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 a
ll 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?
The countess then whispered to Catherine that the impromptu errand had been a ruse to send her off on a carriage ride with an eligible gentleman. She added that she had left the details up to Providence, so any decisions that missed the mark of perfection could easily be discounted. But she offered no explanation for why she found Catherine worthy of being courted by a peer. Or why she seemed determined to marry off someone who had been hired to keep her company. Was it possible that she and Lord Blakemore knew her true identity? She must seek Mr. Radcliff’s counsel, for perhaps the earl had confided in his secretary about the matter.
“Miss Hart.” Lord Winston’s gentle voice cut into her musings like a sharp blade. “I am your prisoner until you forgive me for not preventing today’s terrible calamity.” His troubled tone exuded just the right degree of pathos. “I beg you to set me free.” His eyes, glistening bright green in the candlelight, held the perfect degree of sadness to emphasize his plea.
How poetic. And how clever of him to effect such a humble attitude, for surely his intention was to force her into admitting her own error in his presence and in front of Lord and Lady Blakemore. While she’d had no trouble telling the earl and countess everything, she had not spoken more than two words to the baron since he arrived hours ago. Surrendering the point to him would gall her, but perhaps losing the battle would help her to win the war.
“I fear you mistake me, my lord.” She noted with satisfaction that his eyes flared at the way she addressed him. “It is shame that prevents me from speaking. The entire incident was my fault alone for wandering away to see how the flowers newly planted by the Serpentine are faring in this summer heat.”
“But, my dear—” Lord Blakemore began. Lady Blakemore cleared her throat, and the earl paused to plunge his spoon into his beef soup and eat a hearty bite. “Needs salt.” He waved to a footman, who quickly produced a crystal saltcellar. The earl then made a great ceremony of measuring out a tiny spoonful and tasting his soup again, seeming to have forgotten his attempt to interrupt Catherine.
Lord Winston eyed the earl uncertainly before speaking to her. “I would have been pleased to escort you to the river, madam. In fact, you must permit me to take you there soon, perhaps even tomorrow.” He glanced at Lady Blakemore, who smiled at her soup bowl.
Even as she felt a hint of victory, Catherine could not dismiss the threads of anxiety winding through her. Once again, she could not comprehend why her employer was so eager to see her in Lord Winston’s company.
“I understand your hesitation, Miss Hart.” The baron must have noticed the countess’s smile, for his voice was firmer, denoting no doubt a return of his confidence. “But the best way to overcome the effects of a harrowing experience is to prove that it was an aberration. Hyde Park is a safe place to visit in proper company and even safer now that those villains are in Newgate Prison.” He looked at Lord Blakemore for affirmation and received a cheerful nod. “To a man, their fellow miscreants will know that such crimes against their betters will not be tolerated.”
Mischief stirred within her, and Catherine gave him a sober look. “Indeed, you are correct, my lord. They must return to their own part of the city and perpetrate all of their crimes upon their own kind.”
Lord Blakemore, sipping his soup at that moment, spewed it across the tablecloth and fell into a fit of coughing and laughing at the same time. “By George, Miss Hart, you have a ready wit. Why on earth are you so quiet all the time?”
As he spoke these words, Lady Blakemore rose and hastened around the table to pound her husband on the back, laughing all the way. “Indeed, my dear, you do come up with the most amusing quips sometimes.”
Lord Winston stared askance from one to the other and back at Catherine, clearly not comprehending her jest. For a moment, she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
*
Winston could think of no rejoinder, for he had not the slightest idea why Miss Hart’s assertion was so entirely amusing to the Blakemores. He cast a pleading look at his host, who laughed all the more.
“Sarcasm, my boy. Sarcasm.” Blakemore swiped his linen serviette over his lips and down the front of his white shirt and cravat, seeming not to care that they were ruined by dark brown soup stains.
Enough was enough. Winston would conquer this thing called humor or make a fool of himself trying. “Sarcasm. Yes. It abounds in Parliament between any two men who disagree with each other and hope to defeat their opponent with a scathing set down. But forgive me, pray, if I cannot grasp why you found Miss Hart’s sarcastic comment worthy of such laughter.” He looked across the table at the young lady, who was the picture of innocence. Or did he spy a glimmer of slyness in her dark eyes? Or was that simply the movement of the candle flames reflected there?
“I do not care for cruel or indelicate sarcasm any more than you do,” Blakemore said. “But you must admit your comment invited such a gently done riposte. Permit me to explain why. First, one would not wish the villains to perpetrate any crimes, not even upon their own ‘kind.’ No Christian can countenance such behavior, no matter who the victim is. So the comment was utterly ridiculous.” He chuckled. “But
for a quiet little mouse like Miss Hart to say it, why, that made it all the more humorous.” Ever paternal, the earl cast Winston a sympathetic smile. “Ah, poor lad. Your father was a fine Christian gentleman, but he never found humor in anything. Almost seemed to view laughing as a sin. I have often thought his sober disposition was the cause of his final illness.” He clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Take my advice, boy, you will be a happier man if you learn how to laugh at life’s absurdities.” Now a wily look passed over his round face. “Miss Hart, would you consider taking Winston on as a student in humor?”
His own pulse quickening at the idea, Winston could not fail to notice a bit of chagrin, perhaps even alarm, crossing her lovely face. He must hand her a reprieve. “Sir, I hardly think Miss Hart would enjoy—”
“Not at all, Lord Winston.” She offered what seemed like a forced smile. “Did you not challenge me earlier today to a duel of wits? While I cannot hold myself up as a proficient humorist, perhaps between the two of us we can find sufficient causes for laughter.” Yet it was not humor he saw in her expression. More like a look of sharp steel. And though she stared into his eyes, he felt she was aiming straight at his heart.
Chapter Seven
“Surely you can understand my suspicions, Mr. Radcliff.” Seated by a tall, sunlit window in Lady Blakemore’s office, Catherine spoke quietly as she stitched a sampler, a task for her employer that gave her an excuse to be near her friend without generating suspicion. “If Lord and Lady Blakemore believe me to be an impoverished gentlewoman from an obscure family, why would they push me toward Lord Winston? Lady Blakemore has said she and the earl believe without reservation that the Almighty has ordained for kings and nobles to rule and manage the affairs of mankind.” Barely avoiding the needle point, she dismissed the soft prick of conscience that questioned why she no longer thought of God as her heavenly Father, but rather as a distant deity. “If they do not know of my aristocratic birth, why would they seek to taint his superior bloodline?” She could not keep the mockery from her voice, though she had never been given to using such a disrespectful tone.
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