Читать книгу A Lady of Quality - Louise Gouge M. - Страница 10

Chapter Two

Catherine could barely withhold a gasp. Ancient Aunt Beckwith had not seen her since she was fourteen and, being senile even then, had paid her little attention. Confusion still lingered in her pale blue eyes, almost as if she had no idea where she was. Catherine should have taken the opportunity to escape her scrutiny. But she could not bear to see the old dear abandoned, for all intents and purposes, by her supper companion, a gentleman whose duty it was to engage her in polite conversation throughout the meal. Yet if Aunt Beckwith truly recognized Catherine—unlikely but possible—she could expose her deception.

Even now, Lord Winston questioned her with one raised eyebrow, and she grasped for some way to deflect his curiosity and redeem her plans against him. She offered a slight smile, a ladylike shrug, a tiny shake of her head, and he nodded his understanding. How easy she found it to lie to him without saying a word. Guilt gnawed at her conscience, but to silence it, she pictured dear Papa suffering exile in some unknown place. Now she must continue to brazen her way through this situation. She leaned toward Aunt Beckwith’s good ear.

“Good evening, Lady Beckwith. May I present Lord Winston?”

“Winston? Winston?” Aunt Beckwith studied him up and down. “My gracious, such a tall young gentleman, and so handsome, too.” She reached out a bejeweled hand, and he gallantly kissed it. “Very much like your grandfather in his youth, if I recall him correctly. Many a young gel set her cap for him and no doubt will for you, as well—that is, if you are not already married.” She winked at him, then stared at Catherine. “Now, who is this young lady with you?”

Catherine’s knees almost buckled with relief. As she had those six years ago, Aunt Beckwith rarely kept a thought for more than half a minute.

Lord Winston glanced at Catherine, and a kind smile lit his face. “Lady Beckwith, may I present Miss Hart?”

“So pleased to meet you, Miss Hart.” Aunt Beckwith patted the chair next to her. “Now do be seated so we can eat. I am fair to starving.”

Catherine released a quiet sigh of relief, but caution warned her against relaxing too much. At any moment, those pale blue eyes might sharpen with recognition, and all would be lost.

* * *

Winston made certain Miss Hart was comfortably seated, then took his own chair. Lady Beckwith’s confusion about Miss Hart did not put him off in the slightest, nor did her mistake about the gentleman she referred to as his grandfather. Having an elderly father had given Winston an appreciation of older people, both for the wisdom they imparted and, in Father’s case, their godly character. Perhaps this evening presented an opportunity for him to learn something interesting. He was already well pleased to observe Miss Hart’s kindness to the lady, a useful trait for a lady’s hired companion. Or a diplomat’s wife.

No, it was far too soon for such a thought. He must employ some of that patience Father had tried to impart to him. Pedigree was an indispensable trait in his choice of a wife, and he must not forget that.

While they engaged the elderly lady in conversation about the hot summer weather, an army of footmen served the first course, which consisted of a thick, creamy asparagus soup and an entrée of stuffed trout and small meat pies. Once Winston and Miss Hart determined just how much to raise their voices so Lady Beckwith could hear them, they settled down to a comfortable, if unproductive, evening. For now, he must abandon his ambitions, for not one person within the range of proper conversation could advance his diplomatic career.

The elderly dowager, loquacious in the extreme, thrice repeated a story about the time pigs invaded her rose garden. Winston bore the repetitions with good humor, helped by Miss Hart’s lively interest in each telling. His esteem for her increased, especially when the dowager continued to call her Kitty. Without so much as a blink of an eye or word of contradiction, she permitted the doddering old Lady Beckwith to think she was the late Lord Beckwith’s great-niece. Surely such grace would stand her in good stead as any gentleman’s wife.

As the meal progressed to a lavish second course of venison, lobster and a variety of vegetables, Winston found himself admiring Miss Hart’s artful manners, which were worthy of a duchess. Despite her gloves, he could see that her fingers were long and tapered, and she wielded her cutlery with grace. Perhaps she played the pianoforte, a useful skill for any lady.

Lady Beckwith nodded off between the second course and dessert, giving Winston and Miss Hart a few moments of private conversation while the servants cleared and reset the table.

“Tell me, Lord Winston—” Miss Hart accepted a dish of cream-covered pastry from the footman, thanking him with another of her pretty smiles “—what think you of the scandal regarding Lord Cochrane’s fraud against the Stock Exchange? Will he be sufficiently punished with only a year in prison and the loss of his naval rank?”

Winston caught himself before barking out his indignation over Cochrane’s wicked scheme to defraud his fellow Englishmen. “Why, Miss Hart, should a delicate lady concern herself over politics and crime?”

Those dark eyelashes batted in pretty confusion several times. “Oh, my. I do not wish to venture upon ground unfitting for a lady.” She glanced down the long table toward where her employer sat. “I would grieve to cause embarrassment to Lady Blakemore.”

Her innocence touched a spot in Winston’s heart that he never knew existed. “Well, no harm is done.” A chuckle escaped him. No doubt she longed for reassurance in the Cochrane matter. “My dear lady, have no fear. The House of Lords has dealt appropriately with Cochrane and his associates. Do not give it another thought. All is well.”

“Yes, of course.” She gazed down at her gloved hands, which rested in her lap. The slight lump near her right wrist reminded him of their earlier conversation.

“Miss Hart, a while ago, you asked me a question. Now I must ask you one.”

Her perfect brown eyebrows arched. “Oh, yes. Ask what you will, and I shall answer.”

Inexplicably, his pulse began to race. With some difficulty, he cleared his throat and managed to croak out, “Do you like cats?”

Now her expression turned impish. “Why, yes, of course.” She glanced around, as if checking to see whether or not anyone else was listening, then whispered, “I am convinced that only evil can come from a person who does not like cats.”

Now he laughed as an agreeable sensation swept through him. “Madam, I concur with your premise wholeheartedly.”

What a delightful lady. What extraordinary wit and intelligence. But he would not quickly surrender his heart as he had seen several of his peers do, to their ruin. No, entirely too much depended upon his having the right connections. Perhaps Lord Bennington could advise him regarding which items he could safely strike from his list of requirements for a wife. But until he managed to secure an appointment with his busy mentor, he would find as many proper ways as possible to spend time with the lovely Miss Hart. He did have an appointment with Lord Blakemore on the morrow. Perhaps he would see her then.

* * *

All the way back to their Mayfair mansion, Lord and Lady Blakemore laughed as they shared harmless bits of gossip. Lady Drayton had declared the night a success after no fewer than three marriage proposals had been offered. A conceited lord deep in his cups boasted that he would race his finest thoroughbred against all challengers, and a dozen or more gentlemen agreed to the contest. Their host, the Marquess of Drayton, announced that Prinny would attend the theatre with Louis, the French king, sometime during the coming week.

Catherine paid particular attention to this last bit of news. Papa had been accused of being a Bonapartist and conspiring to assassinate Louis so they could prevent the Bourbons from reclaiming the French throne. Which, of course, was ridiculous. Papa had no cause to do such a thing. He utterly disdained Napoleon Bonaparte, and his allegiance to England, his country of refuge, was unwavering.

Regarding the rest of Lord and Lady Blakemore’s gossip, Catherine listened with moderate interest. At any time she might be called upon to participate in a conversation about the marquess’s ball. Ignorance of the latest on-dits among the haute ton was unforgivable, even for a companion, for that would make her employer look bad.

“And what have you to say for yourself, Miss Hart?” Jolly Lord Blakemore, with his fringe of graying hair around his balding pate and his short, plump stature, made for an odd pairing with his tall, slender wife. But their temperaments seemed perfectly suited, and their household was a haven of peace in noisy, smelly London. “Did you enjoy the evening? I saw you with Lord Winston, which, I must say, is quite startling. One does not expect Winston even to speak to those outside of his small circle, much less to dine with them.”

Before this evening, that description of the baron might have suited her very well. But after dancing and dining with Lord Winston, she saw no hint of his former arrogance. Instead, she had found his manners faultless and his conversation charming. Even poor Aunt Beckwith had received his kindest attentions. Where was the crack in his facade? What would prove him worthy of her revenge when added to his lies about Papa?

“You have Lady Blakemore to blame, my lord. She forced me upon the unsuspecting baron, poor man.”

The Blakemores traded a look and laughed in their jovial way.

“Ah,” said Lady Blakemore, “but one did not observe Winston trying to escape your company.”

“But why should he wish to escape?” Lord Blakemore wiggled his wiry eyebrows in a comical fashion. “What more charming company could he ask for?”

The countess nodded agreeably. “No, he was more than pleased to spend his evening with our Miss Hart.”

The familiar benevolence in her smile struck a deep chord within Catherine. No matter what her true station in life, these good people should regard her as just above a servant. And yet they had risked Society’s censure by taking her to one of the most important social events of the Season, even providing an exquisite gown from Lady Blakemore’s talented modiste. And what did Catherine offer in return for their generosity? Lies and deception and the risk of being accused of harboring a traitor’s daughter, something that could ruin Lord Blakemore, no doubt in more ways than Catherine could imagine. Guilt ate at her until her eyes stung, and she prayed her employers could not see her tears in the dim light of the closed carriage.

“What’s this?” Lord Blakemore’s gentle tone did nothing to help Catherine’s self-control. “Why tears, my dear? Did Winston insult you? Did anyone?” The jolly little earl’s eyes narrowed. “You must tell me the truth, now. I insist upon it.”

“Gracious, no.” Catherine managed a dismissive laugh. “I am thinking only of how grateful I am for all that you have done for me.” Not a lie at all. “You have taken me to the theatre several times to enjoy Shakespeare’s wonderful plays, and tonight you escorted me to the marquess’s ball. You have honored me far more than a mere companion deserves or should expect.”

The earl waved his hand dismissively, but in his pleased smile she could see her gratitude was not wasted. Yet somehow she must turn this conversation back to the baron to uncover his weaknesses.

“Your comment about Lord Winston surprises me. Does he truly not mingle with anyone but a small circle of friends?” The baron had behaved quite pleasantly toward her despite his apparent assumption that she was born of the gentry.

Again the couple traded a look, and the earl nodded to his countess.

“I would not say he is overly proud,” she said. “Of course, he holds to our views regarding the classes. We know God has ordained that the aristocracy should rule and manage the affairs of mankind. But we are expected to do so benevolently.” She patted her husband’s hand and gazed at him fondly. “Why, just these past weeks, Lord Blakemore has joined with Lord Greystone and Mr. Wilberforce to propose laws restricting the use of small children as chimney sweeps.”

“That is most commendable, my lord.” How could Catherine return the conversation to Lord Winston without exposing how deeply she was interested in him or causing them to think that interest was romantic? “Surely not every aristocrat is so benevolent.” She had seen sufficient poverty in London to know the wealthy could and should do more to help them.

“Ah, but we were speaking of Winston.” The earl chuckled in his endearing way, almost as if he could read her thoughts. “You may be interested to know, Miss Hart, that earlier this month he accompanied Greystone to a disreputable tavern on the Thames and helped to rescue two kidnapped climbing boys. Just think of it. Two peers taking on such a dangerous adventure to save chimney sweeps, the lowest of the low.”

“Indeed?” Catherine’s heart warmed briefly before she dismissed such a favorable emotion. Perhaps the baron could be kind to poor children and elderly ladies, but that did not excuse his evil lies about her father.

“Indeed,” Lady Blakemore said. “Quite commendable.”

“Tell me, my dear.” The earl addressed his wife. “What did you hear from Swarthmore about the Cochrane affair?”

Catherine watched with interest as the countess detailed Lord Swarthmore’s opinions regarding the complicated scheme Lord Cochrane and his cohorts had perpetrated against the Stock Exchange. Like Papa, not only did Lord Blakemore listen attentively to his wife, but he respected her opinions, which she sprinkled liberally throughout the discourse.

And yet Lord Winston had refused to discuss the affair with Catherine. Apparently, he found her too naive to be informed about important matters of the day, as though she had no intellect or fortitude. That suited her plans quite well, for if her enemy underestimated her, so much the better.

“By the by, my dear.” Lady Blakemore addressed her husband, but something in her tone alerted Catherine and interrupted her musings. “At what hour is Winston arriving tomorrow? I should like to be at home and have tea with him. You do not mind, do you, Miss Hart?”

Catherine’s thoughts raced. She would have to enlist Mr. Radcliff’s help to arrange an encounter with the baron during his visit. For now, she schooled her face to suggest polite indifference. “My lady, you do not require my approval to entertain whom you will.”

Lady Blakemore traded another of those conspiratorial glances with her husband. “But my dear, he does require my permission to have tea with you.” She laughed softly. “I do hope you are not disappointed that I granted it.”

How hard it was for Catherine not to smile, not to crow with victory. The path to bringing Lord Winston down was proving to be all too easy.