Louise M. Gouge

by A Lady of Quality

  “What are you doing?” Lady Blakemore cried. “Put that away, foolish girl.”

  “They shall not have your jewels, my lady.” Gathering her skirts, Catherine crouched in the door and surveyed the brawl.

  The giant footman named Ajax was living up to his namesake, for he was fighting several ruffians with the valor of the mythical Greek warrior. Even the mild-mannered secretary, Mr. Fleming, had engaged a villain in a sword fight. In the dimming daylight, she sought the one person whose welfare she prayed for the most and located him, his rapier at a man’s throat. But another sight caused her heart to stop.

  Not ten feet from her, one of the ruffians aimed a musket directly at Lord Hartley.

  “Stop!” Catherine sprang from the carriage, sword raised, and raced toward the villain. A tiny voice within her head whispered that she had never killed so much as an animal. Another voice shouted that Lord Hartley must not die.

  She slammed the sword, blade downward, onto the man’s raised arm an instant before the musket exploded. The shot blasted into the dirt. The man bellowed in pain. Blood poured through the gash in his sleeve.

  “’Ere, now, missy.” Another man rushed toward her, sword raised. “Best leave the fighting to yer gentlemen.” With a leer, he postured in a mocking fashion, as if daring her to fight him.

  His longer sword gave her pause, but at this moment, she was fully engaged in the conflict. “And you should send your womenfolk to fight in your stead, you coward.”

  He blinked in surprise. A mistake, for she took advantage and skewered his sword hand. He dropped the heavy weapon and clutched at his wound. Oddly, sickeningly, pride and satisfaction surged through Catherine as she pulled back the sword. What had she become?

  “’E said it would be a easy job. I ain’t takin’ no more from a blasted woman.” The man ran toward a thicket where horses were held by an accomplice.

  Others of the gang made haste to disengage and flee. Only one remained, and Ajax held the much smaller man by the scruff of his neck while his arms flailed and his legs dangled in the air.

  “Lord, help us!” Lord Hartley raced toward a figure on the ground.

  “Blakemore!” The countess echoed his plaintive cry as she scrambled from the carriage to kneel beside her unconscious, bleeding husband.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The second coach rumbled to a stop, and the coachman and servants quickly disembarked. Blakemore’s valet dashed to his master’s side, where Lady Blakemore knelt and struggled to regain her composure. Although he was unconscious, the earl’s injuries did not appear life-threatening, so Hartley took charge of the larger scene.

  “We have no other option than to continue to the inn.” He addressed Mr. Fleming. An employee rather than a servant, the secretary seemed to be the most appropriate person to help him make decisions. “Tell the servants to make ready to leave.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The hesitation in his voice unnerved Hartley. “What is it?”

  “Nothing, sir.” He shook his head, then strode over to the two coachmen to give the orders.

  Ajax and the footmen gathered the pistols that had been flung aside once their single charge had been fired. Swords were returned to their scabbards, pistols and muskets reloaded, and the captured highwayman was trussed up like a roasted goose and tied to the top of the coach.

  Hartley returned to Blakemore, where Miss Hart and the valet knelt over the earl across from the countess. To his shock, he saw his short sword in Miss Hart’s hand, and a memory surfaced. In the heat of the battle, he had seen her engage one of the highwaymen in a sword fight. Involved in his own skirmish, he’d not had wits to think of her danger, but now it came back to him full force. She could easily have been murdered by that ruffian, yet she bravely faced him, mocked him and won. Instead of admiration, fear poured over Hartley. How could he bear it if she had been killed? The thought paralyzed him.

  “He is awakening.” Lady Blakemore gently dabbed her handkerchief over the blood on her husband’s head. “Oh, my love, do return to me. Hartley, we must get him into the coach and leave this place before those ruffians return.”

  “Yes, of course.” He was failing his friends. He must shake off this madness and deal with the present.

  “I say.” Blakemore coughed and sputtered. “Do help me up.”

  Unruffled by the rebuke in his master’s voice, Blakemore’s valet murmured encouragement while he and the countess helped the earl to a sitting, then standing, position. Grimacing as he cradled one hand in the other, he wobbled between them as they led him to the coach. But, thank the good Lord, he would survive.

  Likewise, Hartley helped Miss Hart to her feet, longing to pull her into a reassuring embrace. Instead, he patted her shoulder. “I see you are a lady of action.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She frowned and tilted her head.

  He wanted to laugh at the pretty confusion in her eyes, but this was hardly the time for gaiety. “Um, my sword?”

  She held it up and stared as if seeing its dripping red sheen for the first time. “Oh.” She held it out to him, and tears sprang to her eyes. “I—I have never drawn blood before.”

  This time he could not resist teasing, “And do you often engage in swordplay, madam?”

  She closed her eyes, sending those silver tears splashing down her cheeks. “We must go.” Shoving the hilt of the sword into his hand, she strode toward the coach.

  He should not have teased. Another failure. All he could do was follow her.

  Once the party was tucked back into the coach and the valet wedged in with them, Hartley gave the order to continue the journey. In the morning, they would have to return to London, of course. Strangely, he felt not the slightest disappointment over the delay in his diplomatic career. These friends might have been murdered by the highwaymen, and that put everything into perspective.

  He could not stop thinking about how fearless his lady had been. Something about her posture as she faced the highwayman stirred a memory, but he could not grasp the elusive thought.

  The inn’s ostlers helped the grooms with the horses and coaches while Mr. Fleming secured accommodations for everyone. Hartley helped his friends from the coach and sent them inside, then beckoned to Ajax. “Did you get anything out of the prisoner?”

  “Aye, sir.” The bodyguard’s crooked grin and gleaming eyes revealed how much he had enjoyed the fray. “Says they wanted her ladyship’s jewels. Ha. About like old Nappy wanted his vacation on Elba.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Milord, I ain’t too smart, but I know a killer when I see one. ’Twas you they was all aimin’ for with those guns. Had the young lady not struck down one fellow—near to cut off the blackguard’s arm, she did—we’d be carryin’ your body back to London right now.”

  This double shock almost undid him. If Miss Hart had almost severed a man’s arm, no wonder she was so overset by her actions. He had never known any female, especially one gently bred, who would engage in a man’s fight, no matter the cause. Oddly, rather than repulse him, it made him love this remarkable lady all the more.

  The other matter should not shock him at all, for somehow he knew it. Some instinct had warned him that he was the target of these attacks. But who would want to murder him?

  *

  Catherine listened to the soft patter of rain on the roof of the Red Rooster Inn. Her lady’s maid and the other female servants had long ago fallen asleep in the room they shared, and the sounds of their breathing blended with the rain to compose a soothing melody. Still, she could not sleep.

  Lady Blakemore insisted upon staying in a private bedchamber with her husband, and Catherine could not blame her. Would that she could remain in the company of the gentleman who had caused her such turmoil. If he had embraced her after helping her up, she would have been completely undone. But oh, how she had longed for the comfort of his arms after their terrible ordeal.

  She had overheard the bodyguard telling Lord Ha
rtley about her actions. What on earth must he think of her? Even now, the memory of feeling the blade slicing into human flesh made her stomach turn. She could never kill anyone, nor had she ever truly wanted to do harm to Lord Hartley. If only he would explain why he had schemed against Papa. If only this entire matter were finished so they could all go back to their ordinary lives, whatever ordinary might be.

  Perhaps the time had come for her to confront him. She would have to wait until they returned to London, of course, for she would rather confess her duplicity to Lord and Lady Blakemore first and in private. They had been so kind to her. How would she ever make up for her lies?

  *

  Back in London late the next day, Hartley left Blakemore in the countess’s care at their mansion. The earl had suffered a blow to the head, but no dizziness followed, which eased much of everyone’s concerns. His right forearm appeared to be broken and caused the earl much pain, so they would send for Dr. Horton. Mr. Fleming promised to watch over Blakemore, and Hartley had every confidence that the man would do that job as well as he performed his duties as a secretary.

  Although he wanted very much to have a private audience with Miss Hart, he could see how weary she was from their misadventures. Tomorrow when they were both fresh would be soon enough to tell her how much he loved her, how he would be honored if she would become his wife.

  After instructing Ajax to deliver the highwayman to Newgate Prison, Hartley rode a borrowed horse back to his town house. Ajax was not pleased with being separated from him, but for this short time, with no one expecting him to be in town, Hartley had no fears for his life.

  The house was dark, and only Crumpet greeted him at the front door. He remembered this was Llewellyn’s day off, and no doubt Mother and Sophia were out visiting, making up for all the quiet years in the country. He chuckled to think of their delight when they came home and discovered he had not abandoned them after all. Sophia would demand an accounting of the adventure. Mother would be beside herself with worry. Of course, he must call it all an accident, but she might not accept that label this second time.

  Carrying his pet up the stairs, he looked in vain for a footman, but the house appeared deserted. Perhaps they were all in the kitchen enjoying some of Cook’s pastries.

  At his office, he found the door slightly ajar. Strange. Llewellyn could never abide an open door. Hartley peered through the small space, and his stomach tightened. Edgar sat writing at his desk, a smirk on his thin, lined face. He wrote with a flourish, shook sand over the letter to blot the ink, then sat back to study it.

  “Read it aloud.” Hartley nudged the door open and sauntered into the room. In his arms, Crumpet stiffened.

  “Cousin!” Edgar gaped and jumped to his feet. “What are you doing here?” His pale face grew even whiter.

  “No, cousin. The question is, what are you doing here at my desk?” He had always trusted Edgar, but his cousin had never had the nerve to usurp his office this way.

  “Why, I am looking out for you, of course. You left things in quite a mess.” Edgar fluttered a hand over the papers lying on the desk. “I assumed you would want me to organize all of this.”

  “If I wanted a secretary, I would hire one.” Hartley set Crumpet on top of the papers and snatched up the vellum sheet Edgar had just written. A chill went down his spine. The script looked exactly like his own. “‘Be advised that in my absence, my trusted representative, Mr. Edgar Radcliff, is to be the executor for all of my affairs.’” He clutched the page, crumpling the edge. “What is the meaning of this forgery, Edgar?”

  “Forgery? How can you say that?” Edgar slumped into a servile posture, and his voice became a whimper. “I was merely looking out for you, as I said. Lady Winston has gone wild with spending, and I merely wanted to curtail her extravagance.” He wilted even more, and his eyes took on the sad look of a hound. “I have always looked out for you, even when my uncle questioned whether or not you were actually his son.”

  “Silence.” Hartley trembled where he stood, forbidding himself to leap across the desk and strangle his cousin. “You will never question Lady Winston’s character again. Is that understood?”

  “Well, you need not get all upset. I am merely reporting what happened.” Oddly, he smiled, a snakelike expression that narrowed his eyes and sent another shiver down Hartley’s spine. “By the by, you surely know by now that your Miss Hart is also not the lady everyone thought.”

  “What are you talking about?” He should not listen, should not let this man speak another lie.

  “Why, Miss du Coeur, of course.” Edgar’s malevolent laughter echoed throughout the room. “Did you not know you were falling in love with the daughter of the French comte who conspired to assassinate the French king? The man you exposed? Do you really believe she loves you? Wake up, silly boy. The girl planned to murder you. She was the ‘youth’ you fought at Monsieur’s academy.” He emitted another evil laugh. “She was just testing you to discover your weaknesses. I do believe she has succeeded, has she not?”

  Yes, she had. And yesterday her expert handling of his sword had reminded him of that boy, although the memory had not become clear until now. Why had he not seen it before? She used both hands with equal skill, whether in writing, eating or using a sword against him. What a fool he was.

  “Get that beast away from me.” Edgar backed away from the desk, where Crumpet was trying to snatch his silk watch fob with a bared claw. “If you do not get rid of it, I shall kill it.”

  This time Hartley did not try to stop himself. He strode around the desk and grasped his cousin by the front of his shirt, cravat and all. “Get out of my house and never come back.” He pulled Edgar around and shoved him toward the door.

  Surprisingly agile for his age, Edgar whipped back around. “And what will you do with your pretty little assassin, milord? Marry her?”

  Hartley raised a fist to strike, but again, better sense claimed him. “Get out.”

  Once Edgar had gone, he slumped at his desk and put his head in his hands. Indeed, what would he do with his pretty, ambidextrous little assassin?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After two days of traveling, Catherine could tolerate only a short lie down, so she put on a fresh gown and paced the hallways of Blakemore House. Mr. Fleming seemed as energetic as she, for he offered to accompany her down the long hallways and galleries of the vast mansion.

  The return of their party had thrown the household into chaos. Nonetheless, upon learning of his lordship’s injuries, all of the servants proved more than willing to forgo the leisure they had anticipated during his absence. The French cook had no difficulty pulling together a fine repast for supper. Lady Blakemore ate in her husband’s bedchamber, so Catherine and Mr. Fleming were alone in the smaller dining room.

  The young secretary seemed disinclined to engage in conversation, even though as employees they were considered equals. After a while, however, Catherine decided to satisfy her curiosity.

  “Mr. Fleming, you acquitted yourself quite admirably during the attack. I was surprised to see your fighting skill.”

  He looked up from his soup, sorrow in his expression. “As I was unable to successfully protect Lord Blakemore, Miss Hart, I cannot think myself all that skillful.”

  “Sir, you are a secretary. No one expects you to protect anyone, or even to fight. Yet you did.”

  “But I am…” He stopped speaking and returned to his soup.

  Before she could question him further, Chetterly entered the room and approached her side of the table. “Miss Hart, Lord Hartley has asked to see you in the drawing room. Are you at home?”

  Her heart leaped. She had expected to see him tomorrow and confess everything to him. Now she could clear her conscience before she went to bed.

  “Yes.” She glanced at Mr. Fleming. “You will excuse me?”

  His furrowed brow stopped her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I hope you find Lord Hartley has recovered from his ordeal.”r />
  She laughed. “As we all must.” How sweet and protective the young man was.

  Chetterly led the way and opened the drawing-room door. Her pulse racing, Catherine swept into the room, barely able to keep from throwing herself into Lord Hartley’s strong arms.

  “Good evening, sir. How nice of you to come. We did not expect you until tomorrow.”

  Instead of the smile she anticipated, he lifted his chin and looked down that very fine nose, just as he had the day they had dueled at the fencing academy and he had flaunted his supposed superiority. “Good evening, Miss du Coeur.”

  Her breath went out of her, and she grasped a nearby chair to keep from falling. “You know.”

  He emitted an unpleasant snort of disdain. “I do.” The sneer on his finely sculpted lips changed his entire bearing. No longer the humble peer who almost refused his earldom. No longer the aspiring diplomat who hoped to humbly serve his king and country. No longer the bumbling swain who tried to win her affection. This was the man who had destroyed Papa, this arrogant dissembler who had deceived everyone, even Lord and Lady Blakemore.

  Anger swept through her like a brush fire. “Well, then.” She scrambled for self-control, but could not stop her trembling rage. “If you know who I am, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me why you destroyed a better man than you will ever be. Why?” Her voice had risen in volume. She paused to regain control. “My father, Comte du Coeur, is a good and godly gentleman, something you only pretend to be. Why did you forge letters accusing him of conspiring to assassinate his king? Why did you—”

  “I forged no letters, madam.” His green eyes blazed with cold fury. “A French royalist or some honest Englishman saw to it that the letters were delivered to my home so that your father’s Bonapartist plot could be exposed.” He barked out an ironic laugh. “And you, with your swordsmanship, are clearly a party to the intrigue. Did you plan to murder me yourself or have someone else do it? Ah, yes. Your hired assassins made several attempts to murder me. Unfortunately for you, all of your plots failed.”