Louise M. Gouge (18 page)

“Ahh!” His handsome face contorted with pain. “Sophia!” His protest frightened the cat, who jumped to the floor.

“Sophia!” Lady Winston scolded. “Darling, he is injured.” She scurried to his side, stepping on the cat’s tail.

While Miss Beaumont squealed her regret over hurting her brother, the creature howled its complaint and dashed toward the door as Lady Winston cried out, “Oh, you poor thing.”

“’Ere, now, wee beastie.” The footman on duty grabbed for the cat, but he spun around and dashed toward Catherine’s chair.

Experienced with catching her own pets, Catherine scooped up the rascal and secured him in a firm embrace. Oddly, he settled instantly in her arms, as though he knew they were a place of refuge.

“Well, now, Goldie,” she said, “you must settle down and let your master be the center of attention.”

“Crumpet.” Lord Winston laughed and winced at the same time.

“Crumpet?” Was the baron calling for crumpets? Catherine wondered if he was as hungry as she was.

“His name is Crumpet.” He ground out the words between clenched teeth, but his eyes shone with merriment.

More than pleased to see his happy mood, Catherine laughed, too. “Oh, I see. How very...different.” She snuggled the cat up under her chin and was rewarded with a soft purr. “With this coloring, one would think his name should be Tiger.” With a gentle touch of her finger, she traced the brownish lines amid the rich orange of his fur and gazed into his black-and-yellow eyes.

The cat placed one front paw on her chin in a friendly gesture, and Catherine petted the leg. “Why, it appears to be bent.” Surely Lady Winston had not injured the poor thing just now, for it would surely be howling in pain.

“Father despised cats,” Miss Beaumont said peevishly. “He threw poor Crumpet—”

“Shh.” Lady Winston scolded her daughter with a look.

A sick feeling stirred in Catherine’s stomach. How could anyone be cruel to such a sweet cat? “Crumpet, I think I shall take you home with me.” How very interesting that
this
Lord Winston seemed to like cats as much as she did. She looked at the baron, who now watched her with nothing short of tenderness. Was he falling in love with her? She would be more than pleased if he was. But perhaps she had already fallen in love with him.

The night they had first dined together at the Marquess of Drayton’s ball, she had remarked that she believed only evil could come from a person who did not like cats. It was a silly remark spoken to alleviate an awkward situation, yet she almost believed it. Had the late Lord Winston been evil, despite Lord Blakemore’s praise of his character? Was that why his son could be so good and kind to his friends, even his cat, and yet think nothing of destroying a stranger?

And just exactly how would she go about making him pay for it when her heart seemed determined to get in her way?

Chapter Eighteen

W
inston watched Crumpet burrow beneath Miss Hart’s chin as if he were her pet. The sweet expression on the lady’s face revealed a true love for cats, something Winston could only admire. While not in itself reason enough to fall in love with her, it did draw him to her even more.

“Where is he?” Blakemore’s voice bellowed in the front hallway, and he bustled into the drawing room without waiting to be announced. Behind him came Lady Blakemore and Mrs. Parton. Edgar, whose face was even paler than usual, followed the others.

“There you are, Winston. Thank the good Lord you are not—” Blakemore stopped as he noticed the others. “Lady Winston, Miss Beaumont, Miss Hart.” He made do with a single bow for them all, but his attention returned to Winston. “Are you badly injured, my boy? Has my physician arrived yet? Great mercy, look at your clothes.”

For the first time since the accident, Winston looked down at his torn, filthy suit. In his resolve to be placed in the drawing room so he could remain in Miss Hart’s company, he had paid no attention to his ruined garments. Then the business with Crumpet occurred, and he had forgotten his pain for a few moments of hilarity.

Dudley chose that moment to arrive through the side door carrying a bowl, a pitcher and several towels. He made a quick perusal of the inhabitants, but charged across the room. “My lord, do permit me to tend your wounds.”

“Oh, yes, James,” Mother said. “We shall not mind at all.”

All formal manners seemed to have been dispensed with as Lady Blakemore and Mrs. Parton crowded around Winston with the others, leaving Dudley little room to work. Only Miss Hart remained in her chair, soothing Crumpet. Edgar hung back near the hearth, worry clouding his pale eyes.

“My dear Winston,” Mrs. Parton said. “You must not dare to apologize to me for the loss of my new phaeton. This is a sign from the Almighty. My entire family, not to mention Lord and Lady Greystone, have urged me not to drive myself anymore, and I will take this as a sign from above that I must follow that advice. I only grieve that you suffered in my place. What happened, dear boy? Did an axle break? I shall call the wheelwright to account for it, you may depend upon it.”

“No, it was—”

“Cannot depend upon workmen these days,” Blakemore blustered. “You might have been killed—”

“Hush, my dear.” Lady Blakemore tugged at the earl’s arm. “Do not mention it.” She gasped. “Why, where is my Miss Hart?” Turning, she gasped again. “Oh, my dear girl.”

She and Mrs. Parton hurried over to the young lady, who stared at Winston, looking delightfully bemused. He was tempted to shut them all down and say they were both quite well, thank you very much. But he had not yet had a chance to ask Miss Hart whether she was entirely well. How could she not have sustained even the slightest injury after being so rudely thrust from the carriage? Yet what else could he have done to save her?

“If you please!” Mother’s raised voice instantly silenced the room. “There, now, do be quiet, all of you. James, what did you wish to say?”

He took a deep breath, and then paid for it when knifelike pains shot through his ribs and abdomen. Neither did it help that Dudley was applying some sort of ointment to Winston’s face that was anything but soothing.

“Miss Hart,” he managed to say as he winced. “Would you kindly give an account of our little incident?”

She blinked charmingly and seemed to hold Crumpet tighter. In protest, the cat squirmed out of her arms and dashed straight toward Edgar.

“Get that beast away from me.” Edgar kicked at Crumpet, and Crumpet returned a bare-fanged hiss and swiped at Edgar’s leg, its claws catching on his stocking and ripping a hole. “My new stockings!” He raised a hand to strike, but Sophia rescued both cat and cousin and set the beast free to scamper away beneath a corner chair.

During this little drama, Miss Hart apparently composed herself, for now she glanced around the room with a serene expression. “It was not a broken axle, Mrs. Parton, but rather a careless drayman who caused the accident. He was driving rather too fast for the crowded street and crashed into the phaeton. You will all be proud of Lord Winston, for he was nothing short of heroic in saving all our lives at the risk of his own, very much like the chivalrous knights of old. Before the wagon could hit us, he helped me to jump safely from the carriage, shouted to Billy to jump and drove the horse out of the way. Both horse and groom survived with minor injuries, and I suffered only a ruined gown and gloves. Oh, and a lost parasol.”

“You jumped? Goodness gracious.” Mrs. Parton gasped and stared wide-eyed at Catherine. “Why, my dear, do you realize that had you been in a closed coach or a landau instead of an open phaeton, you would not have been able to jump free that way?”

“W-why, no.” Miss Hart blanched. “I had not considered it.”

While hums of agreement sounded throughout the room, Winston experienced a stirring of nausea over his kinswoman’s observation. Dear Miss Hart—all of them, in fact—might have been killed, and yet she reported the event as if it were a mere accident instead of attempted murder. Perhaps she hoped to spare the older ladies further concern.

Winston would have to tell everything to Blakemore, of course. If Pierpoint did not discover who had devised the mischief, perhaps the earl could help to determine who would wish either of them harm and why. In the meantime, he lifted a silent prayer of thanks that Miss Hart was not only uninjured, but strong and brave and generous and wise...and exceedingly beautiful. How could he not love such a magnificent lady?

“Dear cousin.” Edgar peered over Dudley’s shoulder at Winston, apparently recovered from his battle with Crumpet. “I am almost faint with relief that you were not killed.” His voice wavered with fear, confirming his words, “My, my, you look dreadful. Will this delay your investiture?”

* * *

Catherine had never seen Mr. Radcliff so completely undone. Although the cat had certainly caused some of his misery, his love for his cousin was evident, despite Lord Winston’s evil actions. And of course her friend must ingratiate himself to the baron, as one always must do with the nobility. Would he now cease to help her in her quest for revenge?

No, not revenge. Something had shifted in her thinking today. Lord Winston’s brush with death had frightened her in a way she did not entirely understand. No doubt it was merely her heart, which constantly betrayed her and obstructed her thinking. Yet now all she wanted to do was discover why Lord Winston had plotted against Papa. She would be willing to hear him explain that it had all been a mistake, that the letters he forged had been directed at someone other than Papa, perhaps even a joke or a wager that went awry. Perhaps pride kept the baron from apologizing for his mistake.

The only way she would ever know the truth would be to persuade him to talk about the letters. The only way he would discuss them with her would be if he loved her enough to trust her with his deepest secrets, even state secrets, as Lord Blakemore confided in Lady Blakemore.

What could she do in this moment to work toward securing his affections? While the conversation and hubbub went on around them, she gazed across the twelve or so feet that separated them and found him peering around his valet at her. In that strangely mystical moment, everyone else seemed to disappear, leaving the two of them the only inhabitants of the room. Was that love she detected in his eyes? Or was she only deceiving herself into believing what she hoped, even longed for?

* * *

After a miserable and sleepless night, Winston endured the painful ministrations of the physician, all the while trying to focus his thoughts on Miss Hart. Yesterday he had not been able to arrange a private moment with her before the Blakemores whisked her away. Now the memory of the way she had gazed at him across the room proved a helpful distraction. Had that warm expression in her lovely dark eyes meant more than a compassionate concern for his health?

“Ahh!” His pleasant reverie was interrupted when Dr. Horton prodded his ribs too firmly.

“Forgive me, my lord.” The young black-clad physician winced in sympathy. “I do not mean to cause you further discomfort, but my diagnosis should encourage you. While your ribs are bruised, they do not appear to be broken. I will rewrap them, but you will need to avoid strenuous activity for a while.”

Still trying to manage his pain, Winston exhaled a sharp breath. “And my leg?” A needle-point pain still jabbed him inside his hip joint.

“Wrenched badly, as I said yesterday. The only remedy is to pull it back into place, and the sooner the better.” He frowned thoughtfully. “However, it requires at least two other men, and I fear the pain will be quite severe and could even cause further injury to your ribs. That is why I did not prescribe the treatment yesterday. I wanted to be certain your ribs could bear the jolt.”

Winston swallowed hard. “Best to get it over with. Dudley.” He beckoned to his valet, who stood slightly behind the physician, wringing his hands.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Fetch that strapping bodyguard Blakemore sent over early this morning. He should be strong enough to help.”

The brawny fellow must have been six and a half feet tall, for he easily towered over Winston’s almost six-foot height. Blakemore had sent a note that Ajax was a bit simple but utterly incorruptible. Something unnerved Winston in the tone of the missive and even the fact that the earl thought he required a bodyguard. What had Blakemore discovered about the attack?

At Dr. Horton’s instruction, Winston lay on his back on the floor. The giant held his shoulders down while Dudley braced him at the waist. The physician then gripped the left leg and yanked. A thousand knives seemed to pierce the injured joint, and then the room went black.

Chapter Nineteen

F
or the next two weeks, Catherine tried without success to meet alone with Mr. Radcliff. However, Lord Blakemore had at last heard his secretary’s complaints about having too much work and hired him an assistant. Now the tall, muscular young man could always be seen hovering over Mr. Radcliff’s shoulder, whether the secretary was seated at a desk or striding down a hallway as if intent upon losing his shadow.

Lord Blakemore had even given Mr. Fleming a bedchamber in the mansion until he could find proper accommodations of his own, an amenity Mr. Radcliff found extravagant, even radical. Because the room was across the hall from Catherine’s, she met Mr. Fleming each morning on her way downstairs to breakfast. His company was a pleasant diversion on the long walk. Quiet and serious, but with a pleasant mien and intelligent, watchful eyes, the new black-suited undersecretary reminded Catherine more of the red-coated soldiers she had seen returning triumphant from the war than a man of letters.

“What shall we do today, Miss Hart?” In the sunny breakfast room, Lady Blakemore had already filled her plate with her usual eggs, sausage and rolls and now stirred a lump of sugar into her morning coffee. “I would suggest a visit to Winston, but Blakemore advises that the poor dear requires more time for recuperation before receiving guests.”

This morning, Catherine had prepared an answer for the question the countess had posed every day for the past two weeks. “May we visit Lady Winston and Miss Beaumont?”

Lady Blakemore arched her eyebrows thoughtfully. “Why, I suppose so. Ah!” She set down her cup. “A better idea would be to send for the ladies, and we shall all go to the White Rose Tea Garden. What do you think?”

Since coming to London more than three months ago, Catherine had attempted to subdue any opinion that was contrary to the countess’s. After all, the lady was her employer and might not receive contradictions well from someone she believed to be of lower rank. Yet Catherine had found herself dreaming of the day when she and Lord Winston could complete their excursion to the tea garden, which she had come to regard as their special destination.

“You are frowning, my dear.” The countess offered a smile in return. “Perhaps you are afraid of another accident along the way.”

“Oh, no, my lady.” How could she be afraid when four footmen accompanied their every outing? She could not be certain, but she thought the men carried pistols concealed beneath their livery. “As always, I am at your disposal.”

“Ah, what a sweet, accommodating girl you are.” Lady Blakemore dug into her eggs with a singular vigor not lacking in gracefulness. “We shall go shopping and save the tea garden for another day.”

Her change of plans did not surprise Catherine, but it did please her. These days, the countess never failed to order something new for Catherine on every outing to her favorite Bond Street modiste. While she had never before cared much for shopping, it was fast becoming a favorite diversion. And one day soon, she would repay Lady Blakemore for her many kindnesses.

* * *

“Mr. Grenville to see you, my lord. Will you receive him?” Llewellyn spoke from the doorway of Winston’s bedchamber. He had yet to fully enter the room since the assault, nor had his cold tone changed when he spoke to Winston.

Already peevish from having to remain in bed for these past two weeks, Winston did not try to subdue his irritation. The time had come for a confrontation.

“Llewellyn, did my father ever speak to you about a pension or arrange some form of retirement for you?”

The butler’s pale blue eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He stepped into the room and closed the door. “Why, uh, no, my lord. At only three and fifty years, I am in the best of health.”

He took a step toward the bed, where Winston lay, but stopped when Dudley coughed assertively from the other side of the room. Since the assault, the valet had insisted upon acting as a second bodyguard, and Llewellyn now glanced in confusion at him.

“If my lord finds something lacking in the performance of my duties, I beg you, in light of my long service, to condescend to explain it to me.”

Winston glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You perform your duties to perfection.” The butler relaxed only a little. He could easily demand that Llewellyn simply improve his attitude, but that would not explain why he’d had the effrontery to be so rude. “If you are to remain in my employ, you must give me a satisfactory reason for your arrogance, which began shortly after my father’s death and only increased when Lady Winston arrived here.” He would not mention the constant censure he had felt from Llewellyn since childhood.

Now the older man wilted. “It would be difficult to explain, my lord.”

“Well, then.” Winston inhaled a deep breath to steady his voice. He had always disliked confrontation, and unlike Father, had never dismissed any employee. “I know you never married, but perhaps you have family you can live with. I shall of course provide an adequate pension.”

Llewellyn’s pale face grew whiter. “My lord, I beg you... Very well, an explanation.” He wiped a white cotton glove over his damp brow. “One does not lightly speak ill of the dead.”

A chill went down Winston’s spine. “Yes?”

“May I simply say that a certain, um, peer treated his lady wife most unkindly, and utterly without cause. One observed that the son followed in the father’s footsteps.” The butler swallowed hard. “Of course, it is not for the servant to correct the master, but—” He swallowed again and gave Winston a pleading look.

How completely he had misjudged the situation. All those years when he thought the butler was just like his father in condemning him, instead the man had been disapproving of the old baron for his treatment of Mother. Father had never paid attention to his servants any more than he noticed a chair that was doing its duty, so he never noticed anything amiss in Llewellyn’s behavior. And after Father’s death, until Winston had learned by accident the cause of his unkindness toward Mother, he had treated her just as badly. Now
he
was the one who must explain the matter to this worthy servant, at least in part.

“Yes, well, as I have been bedridden these past weeks, you had no chance to observe that a certain lady and her son have sorted out the matter and have established a new and felicitous friendship.”

“Oh, my lord—” All arrogance gone, Llewellyn brandished a smile so broad that his lined face seemed in danger of cracking. “I thank the Lord for answered prayers.”

“Prayers, eh?” Winston had spoken to the Almighty without ceasing these past weeks. “Speaking of such, do send Mr. Grenville up.”

Llewellyn resumed his flawless formal posture. “Yes, my lord.” He turned toward the door, then cast a doubtful glance back at Winston. “Shall I write to my family, then, my lord?”

Winston smothered a laugh. “Only to tell them you are in the best of health and will be in London as long as it pleases your master.”

Llewellyn exited the room, but Winston could hear his uncharacteristic explosive sigh of relief through the door.

* * *

“No, no, not that one, Giselle.” Lady Blakemore studied the fabric draped around Catherine’s shoulder. “I much prefer the blue.”

“Mais non, madame.”
The little modiste placed her hands on her hips. “Can you not see how zees glorious rose color brings ze appealing blush to ze young lady’s cheeks?” She waved a hand in the air. “Every gentleman weel fall madly in love with Mees Hart if she wear zees color.”

Lady Blakemore thumped the tip of her folded parasol on the parquet floor of the dressmaker’s shop. “Every gentleman will fall in love with her
in the blue.
”

Catherine did not know whether to laugh or cry. She was grateful to Lady Blakemore for all this attention, but she adored the soft rose silk material. Mama had always said this was her best color, and she preferred it, as well. Yet how could she contradict the countess?

“Maintenant!”
The modiste had no such compunctions. “Giselle will not make ze blue.” She crossed her arms and rapidly tapped one foot on the floor as if she had given the final word on the subject. Catherine was reminded of one of her governesses, a strict and implacable woman.

The bell above the door of the Bond Street shop tinkled charmingly, and Mrs. Parton bustled in, the new Lady Greystone in her wake. “Hello, hello, ladies.”

“Madame Par
ton.
” Giselle hurried over to greet her. “How may I assist you? Ah, Lady Greystone, I am honored by your patronage.”

“But, my dear,” Mrs. Parton said, “you must finish with Lady Blakemore first.”

“Non.”
Giselle sniffed. “She refuse to see ze reason and—”

“Why, Miss Hart.” Lady Greystone, exquisite in a sky-blue walking gown, approached Catherine, her bright blue eyes reflecting the color of the dress. “How divine you look in this pretty pink fabric. It is the perfect shade for you. Will you have a gown made of it to wear to Lord Winston’s ball?”

“Ha!” Giselle sniffed again. “You see?”

“Oh, very well.” Lady Blakemore did not appear the slightest offended by the turn of events
or
the modiste’s insolence. “Hello, my dear. Marriage has made you even more beautiful. If Lady Greystone prefers the pink, then pink it shall be.”

“Bon!”
Giselle gave a victorious clap of her hands, summoning her assistants to take measurements and order accessories. The lace trim, satin ribbons and kid slippers would be dyed a slightly darker shade of rose to complement the pink silk, and a new pair of over-the-elbow white satin gloves would complete the ensemble.

While the older ladies discussed the transaction—for Mrs. Parton always lent her advice on everything—Lady Greystone took Catherine aside.

“I have missed seeing you at the theatre, Miss Hart, but it is clear that you are enjoying a fine Season.” The young viscountess’s blond curls peeked out from the fluted lining of her blue bonnet, enhancing her beauty. But Catherine suspected, as Lady Blakemore had said, that marriage was the cause of the glow in her ivory complexion.

She laughed softly. “I hardly know how to account for it, Lady Greystone. Since I last saw you, the countess has begun to treat me more as a ward than a companion.”

The viscountess peered around her at the others. “Just as Mrs. Parton did for me. My brother, Lord Melton, had no money to pay for my Season, and yet she treated me more like a daughter instead of her paid companion. Lady Blakemore must realize you are worthy of such an honor, or she would not make the expenditure.”

“But she has no idea who—” Catherine gasped softly. She had almost said
who I am,
which would have drawn unwanted questions. “Who my family is.” She gave a careless laugh that rang hollow in her ears. If she lied to this sweet lady, who more than once had offered her friendship, how could she ever repair the damage? “Or perhaps I should say, who they are not.”

Lady Greystone’s smile invited Catherine to continue.

“Of course, they are not so base as to keep me from entering Society’s drawing rooms.” Now she was babbling...and digging a very deep well into which she would surely fall. Oh, where was Mr. Radcliff when she needed him?

“Of course not.” Lady Greystone inquired no more, but simply squeezed Catherine’s hand. “Lady Blakemore would have seen to that, I am sure.”

The thought startled Catherine. Even though Mr. Radcliff had assured her that he had forged adequate recommendations, exactly why had the countess hired her?

* * *

“Forgive me for not coming sooner.” Mr. Grenville sat in a chair beside Winston’s bed and offered an apologetic smile. “Please be assured that I have not ceased to inquire after your health and pray for you. My brother Greystone assured me that if your injuries had threatened your life, I would have been sent for straightaway.”

“Indeed you would have.” Winston regarded the minister for several moments. Although they had not been acquainted for long, the man’s serene demeanor invited the utmost confidence.

They spent several moments exchanging pleasantries about various matters until the most important one pressed down on Winston’s heart. He confessed his error of judgment about Mother and extolled her lifelong exemplary behavior. “Even my butler rose up in defense of her.” He chuckled as he described Llewellyn’s righteous indignation. Then he sobered. “After our carriage accident, Miss Hart likened me to the heroic knights of old, yet I did not even defend my own mother from those who would impugn her character.”

“Have you asked her forgiveness?” Mr. Grenville inquired.

“I did think to do so, but would not such a request reveal my misjudgments and cause her terrible pain?” He clutched his counterpane to his chest like a shield. “She has no idea what I was thinking.”

“You may be surprised. Perhaps she knew.” The minister shrugged. “But I do see your point. No need to stir up strife.”

“My physician has insisted that I stay abed these two weeks.” Every day Winston had fought the urge to disobey his orders. “I had more than enough time to consider your words about God’s forgiving nature.”

“Ah, very good. Did you reach any conclusions?”

“Yes.” Winston hesitated to speak disparagingly of Father, but to whom could he bare his soul if not this minister? “All my life, I have looked to my father to show me the character of God. However, his somber, unforgiving, even spiteful nature contradicts your view of a forgiving Savior.”

“Hmm.” Mr. Grenville’s eyes were lit with interest, inviting Winston to continue.

“Although I have read the Holy Scriptures all my life and repeated the liturgical passages regarding God’s grace every Sunday in church, I have let my father’s image overshadow the light of Christ.” He thought again of his father’s cruel treatment of Mother and of the way he withheld approval from Winston, even suggesting that God would never approve of him, either. “John Newton’s hymn ‘Amazing Grace’ has been much in my thoughts these days. I find that it perfectly describes the God of Scripture, the Father I wish to emulate from now on.”

A sublime smile on his lips, Mr. Grenville nodded. “I believe you have found the key to peace, sir. Our heavenly Father desires for His children to know His love. We are accepted in His Beloved Son, not because we have done righteous acts, but because of His great mercy. Our only work is to accept His free salvation given through Christ.”