“We are of the same mind, madam. I could not leave without knowing the extent of Lord Winston’s injuries.”
“I must warn you, my dear,” the baroness said. “He will deny their severity and refuse to let us dote upon him.”
“I heard that. And you are right, of course.” Lord Winston’s soft grin at his mother seemed to hold some special meaning between the two of them, probably like the understanding looks Catherine shared with her family members.
The thought should have made her angry, for she would like nothing more than to see them all, especially Papa, and know that all was well with them. Instead she found herself appreciating the bond between this mother and son.
“Llewellyn,” said the baroness, “take Lord Winston up to his bedchamber.”
“No, Mother.” He struggled to straighten in the invalid chair, flinching in pain as he did.
Catherine winced on his behalf, then noticed her own mild discomfort in her knees and hands from landing so hard on the ground. Her white kid gloves had been ruined, but the flesh on her hands had been spared.
“I should like to go up to the drawing room.” The baron spoke through clenched teeth. Despite his mother’s objections, he had his way, although Catherine noticed that the butler seemed none too pleased. Nevertheless, two hardy young footmen carried the baron, invalid chair and all, up the graceful curved staircase. Soon the baron and his mother were sitting in the room Lord Winston preferred, with Catherine comfortably seated across from them.
The baroness ordered water and towels, and tea, of course. Before they could be brought, Miss Beaumont rushed into the room carrying a large golden cat. “Oh, James, dearest.” She hurried to his chair and plopped the feline into his lap, then flung her arms around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“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
Winston 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. “Woul
d 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
For 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 th
e 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.”
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