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.
Chapter Thirteen
Catherine had not expected Lord Winston to come calling every day, but when he did not visit early in the week, or even on Wednesday when Parliament did not assemble, she began to doubt his interest. Nor had she been able to speak with Mr. Radcliff, for Lord Blakemore kept his secretary very busy these days. How could her plans go forward if the gentleman in question had not fallen in love with her after all?
On Thursday, Lady Blakemore summoned Catherine. “Fetch your bonnet, my dear. We shall visit Lady Winston.”
“Yes, my lady.” Catherine’s heart lilted as she hastened to obey.
Perhaps the baron would be at home, as well. Even if he was not, his mother and sister would surely report that she had been there. That should garner some attention from him. Catherine’s only concern about the visit was for the dowager baroness and her daughter. She could not deliberately cause either of them pain, any more than she could hurt her own loved ones.
The carriage rolled up in front of Lord Winston’s Grosvenor Square town house, and Catherine’s pulse began to race. She could only attribute it to her longing, no, her interest, in seeing the baron.
These past nights as she had struggled to find sleep, she could see his winsome smile, his gray-green eyes bright with interest in her, his anxious attempts to learn how to laugh. Her heart warmed as she recalled the delightful way he teased his sister, just as she teased back and forth with Lucien and Isabella. And she admired his nose, of all things, narrow at the bridge, and in profile an attractive triangular shape that seemed to point him toward a promising future.
But sleep would not come until she reminded herself that his ambitions for his own career had destroyed the prospects of her brother and sister. When a gentleman like Papa was ruined, his entire family suffered ruin with him. With Napoleon defeated, Papa might have gone to Paris with King Louis to become a part of the new French government. Or if he preferred to stay in England with Mama’s people, he could continue his good work in managing her Norfolk estate, where everyone who lived nearby loved him. Lord Winston had also destroyed all of those possibilities.
While the brownish-gray brick exterior of the baron’s town house looked much the same as the others in Grosvenor Square, its austere interior lacked the interesting furnishings that would make it homier or a place where one would wish to entertain. But then, Catherine supposed he was far too busy ruining other people’s lives to attend to such matters.
“Lady Blakemore, Miss Hart, I do hope you will forgive my son’s inattention to his home.” Lady Winston seemed to be reading Catherine’s mind after she joined them in the large drawing room. “The late Lord Winston did not care for what he called ‘fripperies’ when it came to furnishing this house. And of course, it has not been lived in for six years. James has been here only since January, so he has not had time to make improvements, only repairs.” She laughed in her musical way. “And of course, the poor dear would have no idea how to decorate.”
“Gracious, no, Mama.” Miss Beaumont flounced into a brown leather chair beside its mate, where Catherine sat. “He would doubtless turn it into a somber replica of the House of Lords. Or a stable.”
Catherine laughed with the others, but she also felt a surprising twinge of sympathy for the baron. She had been employed by the Blakemores long enough to know that entertaining the right people was an important part of any gentleman’s political career. Lord Winston needed a wife to take charge of this house and make it more presentable. If it were hers to decorate, she would know exactly what to do. She would begin right here in this plainly furnished drawing room, recovering these sturdy chairs in a floral brocade and exchanging those dark brown velvet drapes over the tall front windows with something bright and airy.
What was she thinking? This would never be her home. Furthermore, she scolded herself, Lady Winston could no doubt manage quite nicely when it came to making improvements for her son.
As all the usual niceties were spoken among them, Catherine noticed the formal way in which the baroness spoke of her late husband. Nor did any sadness dim her bright blue eyes as she mentioned him. One would almost think she was speaking of some ancient English lord or king rather than the father of her children. How different from the warmth Catherine had noticed between her parents and between Lord and Lady Blakemore.
Lady Winston had put off the black mourning gown she wore on Sunday in favor of a gray silk dress with black piping around the long sleeves and high neckline. Even in gray, her complexion glowed with a warmer, healthier tone, and Catherine imagined she would look quite lovely in brighter colors.
The butler brought an unadorned black china tea set, and the baroness supervised while Miss Beaumont served, making sure each of their guests had a beverage to her liking.
“I have not yet decided whether Sophia should make her debut this Season.” Lady Winston addressed Lady Blakemore, but she also included Catherine with a glance. “What would you advise?”
Catherine had hoped the topic would not come up, for she still felt uncertain about her own place in Lady Blakemore’s regard. But after their shared merriment with these ladies last Sunday afternoon, how could she claim that shyness prevented her from being launched into Society? She should have thought of that when she so heartily took part in the games and teasing. How difficult it was to remember all the lies and misinformation and how they might affect upcoming situations.
For once, Miss Beaumont did not interject her own thoughts in answe
r to her mother’s question. Instead, she sat forward in her chair and looked anxiously between Catherine and Lady Blakemore as if her entire success in Society depended upon their responses. That desperation suggested to Catherine that the girl was too young, but she would never say so.
“My dear,” the countess said to the young lady, “Her Majesty will not have another Drawing Room this Season, and it is important for young ladies to be presented to her before they make their debuts. Otherwise, no one of importance will consider them officially out.”
A pout formed on Miss Beaumont’s plump lips, but she quickly and admirably forced a smile. “Yes, of course. I have often thought what an honor it will be to meet the queen when my turn comes.”
Lady Winston’s eyes misted, and she gazed off across the room. “Indeed, it is an honor. When I was presented at court twenty-five years ago, His Majesty had not yet become ill, so he attended the ceremony, as well.” Her voice broke slightly on her last words.
“Ah, yes.” Lady Blakemore seemed caught up in the same sort of wistful memory, for she too grew pensive.
Catherine could not speak for the lump in her throat. When King George had been in his right mind, he had been a fine monarch and more than welcoming to émigrés like Papa during the French Reign of Terror. Now that his son, the Prince Regent, ruled in his place, it seemed to give wicked men like Lord Winston license to do as they pleased.
“What is this?” The baron appeared at the door and strode across the room. “Four ladies in my drawing room, and not a sound of chattering to be heard.” His gaze landed upon Catherine and intensified, as if he had found a lost treasure.
While the other ladies laughed at his comment, her heart seemed to jump into her throat. She struggled to subdue her giddy emotions, for she must not forget that this man was her enemy. Forcing other thoughts to the forefront of her mind, she was pleased with his timely entrance. Now she need not worry that the subject of debuts would be renewed. And from the way he looked at her, she could see that her other worries had been ill-founded. The baron was smitten, and she would find a way to use his regard to her advantage.
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