He took a step toward the bed, where Winston lay, but stopped when Dudley coughed assertively from the other side of the room. Since the assault, the valet had insisted upon acting as a second bodyguard, and Llewellyn now glanced in confusion at him.
“If my lord finds something lacking in the performance of my duties, I beg you, in light of my long service, to condescend to explain it to me.”
Winston glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You perform your duties to perfection.” The butler relaxed only a little. He could easily demand that Llewellyn simply improve his attitude, but that would not explain why he’d had the effrontery to be so rude. “If you are to remain in my employ, you must give me a satisfactory reason for your arrogance, which began shortly after my father’s death and only increased when Lady Winston arrived here.” He would not mention the constant censure he had felt from Llewellyn since childhood.
Now the older man wilted. “It would be difficult to explain, my lord.”
“Well, then.” Winston inhaled a deep breath to steady his voice. He had always disliked confrontation, and unlike Father, had never dismissed any employee. “I know you never married, but perhaps you have family you can live with. I shall of course provide an adequate pension.”
Llewellyn’s pale face grew whiter. “My lord, I beg you… Very well, an explanation.” He wiped a white cotton glove over his damp brow. “One does not lightly speak ill of the dead.”
A chill went down Winston’s spine. “Yes?”
“May I simply say that a certain, um, peer treated his lady wife most unkindly, and utterly without cause. One observed that the son followed in the father’s footsteps.” The butler swallowed hard. “Of course, it is not for the servant to correct the master, but—” He swallowed again and gave Winston a pleading look.
How completely he had misjudged the situation. All those years when he thought the butler was just like his father in condemning him, instead the man had been disapproving of the old baron for his treatment of Mother. Father had never paid attention to his servants any more than he noticed a chair that was doing its duty, so he never noticed anything amiss in Llewellyn’s behavior. And after Father’s death, until Winston had learned by accident the cause of his unkindness toward Mother, he had treated her just as badly. Now he was the one who must explain the matter to this worthy servant, at least in part.
“Yes, well, as I have been bedridden these past weeks, you had no chance to observe that a certain lady and her son have sorted out the matter and have established a new and felicitous friendship.”
“Oh, my lord—” All arrogance gone, Llewellyn brandished a smile so broad that his lined face seemed in danger of cracking. “I thank the Lord for answered prayers.”
“Prayers, eh?” Winston had spoken to the Almighty without ceasing these past weeks. “Speaking of such, do send Mr. Grenville up.”
Llewellyn resumed his flawless formal posture. “Yes, my lord.” He turned toward the door, then cast a doubtful glance back at Winston. “Shall I write to my family, then, my lord?”
Winston smothered a laugh. “Only to tell them you are in the best of health and will be in London as long as it pleases your master.”
Llewellyn exited the room, but Winston could hear his uncharacteristic explosive sigh of relief through the door.
*
“No, no, not that one, Giselle.” Lady Blakemore studied the fabric draped around Catherine’s shoulder. “I much prefer the blue.”
“Mais non, madame.” The little modiste placed her hands on her hips. “Can you not see how zees glorious rose color brings ze appealing blush to ze young lady’s cheeks?” She waved a hand in the air. “Every gentleman weel fall madly in love with Mees Hart if she wear zees color.”
Lady Blakemore thumped the tip of her folded parasol on the parquet floor of the dressmaker’s shop. “Every gentleman will fall in love with her in the blue.”
Catherine did not know whether to laugh or cry. She was grateful to Lady Blakemore for all this attention, but she adored the soft rose silk material. Mama had always said this was her best color, and she preferred it, as well. Yet how could she contradict the countess?
“Maintenant!” The modiste had no such compunctions. “Giselle will not make ze blue.” She crossed her arms and rapidly tapped one foot on the floor as if she had given the final word on the subject. Catherine was reminded of one of her governesses, a strict and implacable woman.
The bell above the door of the Bond Street shop tinkled charmingly, and Mrs. Parton bustled in, the new Lady Greystone in her wake. “Hello, hello, ladies.”
“Madame Parton.” Giselle hurried over to greet her. “How may I assist you? Ah, Lady Greystone, I am honored by your patronage.”
“But, my dear,” Mrs. Parton said, “you must finish with Lady Blakemore first.”
“Non.” Giselle sniffed. “She refuse to see ze reason and—”
“Why, Miss Hart.” Lady Greystone, exquisite in a sky-blue walking gown, approached Catherine, her bright blue eyes reflecting the color of the dress. “How divine you look in this pretty pink fabric. It is the perfect shade for you. Will you have a gown made of it to wear to Lord Winston’s ball?”
“Ha!” Giselle sniffed again. “You see?”
“Oh, very well.” Lady Blakemore did not appear the slightest offended by the turn of events or the modiste’s insolence. “Hello, my dear. Marriage has made you even more beautiful. If Lady Greystone prefers the pink, then pink it shall be.”
“Bon!” Giselle gave a victorious clap of her hands, summoning her assistants to take measurements and order accessories. The lace trim, satin ribbons and kid slippers would be dyed a slightly darker shade of rose to complement the pink silk, and a new pair of over-the-elbow white satin gloves would complete the ensemble.
While the older ladies discussed the transaction—for Mrs. Parton always lent her advice on everything—Lady Greystone took Catherine aside.
“I have missed seeing you at the theatre, Miss Hart, but it is clear that you are enjoying a fine Season.” The young viscountess’s blond curls peeked out from the fluted lining of her blue bonnet, enhancing her beauty. But Catherine suspected, as Lady Blakemore had said, that marriage was the cause of the glow in her ivory complexion.
She laughed softly. “I hardly know how to account for it, Lady Greystone. Since I last saw you, the countess has begun to treat me more as a ward than a companion.”
The viscountess peered around her at the others. “Just as Mrs. Parton did for me. My brother, Lord Melton, had no money to pay for my Season, and yet she treated me more like a daughter instead of her paid companion. Lady Blakemore must realize you are worthy of such an honor, or she would not make the expenditure.”
“But she has no idea who—” Catherine gasped softly. She had almost said who I am, which would have drawn unwanted questions. “Who my family is.” She gave a careless laugh that rang hollow in her ears. If she lied to this sweet lady, who more than once had offered her friendship, how could she ever repair the damage? “Or perhaps I should say, who they are not.”
Lady Greystone’s smile invited Catherine to continue.
“Of course, they are not so base as to keep me from entering Society’s drawing rooms.” Now she was babbling…and digging a very deep well into which she would surely fall. Oh, where was Mr. Radcliff when she needed him?
“Of course not.” Lady Greystone inquired no more, but simply squeezed Catherine’s hand. “Lady Blakemore would have seen to that, I am sure.”
The thought startled Catherine. Even though Mr. Radcliff had assured her that he had forged adequate recommendations, exactly why had the countess hired her?
*
“Forgive me for not coming sooner.” Mr. Grenville sat in a chair beside Winston’s bed and offered an apologetic smile. “Please be assured that I have not ceased to inquire after your health and pray for you. My brother Greystone assured me that if your injuries had threatened your life, I would
have been sent for straightaway.”
“Indeed you would have.” Winston regarded the minister for several moments. Although they had not been acquainted for long, the man’s serene demeanor invited the utmost confidence.
They spent several moments exchanging pleasantries about various matters until the most important one pressed down on Winston’s heart. He confessed his error of judgment about Mother and extolled her lifelong exemplary behavior. “Even my butler rose up in defense of her.” He chuckled as he described Llewellyn’s righteous indignation. Then he sobered. “After our carriage accident, Miss Hart likened me to the heroic knights of old, yet I did not even defend my own mother from those who would impugn her character.”
“Have you asked her forgiveness?” Mr. Grenville inquired.
“I did think to do so, but would not such a request reveal my misjudgments and cause her terrible pain?” He clutched his counterpane to his chest like a shield. “She has no idea what I was thinking.”
“You may be surprised. Perhaps she knew.” The minister shrugged. “But I do see your point. No need to stir up strife.”
“My physician has insisted that I stay abed these two weeks.” Every day Winston had fought the urge to disobey his orders. “I had more than enough time to consider your words about God’s forgiving nature.”
“Ah, very good. Did you reach any conclusions?”
“Yes.” Winston hesitated to speak disparagingly of Father, but to whom could he bare his soul if not this minister? “All my life, I have looked to my father to show me the character of God. However, his somber, unforgiving, even spiteful nature contradicts your view of a forgiving Savior.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Grenville’s eyes were lit with interest, inviting Winston to continue.
“Although I have read the Holy Scriptures all my life and repeated the liturgical passages regarding God’s grace every Sunday in church, I have let my father’s image overshadow the light of Christ.” He thought again of his father’s cruel treatment of Mother and of the way he withheld approval from Winston, even suggesting that God would never approve of him, either. “John Newton’s hymn ‘Amazing Grace’ has been much in my thoughts these days. I find that it perfectly describes the God of Scripture, the Father I wish to emulate from now on.”
A sublime smile on his lips, Mr. Grenville nodded. “I believe you have found the key to peace, sir. Our heavenly Father desires for His children to know His love. We are accepted in His Beloved Son, not because we have done righteous acts, but because of His great mercy. Our only work is to accept His free salvation given through Christ.”
Winston’s heart swelled with joy at this affirmation of his own conclusions. “How could I not wish to serve such a generous Father?”
In the silence that followed, the minister eyed Winston with a teasing look. “Recalling our last conversation, did you ask Lady Blakemore about Miss Hart’s family connections?”
“Yes, and I am confident she comes from a respectable family. However, I find that after nearly being killed alongside her, such connections have lost their importance for me.”
“Ah, then you have formed an attachment?”
“If only on my part.” Yet how else could he interpret the tender looks she had given him across the drawing room the afternoon of their near tragedy? A sudden longing to see her swept over him, and without thinking, he flung back the counterpane and rose from his bed. “Enough of this. The time has come to discover whether Miss Hart returns my regard.”
Mr. Grenville jumped to his feet and barely had time to catch Winston before dizziness sent him spiraling to the floor.
Chapter Twenty
Catherine stood on one aching foot and then the other in the crowded viewing area in the House of Lords. Separated from the House floor by a wooden railing, the small space had only a few chairs, which had been placed there for Lady Winston, Lady Blakemore and several other peeresses. No seats were left for individuals of unknown rank like Catherine. Fortunately, her height made it possible for her to see most of the proceedings in this second ceremony that elevated the baron to his new title.
Because ladies did not attend levees, Catherine had not been invited to the earlier event at St. James’s Palace during which the Prince Regent had named Lord Winston the new Lord Hartley. Only those who had been presented at Court could attend such a function. She would not complain, however, for this was by far the more exciting affair, at least in her opinion.
Marching into the hallowed hall behind several officials and Lord Bennington, and followed by Lord Blakemore, Lord Hartley was resplendent in his crimson-and-ermine robes and cocked black hat. Catherine’s heart hammered in her chest to see him go through the various stations of the ritual. When he easily knelt on one knee before the Lord Chancellor to present his letters of patent signed by the Prince Regent, she hoped that was a sign his leg had healed.
The Reading Clerk read the Writ of Summons that authorized Lord Hartley to sit in this august company. But before doing so, he signed the Oath of Allegiance and the rolls that listed every peer who had graced these halls since 1695. Next, Lords Bennington, Blakemore and Hartley doffed their hats to the Cloth of Estate, and Lord Hartley shook hands with the Lord Chancellor. Finally, after the three earls had exited to remove their ceremonial robes, they slipped back into the chamber and sat in their assigned places. Then the business of Parliament proceeded as usual.
“Well.” Lady Blakemore stood and turned to Catherine. “What did you think, my dear?”
“Quite impressive.” And quite wonderful to see Lord Winston—no, Lord Hartley—again, although he did seem a little pale.
His recovery had required several weeks, during which time he had not received visitors. Catherine’s eagerness to see him almost made her forget what he had done to Papa. Almost.
She had managed at last to see Mr. Radcliff, who had assured her that his cousin would survive. Mr. Fleming had been in the room, so they had been forced to speak indirectly. In vague allusions, Mr. Radcliff encouraged Catherine to renew her plans to expose his cousin’s evil deeds by securing his affections.
Yet how could she? Lady Blakemore had insisted they must permit the gentleman to recuperate before his investiture as Lord Hartley. That day could not come soon enough for Catherine. Or rather, that evening, for Lady Blakemore had planned a ball in his honor. At last her new lady’s maid had slipped her a note from Mr. Radcliff saying she must not believe him to be the humble gentleman he seemed, for it was merely a pose. This very evening, she must entice the new Lord Hartley to declare himself.
Lady Blakemore seemed to have a similar goal for the evening, something more than celebrating Lord Hartley’s advancement, for she had spared no expense in the purchase of Catherine’s exquisite new silk gown. With her hair upswept in a profusion of curls and a string of tiny pink silk roses woven throughout, Catherine had never felt so beautiful or confident. Surely Lord Hartley would admire her appearance, if nothing else.
Her confidence held strong until she entered the Blakemores’ ballroom to find the new earl at the center of no fewer than seven giggling heiresses, all of whom seemed determined to latch onto their quarry and not let go. Who on earth had taught these young ladies their manners?
Even more a curiosity was Lord Hartley’s new ensemble. Instead of the somber black he had worn every time she had seen him, tonight he wore an emerald-green satin jacket embellished with gold piping, a dark gold waistcoat, gold satin breeches and velvet shoes that matched his jacket. How exquisitely handsome he looked. But what chance did she have to win his heart when he had no idea that she possessed a rank qualifying her to stand in the company of all those admirers?
*
“Lord Hartley,” pretty Miss Waddington simpered, “you will permit me, will you not, the privilege of an old friend to inquire whether all your dances are spoken for?”
Still not used to his new title, Hartley looked around to see whom she was addressing. All of the young ladies giggled, and he
felt heat rushing up his neck. Where were those red-uniformed war heroes when a gentleman needed them to take some of these girls off his hands? As to Miss Waddington being an old friend, he had met her at the first of the Season, and she had refused to dance with him at one of Drayton’s balls, claiming tiredness, then promptly accepted a dance with a duke’s heir.
“I, ahem, well.” He tugged at his cravat to loosen it, but Dudley had secured it well. “Of course, Lady Blakemore and I will open the ball.”
“And who will be your next partner?” The younger Miss Waddington—Amelia, if he was not mistaken—moved a little too close for his comfort, but her lavender perfume was pleasant enough. At her question, all seven girls crowded closer, their faces bright with hope.
Agreeing to be the honoree at this ball had been a mistake. After being on his feet all day, his formerly disjointed hip protested and his ribs ached. If he’d had more experience with young ladies, he would have some charming response to their flirtations, but their behavior only made him uncomfortable. Lord, if You pay any attention to such things, could You please help me out of this? Prayer had been his constant companion during his convalescence, and he found the practice more and more comforting, especially after his conversation with Mr. Grenville.
“How could I choose one flower from such a beautiful garden?” Where had that come from? He had never succeeded at poetry.
“Ohhh.”
“How sweet.”
“Such a flatterer.”
The girls chorused their approval of his answer.
“But you will have to make a choice, Lord Hartley,” said a blond girl in green. He had met this heiress at St. James’s Palace this afternoon, but could not recall her name.
He searched the ballroom for someone to help him. Lady Blakemore? Mrs. Parton? Mother? Someone? His eyes lit upon the fairest flower of them all: Miss Hart, dressed in a glorious pink gown with a riot of curls and flowers adorning her regal head. “Yes, I will, madam, and I have already chosen. Now, if you will excuse me?”
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