Читать книгу A Lady of Quality - Louise Gouge M. - Страница 13

Chapter Five

Catherine wanted desperately to give vent to the laughter bubbling up inside her. Could Lady Blakemore see her struggle? Lord Winston’s sudden frown indicated he did not. Pretending to be aloof was proving to be more difficult than she had anticipated. With every deep breath taken to stifle her mirth over her employer’s clever machinations, she reminded herself of her family’s pain. And then there was the matter of going for a drive with this man who had destroyed their lives. Would he protect her on the rough streets of London, should the need arise? Of course, she could take care of herself with the proper weapons in hand, though she doubted any swords or pistols were available in Mrs. Parton’s landau. But to what sort of man had her employer just entrusted her safety?

A footman was sent for Catherine’s bonnet and parasol, another for Lord Winston’s hat and cane. Once Catherine had donned her bonnet, Lady Blakemore eyed her critically.

“That will do very nicely. Now run along, my dears. I must return to my guests.” The countess walked back toward the drawing room, the footman opened the door and her ladyship disappeared within.

“Shall we go, Miss Hart?” A hint of doubt colored Lord Winston’s tone, but she refused to look at him as she took his arm again. His well-formed face and superior height were all too alluring, and she must not fall for his charms. Curiously, one of those charms was his apparent oblivion to his own handsomeness. She would have to find a way to use that.

“Yes, my lord.” She forced a subservient tone into her voice.

To her surprise, he sighed as he led her to the stairway down to the ground floor. There he waved to his driver, who steered Mrs. Parton’s horses out of the line of carriages circling the fountain in front of the mansion. Without a word, Lord Winston handed Catherine into the pristine white carriage with tooled leather upholstery. She chose the seat with her back to the driver.

“Miss Hart, I insist upon your taking the opposite place.” The firmness in his voice sent an odd sensation skittering across her shoulder.

“Yes, my lord.” She moved to the seat facing front, considered the right of those of a superior rank. By giving it to her, the baron showed extraordinary courtesy.

Once in place opposite her, he said, “To Mr. Lambert’s on Duke Street, Toby.”

“Yes, my lord.” The driver echoed Catherine’s very tone, and she hid a smile.

Lord Winston sighed again, this time with a hint of annoyance.

As they rode from the grounds, Catherine viewed the estate’s many beautiful flower beds, noting that Lady Blakemore might easily have provided her own bouquets for tonight’s supper. Catherine could only conclude that God was smiling down on her plot against Lord Winston. Otherwise, why would such a reputable couple work so hard to provide her with opportunities to be in the baron’s company?

The sun peeked out from behind the clouds, then hid again, and a fine mist sprinkled over the carriage and its inhabitants. Although Catherine raised her parasol, the humidity quickly began to wilt her muslin gown. She reached up to touch her hair, but not a curl had appeared in the few strands she had left free from her bonnet. The baron, on the other hand, seemed to sprout curls from beneath his tall black hat even as she watched.

“Shall I put the top up, milord?” The moment the driver asked the question, the rain ceased, and the sun reemerged, shining its warmth upon the travelers.

“It seems that we may leave it down.” Lord Winston eyed Catherine. “That is, if the lady has no objection.”

“None, my lord.” Brushing dampness from her skirt, she stared down at her lap and bit her lower lip to hide a smirk. She could hear his huff of annoyance.

“Miss Hart, it is not necessary for you to address me in that manner.” His eyes blazed, and his lips thinned. “Furthermore, I think you know it. Last night we enjoyed an agreeable supper together, and unless I have offended you in some way, your subservient demeanor is nothing short of insulting.”

Now Catherine permitted him to see her smirk. “Yes, my lord.”

He tilted his head to the side and stared at her, disbelief registering in his intense green eyes. Then his jaw dropped, and a smile formed on those sculpted lips. “Ah. I see.” He returned a smirk and relaxed against the back of his seat. “If that’s the way you wish to play, I am game. En garde, my lady.”

Her heart stilled. Had he guessed that she was the “young man” who had crossed swords with him only yesterday? But his eyes twinkled with mirth, and she knew she had him. They would not engage in swordplay, but rather wordplay. And she had every intention of winning.

* * *

Whatever her pedigree, the lady possessed an amusing wit. To his disadvantage, Winston had never learned to exchange clever quips. Father had been a righteous but grave gentleman, and Winston had always tried to emulate him. Yet since receiving his writ of summons from the House of Lords and making his pilgrimage to London, he had discovered that one could find humor in certain situations without committing sin. With Lord and Lady Blakemore being above reproach, perhaps he could trust their Miss Hart to help him learn how to laugh more often.

“Why, Lord Winston, I am shocked.” Her sly grin suggested that shock was far from her thoughts. “Would you challenge a lady to a duel?”

“Only if it is a duel of wits, madam.” He could see she would be a worthy opponent. If anything, he would be the student in this match.

As she appeared to consider his proposal, she idly grasped a wisp of hair that had escaped her bonnet and curled it around her forefinger to no avail. The moment she released the dark brown lock, it fell straight, emphasizing the graceful curve of her jawline. “Very well, then.” She gave him a smug grin. “I accept your challenge.”

Of course, they must keep their repartee above reproach, so he considered how to address that issue. “Perhaps we should devise some rules so as not to give one another any offense.”

“Humph. That very suggestion is an offense.” She waved her fan and stared toward the tall, elegant town houses of Hanover Square as they passed. “If you think yourself unable to maintain propriety, perhaps you should rescind your challenge.”

Annoyance shot through him. Yet how could he respond? By suggesting that she might be the one to breach the bounds of propriety? Perhaps this game was not a wise idea. What did Proverbs advise about humor and jesting other than to say a merry heart did a man good, like medicine? But if nothing else, Miss Hart’s hauteur suggested excellent breeding. Only a pure-hearted lady would bristle at any hint that she might do something improper.

The landau turned onto Oxford Street, and Miss Hart continued to watch the scenery, her chin lifted and a slightly wounded expression filling her lovely dark eyes. He stared out the other side of the carriage, taking in the scents of mowed grass and rain-washed gardens. And wondering how to repair the damage. Where did one go to learn the art of tasteful jesting?

A phaeton passed by, driven by a much older peer—Lord Morgan, if Winston remembered correctly—whose pretty young companion laughed raucously, no doubt at some great witticism from her protector. From the lecherous way the gentleman regarded the girl, Winston would hardly consider him a good source of information.

By the time they reached Duke Street, crowds of people from every class filled the narrow thoroughfare. The driver skillfully wove the landau in and out among carts, hackneys and pedestrians, reaching Lambert’s Floristry without incident.

“Wait here, Toby,” Winston ordered as he stepped down to the cobblestones. “Miss Hart.” He reached out to her, and she placed a gloved hand in his to disembark, then breezed past him to wait at the door of the establishment.

Before Winston could reach her, the door swung open. “Ah, Miss Hart, welcome.” The clerk, or perhaps the proprietor, welcomed her with a bow, then gave Winston a quizzing look.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lambert.” She gave the middle-aged man a charming smile that Winston suddenly coveted for himself. “Lady Blakemore sent me to choose some flowers for a last-minute supper she is hosting tonight. Do tell me that Lord Winston and I are not too late to find three or four arrangements of delphiniums or perhaps gladioli.”

“Ah, Lord Winston, welcome.” Mr. Lambert gave him a bow that was neither too low nor too shallow for his station. “Please permit me to assure you that even this late in the day, we still have a vast array of exquisite blooms in a variety of colors and can deliver them straightaway. Please come this way.” He beckoned them to follow deep into the broad building containing every variety of summer flower and plant Winston had ever encountered and some he had not.

Rich, heady fragrances filled the rooms, some nearly overpowering. Winston watched as the proprietor advertised the qualities of the various flowers, with Miss Hart nodding or shaking her head. At last she seemed to settle on a large container of vibrant purple delphiniums.

“Yes, I believe these will be perfect. The fragrance is enough to freshen the room but not so overpowering as to spoil one’s appetite. You may create—hmm, let me see.” She tilted her head prettily, stared off thoughtfully, then refocused on the aproned vendor. “I believe four arrangements will be sufficient.”

“Of course, Miss Hart. Would you permit me to include a spray or two of—”

“Wait.”

Both Miss Hart and Mr. Lambert looked at Winston as if he were a squawking gander. In truth, he had no idea why he had interrupted the man, but now he must follow through with his challenge. “I cannot imagine that Lady Blakemore will prefer anything but roses.” He gave Miss Hart what he hoped was a smug look. “Red roses.”

Just as he hoped, her eyes lit with the same spark as when they had begun their verbal rivalry. Had he found the key to redeeming the game?

“Red roses? La, what an idea. Why, the fragrance of too many roses can overpower the aroma of even the most delicious roast beef.” She arched her perfect brown eyebrows and sniffed for emphasis.

“Au contraire, mademoiselle.” Winston crossed his arms over his chest and stared down his nose at her. Which was a bit difficult, considering her height. “The fragrance of roses can only enhance the flavors of a well-prepared supper.” Not that he had ever noticed such a thing.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Lambert wring his hands as alarm spread over his slender face.

“Milord, Miss Hart, please. Perhaps alternating arrangements of roses and delphiniums would suit Lady Blakemore?”

“No.” Winston shook his head. “Roses or nothing.” Miss Hart’s dark frown told him he had gone too far. He should have taken into account the power of his title, which would trump anything a lady’s companion might say. But could he manage to redeem the situation once more?

“I beg your pardon.” A well-favored and familiar gentleman dressed in a black suit approached from the direction of the front entrance. “Perhaps I may be of assistance in your decision.”

“Mr. Grenville.” Mr. Lambert appeared near to collapsing, and Winston felt a pinch of guilt over his charade. “If you give me a moment, I shall be pleased to help you myself.”

“No hurry.” Mr. Grenville tipped his hat to Miss Hart and offered Winston a slight bow. “Good afternoon, sir. You will perhaps remember our meeting this Sunday past when you attended my brother Lord Greystone’s wedding.”

“Ah, yes.” This gentleman’s brothers had snatched away the only two ladies Winston had attempted to court this Season. Was this one about to take Miss Hart, as well? Still, he could not avoid introducing them. “Miss Hart, may I present Mr. Grenville, the vicar who conducted the viscount’s wedding.” He turned to the vicar. “Miss Hart is Lady Blakemore’s companion.”

The lady executed an elegant curtsy and held out her hand. “Mr. Grenville, I have heard nothing but the highest praise for you and your family from Lord and Lady Blakemore.”

“I thank you, madam.” He bowed over her hand. “I know you are a comfort to Lady Blakemore now that all of her children are married and living in different parts of the country.”

“I do hope so.” Miss Hart gave him a warm smile.

“By the by, Winston,” the vicar said, “Greystone tells me you were quite the hero in the matter of the climbing boys. Not many peers would endanger their own lives by fighting criminals in defense of two small chimney sweeps.”

“’Twas your brother’s triumph,” Winston said. “I was merely along for the ride.” True, it had been a great adventure. But he was learning this day that entering a den of cowardly miscreants was actually much easier than discerning what might please a young lady.

“A hero. My, my.” She shot a triumphant glance at Winston, as if she somehow sensed he would not continue their argument in front of the vicar. “Well, sir, we have completed our business.” She spoke to the flower vendor. “The delphiniums, Mr. Lambert.”

Mr. Lambert wrung his hands again and cast an anxious look at Winston. For his part, Winston had the urge to gently tweak Miss Hart’s pretty little nose, as he had frequently done to his little sister when they had quarreled. He managed to squelch the temptation and instead gave the lady a bow of defeat. “The delphiniums. But do put at least a single white rose among them as a symbol of my surrender.”

Mr. Grenville laughed. “Well, I see that my interference is not necessary.” He clapped a hand on Mr. Lambert’s shoulder. “I have come to fetch the bouquet my wife ordered. Do you have it ready?”

While the minister conducted business with the relieved flower vendor, Winston quietly exhaled his relief over learning the gentleman was married. He would be more than pleased to have a measure of whatever graces those Grenville brothers possessed, some intangible quality that gave them such charming airs, especially with the ladies. Was it something a gentleman could learn?

They took their leave of the vicar and left the building, but Winston tarried after handing Miss Hart into the landau. When Mr. Grenville emerged carrying a nosegay of daisies and other small flowers, he beckoned to him.

“Will you call upon me at your convenience, sir?”

“Indeed I will.” The vicar beamed at the invitation. “It will be my pleasure.”

With a time settled upon, they parted company, and Winston climbed into the carriage.

“In need of spiritual advice, are we?” Miss Hart gave him a pretty, innocent smile at odds with her impertinent question.

Winston could think of no clever response. Toby, on the other hand, harrumphed with disapproval of her insolence as he slapped the reins on the horses’ haunches to urge them forward.

A dark look passed over her face, almost a scowl. Was she mortified by her question? Angry about being chided by a servant, even passively? Or had Winston somehow offended her...again? This time, he would not rest until they reached a truce. He tapped the driver’s bench with his cane. “Hyde Park, Toby.” To Miss Hart, he said, “We must do as Lady Blakemore instructed us.”

She merely nodded. They drove in silence for several moments. At last she released a long sigh.

“I beg you, sir, you must not keep me in suspense any longer. Tell me about your gallant rescue of the climbing boys.”

* * *

Catherine did not wish to hear the story, did not wish to know how this man could be a hero to little chimney sweeps and yet turn around and as much as murder Papa. Yet courtesy demanded that she ask him about the incident after the vicar mentioned it. Lord Winston would boast, of course, and expose his pride, which he had cleverly hidden from Mr. Grenville. But then, one always pasted one’s best face on when talking with a clergyman. Even she had offered Mr. Brown, the pastor of her home parish, only her brightest smile and nods of agreement when he had counseled her and Mama about Papa’s tragedy. While she knew some men entered the church for political reasons, Mr. Brown was all sincerity, and he had a gift for discernment, much like Mr. Grenville appeared to possess. Too much interaction with such spiritual guides would expose her lies. Therefore, she would avoid Mr. Grenville at all costs.

Now, having boldly demanded to hear about Lord Winston’s heroism, she sat back, awaiting his response. Oddly, he tugged at his collar, and if she did not dislike him so thoroughly, she would find his reddening cheeks quite charming, in a boyish way.

“I fear, Miss Hart, that too much has been made of my part in the event. I merely accompanied Lord Greystone on the adventure. For some charitable reason I know nothing about, he had taken in the little chimney sweeps, and when their former master kidnapped them, Greystone was determined to have them back. After a Bow Street Runner located them in a disreputable tavern on the Thames, the three of us went there to rescue them. Greystone was the true hero, for he entered through an upstairs window and brought the lads out. While he and the Runner made their escape, I held off a few ruffians with my sword and pistol. They were cowards, the lot of them, for not a one attempted to engage me in a fight.”

“Were you all that eager for a duel, then, master swordsman that you are?” The instant she said the words, Catherine cringed inwardly. He would no doubt wonder how she knew such a thing about him.

But he simply chuckled softly and shrugged. “Actually, I do like fencing, but I cannot be certain my instructor, Mr. Angelus, who owns the academy where I practice, would call me a master swordsman.”

Against her will, she detected a hint of humility in his tone rather than the pride she had expected. Had all of his arrogance during their match yesterday been mere bravado? No matter. She would never relent in her belief that he was a villain, albeit a humble one. How the two qualities could reside together in a single man, she could not guess. One thing she did know: all this talk of swordsmanship must cease before she gave herself away.

“Still, you must admit your rescue of the little boys will be a grand tale to tell your own sons.”

“Hmm. I had not thought of that.” He grew pensive, as if envisioning such a scene.

The winsomeness on his handsome face pierced Catherine’s heart. What did he dream of? Hope for? Did a titled gentleman of his wealth, who sat with the great nobles of England in the House of Lords, have any unfulfilled dreams? No, she must not think of such things, must not ask him of his ambitions as though they mattered to her. With no little effort, she thrust away every kind impulse toward him, silently hurling the epithets liar and murderer at him as the landau rolled into Hyde Park.

They continued their ride in silence, passing food vendors, grand carriages of every description and numerous well-dressed people on horseback. Catherine recognized several peers and elected members of Parliament who seemed to have taken advantage of their day off from lawmaking to enjoy the late-afternoon sunshine. Lord Winston received a few solemn nods, but no one called out greetings, although more than one lady eyed the two of them with open curiosity. With all the noises of carriage wheels and chattering people, Catherine felt no need to attempt further conversation with Lord Winston.

“Miss Hart.” His mellow voice broke into Catherine’s reverie. “May I offer you some refreshment? If I am not mistaken, strawberry and lemon ices are available across the way.” He pointed his cane toward a line of trees.

She gazed in that direction. “That would be lovely.”

He ordered his driver to the shaded area where several tradesmen had set up their carts to sell pastries, ices and even complete picnics. There he handed her down from the landau.

“Your choice, Miss Hart.” He gestured broadly toward the numerous sellers calling out to passersby to come taste their wares.

“I thank you, sir.” Catherine studied the row of eager vendors, choosing at last a lively old woman in a tattered apron selling strawberry ices and cream-covered currant tarts. While her escort selected his own food and drink and settled the bill, she strolled among the oak and willow trees toward the Serpentine River some thirty yards away. Having sat most of the day, she longed for the exercise of an invigorating walk, preferably here in the shade as soon as she finished her refreshments.

“What ’ave we here, Joe?” A scratchy male voice came from behind a wide oak. “A pretty lady with a heavy purse, and all alone, at that.”

Another voice cackled, as if his friend had made a fine joke. “And all for the taking, wouldn’t you say, Jigger?”

A violent shiver shot up Catherine’s spine. These vile men meant to attack her, and she had no weapons to defend herself. A glance back at the carriage revealed she had wandered farther away than she had thought. There stood Lord Winston looking this way and that, apparently searching for her. Was he too far away to hear her cry out in the noisy park? Was every decent person too far to help her?

Before she could scream, one of the men grasped her around the waist from behind while the other covered her mouth with a filthy handkerchief that smelled of liquor and sweat. The other man wrested her fan and reticule from around her wrist, knocking her tart and ice to the ground and tearing her sleeve.

Then he began to tear at her gown.