet regaled us with your verse. Perhaps it will leave something to be desired, and I shall win the challenge after all.” He retrieved the paper ball from his pocket.

Lord Blakemore had not ceased his chuckling, but somehow managed to say, “Ladies must go first, Winston. ’Tis your turn, Miss Hart.”

Her stomach churning, Catherine took her place. Why had she been so foolish as to engage in this competition? The answer was clear. The joys of her childhood had not entirely left her. She loved parlor games, loved the company of good friends with whom she could be merry. But all merriment had ceased the day Lord Winston destroyed Papa. Now she would bolster her courage by taunting him, and he would not even comprehend her meaning. Although the poem was incomplete, she had no doubt she could come up with a clever finish. With a flourish, she lifted her page before her and read what she had written.

“‘One day I sat at ease, doing what I pleased. I saw a happy lord, and being somewhat bored, I thought to make him sad, make others think him bad. Proceeding to devise a vicious web of lies, I—’” Catherine faltered. She had not meant to say
lies.
Now the rhyme was ruined because she had no sensible answer to it. A verse she had once used at home came to mind, and she quickly substituted it. “‘I slandered his good wife’s name, his jealousy did inflame. And now in death they sleep, while all their loved ones weep.’”

“Ha! This one is too easy, as well.” Lord Blakemore looked around the room. “But I shall let someone else answer. Miss Beaumont?”

“Not I, sir.” She shook her head, and her thick blond curls bounced. “I have no idea at all.”

“Hmm.” Lord Winston frowned thoughtfully, but his lips twitched, as if he were trying not to laugh. “Such a mystery, Miss Hart. At first I thought you were referring to Don John in
Much Ado About Nothing,
since you and I discussed that play just yesterday. But of course that play is a comedy and the lovers do not die. Therefore it must be Iago, for his lies cause Othello to murder Desdemona and commit suicide.” He gave her a triumphant smirk.

“Alas, you have found me out, sir.” She gave a dramatic sigh and emphasized it with a hand to her forehead. With a curtsy to them all, she took her seat. “Now do tell us yours.”

“Yes, but you see, that is just the thing.” He once again crammed the ruined page into his pocket. “I could not find such clever rhymes. Like Benedick, I was not born under a rhyming planet.”

“Ho, ho, my boy,” the earl cried. “Doesn’t that quote come from the scene in which Benedick struggles to write a love poem to Beatrice? Precisely what were you trying to say? And to whom? Perhaps I can complete the rhyme for you.”

Lord Winston’s face reddened as the others joined in teasing him.

Catherine merely smiled. In spite of her many missteps, the baron was falling in love with her. Now all she had to do was trick him into admitting the truth about his evil schemes against Papa.