With no little difficulty, he disentangled himself from the group, all of whom voiced their complaints with sighs, whines and a host of other objections not without strong notes of indignation.
Forbidding himself to falter despite his aching joint, he strode across the room and sketched a deep bow that did not hurt him in the slightest.
“Miss Hart.” My heart. “How wonderful to see you.” His pulse pounded in his ears as he kissed her gloved hand and then looked up into her flawless countenance. A soft blush brightened her cheeks, and her dark eyes betrayed some high feeling that seemed to bode well for him. “I have missed you.” He breathed out the words so softly that he could not be certain she heard him over the string quartet playing on the dais.
“And I have missed you.” Her hand trembled in his, and her eyes brightened. “Are you well? I should say, you look well, and I pray that you are—I should say, I have prayed continuously since our, um, accident.” Her blush deepened in the most charming way. She seemed as nervous as he.
If only they could find a place to sit and talk without having to go through the formalities of this ridiculous ball.
“Ah, there you are, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore descended upon them and wrapped an arm around his. “Shall we open the ball? I know you have not entirely regained your strength, especially after your relapse, so I shall make your excuses for you, should you not wish to dance again.” She leaned close to him and spoke in a whisper. “While no one other than Pierpoint and our closest friends know the extent of your injuries, we can claim weariness from your long day. You will forgive us, Miss Hart?”
Miss Hart had no chance to respond. Just as Lady Blakemore had dragged him to the young lady at Drayton’s ball, she now dragged him away from her. But what a difference just over seven weeks could make. That first night he had condescended to dance with her. Now he wanted only to be in her company. The lingering pain in his body was nothing compared to the discomfort of being separated from her now.
“Do not sulk, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore patted his cheek. “I shall return you to her soon.”
As the music for the minuet began and other couples lined up behind them, he laughed. “Very well, madam. But I shall hold you to your promise. This is my only dance of the evening. I leave it to you to make my excuses, as you promised.”
Somehow he managed to endure the ten-minute set. In fact, he was surprised to find that the exercise of the various steps actually helped him to regain his balance. Even when he risked a glance around the room to see who had come to celebrate his advancement, his dizziness did not return. Further, at each turn around the floor, he saw Miss Hart standing where he had left her by the wall. That dandy Melton hovered near her and apparently had presented several other gentlemen to her. She looked like a rose among thorns.
“Do pay attention, Hartley.” Lady Blakemore waved her hand impatiently to indicate he should make his way around the gentlemen’s line for the final promenade. “She will be there when we have finished here.”
“Forgive me, madam.” He should have known the countess was supporting his interests. She and Blakemore had proven themselves the best of friends.
None too soon they completed the set, and the countess led Hartley to a chair behind a row of decorative potted plants and near the dowagers, where Mrs. Parton was holding court. His cousin straightaway left her friends and moved to sit beside him behind a bushy shrub.
“One would never know you suffered an injury, dear boy.” The plump, red-haired lady wore her usual purple colors with an orange paisley scarf draped across one shoulder and secured at the waist. As always, she sported a purple turban adorned with a peacock feather. The headpiece kept slipping over her forehead. “How are you feeling?”
“A bit winded from trying not to show my discomfort.” Indeed, it had cost him much effort. “After nearly three weeks abed, including my relapse, I am all too pleased to sit down.”
“Well, never mind. Grace and I will see to it that no one disturbs you.” She patted his hand. “Ah, here she is.”
Looking up, he expected to see Grace, Lady Blakemore, but found Miss Hart instead. He jumped to his feet, paying for it with a needlelike pain in his hip. “Miss Hart, do sit down.” Somehow he managed to sound at ease as he offered his chair to her.
“Not at all,” Mrs. Parton said. “Take mine, my dear.” She stood to make way for the younger lady. “I shall be close by, so all will be proper.” With that, she bustled back to her friends, leaving them alone.
“Well.” Miss Hart gave him an uncertain smile.
“Yes. Well.” He did not know what else to say, but his damaged joint gave him a suggestion. “Shall we sit?”
For several minutes they watched from their hiding place as couples lined up for the next dance. Melton spied them and made it halfway across the floor before Lady Blakemore accosted him and led him directly to Miss Waddington. If the young lady had been holding out for an earl, Melton should make her happy. His title, her wealth: a perfect match. Was that not what this silly courting game was all about?
“Miss Hart, may I—”
“Lord Hartley, your new—”
They began at the same time, and both stopped.
“You must go first.” Hartley encouraged her with a smile.
“Very well.” She hesitated before continuing, “I have never seen you in anything other than black. This green suits you. It brightens your eyes in the most remarkable way.” Her blush deepened. “I do hope it is not improper to say such a thing.”
“If such compliments are improper, no one has ever informed me.” He touched her hand to reassure her. “May I return the favor? You are the most beautiful lady in this room. I do not mean that as flattery. It is simply the truth, and I find myself wishing never to leave your side.”
To his horror, her dark brown eyes filled with tears. “You must not say such things, Lord Hartley. Such a statement is—”
“Is my declaration to you.” And clearly he was bungling the whole affair. “I should say, it is my wish to court you, Miss Catherine Hart. Will you accept my suit?” There. He had gotten through it without stammering.
She stared down at her gloved hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap. “That would please me very much.” Her choked whisper did not convey the same feeling as her words. Nor did her demeanor recall their more felicitous times together before the assault. If she did not welcome his courtship, why would she agree to it?
*
Catherine’s head ached, and she could hardly breathe for trying not to sob in front of Lord Hartley. She had achieved her goal. He was in love with her. She should be plotting how to take advantage of the situation, but all she could think of was how much she loved him in return.
“I-if I have offended you—” The dismay in his voice broke her heart, but she dared not look at him.
“No.” She touched his hand to reassure him, as he had done for her seconds ago. “I am honored by your interest in me.”
His soft laugh held a note of irony. “Interest does not begin to describe my feelings for you, Miss Hart.”
She steeled herself to look into his face, into those emerald eyes, trying without success to control her racing heart. She should be happy, but all she felt was guilt. Why could she not just reveal her identity to him and ask him why he had plotted against Papa? Mr. Radcliff’s words came back in answer, charging her not to give herself away, lest she be used to trap Papa, who would surely be tried and executed for a crime he had not committed. Shoving away her guilt, she considered how to redeem this moment so she could proceed with her plan.
“You must forgive my tears.” She dabbed at them with her linen handkerchief. “I am not usually so emotional, especially when I am happy.”
“If you are happy, that is all that matters.” Lord Hartley gave her a crooked grin. “I am beyond happy. I am transported with joy.”
Pasting on a smirk, she gave an artificial sniff. “If you are transported, I am on the moon.”
Now his laughter rang out so loudly that even the guests who were dancing the Sir Roger de Coverley turned to look in their direction. “My dear Miss Hart, when it comes to wordplay, I refuse to duel with you. You will surely win.”
She managed a demure smile. “You have made a wise decision not to cross swords with me, Lord Hartley, for I would have every intention of winning the duel.” The double meaning behind her words should have made her feel clever. All it did was increase her guilt.
Lord Blakemore strode across the room toward them, a broad grin on his round face. “Ah, there you are, my boy.” Lord Hartley stood to greet him, and the earl pumped his hand vigorously. “Good news, good news. I have spoken to the Foreign Office, and we are to leave next week for Paris.”
“Very good, sir.” The boyish happiness on Lord Hartley’s face did not match his calm response.
Catherine forced a smile to her lips, but black dread spread through her. If he was to leave for Paris that soon, she must make all haste to ensnare and expose him.
Chapter Twenty-One
The carriage rumbled over the rutted roads toward Dover, but Hartley barely felt the bumps. Since his elevation and celebratory ball the previous week, he had begun to feel increasingly better. Even in the flurry of preparations, he had not suffered another relapse. Perhaps Dr. Horton should revise his treatment of invalids to include exercise instead of constant bed rest.
He had left Mother in charge of the town house with instructions that her decorating must stay within the budget he had arranged with his steward. Sophia was more than a little annoyed at being left behind. She forgave Hartley when he assigned her the care of Crumpet and left her a clothing allowance from his own coffers so Mother would not have to use funds from the miserly annuity Father had left her.
Like Sophia, Edgar had come close to pouting over being left behind, yet Hartley thought his complaint did not ring true. His cousin despised the French, so it was just as well that Blakemore would not bring him along on a diplomatic endeavor.
The nearly seventy-mile journey to Dover would take at least three days, easily borne in such good company. Blakemore sat beside Hartley, their backs to the front, and Lady Blakemore and dear Miss Hart faced them. He had feared his departure from London would threaten the future of his courtship. However, Lady Blakemore had dispensed with her social calendar, saying they could celebrate Napoleon’s defeat just as well in Paris as in London. She would join her husband for the journey, which meant, of course, that Miss Hart must also accompany them.
Some fifteen miles out of London, the young lady appeared to doze in the over-warm carriage. He longed to brush back the damp strands of hair that had escaped her straw bonnet to drape across her flawless ivory cheeks. More than that, he had felt an increasing temptation to kiss those fair lips, puckered as they were in her sleep.
No, he would not think of it. Such displays of affection must wait until the proper time, so he would not needlessly torture himself by dwelling on them. Still, it was a challenge to be so close without picturing some sort of future with her, especially when her rose perfume tickled his senses in the most delightful way. With some difficulty, he forced himself to evaluate Blakemore’s convoy, for in the future he would be devising such expeditions of his own.
This coach embodied the height of luxury, with excellent springs and plush upholstery. Heavier than most such conveyances, it was well suited to the coming trip over the notoriously rough French roads, but the excess weight that made it so sturdy also required it to move more slowly.
The two coaches that followed them held their servants, including the young assistant secretary, whose inclusion had further irked Edgar. Behind the servants’ coaches came a massive fourgon. Formerly used as an ammunition wagon in the war against Napoleon, it now served as a handy conveyance for the great amount of luggage required by so large a party.
The coach jolted suddenly and came to a stop, tilted toward the front. The ladies awoke with a start as they tumbled forward.
“What in the world?” Hartley caught Miss Hart by her shoulders and helped her back onto the seat. Blakemore likewise assisted his wife.
“Oh, my!” Miss Hart blushed charmingly.
“Good gracious.” Lady Blakemore sat back and fanned herself furiously.
“What on earth?” Blakemore peered out through the window on his side.
Hartley looked from his side to see the coachman, tiger and footmen staring at the front of the carriage. The driver’s bleak expression did not portend good news.
“What do you see over there?” Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Blakemore nudged Hartley.
“We shall have to get out.” Hartley gave the ladies a reassuring smile, then opened the door to climb out, turning to offer Blakemore his assistance. Once on the ground, the older earl gaped at the damage.
“A broken axle!” He scowled at his liveried coachman. “How could this happen? This is a brand-new coach.”
Stiffening under his employer’s harsh tone, the burly middle-aged man tore off his tall black hat and swiped a hand through his thinning hair. “Milord, I checked every detail afore we took possession of it from Hatchett coachmakers. Wouldn’ta accepted it without it were perfect.” He knelt down on the dusty road and peered beneath the coach. He uttered some unintelligible words, then stood to face Blakemore and whispered, “Milord, the axle’s been sawed near in two since I last seen it.”
“Sawed!” Blakemore’s face reddened so fast, Hartley feared the earl would suffer an apoplexy. “Great mercy and thank the Lord we were not traveling at a gallop.”
“What is it, my dear?” Lady Blakemore had scooted across the carriage to look out the window.
Miss Hart appeared beside her, her worried gaze focused on Hartley. It warmed his spirits considerably to see her look to him in this difficult time, and he sent her a reassuring smile.
“Help the ladies out,” Blakemore barked at the footmen. “We shall have to go on in one of the servants’ vehicles.” He beckoned to Hartley. “Do not mention the deliberate damage to the ladies,” he whispered.
“Of course not, sir.”
“We have the misfortune of being on the road at a time when highwaymen have begun to ply their trade once again. Sadly, some of our returning soldiers are desperate enough to turn to such thievery in order to survive.” The earl glanced again at the damaged vehicle. “Go to Mr. Fleming and instruct him to ride in the jump seat with Ajax on the carriage we take.”
“Yes, sir.” Hartley could not imagine why his mentor would send him on a footman’s errand, but he respected the gentleman too much to refuse him. As to taking Fleming along, perhaps the earl felt the need to have a secretary with him at all times.
After completing the deed, he returned to the larger carriage, where Lady Blakemore stood beside her husband clutching a small valise to her bosom as if it held the crown jewels. He arrived in time to assist Miss Hart as she stepped down. In the fading daylight, he could see the color had left her face. “Are you well, madam?”
She clasped his hand like a lifeline, another endearing gesture. “Yes. But this is the second time a mishap has occurred while we two were riding in the same carriage. What can it mean?” Fear combined with confusion in her eyes.
“I cannot guess, dear lady. Axles break all the time. No doubt the wood was inferior.” He prayed she would believe that simple explanation, but he would not rest until he found out exactly who had made one or both of them a target.
*
Until an hour ago, Catherine had been delighted to accompany this party to Paris, for it meant she would not have to rush Lord Hartley into revealing his scheme against Papa. But the broken axle changed everything. For one thing, this older, smaller carriage they now rode in hit every rut and bump in the road. Lady Blakemore seemed able to endure it, so Catherine would not complain. But the other matter consuming her thoughts was the damaged axle. Had it truly broken by accident, or had someone caused the calamity? In either case, s
he lifted a silent prayer of thanks that no one was hurt, as Lord Hartley had been the last time.
At last Lady Blakemore exhaled a long sigh. “Must the horses run so fast, my dear? It makes for such a bumpy ride, and we have entirely outrun the other coach. How can we manage without servants and baggage?”
“I should like to get you ladies to the inn before dark, my love.” Lord Blakemore spoke through gritted teeth, but whether from the jarring ride or anxiety over the axle, Catherine could not discern.
She looked across the darkened coach at Lord Hartley. His mild expression gave her no indication of his assessment of the incident. Yet if someone had deliberately caused it, she had little doubt that he was the target. She had no enemies. No one even knew who she was.
“Hold!” a deep voice shouted outside.
A gun fired.
The coachman cried out, and the carriage came to a lurching stop.
“Everyone out! Now!”
Another gun fired. Another man cried out.
“Stay here.” Lord Hartley’s order seemed directed at all three other inhabitants of the carriage. He reached behind the seat, where he had earlier deposited a long, slender satchel, and pulled out a pistol and a rapier. Then he kicked open the door and sprang out.
Terror ripped through Catherine as she saw him aim at someone and fire, then charge away with rapier raised.
Lord Blakemore retrieved another rapier from behind the seat and jumped from the coach with a vigor that belied both his age and his bulky form.
“No, Blakemore!” The countess grabbed for her husband’s jacket too late. “Blakemore!”
Catherine could not sit still. She searched for another rapier behind the seat to no avail. Lord Hartley had left his cane on the seat. If it was like the one he had brandished in Hyde Park, it would have a hidden sword. Though much shorter than a rapier, it would still provide a weapon with which she could defend Lady Blakemore. She found the cane’s tiny latch, twisted it and pulled out the gleaming blade.
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