Decline to be involved in what, though? Kate watched the door through which the two men had gone, and wondered what Papa could possibly have in mind.
“I DON’T LIKE to ask this of you.” Westbrook stood with his arms folded. They’d gone only to the end of the hall farthest from the parlor, so he must have had a brief conversation in mind. “I trust you won’t hesitate to refuse, if it’s too great an imposition.”
Nick folded his arms, too. He had a fair idea of what was coming.
“The fact is I don’t trust Lady Harringdon with my daughter’s safety. I’ve been to ton parties, recall. Having grown up in that world, I can say with authority that sir or lord in front of a man’s name is no guarantee of gentlemanly behavior. Unscrupulous men find great sport in preying on young girls of humbler station. And I fear a girl like my Kate, unworldly and dazzled by the trappings of high society, could be vulnerable to such predation.”
“Of course. I’d be concerned, too, if I were her father.” The words felt disingenuous. What had he been thinking, encouraging her to go and set her lures for a duke? He ought to have had Westbrook’s perspective in mind.
“I don’t want to forbid her going to this party. To be honest, I have hope that once she’s seen the inside of a ballroom, and the sort of people one finds there, she’ll begin to see it all falls a little short of what she’s built up in her fancies.”
Nick wouldn’t hold his breath on that hope. But far be it from him to say so.
“Neither I nor Mrs. Westbrook, I’m sure, can countenance her going with only a stranger—as my brother’s wife has been these twenty-three years—for protection. But if I knew there was a friend there, one as trustworthy as you, to keep watch of her, that would put a different complexion on things.” He inclined his head, a mute apology for making this request.
There could be no question of saying no, and for that, Nick had only himself to blame. Little as he liked the idea of a rout, loath as he was to assume responsibility for Miss Westbrook, he was the one who’d goaded her into pursuing this scheme. He must be the one to see her safely through this one evening, at least. He owed her father that much.
“I’ll keep watch of her.” Unfurling in his stomach was a faint misapprehension: he might well live to regret this promise. But there was nothing to be done about that now. “I’ll see what impressions I can form of the countess, too, that you’ll have a better idea of whether she’s a fit chaperone. Only send me word of what time she and her party plan to arrive, and you may trust her welfare to me.”
THREE NIGHTS later he was at Cranbourne House, picking his way through the finely dressed, overperfumed ranks in search of Lord Barclay and regretting, just a little, that he’d promised to stay for the whole of this affair.
Miss Westbrook and the countess had come in a short while earlier. They’d taken seats among the matrons and wallflowers at one side of the room. She was in sublime looks, more so even than usual, and when she spied him and sent a smile his way he felt a pang of sorrow that he couldn’t stroll over and wish her a good evening, let alone invite her to dance.
But an acknowledged acquaintance with him would do her no favors with Lady Harringdon—even if the Blackshear scandal should happen to have been beneath the countess’s notice, the fact remained that he was the undistinguished second son of an untitled gentleman—so he restricted himself to keeping a surreptitious eye on the pair. And when several minutes passed without sign of any unscrupulous gentleman undertaking to approach her, he decided he could relax his vigilance long enough to locate the baron. The crowd was tolerable, and he ought to be able to glance through and around the forest of humanity to catch sight of her when he wished.
The size of the crowd was tolerable, rather. Of the crowd itself he could make no such assurance.
“Excuse me,” he said, as he prodded his way past a knot of people who’d planted themselves in his path. He’d never liked this way of spending time, and since the business with Will, parties among fashionable strangers had become a downright torturous prospect.
Not that he had many invitations. In the past he’d gone mostly to gatherings hosted by a brother or sister, and there’d been none of that kind since spring of last year. Andrew and his wife, and Kitty and her husband, didn’t care to see all their invitations politely declined.
The knot of people loosened to let him by. A lady in a feathered headpiece glanced over her shoulder at him, then leaned toward another lady and said something behind her fan.
She didn’t know him. There was absolutely no reason she would. Still, he could never see such a response without imagining every unpleasant thing that might be whispered behind that fan. Look there; do you remember when I told you of that family whose youngest son came back from the war so deranged that he … Yes, a courtesan, as I live and breathe, and the family could not prevent it … Oh, I’d never show my face at a party if my brother did such a thing.…
Nonsense. He gave his head a quick shake to scatter those fancies. Even if the lady was such a zealous gossip as to be acquainted with Will’s story, without Nick’s name having been announced—he’d managed to escape that ceremony by explaining to the butler that he’d come for an appointment with Lord Barclay rather than as one of the revelers—she would have no reason to connect that story with him. She was probably only remarking on the lackluster arrangement of his cravat, if she was speaking of him at all.
And that was quite enough time given to contemplating the thoughts of a feather-headed stranger. Let her speak on what subject she wished. There was only one person at this gathering whose good opinion could be of any professional consequence to him. That person, therefore, would be the one on whom he’d concentrate all—
“Blackshear! Good Lord.” The speaker stepped away from another conversation, eyes bright with curiosity, grin slicing across the aristocratic planes of his face. “Are you here of your own volition, or were you drugged and left on the doorstep?”
Well might Lord Cathcart ask. The last time the viscount had seen him, Nick had been dragging his heels through a progression of ever-more-sordid gaming establishments and regretting, with each step, that he’d allowed Cathcart to talk him into such a louche sort of evening.
Cathcart and Will, that was. It had taken his brother’s and their old schoolfellow’s cajolery combined to coax him out of his rooms and into that escapade.
And he was well shut of such capers. “You’ll be relieved, I’m sure, to hear that I’ve come solely on a business matter.” He performed a small, straightening adjustment to one kid glove. The viscount, as always, was meticulously tailored from head to toe, his own gloves pristine. Nick could never help feeling a bit shabby in his company. “Our host’s brother has been made a baron and takes up his seat in the House this session. He’d like to learn what he can of public and persuasive speaking from someone with courtroom experience. I’m to meet with him here.”
“Ah. Ambitious fellow. Just your sort. What’s in it for you? I don’t suppose a new title will come with any pocket boroughs to bestow.”
“He’d hardly be bestowing them on me even if he had them. I don’t meet the property qualification, recall.”
“People get round that all the time.” Cathcart gave a dismissive wave. “From what I hear, a good half the men in Commons had their land transferred to them by a patron, and taken back once the seat was secured.”
“I consider that an argument for extending parliamentary eligibility to all men with a sufficient income, not only those who derive their money from the land.” This was one of the liveliest mealtime topics among his fellows in the Middle Temple of late—but he must remember he was at a party, and speaking to a viscount who but irregularly attended sessions in the House of Lords. Cathcart wouldn’t take much interest in the debate. “And even if I did wish to pursue a seat through adherence to the mere letter of the law, I haven’t any patron willing to abet me with temporary ownership of land.”
“You haven’t a patron yet.
” The viscount had a way of regarding all impediments as minor. “Perhaps this baron will be the man. And even if he hasn’t got direct control of any seats in Commons, he might advance your interest with those who do. Don’t tell me that hasn’t entered your own thoughts.”
“Entered? Yes.” He fixed his gaze out over the ballroom. “However, the idea cannot progress very far, for reasons of which I’m sure I needn’t remind you.” Cathcart knew, better than almost anyone, of the constraints on Nick’s professional hopes. He’d been Will’s second, after all, in the duel by which the youngest of the Blackshear brothers had … avenged his ladylove’s honor, or claimed her away from her protector, or whatever the object of that meeting had been.
“If you were hoping for an invitation to one of the better clubs, then yes, that matter might stand in your way. I cannot imagine the House of Commons is nearly so concerned with who a man’s brother might have married.”
Now the viscount was spouting nonsense just to cheer him. For all his political indifference, Cathcart knew perfectly well what sort of men filled the House of Commons. Country gentry. Second sons of peers. Heirs biding their time until they could assume the title, and take their fathers’ vacated seats in Lords. A man’s name counted for just as much in the House of Commons as in any refuge of the haut ton.
Little to be gained by arguing. Another subject had arisen and been openly recognized between them, and now Nick cleared his throat. “Do you hear anything of Will?” There was no good reason for him to ask. Martha had already told him all about their brother’s basic circumstances, and was always willing to tell more if he would only inquire.
“I dined with him and his wife a fortnight ago. He’s well. They both are.” The viscount fixed his attention on the middle of the dance floor, recognizing the delicacy of the subject.
“Ah. I wasn’t aware you’d kept up that level of intercourse.” The knowledge stung, unaccountably.
“To a point. I don’t care to impose the acquaintance on Lady Cathcart”—he nodded to where his wife, a shy, slender creature, was dancing with a man Nick didn’t know—“so they don’t dine at my house. But I do see them from time to time. Their circumstances are modest but Will seems content in the life he chose.” He paused and turned his head to face Nick. “He doesn’t reproach you, you know.” His words came quickly, as though he half expected to be rebuked before he could get them all out. “No more do I. You chose the only possible course for a gentleman whose ambitions depend upon his good name. Even a trivial fellow like myself can see that.”
Nick angled his face away, that the sentiments there not make a book for the viscount’s perusal. Across the room a young lady had sat down by Miss Westbrook. The two were speaking, half turned toward one another, the very picture of happy conviviality.
“Thank you for saying so.” He made a brief and slight bow, still not facing Lord Cathcart. “I appreciate your understanding.”
“Think nothing of it. This is your pupil approaching now, isn’t it? Astley’s brother?”
Some distance to their right, the baron had indeed come into view, picking a path alongside the dancers. He raised a hand when Nick caught sight of him, and Nick greeted him in return.
Probably they’d want to confer in a room less noisy than this one. He’d have to abandon his watch of Miss Westbrook. Not that she looked likely to get into any trouble, tucked away among the matrons and satisfied to be speaking with a friend, but he had taken her safety upon him and—
Inspiration struck. “Cathcart.” He, too, had friends at this party, or at least one worthy friend who’d already proven his willingness to be cordial to people on the wrong side of a social fault line. He pivoted to address the viscount head-on. “Might I prevail upon you to do a service for a pretty girl?”
“BUT MR. Bingley is so much kinder a man.” Miss Smith, who’d stopped by to greet Lady Harringdon and been commanded to join them, now occupied the chair at Kate’s other side, absently twisting a corner of her shawl, not once glancing out at the spectacle of dancers and dance as she applied herself to articulating this opinion. “He defended Elizabeth and Jane against his sisters’ criticism from the start. Mr. Darcy didn’t come round until he’d been bewitched by Elizabeth’s eyes.”
“But he wasn’t bewitched by her eyes, truly. He only thought them fine after he’d begun to admire her character and temperament,” Kate said, clasping her hands in her lap and letting all energy flow into this unexpected and terribly welcome discussion. The friends to whom Lady Harringdon had presented her were impressive, to be sure, but their conversation had been strictly superficial. “Mr. Bingley approves everyone and everything indiscriminately. With Mr. Darcy, you know his good opinion, when it comes, is based upon his having perceived your particular merits.”
“And I’m to be honored by that?” For a girl who’d grown up in a house without barristers, Miss Smith had an excellent disputing style, her thrusts and parries all delivered with such good nature as must blunt any sting of antagonism. “No, thank you; I prefer the generosity of a man who will credit me with every virtue, and leave me the burden of proving him wrong.”
“What is all this talk of I and you?” Lady Harringdon, at Kate’s right, had been content to fan herself and hum along with the violins, only intermittently attending the young ladies’ conversation. Now she closed her fan with a smart snap. “You’re not either of you in that story, and as I recall, those gentlemen both found brides who suited them very well. You must give up thinking of them, and pay some heed to unmarried gentlemen who actually walk among us.”
That admonition, was meant for Miss Smith. At the moment of the young lady’s sitting down, the countess had taken care to point out several gentlemen with whom it might behoove her to dance, if asked. None had yet approached.
Was there some residue of disappointment, still, that her aunt would not be pointing out such suitable prospects to her? To be sure. If she’d only had Lady Harringdon’s proper patronage—if she’d entered the party as a guest, with her name announced, rather than trailing anonymously after the countess and sitting down among the matrons—she would have seen to it that every suitable man came near.
She would not dwell on disappointment, though. Not when she sat on a gilt-legged chair with a titled lady at her right and a congenial well-born girl at her left and a spectacle laid out before her of gentlemen in evening black dancing with ladies in gowns of every cut and color. She felt almost plain by comparison in her ivory muslin, despite having shortened the sleeves and trimmed the gown with pink ribbon that it might not look like the same one she’d worn to call at Harringdon House.
Almost plain. She’d drawn a few lingering glances already, even sitting off to the side as she was. Mr. Blackshear had smiled at her with undisguised admiration when they’d made their confidential across-the-room greeting. He looked rather impressive himself in evening clothes—his height and fine proportions were somehow more apparent in a crowd—even if he had come here only for business purposes instead of to dance.
“What can have become of your mother, my dear?” Again Lady Harringdon addressed Miss Smith, and made a show of craning to see past the dancers and into all corners of the room. “I declare she’s nowhere to be seen.”
“I expect she must still be in the card room. She’d only taken her place at a table a short time before I sat down here, you may recall.”
“Ah, so you did tell us. I remember it now. I wish I knew how long she means to play, though.” The countess’s brow furrowed in a show of cogitative effort. “I might better plan out my evening if I knew when we could expect the pleasure of her company.”
The hint was too plain for even a dullard to overlook. Miss Smith, no dullard, rose from her chair. “I’ll go ask her, shall I?”
“That would be lovely, dear. But see that you come straight back to us. If a gentleman waylays you and asks for a dance, tell him you must seek my permission first, your mother being elsewhere engaged.”
&n
bsp; Miss Smith smiled—really, she looked a deal more radiant after a few minutes spent in energetic debate; you hardly noticed the forehead and chin—in a way that made clear she took no offense at being banished from the conversation to come. With a curtsy she turned and set off for the card room.
“What are we to do with her?” Lady Harringdon wanted to know as soon as she’d gone. “Here is a room full of eligible men and she’d rather sit and talk of made-up men in novels. She won’t dance all the evening at this rate.”
“I fear I’m to blame.” Genuine guilt pinched at Kate. Miss Smith was supposed to be finding some alternatives to Sir George Bigby, not keeping her company. “She’s so delightful a conversationalist that I kept her speaking on that topic. She ought rather to have been making conversation with some gentleman.”
“She ought rather to be dancing, but no gentleman has asked.” The countess tapped Kate’s knee with the folded fan, in the manner of a judge certifying his words with a gavel. “I think we must take steps to make her more generally noticed.”
The we was gratifying. That Lady Harringdon thought her a useful ally made up for a little of the indignity of sitting along the wall watching her own aunt working to make a match for someone else. “Ought we to move to a different side of the room?” It sounded a bit like fishing: you might have poor luck in one spot, then move downriver and meet with abundance.
“I think she’d do better to make a circuit.” Again Lady Harringdon employed her fan in gavel fashion, this time upon her own knee. “What if you propose a turn about the room, and take special care to lead her past some of these groups of gentlemen, keeping her engaged all the while in such conversation as— But what can this rascal be wanting? You would think a viscount would know better than to march up and present himself when ladies are occupied in sorting out matters of great moment.”
The viscount in question was a handsome man, impeccably turned out, with pale hair and high cheekbones and a cravat that combined a barrel knot with an intricate waterfall styling. “Lady Harringdon.” He could not have failed to hear the countess’s scolding words but he smiled, undeterred, and bowed over her hand. “I vow each of your daughters is more beautiful than the last.” He nodded to Kate. “If you’ve any more to bring out in future Seasons, I beg you will put a notice to that effect in the Gazette, that we poor gentlemen of the ton may begin even now to gird ourselves.”
Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] Page 11