Louise M. Gouge (6 page)

“Indeed I will.” The vicar beamed at the invitation. “It will be my pleasure.”

With a time settled upon, they parted company, and Winston climbed into the carriage.

“In need of spiritual advice, are we?” Miss Hart gave him a pretty, innocent smile at odds with her impertinent question.

Winston could think of no clever response. Toby, on the other hand, harrumphed with disapproval of her insolence as he slapped the reins on the horses’ haunches to urge them forward.

A dark look passed over her face, almost a scowl. Was she mortified by her question? Angry about being chided by a servant, even passively? Or had Winston somehow offended her...again? This time, he would not rest until they reached a truce. He tapped the driver’s bench with his cane. “Hyde Park, Toby.” To Miss Hart, he said, “We must do as Lady Blakemore instructed us.”

She merely nodded. They drove in silence for several moments. At last she released a long sigh.

“I beg you, sir, you must not keep me in suspense any longer. Tell me about your gallant rescue of the climbing boys.”

* * *

Catherine did not wish to hear the story, did not wish to know how this man could be a hero to little chimney sweeps and yet turn around and as much as murder Papa. Yet courtesy demanded that she ask him about the incident after the vicar mentioned it. Lord Winston would boast, of course, and expose his pride, which he had cleverly hidden from Mr. Grenville. But then, one always pasted one’s best face on when talking with a clergyman. Even she had offered Mr. Brown, the pastor of her home parish, only her brightest smile and nods of agreement when he had counseled her and Mama about Papa’s tragedy. While she knew some men entered the church for political reasons, Mr. Brown was all sincerity, and he had a gift for discernment, much like Mr. Grenville appeared to possess. Too much interaction with such spiritual guides would expose her lies. Therefore, she would avoid Mr. Grenville at all costs.

Now, having boldly demanded to hear about Lord Winston’s heroism, she sat back, awaiting his response. Oddly, he tugged at his collar, and if she did not dislike him so thoroughly, she would find his reddening cheeks quite charming, in a boyish way.

“I fear, Miss Hart, that too much has been made of my part in the event. I merely accompanied Lord Greystone on the adventure. For some charitable reason I know nothing about, he had taken in the little chimney sweeps, and when their former master kidnapped them, Greystone was determined to have them back. After a Bow Street Runner located them in a disreputable tavern on the Thames, the three of us went there to rescue them. Greystone was the true hero, for he entered through an upstairs window and brought the lads out. While he and the Runner made their escape, I held off a few ruffians with my sword and pistol. They were cowards, the lot of them, for not a one attempted to engage me in a fight.”

“Were you all that eager for a duel, then, master swordsman that you are?” The instant she said the words, Catherine cringed inwardly. He would no doubt wonder how she knew such a thing about him.

But he simply chuckled softly and shrugged. “Actually, I do like fencing, but I cannot be certain my instructor, Mr. Angelus, who owns the academy where I practice, would call me a
master
swordsman.”

Against her will, she detected a hint of humility in his tone rather than the pride she had expected. Had all of his arrogance during their match yesterday been mere bravado? No matter. She would never relent in her belief that he was a villain, albeit a humble one. How the two qualities could reside together in a single man, she could not guess. One thing she did know: all this talk of swordsmanship must cease before she gave herself away.

“Still, you must admit your rescue of the little boys will be a grand tale to tell your own sons.”

“Hmm. I had not thought of that.” He grew pensive, as if envisioning such a scene.

The winsomeness on his handsome face pierced Catherine’s heart. What did he dream of? Hope for? Did a titled gentleman of his wealth, who sat with the great nobles of England in the House of Lords, have any unfulfilled dreams? No, she must not think of such things, must not ask him of his ambitions as though they mattered to her. With no little effort, she thrust away every kind impulse toward him, silently hurling the epithets
liar
and
murderer
at him as the landau rolled into Hyde Park.

They continued their ride in silence, passing food vendors, grand carriages of every description and numerous well-dressed people on horseback. Catherine recognized several peers and elected members of Parliament who seemed to have taken advantage of their day off from lawmaking to enjoy the late-afternoon sunshine. Lord Winston received a few solemn nods, but no one called out greetings, although more than one lady eyed the two of them with open curiosity. With all the noises of carriage wheels and chattering people, Catherine felt no need to attempt further conversation with Lord Winston.

“Miss Hart.” His mellow voice broke into Catherine’s reverie. “May I offer you some refreshment? If I am not mistaken, strawberry and lemon ices are available across the way.” He pointed his cane toward a line of trees.

She gazed in that direction. “That would be lovely.”

He ordered his driver to the shaded area where several tradesmen had set up their carts to sell pastries, ices and even complete picnics. There he handed her down from the landau.

“Your choice, Miss Hart.” He gestured broadly toward the numerous sellers calling out to passersby to come taste their wares.

“I thank you, sir.” Catherine studied the row of eager vendors, choosing at last a lively old woman in a tattered apron selling strawberry ices and cream-covered currant tarts. While her escort selected his own food and drink and settled the bill, she strolled among the oak and willow trees toward the Serpentine River some thirty yards away. Having sat most of the day, she longed for the exercise of an invigorating walk, preferably here in the shade as soon as she finished her refreshments.

“What ’ave we here, Joe?” A scratchy male voice came from behind a wide oak. “A pretty lady with a heavy purse, and all alone, at that.”

Another voice cackled, as if his friend had made a fine joke. “And all for the taking, wouldn’t you say, Jigger?”

A violent shiver shot up Catherine’s spine. These vile men meant to attack her, and she had no weapons to defend herself. A glance back at the carriage revealed she had wandered farther away than she had thought. There stood Lord Winston looking this way and that, apparently searching for her. Was he too far away to hear her cry out in the noisy park? Was every decent person too far to help her?

Before she could scream, one of the men grasped her around the waist from behind while the other covered her mouth with a filthy handkerchief that smelled of liquor and sweat. The other man wrested her fan and reticule from around her wrist, knocking her tart and ice to the ground and tearing her sleeve.

Then he began to tear at her gown.

Chapter Six

A
t the sight of Miss Hart being accosted by two villains, Winston’s heart jolted with fear such as he had not felt since Father died. But while he could not save his sick, elderly parent, he could save this lady. Seizing his cane from the carriage, he called for Toby to bring his whip, and the two of them raced toward the melee.

As they quickly covered the distance, their hats flying off in the wind, Winston saw Miss Hart wriggling and twisting and cheered her courage. When the heel of her half boot connected sharply with her captor’s shin, the man howled, which served to alert others in the park that a crime was in progress. To Winston’s relief, a crowd began to gather. But to his horror, before he could reach Miss Hart, she was flung to the ground and landed hard. The impact sent her bonnet flying, and her long, dark hair fell loose from its pins and formed a silken shawl about her shoulders.

He reached the scene and slammed his cane against the skull of the man who had thrown her down. The attacker landed on his back and emitted a loud cry of agony. In one fluid movement, Winston slammed one Hessian boot down on the man’s chest, unsheathed his sword from the cane and stuck the point into the villain’s neck, drawing blood. Toby set upon the other man with his whip until he curled into a ball and screamed in pain.

The crowd grew larger, with ladies standing a safe distance away and several well-dressed gentlemen producing swords or pistols to complete the capture of the fiends.

“See to your lady, Winston.” A middle-aged peer—Lord Alston?—stepped forward with another gentleman and took responsibility for Winston’s conquest.

“My thanks to you, sir.” He dashed to Miss Hart, not
his
lady at all, but the one for whose safety he was responsible. Yet he had failed to keep her safe. She had been horribly assaulted, and while her blue dress still preserved her modesty, its skirt was surely torn beyond repair.

“My dear Miss Hart.” He knelt beside her, his heart racing. “Are you injured?”

“I...I—” Her eyes did not quite focus on him.

He longed to pull her into a comforting embrace. Of course, that would be utterly improper and, witnessed by these numerous members of the
haute ton,
would ruin her reputation. Not to mention the scandal it would cause for dear Lady Blakemore. And ruin Winston’s chances for a career in diplomacy with Blakemore. But that hardly mattered in a moment like this.

“Shh.” He set a hand on Miss Hart’s upper arm, surprised by the firmness of it. Ladies rarely possessed such well-formed muscles, for their privilege was to be taken care of, not to work. He quickly set aside the observation for later consideration. “What a terrible fright for you. If you can stand, please permit me to assist you.”

She reached out a trembling hand, waving it uncertainly, almost as if she could not see where to place it.

“I am here.” He gripped her hand firmly. “Lean on me.” Slowly, his other hand at her waist as properly as when they had danced together only the previous evening, he lifted her to her feet.

To his surprise, when her vision cleared, she did not gaze at him with gratitude, but glared at him as if it were all his fault.

* * *

She would
not
thank him. Would
not
call him a hero. Would
not
be grateful to him. Catherine shook off his hands and watched with satisfaction as disbelief and humiliation spread across his face. Only briefly did she feel the loss of contact with his strength.

“Kindly take me to Lady Blakemore,” she hissed, then snatched up her bonnet, brushed past him and strode toward the carriage.

She could sense him striding along beside her, but refused to be comforted by his presence. When he had lifted her from the ground, she could not fail to be impressed by his powerful arms. Arms that had rescued poor little chimney sweeps. No. Arms that had carried lying letters to the Home Office condemning her innocent father.

The crowd parted before them, and she became aware of some important members of Society clucking out their sympathy for her and singing their praise for Lord Winston’s bravery. She had not been presented to any of them, so she had no need to respond beyond a murmured, “I thank you.” In truth, all she wanted to do was hide. As a companion, she had expected to escape the notice of Society while she brought Lord Winston to ruin. Yet here she was at the center of attention and likely the subject of many a gossip’s
on-dits
for days to come. Perhaps the incident would even be published in the papers. To hide her chagrin, she shoved on her bonnet and endeavored to tuck her hair beneath it as she walked, a useless labor due to its length.

At the landau, Lord Winston wordlessly helped her step up and into her seat. He glanced beyond the conveyance and raised a hand to a gentleman on horseback. “I say, Melton, can you assist me?”

“Your obedient servant, sir.” The young dandy in a bright green jacket and yellow riding breeches dismounted and approached.

“May I present Miss Hart, Lady Blakemore’s companion?” To Catherine, he said, “This is Lord Melton, Lord Greystone’s brother-in-law. You will be
safe
in his care.” Irritation colored his tone. “Melton, would you be so kind as to see the lady home to Lord Blakemore’s? My driver will be here for you momentarily. I must make certain those miscreants are taken to the authorities.”

“Of course. Take my horse.” The young blond peer handed the reins to Lord Winston and took his seat across from Catherine. “Are you well, Miss Hart? I saw the attack from across the park and hastened to your defense, but you are most fortunate that a superior defender was closer by.” Before she could respond, he eyed Lord Winston. “Clever way to keep your sword handy, Winston. You must tell me where you got that cane.”

“I have a spare I can give you.” Lord Winston accepted his hat from another gentleman. As he brushed it off and settled it on his head, he glowered at Catherine briefly. “Madam, you are now in safe hands.” Then he strode away.

Why had he felt the need to twice assure her of her safety in Lord Melton’s care? Although she had never before met this young earl, Lady Blakemore had spoken of his recent reformation from a dissolute life. Perhaps Lord Winston’s reassurances had more to do with his own sense of failure in protecting her. Did he then have a conscience, an awareness that he could do something wrong?

Catherine certainly felt the weight of her own misdeeds, and in any other circumstances, she would have immediately confessed her foolishness in wandering away from her escort. But she refused the nagging of her own conscience, refused to give Lord Winston credit for anything. For once she opened the door to kind thoughts about the baron, her quest to vindicate Papa would be forever thwarted.

Yet in the back of her mind, she could hear Lord Winston’s words spoken with heartrending gentleness:
My dear Miss Hart...I am here. Lean on me.

Oh, if only she were free to do that.

* * *

With the help of several other gentlemen, Winston made quick work of handing the attackers over to a magistrate’s man who happened to be in the park. In fact, were the circumstances not so alarming, he could consider the incident quite fortuitous. A half dozen of his peers who had barely, if at all, acknowledged him on the floor of the House of Lords now warmly congratulated him on his chivalry and courage. Jolly, plump Lord Bascom had compared him to the knights of old from whom many in this aristocratic crowd had descended. Another argued that Winston would have been an asset to Wellington in the fight against Napoleon. Two or three well-dressed older ladies promised introductions to nieces or daughters upon their next encounter. He even heard demands that he must make an appearance at Almack’s this very evening. It seemed that his actions in rescuing an endangered damsel trumped even a crimson army uniform.

But none of the praise breached the wall of confusion and doubt thrown up against his self-confidence by that very damsel’s censure. Like Father, she seemed to think he fell short of what was expected of him. At least with Father, he had understood the expectations and knew that he came short of the righteousness of God, as Scripture taught. With Miss Hart, he could only guess and no doubt be wrong about the nature of his shortcomings.

In spite of wishing to distance himself from the young lady and her ill temper, he nevertheless rode back to Blakemore House to make certain she had not sustained serious injuries. He had little real concern about the matter. From the way she had stormed across the park back to the carriage, one would have thought she was charging into a battle, not emerging wounded from one. Still, he must apologize to Lord and Lady Blakemore for allowing such a terrible assault to occur while she was in his care. He would make no excuses for himself, despite her wandering off while he was occupied with the food vendor. Yet her lack of consideration grated upon his nerves. Clearly the young lady did not care for his company. After he made his apologies, he would make certain she would not be troubled by his presence again.

Try though he might, however, he could not dismiss her as a mere companion unworthy of a peer’s notice. Miss Catherine Hart possessed some singular quality that he could not name, and it drew him to her as a bee to a flower. And it had nothing to do with that glorious dark brown hair set loose from its pins to flow around her shoulders like silk and glisten in the afternoon sunlight. Nor those dark brown eyes that could glow with warmth and kindness one moment and flash with anger the next. Nor those full, pretty lips that...that he would not think on any further. In truth, he had no idea why he found her so entirely intriguing.

At Blakemore House, he surrendered Melton’s horse to a groom and was granted entrance to the vast mansion.

“You are expected, my lord.” The silver-haired butler escorted him up the wide front staircase to the first-floor drawing room and preceded him to announce, “Lord Winston.”

Heart pounding, Winston stepped inside, praying the ladies’ meeting had long ago adjourned. To his relief, only five individuals populated the room.

“There’s the hero now.” Lord Blakemore scurried across the room, slapped Winston on the back and pumped his right hand. “Welcome, my boy. Good work. Good work.”

“Oh, my dear Winston.” Lady Blakemore rushed to meet him and grasped his other hand.

“Dear, brave cousin.” Mrs. Parton followed closely behind the countess and, with the privilege of a relative, stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss upon his cheek, which was growing warmer by the second.

Beyond these three older friends, he saw Miss Hart sitting upon a settee in a fresh blue gown, her hair tucked into a tidy chignon, her hands folded primly in her lap. Her blush mirrored his own. Not two yards from her, Melton stood, or rather,
posed,
beside the hearth. Now that he had abandoned his ruinous life of gambling and drunkenness, he made a rather grand figure in his green-and-yellow riding ensemble, his blond hair perfectly groomed. Winston’s heart lurched. Had he just put the object of his interest into the path of a charming young earl with a clever wit and a flair for colorful fashions?

“Come sit down, my boy.” Blakemore escorted him to the settee opposite Miss Hart and took the place beside him. “Now, you must tell us everything. Melton has told us how the affair looked from his viewpoint across the park, and Miss Hart has confessed her lapse in judgment. What do you have to say for yourself?”

With all eyes upon him, Winston could not help but recall his days as a schoolboy at Eton. But unlike then, when he knew all the answers—and received more than one beating from older boys for besting them at academics—he could hardly form the words to relate today’s incident.

“If not for my driver and several gentlemen who jumped into the fray, I fear the matter could have gone quite badly.”

“Oh, pish-posh. Don’t be a bore.” Melton laughed in a rich, warm tone that probably pleased the ladies. “You were quite the dashing hero, Winny.”

Winston cringed at the byname. But then, perhaps he should feel honored. Father had never permitted bynames. Yet since being in London, Winston had noticed that close friends often used them as a sign of affection. Although he waved away Melton’s praise, he did value his open friendliness.

“It was all too alarming, I assure you.” He turned to Lady Blakemore with an apologetic grimace. “Madam, I beg your forgiveness for not properly protecting your lo—” he coughed to stop the word
lovely
“—your loyal companion.” Beside him, Blakemore chuckled, so he hastened on. “When I saw those fiends seize her, I had no time to think, only to react.”

“You should have seen him dash to her aid.” Melton grinned. “Hmm. Do you suppose that is where the word
dashing
originated?” He stared off thoughtfully. “I must investigate the matter. I do adore playing with words. One discovers countless witticisms, often by accident.”

Winston silenced a sigh of resignation. Like Shakespeare, Melton did excel at wordplay, something he had utterly failed at this day, as he had everything else.

* * *

Catherine stared at the single white rose at the center of the tall arrangement of purple delphiniums gracing the rectangular dining table. Lord Winston, despite his subdued demeanor, must think himself terribly clever for using the rose to signal his surrender at the flower shop. To her it had been no surrender at all, merely his permitting her to win after he had made clear to both her and Mr. Lambert that his title gave him the final word in the matter. Yet now he sat opposite her and, unlike the night before at the marquess’s supper, seemed unable to think of anything to say.

On the other hand, Lord Blakemore, at the head of the table, could not say enough about the baron’s courage. Nor did the countess withhold her compliments, crediting his gallantry to his impressive lineage, which she proclaimed was a part of the bedrock of English aristocracy.

The couple had granted their guest a singular honor by hosting him in their smaller, more intimate dining room rather than the grand hall with its forty-foot table. Had Catherine been aware of their plans, she would have ordered only one bouquet and spared her employer the expense of the extra three. Yet when Mr. Lambert had delivered the flowers, Lady Blakemore had graciously dismissed Catherine’s concerns. After all, she had requested several bouquets, had she not?