“Plots? Plots? You are the only one who plotted. And why? To advance your own interests. To somehow prove yourself worthy of your elevation, all the while acting the generous peer to lesser beings. You arrogant, undeserving bumbler.”
“Your father plotted an assassination.”
“You are a liar. You forged those letters.”
Silence ruled in the vast drawing room for a full ten seconds.
“That is entirely enough.” Lord Hartley slammed his fist against the back of a chair, knocking it over. “I am going straightaway to expose your deceptions to Blakemore.”
She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You do that, Lord Hartley. But do not fail to mention your own sin. If you think Lady Blakemore will not believe my accusations against you, just wait and see.” Catherine owned no such assurance, but she could not permit him to have the last word.
“I shall, my lady.” He sketched an elaborate, disingenuous bow. “I shall.” He stormed past her, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the air around her.
She vowed to despise bay rum for the rest of her life.
*
Hartley felt sick to his stomach, but nonetheless he ran upstairs toward Blakemore’s suite on the next floor.
The footman outside the door bowed. “My lord, you may go through.” He opened the door inward.
Hartley nodded to the man, if only to prove Miss Hart…Miss du Coeur wrong. He was not arrogant. His consideration of others, even servants, was genuine.
The valet met him in the anteroom of the large suite. “How may I help you, Lord Hartley?”
Now was the true test. Would he insist upon exposing Miss du Coeur’s lies straightaway? Or would he put his friend and mentor’s interests before his own? With no little effort, he calmed himself.
“If Lord Blakemore is able to receive me, I would so much appreciate it.” He punctuated his request with a smile that felt more like a grimace. But then, noblemen need not smile at servants. Why had he felt it necessary?
“Of course.” The valet walked toward the bedchamber door just as Lady Blakemore emerged.
“Why, Hartley, what brings you here at this hour?” Her maternal tone proved his undoing.
“Madam,” he choked out, “we have all been deceived by Miss Hart. She is Miss du Coeur, the daughter of the Bonapartist who conspired to assassinate the French king.”
To his shock, the countess merely nodded. “You must speak with Blakemore. Do go through.” She waved toward the door. “I will speak with the young lady.” With that, she strode from the suite.
Good. She would give Miss du Coeur the set down she deserved.
To his dismay, the thought twisted in his belly. He shoved aside the mad desire to follow the countess and protect the girl.
*
Catherine righted the fallen chair, then slumped down into its comfortable upholstery. Her world had just been shattered, and she had no strength to stand. Just as she had always thought before her heart got in the way, Lord Hartley was a wicked, scheming man. The very idea that he would deny her charges made her sick with rage, but she would not surrender to tears.
“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Lady Blakemore entered the room all warmth and smiles. “Why, whatever is wrong?”
Her generosity was more than Catherine could bear. She flung herself into the countess’s arms and wept. “Forgive me, my lady. I have misrepresented myself to you. I am not a gentlewoman or whatever you thought me to be. I am the daughter of Comte du Coeur, whom that dastardly Lord Hartley has accused of plotting against King Louis. But his accusations are false, I swear to you by all that is h—”
“Now, now, my dear. No need to blaspheme.” She smoothed back Catherine’s straight hair. “Of course you are Miss du Coeur. We knew it all along.”
“Wha—” Catherine dropped down on the nearest settee. “What are you saying?”
“My husband is a jolly man, my dear, but he is no fool. When Lord Hartley—Lord Winston at the time—brought the letters to the Home Office, Blakemore straightaway knew something was wrong, so he launched an investigation.”
“And found that Lord Hartley forged the letters for political advancement.”
“Gracious no, my girl.” She spoke in a whisper and looked around as if searching for eavesdroppers. “Hartley was too innocent, too naive ever to be a suspect, but there was someone else close to my husband who concerned him.”
“But why did you hire me?” Catherine’s head reeled. Hartley innocent? Naive?
The countess laughed softly. “Why, to protect you from yourself. We could not have Mademoiselle Catherine du Coeur gallivanting all over England trying to avenge her father when we all knew he was not in the slightest guilty.”
“You knew?” A thousand thoughts rushed in upon her, but only one stood out. “If I had been honest with you from the beginning, so many things would be different now.”
“Yes.” Lady Blakemore sighed. “And if we had been honest with you… But we had to trap the villain… Oh, enough of that. We did what we did. Now, I shall send Hartley down so the two of you can get this all sorted out.”
“Oh, no. I could not.” All this time she had forced herself to despise an innocent man instead of listening to her heart. He would never forgive her for the cruel things she said only moments ago.
“Hmm. Well, then, he may be coming down the stairs at any moment. If you do not wish to speak to him yet, perhaps you should wait here.”
Catherine nodded mutely.
“There, there, my dear. Do not weep.” The countess patted her cheek, then walked toward the door, where she turned back. “It will all work out in the end.”
Catherine sat with hands folded in her lap, wondering how long she must wait before leaving the drawing room. Perhaps it would be better to face Lord Hartley and have done with it, whether for good or for ill. She had no doubt he would never forgive her, nor did she deserve forgiveness. Against everything she had ever been taught or believed in, she had lied and, yes, plotted against a good gentleman, refusing the evidence of Lord and Lady Blakemore’s recommendations and her own eyes and heart.
Lord Hartley—had he chosen that name because he believed hers to be Hart? She had thought herself so clever with her wordplay. Hart, a play on heart, the translation of du Coeur. How close little Lord Westerly had come to exposing her in the park that day. What would have happened if he had?
Lord, forgive me for my lies. Why did I ever think ill of such a good man?
“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff slipped into the room through the secret door. “I understand you had a little adventure these past two days.”
The instant Catherine looked into his pale gray, soulless eyes, the truth slammed into her.
“You!” She stood and backed away from him toward the hearth, searching in vain for a poker or shovel.
“Oh, bother.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Now I shall have to take drastic action. Ellis.”
A large, roughly dressed man slipped into the room with a stealth that belied his size. “Aye, Cap’n?”
“Imbecile! I have told you to address me as my lord.” Mr. Radcliff waved a hand toward Catherine. “Seize the girl. We have had a change of plans.”
“No!” Catherine dashed toward the door, but the henchman was too quick. When she tried to scream, he threw a burlap bag over her head and flung her up on his shoulder. She kicked and writhed to get free to no avail. On the way out through what she assumed was the secret door, her head banged into the lintel, leaving her unable to think of anything but the pain.
*
“There is no way around it, my boy.” Blakemore lay propped up against the pillows on his four-poster bed. “Miss du Coeur lied about her identity, and we permitted the deception because we were trying to ferret out the real purpose for Radcliff’s scheme. You cannot imagine our relief when we discovered he did not mean to assassinate old Louis. He simply wished to take revenge upon those he felt had harmed him.”
&
nbsp; Hartley grasped for calm, not daring to challenge his mentor’s wisdom in using a foolish young woman for such a dangerous operation. “So in addition to his desire to murder me and seize my title, he wants revenge against du Coeur?”
“Yes. All those years ago when a certain Miss Beecham married the Comte du Coeur, Radcliff was enraged. He had hoped to marry the young lady to advance his own prospects. You see, she was the great-niece of Lord Beckwith, a baron of some prominence at the time. Being a young man, Radcliff made a cake of himself over the matter, which took him down a peg in Society’s opinion and set him back considerably. No young lady would have him, so he had to settle for a woman of no fortune or consequence. He waited more than twenty years to destroy du Coeur and very nearly succeeded.”
That explained Edgar’s antipathy toward his own wife and son. The man had no capacity for love or even decent familial affections. Poor Emily and Marcus. Further, Hartley had missed several opportunities to learn the truth about Miss du Coeur. When doddering Lady Beckwith recognized her at Drayton’s supper, he should have paid attention instead of dismissing the elderly lady as senile.
“And I do not have to guess why Edgar wanted me dead.” The thought sickened him. “He could have had me murdered at any time over the past twenty-three years. I suppose he waited until he would inherit an earldom along with the barony.”
“Yes, but do not discount your father. Whatever coldness he exhibited to others, he did protect his own. Before leaving London that last time, he asked me to watch over you. I believe he knew he would never be well enough to return to Parliament.”
For all of his coldness and censure, Father must have cared for him, but Hartley would have to sort that out later. For now he still could not reconcile himself to Miss du Coeur’s lies. Had she ever loved him? Or had it all been a pose to trap him into a confession of his supposed forgery?
“I do not understand how you could permit Edgar to have free access to your home.” Hartley had made the same mistake, but Edgar was his relative. “Were you not concerned for your safety?”
Blakemore chuckled. “You know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’? Radcliff had no quarrel with us. Like most villains, he thought himself much more intelligent than an old codger like me.” He shifted in his bed and frowned, obviously uncomfortable. “We hoped, Lady Blakemore and I, that you and Miss du Coeur would recognize the true character in each other, perhaps even fall in love.” The earl winced and grasped his broken forearm, then turned to Dr. Horton. “Hurts like the plague.” His weary sigh prompted Hartley.
“Forgive me, sir. I shall leave you to your rest.” He moved toward the door.
“And you forgive her, Hartley. Is there anything you would not do to save your family?”
His words rang in Hartley’s ears as he exited the bedchamber. Yes, he would do anything for Mother and Sophia. And yes, he must forgive Miss du Coeur and pray she would forgive him. He thanked the Lord he had not said every hurtful thing in his thoughts during their argument.
“Did your discussion go well?” Awaiting him in the anteroom, Lady Blakemore gave him a sweet, sly, maternal smile.
Hartley could only laugh. These two were like benevolent puppeteers, and he and Miss du Coeur had been dancing on their strings the whole time. Somehow, he did not mind in the least. “Where is your lovely companion?”
“Why, if you refer to our Miss Hart, I believe she may still be down in the drawing room.”
Hartley started to give the countess a playful bow, then decided to plant a kiss on her cheek.
“Hartley!” The grand old lady blushed, just as he hoped.
He hastened down the stairs to find Mr. Fleming emerging from the drawing room.
“My lord, have you seen Miss Hart?” The young man’s stricken face seemed at odds with his position. Did the secretary have a tendre for Miss du Coeur?
“Is she not in the drawing room?”
“No, sir. Her lady’s maid tells me she has not returned to her room, and none of the footmen have seen her.”
“Forgive me, Fleming, but what business have you with the young lady?”
“Surely you know by now, my lord. I have been her secret bodyguard since the phaeton accident.”
His disclosure sent shock and fear knifing through Hartley’s chest. Of course Blakemore would have hired a bodyguard for her, just as he had sent Ajax to protect Hartley. “And you say she is not in the drawing room?” He opened the door and strode into the chamber to see for himself. “How could she have vanished?”
“My lord.” Fleming knelt by the inner wall. “The wallpaper has been damaged.” He stood and ran his hand up the design. “A door.” He pried open the aperture, letting in a blast of stale air.
“So that explains it.” The day Edgar had vanished from this very room, Hartley had questioned his own sanity. Did no one else know of this door but his scheming, murderous cousin?
“I fear, Lord Hartley, that Mr. Radcliff has kidnapped your lady, and I am to blame.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“What will you do with me?” Catherine surveyed the small, dark enclosure, searching for a way to escape. Moving even an inch was impossible, for her wrists had been tied to her ankles, and she had been shoved to the floor between two of the crates that crowded the room. In the glow of a single candle, she could make out a small window on the opposite wall, but no light filtered in through the dirt. No doubt it was still night. Outside the thin wall behind her, water slapped against wood. Were they near the Thames? If she could undo the ropes and get outside, she could swim to safety.
“No need to attempt escape, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff sat above her on a crate, looking down his nose at her, just as Lord Hartley had at their last meeting. How strange that the same handsomely shaped nose could look so unalike on two men of the same family.
“You have not answered my question.” Catherine summoned every ounce of her waning self-possession to appear calm. “What will you do with me? Throw me in the river?”
“Now, now, Miss du Coeur, I am not a murderer. At least not of women.” He studied his well-manicured fingernails and brushed them across his lapel. “I have decided to sell you to a ship’s captain who travels to China. A pretty creature like you will bring a handsome sum in the Orient. Your exceptional height will make you all the more attractive to some wealthy mandarin.”
Bile rose up in her throat, but again she forbade herself to react. “You are finished in England, of course, so you should go to China yourself. Why not simply demand a ransom for me to fund the trip?”
His eyes had flared maniacally, then took on that snakelike appearance she should have noticed long ago. “But you have utterly missed the point. If I delivered you safely back to your dear parents and that insufferable Hartley, how could I ensure their endless suffering?” He regarded her with a smirk. “In any event, I have plenty of money. I’ve been gathering it from numerous enterprises and saving it for years just in case I did need to flee the country.” He jumped down from the crate and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Although I do like your suggestion that I go to China. Perhaps you and I could travel there together.”
For once, she did not let herself be fooled by his light tone. Still, if she went along with the idea, it could provide more opportunities for escape. “I have always adored chinoiserie, especially Mama’s lacquered jewel case and silk folding screen.” She stared off to feign a wistful mood. “Perhaps…” She let her words trail off.
“Do not regard me as a fool, young lady. I know you too well.”
She clamped down on a retort. “If you knew me all that well, then you would know I have a hearty appetite. Do you plan to feed me, or must I wait until I arrive in Shanghai?”
“Oh, do forgive me, my dear. I shall call for a footman to bring your supper.” To her surprise, he opened the door and walked out.
In the silence that ensued, Catherine rested her head back against the wall. Skittering sounds among
the crates sent a shiver up her spine. Rats! Too bad Crumpet was not here to keep them away from her. Too bad his master was not here to save her. She had no doubt that gentleman was glad to be rid of her and her lies. If she could do it all again… No, regrets would not save her. All she could do was pray. While she could not reconcile with Lord Hartley, she could reconcile with the Lord of lords.
“Father in heaven,” she whispered, “please forgive me for not listening to your still, small voice urging me not to be a Delilah. Please watch over my dear family.” Her voice broke, and she swallowed hard, only to discover how thirsty she was. “If I am taken away, please grant peace to them all, including Lord Hartley. Please help him to forgive me. Please—”
The door swung inward and a slatternly older woman entered, carrying a tray. “’Ere’s yer supper, girl. I brung the best I could.” She knelt down and frowned. “’Ow’s she supposed to eat all bound up? ’At’s what I’d like to know.”
The woman’s kind tone ignited a flicker of hope in Catherine. “If I promise to be good, will you untie my hands? My wrists are terribly sore.”
“Well…” The woman glanced over her shoulder. “’E’s gone off fer a bit, so maybe ’e’ll never know.” She set the tray down and with some difficulty untied the tightly knotted cords.
“Thank you, mum.” Catherine mimicked her lady’s maid’s accent, which fell somewhat short of Society’s elocution. “I’m Catherine. What’s your name?”
“Bess.” She sat back on her heels to watch Catherine eat.
Or rather, choke down the slimy fish soup. But she forced a smile. “It’s good.” Not entirely a lie. The warm liquid did feel good in her empty stomach. “Did you fix it?”
Bess nodded, then leaned toward Catherine, sending a strong smell of whiskey into her nostrils. “The last time I kept prisoners fer my old man, two little boys, it was, Lord Greystone hisself came along and set ’em free. ’Course, he gave me a gold florin and a fancy hankie with his initial on it. That made up considerable for the beating I took from my man after.” She eyed Catherine. “You got any blunt?”
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