Louise M. Gouge (9 page)

Catherine could not disagree with his assertion. At home, all the laughter had been harmless and loving, with no member of the family suffering injury or shame. Yet even now, she felt the bite of remorse for permitting herself those few moments to thoroughly enjoy the company of the very man who had brought both injury and shame to her loved ones.

* * *

Winston found their drive back to Blakemore House to be entirely pleasant. Their merry interlude with the children lifted his spirits considerably, yet it seemed to have tired Miss Hart, for she made no attempt at further conversation. Nor did he feel the need to press her, even when her faraway gaze grew troubled. Her earlier merriment suggested that she had overcome her fear of being attacked again in the park, yet perhaps she had not. Or did she have some deep grief that she must bear alone? He did not know her well enough to inquire about the cause of her distress, but perchance if...
when
they became friends, he could find a way to comfort her in these moments of moodiness.

“Back so soon?” Lady Blakemore met them in the front entryway. A tall, dark green satin bonnet covered her red hair, increasing her stately height by at least sixteen inches. “Did you enjoy yourselves? Actually, Miss Hart, our encounter is fortuitous. I am on my way to Julia’s, and I know she will want to see you, so come along, my dear. Winston, do you require tea, or may I dismiss you without offense?”

He had thought having tea with both ladies would be a pleasant way to end the afternoon, but manners dictated another plan. “Madam, I fully understand. Another time, then?” He bowed to Miss Hart, then to the countess and, after proper adieus all around, took his leave.

Halfway to his Grosvenor Square town house, he realized he had made no headway whatsoever in learning about the young lady’s family connections. But at what point in the conversation could he have inquired about her bloodlines without causing serious offense? Even his attempt to question where her family lived had been interrupted by the incident with the kite.

He exhaled a long sigh, causing his belly to ache deliciously from all the laughter in the park. He would not trade this afternoon’s enjoyment for all the genealogical information in the world. How true was the proverb “A merry heart doeth good, like a medicine.” He had not felt so entirely well since before Father’s final illness.

Once home, he found Edgar alone and lounging in his drawing room. The other morning, after his cousin had reacted strangely to his comment about marriage, Winston had begun to wonder if Edgar and Emily were unhappy. Another question he could not ask, at least not directly.

“Is cousin Emily well?” Winston thumbed through the pile of correspondence he’d retrieved from the entryway table. Since his intervention in Miss Hart’s attack, he had received an unending tide of invitations from members of the
haute ton,
most of them people he either did not know or had no wish to know. He must ask Blakemore which invitations to accept, for he had no time to waste on acquaintances who could not help his diplomatic career.

“I suppose.” Edgar sipped a brandy. “I have not been home for weeks. Blakemore barely gives me time to breathe.”

“But you write.” Mild annoyance threaded through Winston. He wanted Edgar to feel at home here, but it seemed a little early for brandy. And, as he was the earl’s secretary, his referring to the gentleman without his title echoed with disrespect.

“Of course. Correspondence is my primary occupation for his lordship, as you can see.” Edgar held up an ink-stained hand, staring at it with disgust.

“No, I meant you write to Emily.”

“Why ever would I write to her after a long day of tending to business for the earl?” His dismissive attitude toward Emily’s welfare answered Winston’s question. Best to drop the subject.

Edgar rose from the settee and ambled to the sideboard to refill his glass. Then he returned to his seat and rested his feet on the occasional table in front of him. “Prime brew, cousin. Excellent stuff.”

“If you say so.” Winston had never cared for brandy, but kept a supply for guests who expected that form of hospitality. Of course, he rarely had guests. And when he thought about it, he realized Edgar had been the one to suggest the purchase. “You will excuse me?” Thirsty himself, he started toward the door to summon a footman to bring tea.

“Going?” Edgar jumped to his feet. “But you haven’t told me about your afternoon with the lovely little chit.”

Winston expelled a harsh sigh. “Do not call her that. I despise hearing that term used in regard to any decent young lady.” But especially Miss Hart, whom he henceforth would have difficulty not thinking of as Miss Heart.

“Ah, Winny, are we falling in love? Before you know anything about her family? Or did you discover it all today?”

It was one thing for Melton to give him a byname, another entirely for his cousin to do so. “Pray do not call me Winny. I am not a horse.” He added those last words without thinking and, even as he spoke, felt a measure of pride over his first pun. He pursed his lips to keep from laughing. Too bad Miss Hart was not here to appreciate his attempt. Or help him improve it.

“What?” Edgar stared at him, mouth agape, until understanding dawned on his face. “Ah, I see. Winny, whinny. My, my, I have never known you to be witty,
my lord.
” He offered a subservient bow, not even trying to hide his smirk. “I see the young lady has improved your sense of humor. Now you
must
tell me about your afternoon.”

The drawing-room door swung inward, and Llewellyn, Winston’s butler, stepped inside. “Begging your pardon, my lord, the Dowager Lady Winston has arrived and asks whether you will receive her.”

The news slammed into Winston’s chest, leaving him breathless, speechless, while Edgar’s derisive snort echoed softly around him.

How did Mother dare to come to London when he had given strict orders for her to stay at home in Surrey?

Chapter Nine

W
eariness from her afternoon with Lord Winston bore down upon Catherine. How difficult it had been to remain cool toward him on the drive home from the park, to dismiss his fine manners, his handsome face and, dare she say, his
winsome
attempts to discern what constituted humor. She especially struggled not to place too much value upon their laughter over little Lord Westerly’s French mistakes. While at home a shared laugh always brought her family members closer together, she must refuse to let Winston into any part of her good graces.

Yet when he presented such a charming facade, knowing the truth about his evil ways went only so far in forestalling a favorable sentiment toward him. She had never reacted to any gentleman as she did to Lord Winston’s very masculine presence, so perhaps her inexperience made her vulnerable. In spite of Mr. Radcliff’s assertion, she was not developing a
tendre
for the baron. Indeed, she was not. So, she must put Lord Winston out of her thoughts and concentrate on being Lady Blakemore’s companion.

As tired as she was, she looked forward to this visit with Mrs. Parton. The lady was generous and kind and always included Catherine in her hospitality. Although neither Lady Blakemore nor her friend knew of Catherine’s true standing and the social privileges it should afford her, they had no objections to her offering comments in conversation so long as other members of Society were not present. Missing her intimate talks with Mama and Isabella, Catherine treasured the ladies’ company. Yet it grieved her to think of the blow dear Mrs. Parton would be dealt when her kinsman’s evil was exposed. How could such a good lady be related to Lord Winston?

The late-afternoon sunlight illuminated the large drawing room where they sat having tea. Catherine noticed an exquisite porcelain figurine of a pretty fishmonger girl that was an exact duplicate of one that graced the mantelpiece at home. Papa had managed to bring it to England, along with a few other treasures, when he escaped the Reign of Terror. How she longed to ask Mrs. Parton where she obtained the figure, but such a question would be far beyond the boundaries of proper conduct for a companion.

“Did you enjoy your afternoon in Hyde Park?” Mrs. Parton looked at Catherine expectantly.

A moment passed before she realized she had not been paying attention.

“Why, I do believe you are daydreaming, Miss Hart.” Lady Blakemore’s eyes twinkled. “I wonder why.”

As if her faux pas were not sufficient to embarrass her, her cheeks grew warm, a sure indication that a blush had appeared. “I—I...”

Both ladies laughed in a kindly way.

“Never mind, my dear.” Seated to her left, Lady Blakemore set down her teacup and patted Catherine’s hand. “We understand. I am certain you and Lord Winston had an enjoyable outing.”

“Yes, my lady.” Much too enjoyable. “We had no rain, despite the clouds.” They continued to watch her, so she searched her mind for more to say. “Although it was a bit warm.” As if to emphasize her words, her hand took on a life of its own by lifting her fan and waving it furiously.

“Ah.” Mrs. Parton dipped a small pastry into her teacup, then tapped it on the side of the delicate china cup. “Precisely what I had hoped for. A report on the weather.” She laughed merrily before consuming her refreshment.

Lady Blakemore spared her any further need to speak by beginning a new conversation about the entertainments the ladies had discussed earlier in the day. And at this moment, Catherine was far too tired to risk asking them why they found a lowly companion worthy of Lord Winston.

* * *

“I thought Eleanor was banished forever to your country estate.” Edgar’s question grated on Winston’s nerves. When had his cousin become so contrary? “Have you softened toward her?”

“You know very well that it was Father who insisted she stay in Surrey.” And had refused to tell Winston why she was not permitted to return to London. When Winston had received his writ of summons to Parliament, he had not had time to sort out the issue and had told Mother that Father’s dictates must remain in effect.

“Hmm.” Edgar frowned and chewed his lip. “I never understood why. Poor Eleanor.” He glanced at Llewellyn and moved closer to Winston to whisper, “You do not suppose... No, of course not.” His slender face creased with genuine concern.

“What? You must tell me. I insist.”

Edgar sighed deeply, sadly. “How many years has she been in exile? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen.” Winston had been six years old and delighted to have Mother return early from the London Season. She, however, had been plunged into deep depression.

“Do not misunderstand me, I beg you.” Edgar’s eyes reinforced his plea. “How old is Sophia?”

For the second time in five minutes, Winston could not speak or breathe. His sweet young sister, so lively and so dear to him, had turned seventeen last November. What was Edgar suggesting? What did Edgar know? He questioned his cousin with one raised eyebrow.

He shrugged. “There was an incident with Lord—” He slapped a hand over his lips. “But then, it could have meant nothing.” He nodded his head decisively. “It was nothing. I am certain of it.”

Winston refused to ask for more information. Father’s reasons for banishing Mother had been buried with him, and until Winston had assumed the title, he had never tried to guess what those reasons might have been. Now he could not dismiss the cord of concern and suspicion winding through his thoughts.

Too far away to hear their whispered conversation, Llewellyn coughed softly into his gloved hand. Winston nodded to him. “Ask Lady Winston to come in.”

Before the old butler could do his bidding, Mother rushed into the room and crossed to Winston. When she saw Edgar, her eyes flashed briefly. Then she tore off her black bonnet and flung herself into Winston’s arms.

“Oh, my darling boy. I have missed you so.” She was tall enough to reach up and kiss his cheek without too much effort, and the fragrance of lilacs wafted from her dark blond hair, reminding him of home.

“Mother.” Against all good sense and his new, frightening suspicions, his heart gladdened, and he returned her embrace. “What a surprise. Is Sophia with you?”

Mother stepped back, still holding his arms, and nodded. “But she thinks you are angry with us, so she is waiting downstairs in the entry hall. I told her she was being a silly goose.” She smiled, and her gray eyes sparkled, reflecting the color of her silk gown. “Do send for her, my darling, or her heart will break.”

Before Winston could respond, Edgar moved closer and gave Mother an ingratiating smile. “If I am not mistaken, Eleanor, only a week and a year have passed since the late Lord Winston left us, and yet you have put off full mourning.”

Her eyes flashed again, and she looked down her nose at him. “I have.” To Winston, she said, “Mr. Stone found nothing wrong with my wearing half mourning. If you do not approve, I shall return to wearing only black.”

The vicar who held the living at Winston’s home church was a sensible and spiritual gentleman whose opinions Father had always trusted. “If Mr. Stone approves, I concur.” Yet he could not help but wonder whether, now that she could wear somewhat more becoming clothes, she would go in search of that mysterious lord Edgar had mentioned.

What was he thinking? How could he doubt his own mother’s character?

“About Sophia?” Mother broke into his thoughts. “Will you send for her?”

Joy burst into his chest at the thought of seeing his sister, who was the true picture of innocence and purity. “I shall fetch her myself.” He strode across the room and dashed down the front staircase. “Sophia!” In six short months, his pretty but awkward little sister had become a beauty. Her curly blond hair was pinned up in a lady’s coiffure, and her soft pink gown brought roses to her cheeks. She stood in the center of the entryway holding Crumpet and murmuring nonsense into his furry ears. When Winston called her name, she released the cat and ran to him.

“James!” She laughed and cried at the same time. “I mean
Winston,
though I shall never get used to calling you by your titular name.” Like Mother, she flung herself into his arms, and he held her in a tight embrace. Had she not been in mourning for Father all this time, he might have summoned her to London last March for her first Season. Now that the anniversary of their loss had passed, his sister was more than welcome to join him.

Suddenly the weight of his responsibilities toward his sister bore down upon him. In Father’s absence, he was responsible for this precious child, and if Mother had any moral failings, he must make certain she could no longer influence Sophia. Just as when they were children and he had taken her by the hand and led her safely through the forests and woodlands surrounding their home, he would lead her safely through the dangers of London Society.

“Shall we go up?” He took her hand and guided her toward the stairs. Although she did not skip, as she had in childhood, her gait was light as they ascended to the drawing room.

“Mother!” Sophia ran to her with arms extended for an embrace, as if they had not seen each other fewer than ten minutes before.

As they embraced like long-lost friends, Mother gazed over Sophia’s shoulder at Winston, her eyes shining with tears. She must have doubted he would receive them, and not without cause. Yet to be fair to her, he must somehow find out why Father had banished her, no matter how distasteful the truth might be. However, he would not ask Edgar, who now sat in a corner sulking, his nose stuck in the latest copy of
The Gentlemen’s Magazine.

Something must have happened between him and Mother while Winston fetched Sophia, but he would not ask about it. The antipathy between the two was palpable, so any story either might relate to him would be filled with prejudice toward the other. And of course he could not speak to Blakemore about any possible taint upon Mother’s character. He lifted a silent prayer for the friendship of some trustworthy soul in whom he could confide.

Llewellyn stood by the door, his posture straight, his face blank, yet with an expectant demeanor only an experienced butler could exhibit. Annoyed, and yet alerted to his own failing, whatever it might be, Winston searched his mind. Sometimes the Welshman treated him as if he were still a schoolboy. And often when his butler was present, it seemed as if Father were still in the room, making certain Winston did everything correctly. Their relationship did not seem quite right to him, but he had no idea how to repair it.

Arm in arm with Sophia, Mother crossed the room to his side. “My dear, you must carry on with your plans for the evening and not concern yourself about us. Our journey was long, and so we require only a small repast in our rooms. I am certain Llewellyn will relay the message to your cook.” She spoke so casually, Winston could not be offended by her taking control. After all, she had managed their country estate very well, despite Father’s frequent contradictions to her orders.

“If that will please you, Mother. And of course you may have your choice of rooms.” Rewarded by her pretty smile, so like Sophia’s, he nodded to Llewellyn.

“Yes, my lord.” The butler returned a properly shallow bow and departed. After more kisses and embraces, the ladies followed him out.

Edgar sauntered over to Winston, worry written across his pale features. “Well, now you have a dilemma. How will you see to dear Sophia’s debut? The Season is well spent for such celebrations.” His brow furrowed thoughtfully. “Though I have no doubt that is the reason Eleanor brought her along with her.”

Did he mean to suggest Mother had another purpose for coming to London? It was another question he would not ask his cousin. “I have the same concern about my sister’s debut. I doubt such an affair can be accomplished hastily.” Winston exhaled a long breath as he considered possible solutions. “Perhaps Mrs. Parton can advise us. She has launched two daughters, not to mention her former companion, and has seen them all successfully wed.” Another thought slowed his racing mind. “But of course, Sophia is very young. Does a young lady make her debut before her guardians have decided she is ready for marriage?”

“Why do you ask me about such things?” Edgar eyed him with mild annoyance. “I have no daughters, only a son who has failed to impress his tutors.”

Pity for young Marcus welled up within Winston’s heart. Thin and frail like his father, he was nonetheless expected to excel in ways that Edgar never had. Instead of responding, Winston decided to search for a footman, for he still had not had his tea. At the door, he met Llewellyn.

“My lord, Mr. Grenville is here to see you. Are you in?”

“Mr. Grenville. Ah, yes.” Winston had forgotten about this appointment. Fortunately, he was home to greet the minister. In fact, this seemed like an answer to his prayer for a confidant. He silently said a prayer of thanks, as Father had always taught him to do.

Edgar, however, muttered an uncharacteristic oath. “Do send him away, Winston. I cannot endure a clergyman tonight, not while I eat.”

Winston eyed his cousin. “You are staying for supper?”

Edgar winced as if struck, and his posture slumped. “Forgive me, but do I not have an open invitation to sup with you?” The pain in his voice cut into Winston like a knife.

“Forgive
me,
cousin. Yes, of course you are always welcome here. But I must speak with Mr. Grenville.”

“So be it.” Edgar waved his hand impatiently and strode toward the side door. “I shall be in your office when you are finished.” Before Winston could respond—or send him to a different room—he made his escape.

Only a snippet of worry scratched at the back of his mind over the confidential papers tucked in his unlocked desk drawer, letters Lord Blakemore had entrusted to him just yesterday as they departed Westminster after the House of Lords had adjourned.

Nonsense.
Edgar was completely trustworthy. Winston would have to examine this silly disquiet about him at a later time.