FALLING FOR THE ENEMY

Miss Catherine Hart may be merely a paid companion, but she’s the loveliest creature baron Lord Winston has ever encountered. The only obstacle is determining the mysterious Miss Hart’s social pedigree before the handsome diplomat can court her in earnest.

Revenge, not romance, led Catherine Du Coeur to hide her aristocratic name and seek out the man who accused her father of treason. She expected a cold-hearted cad, but Winston appears honorable and compassionate. Against all odds, Catherine is drawn to the very adversary she intended to ruin. And soon both will face a choice—one involving pride, old loyalties and forgiveness.

“My dear Miss Hart.”

Lord Winston moved to the chair beside her, took her hand and brushed his thumb across her damp face. “It was my privilege and honor to shield you.” His green eyes shone with an ardor she had never imagined she would receive even in her most sublime girlhood dreams.

The footman cleared his throat, the sound of it holding a slightly menacing hum.

Lord Winston blinked, grinned sheepishly and sat back in his chair. “There is another matter in the book that disturbed me.”

Catherine inhaled deeply to recover herself. “And that is?” The words came out on a breathy sigh.

This time, Lord Winston had the grace to ignore her discomfiture. “I cannot think well of Edward Ferrars because of his secret engagement. He was living a lie, which no gentleman should ever do if he expects to be highly regarded. I simply cannot tolerate a liar.”

As if cold water had been dashed in her face, Catherine’s mind and emotions cleared, and her giddy, girlish sensibilities yielded to good sense.

LOUISE M. GOUGE

has been married to her husband, David, for forty-eight years. They have four children and seven grand-children. Louise always had an active imagination, thinking up stories for her friends, classmates and family, but seldom writing them down. At a friend’s insistence, in 1984 she finally began to type up her latest idea. Before trying to find a publisher, Louise returned to college, earning a B.A. in English/creative writing and a master’s degree in liberalstudies. She reworked that first novel based on what she had learned and sold it to a major Christian publisher. Louise then worked in television marketing for a short time before becoming a college English/humanities instructor. She has had thirteen novels published, several of which have earned multiple awards, including the 2006 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Award. Please visit her website at http://blog.Louisemgouge.com.

A Lady of Quality

Louise M. Gouge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that

not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: Not of works, lest any man should boast.

—Ephesians 2:8–9

This book is dedicated to my beloved husband, David, who has stood by my side and encouraged me through my entire writing career. I would also like to thank Laurie Alice Eakes, Nancy Mayer and the Beau Monde Chapter of RWA for helping with my research into the Regency era. Thank you, Ramona K. Cecil, for your invaluable critiques and suggestions. Merci beaucoup to Leslie Carroll for translating my French passages. And of course, many thanks to Rachel Burkot,

my wonderful Love Inspired Historical editor,

whose insights always improve my stories.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

London, England

June 1814

“En garde.”

Lord Winston took his position on the fencing strip and injected as much boredom and hauteur into his voice as he could without insulting his young opponent. Why Monsieur Angelus had assigned him this tall, almost gangly youth as a sparring partner, Winston could not guess. His purpose in patronizing this particular academy was to meet with London’s most challenging adversaries. But today, the fencing master had paired him with someone who had the look of an untried novice, a youth so green that he wore a protective mask. When they had lifted their Italian foils in their opening salute to each other, Winston could even see a slight tremor in the boy’s hand, a sure sign he would have no trouble dispensing with him.

“Mais non, monsieur.” Flawless French spoken in an alto tone revealed that the youth’s voice had not yet changed. What a foolish youngster to come out and play with grown gentlemen. “Vous en garde.”

So he meant to launch the first attack. Winston smirked. “Très bien, enfant. Proceed.” Expecting a wild lunge, he prepared to deflect the boy’s foil and make quick work of this match so he could advance to a more exciting opponent.

But the aim was steady as he thrust his sword at Winston’s heart. Winston jumped back to avoid the “fatal” touch of the button-shielded weapon on his padded vest. Interesting. Now he truly was on guard, for the youth was proving to be a real adversary. Winston lunged, searching for a weakness that he usually found in an opponent’s eyes. But that ridiculous mask hid such unintentional signals. No doubt he was a pretty boy whose mother demanded that he wear the unmanly protection.

The boy grunted softly as he sidestepped to avoid the touch, holding his foil in the proper defensive position. With a clink of metal on metal, their two saucer-shaped hilts caught and held, and Winston stared into the mesh of the mask, seeking a weakness in the dark, shadowed eyes. All he saw was hatred.

For the briefest instant, shock overrode his customary coolness in this sport. Why should this stranger despise him? No doubt he was a Napoleon sympathizer, bitter over his emperor’s recent defeat and exile. Winston would happily teach him a lesson in British superiority. He shoved the boy away and took a more aggressive tack. Using every trick his father and Monsieur Angelus had taught him, he bore down upon his opponent with aggressive parries and rapid ripostes, at last striking the boy’s right hand hard with his buttoned blade.

The lad gasped and dropped his foil, then straightened and spread his arms to accept the “fatal” touch.

Unexpected compassion filled Winston’s chest. For his surprising skill, the lad deserved another chance. “Not at all, my boy.” He pointed his weapon at the dropped sword. “Pick it up.”

Without a word of gratitude, the Frenchman grasped the foil with his left hand and lunged at Winston. Another surprise from this astonishing foe. Again they parried back and forth. Their ripostes increased in speed. The metallic clink of the blades grew louder, the boy’s grunts more frequent. Winston found himself breathless, as well. He became aware of other gentlemen stopping their own matches to watch. Good. That was exactly the kind of attention he required in his quest for political influence, especially since the Duke of Kent could be among the onlookers.

In the second it took for Winston to foolishly locate the king’s son, the French youth found an opening and lunged. Warning cries went up from the crowd, and Winston saw the unshielded foil coming at his heart. Fear shot through him. Did the boy mean to kill him? No, for he hesitated, doubtless aware of the lethal—and illegal—danger he was imposing upon his opponent. Winston seized the moment to deflect the weapon and strike his own blow on the heart-shaped target on his opponent’s padded vest.

“Touché.” Winston straightened, unable to hide a triumphant smirk amid the applause of the other gentlemen.

The boy should have lifted his foil in a salute. Should have congratulated Winston on his victory. Should have removed that ridiculous mask to reveal his identity.

Instead, he threw down his weapon and shoved his way through the crowd, disappearing down a back corridor, utterly depriving Winston of his chance to act the gracious victor.

* * *

Catherine du Coeur thought her heart might leap from her chest. Pulling off her mask, she stumbled against the wall, but caught herself from falling as she scurried down the back corridor of Monsieur Angelus’s fencing academy.

Never in her twenty years had she encountered such arrogance. True, she knew little of London’s aristocracy, but Lord Winston’s pride would put a peacock to shame. Vanity and conceit were written across his all-too-handsome face, which was framed with blond hair so curly she could almost envy him. Then there were those intense gray-green eyes and that straight, narrow nose he’d peered down to look at her as if she were some sort of inferior being. She could see from the way he carried himself, the way he ruthlessly defeated her, that he would have no scruples about using false evidence to send an innocent Christian gentleman to the gallows.

Perhaps she was just making excuses. God had been merciful in staying her hand when she had the chance to plunge the unprotected foil into the baron’s evil heart. No, she would not be the one to kill him, merely the one to expose and destroy him for what he did to Papa.

“Very clever, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff came out of the shadows at the back door and flung her black woolen cloak around her shoulders. “How did you remove the button?” He gave her arm a paternal pat. “And why did you hesitate? You could have killed Winston and been done with it.”

She pulled the hood over her head. “Hurry. We must get away before anyone pursues us.” To gain her admittance to the academy, Mr. Radcliff had forged a letter as if from Papa to Monsieur Angelus, who was all too willing to let his old friend’s “son” fence at the Haymarket academy. She could not imagine what Mr. Radcliff included in the letter to persuade Monsieur Angelus to overlook the scandal and lies attached to Papa’s name. But it would only add to her father’s disgrace if that “son” was discovered to be a girl.

They exited the back door of the elegant stone building into the sweltering heat and entered the waiting hackney. Only when they were seated and on their way could Catherine breathe out a long sigh of relief. When she inhaled, the stink of horses and sewage nearly sickened her. How she longed for her country home, but until Papa’s name was cleared, she must endure the miseries of a London summer.

“I did not remove the button. It broke off when the baron knocked my foil to the floor.”

“Ah.” He pointed to the gloved hand Lord Winston struck. “Is the injury severe?”

“’Tis nothing at all.” No doubt bruised, but fortunately, ladies wore gloves at all times, even in the summer, so she could keep the injury covered. She brushed back her hood and pulled a linen handkerchief from her sleeve to mop away the perspiration streaming down her face. “Is London always this hot?”

“It is unusually warm this year.” Mr. Radcliff retrieved a black linen fan and waved it before his pale, slender face. Understanding filled his dark gray eyes, and she could see he would ask no more questions about her duel with Winston. This gentleman knew she could not commit murder. Just as Papa had always done, he was letting her learn through her experiences. And today she had learned much about Lord Winston. Now she could plot her revenge.

She gazed at Mr. Radcliff fondly across the small carriage. How like an uncle he was with his care for her family. Vaguely resembling his cousin, Lord Winston, he was perhaps five and forty years old, a little older than Papa and Mama. But he appeared much older due to his thin, frail body and wispy gray hair. The three of them had been friends long ago. This winter past, when Lord Winston had falsely accused Papa of being a Bonapartist and conspiring to assassinate the French king, who had taken refuge in England, Mr. Radcliff had helped Papa escape imprisonment. Then he befriended the family when no one else would. Now, as secretary to Lord Blakemore, he had secured a position for Catherine as Lady Blakemore’s companion, providing her with fabricated references to keep anyone from associating her with someone all deemed a would-be assassin. Catherine’s family owed him so much, but he asked nothing in return for all of his kindnesses.

A rush of gratitude swept into her chest. “Dear friend, I wish you could attend the marchioness’s ball this evening.” She gave him a playful smile, such as she might bestow upon Papa. “I would dance every dance with you.”

“What?” He chuckled. “And scandalize your gracious employer, not to mention my beloved wife?” His expression fell. “No, no, my dear. Such gaiety is not for the likes of me. I had my youth. Now it is your turn.”

She guessed he had suffered some great loss, but she would not ask him about it lest it remind him of his sorrows. Perhaps in helping her, he was somehow finding comfort.

The hackney wended its way through the London traffic much too slowly for Catherine’s taste. Today was her half day off, and she needed to be back at Blakemore House soon to prepare for the ball. But Lady Blakemore was a tolerant employer, so she did not worry excessively. Moreover, this afternoon’s charade had served an important purpose. She had evaluated her enemy and knew his greatest weakness, which was nothing short of overweening pride. How easy it would be to use that fault to destroy him or at the least force him to admit that his evidence against Papa was false.

She would somehow arrange an introduction, flatter him and win his friendship, perhaps even his love, then coax him into confessing his crime to her. Last, she would go to Lord Blakemore and beseech him to ruin Lord Winston with the information. Even though he was a peer, Winston would be punished, perhaps imprisoned. Papa would be absolved of all guilt and could return home. Only then would she be satisfied with her revenge.

A vague memory scratched at the back of her mind, a Bible verse advising that vengeance belonged to God alone. But surely the Almighty would understand she was the only one who could save Papa from execution for a crime he did not commit.

* * *

Winston surveyed the ballroom, looking for another partner. Of the three young ladies with whom he had already danced, not one excited his interest. Their mutual indifference was obvious in the way they continued to cast glances at the uniformed soldiers who dotted the room like a measles rash. Not that he would have any of the silly chits, but surely his wealth, his pedigree and his barony of writ that extended back to the days of Henry III should garner some interest among the marriageable misses in Society. No doubt it was the uniform. Had Father not forbidden Winston to join His Majesty’s army to fight Napoleon, he, too, could be attracting a bevy of colorful butterflies.

What vain and foolish thoughts. What care did he have for their frivolous choices? His features and physique were passable, or at least not repulsive, yet he would much rather strengthen his inner man, his character, as Father had always instructed from the Scriptures. Likewise, in his necessary pursuit of a wife, he must search for a sensible, refined lady of good pedigree. Yet after twice losing his targets to other gentlemen, his confidence had begun to falter, especially tonight as the gallant, crimson-coated heroes forced him to the sidelines. On the other hand, what better place to observe which young ladies might have the essential character his wife must possess?

He must not make the same mistake Father made some twenty-five years ago. After burying two wives and their unborn children, the previous Lord Winston married a lady thirty-two years his junior in his final attempt to produce a living heir. Such a tenuous beginning always humbled Winston, for he and his sister would not exist had those poor souls not perished. How often he wondered if he would ever live up to God’s expectations for him—or Father’s. Certainly Mother had not. Although Winston loved her, he had long wondered what shortcoming had caused Father to banish her to their country estate some seventeen years ago, while Winston was a small boy.

But again, these were vain and foolish thoughts. He must concentrate on his search and find a sensible lady of good family and connections. Perhaps if she were plain, she would not be inclined to silliness. He would leave the silly girls to their soldiers. If this evening did not produce at least one candidate for him to pursue, he would be forced to accept Countess Lieven’s invitation to Almack’s tomorrow evening, a prospect he did not find agreeable, despite the countess’s well-regarded political influence.

Across the room, Miss Waddington stood chatting with her mother, Lady Grandly. The young lady had the deportment required of a diplomat’s wife, but she was given to occasional giggling. Winston shuddered. Perhaps he could school it out of her. With a sigh, he began his trek toward her. Although she had refused him the last time, perhaps she would look with favor on him this time.

Guests whirled about the floor in a waltz, obscuring his view of the lady, so he skirted the dancers and ambled toward her. At that moment, a red uniform bowed over her hand. Winston spun away with not a whit of disappointment. Yet when he noticed newlyweds Lord and Lady Greystone nearby, gazing at each other with obvious adoration, a surprising pang struck his chest. What would it be like to find a lady who loved him, one whom he could love in return? How did a gentleman go about finding such a jewel? Considering Father’s apparent disappointment with Mother, Winston feared he would make the same mistake in his haste to wed. And wed he must. A wife was as essential to a diplomat as linguistic skills. Yet here he stood in a room full of young ladies, utterly unable even to find a supper partner, much less a candidate to wed.

He clenched his jaw. If this ball were not so important to his career, he would leave. But one simply did not leave the marquess’s ball before supper. Perhaps he should give up his quest for the evening and find an old dowager to dine with. He had always appreciated the wisdom of the older generation, and most of them seemed to find his company agreeable, as well.

“Ah, there you are, Winston.” Lady Blakemore accosted him near the refreshment table. “I must ask a favor of you.”

At last Providence smiled upon him. “Of course, my lady.” He bowed over the tall countess’s hand, eager to do her bidding. Her husband was the very diplomat with whom Winston hoped to serve in France. He would gladly dance and dine with her. “Ask what you will, and I shall do it.”

She took his arm and, rather than move toward the dance floor, drew him toward a dark-haired young lady seated near the wall and staring down at the skirt of her light green gown. “Winston, this is Miss Hart. I promised her the young men would be lining up to dance with her, but she has not been asked to stand up for a single set. Do save me from being a liar.”

“Lady Blakemore!” Although the young lady did not look up, Winston could see that her cheeks had turned a deep pink.

Pity welled up inside him. Obviously this poor girl was the countess’s hired companion and did not have the makings of any nobleman’s wife, much less a diplomat’s. But surely one gentleman in this room could show her a little kindness and courtesy without granting her too much consequence or harming his own interests. With no one else to fill that office, he held out his hand.

“Miss Hart, may I have the honor of this dance? You see, I have lost my partner to another gentleman, and only you can rescue me from utter mortification.”

Gasping, she looked up sharply and stared at him.

For an instant, he could not breathe as a new sort of shock slammed into his chest. Never in his three and twenty years had he seen a more exquisite female face. A perfect oval, with a fetching widow’s peak, though he doubted this young lady was a widow. Sparkling dark brown eyes fringed by long black lashes. He had never before noticed any lady’s eyelashes. A faint pink blush of chagrin remained on her ivory cheeks, and her full, smooth lips invited— But he would not think such an inappropriate thought.

She placed her hand in his and slowly rose. Again shock pummeled him, for the graceful ascent of her slender form lifted the top of her thick, smooth coiffeur to perhaps three inches short of his own height of almost six feet. Miss Hart was by far the most elegant, dare he say regal lady he had ever set eyes upon. He stood staring, unable to move until she gazed up at him soulfully and smiled.

“I thank you for your gallantry, Lord Winston. Perhaps we shall rescue each other from mortification.” The music of her dulcet alto voice settled into him like the purr of his favorite cat.

* * *

Catherine could hardly control her laughter. Attracting Lord Winston’s interest was far easier than she had ever imagined. Spending her entire life in the country, she’d had little to do with gentlemen of her station, for when Mama married an impoverished French comte fleeing the Reign of Terror, her family had not entirely welcomed the alliance. Further, she had never counted her appearance as her best asset, for she was too slender, and her unusual height often brought more disdain than admiration.

But Lord Winston’s awestruck expression and obvious approval revealed a certain guilelessness at odds with the arrogance he had displayed at Monsieur Angelus’s academy this afternoon. In fact, she had to admit she admired him in return, at least in a physical sense. His height exceeded hers by perhaps three or four inches, and his impossibly curly blond hair had been coiffed with care, unlike the sweat-dampened coils he had sported after their match.

With a wave of her fan, she made a show of dismissing her feigned chagrin over Lady Blakemore’s comment regarding her lack of dance partners. Her employer had no idea that Catherine had refused several invitations. Of course, Society decreed that once a young lady refused an offer from one gentleman, she must not accept another for the entire evening. But after they all turned their backs on Papa, she had little care for Society’s dictates.

Although the dancers were assembling, the baron did not move, but continued to gaze at her, a half smile on his finely sculpted lips.

She nodded toward the dance floor. “Shall we?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” As he led her to the floor, the smile that lit his entire face gave him a charmingly youthful appearance.

Now a giddy feeling stirred within Catherine, but she forced herself to remember why she was here. This man—she would not think of him as a gentleman—was not some innocent, harmless soul. He was responsible for the destruction of her family. Even now, Mama, Lucien and Isabella lived under the constant threat of being thrown out of Mama’s ancestral home, all the while suffering the indignities heaped upon the relatives of a suspected traitor and assassin.

With great difficulty, Catherine forced her mind to the present, forced her hand to relax in Lord Winston’s gentle grasp as they joined other guests for a country dance. At the end of the line, he released her to stand opposite with the other ladies as more couples continued to join them. The music began, and the couple at the top of the line set out on a lively pattern of steps, weaving in and out of the lines as they moved from one end to the other.

During the dance, conversation with the baron was impossible, for everyone had to pay attention to their own movements. So Catherine spoke with her eyes. Not as the silly, simpering girls flirted outrageously with their targeted gentlemen, but with shy glances and half smiles, as if she were thanking him for his gallant rescue. She could not fail to notice that his returning glances held a surprising amount of kindness.

Again she thrust away such generous thoughts. This afternoon she had seen his true heart as they fenced. In the fierce glare in his gray-green eyes, she could see that he would gladly have killed her in a real duel, just as he had, in effect, murdered Papa’s reputation. Now she would use his obvious admiration to win his affection while she searched out the secrets that would destroy him and acquit Papa.

A nagging memory surfaced. When she was a child, her governess had read her wonderful stories of heroic people in the Old Testament. While she had always imagined herself a Ruth or a Deborah, this evening the only biblical woman who came to mind was the temptress Delilah, who wheedled from Samson his deepest secret so his enemies could defeat him. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether Delilah’s actions had actually been justified.

* * *

Winston did not much care for dancing, but the exercise was a necessary evil for social, and therefore political, purposes. Yet for the first time in his life, he was enjoying a dance. Miss Hart kept glancing at him in the most charming way, her lovely dark brown eyes twinkling in the ballroom’s bright candlelight. Soon it was their turn to wend their way down the line, threading in and out between the other dancers. Once they successfully reached the bottom, she offered him a triumphant smirk, and he returned a little bow. Perhaps he should reconsider this matter of dancing.

Still, the set lasted far too long. He was eager to become better acquainted with her and discover her family connections. Upon further thought, he considered that as Lady Blakemore’s companion, no doubt she was an impoverished lady of good family. No lady hired a companion of inferior birth, for such a woman would not be permitted into the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. Once Winston discovered Miss Hart’s pedigree, he would know whether or not to launch a pursuit.

At last the music ended, and the guests applauded, then proceeded to the dining room two by two in order of precedence, led by the marchioness on the arm of a duke.

Winston bowed to his partner. “Miss Hart, I consider myself the most fortunate of men that you will be my dinner companion this evening.” He was not experienced in flattery, but apparently he had chosen the right words, if the lady’s smile and blush of pleasure were any indication.

“I thank you, sir.” She took his offered arm, but winced slightly when he placed his hand over her gloved one.

He quickly withdrew. “Forgive me. Did I cause you pain?”

Her eyes widened briefly, then she leaned close to him and whispered soberly, “If you promise not to tell anyone, I will confess that I was cruelly wounded today.”

“What?” Winston stopped abruptly, staring down at her as rage rose in his chest. “Who would dare to harm you?” This called for swift and severe punishment. “You must permit me to call upon this person to account for his actions.”

Now she laughed. “Do you like cats, Lord Winston?”

For a moment, he could not grasp her meaning. Then understanding dispelled his anger. “Ah, I see. You encountered a disagreeable feline.”

She tilted her head and smiled. Great mercy, she did have a striking smile. What would it be like to see that beautiful expression every day of his life?

No, it was far too soon for such thoughts. He must not be drawn in by mere looks, which he often speculated had been Father’s undoing when he wed Mother. He cleared his throat. “To answer your question—” he resumed walking, and she easily followed his lead, as if they had often walked together “—yes, I do like cats.” His moment of enjoyment was cut short by a worrisome thought. “I am certain you are aware that cat scratches can lead to serious illness. Did you treat the injury?”

Again, her eyes widened, and she looked away with a frown. “Oh, yes.” Another glance, another smile, and his heart tripped. “Do let us forget it.”

He would be pleased to offer his physician’s services to examine the wound, but that would suggest that Lady Blakemore had neglected her companion’s health. “As you wish, Miss Hart.”

They descended the wide, elegant staircase to the vast second-floor dining hall. Once there, and hoping to find two empty chairs near someone of influence in the diplomatic corps, Winston searched around the long table.

“May I assist you, milord?” A footman in red livery extended a gloved hand toward two vacant places.

“Will this suit you, Miss Hart?” Winston noticed the vibrant curiosity in her dark eyes. Perhaps this was her first formal outing with Lady Blakemore. And perhaps for just this one evening, he could forget his ambitions and do all in his power to ensure a pleasant experience for the lady at his side.

“Oh, yes. I thank you.” She smiled at the footman who was pulling out her chair.

Winston made a mental note to explain to her that she need not acknowledge the footman. The best servants were those who received their orders and performed their duties as if almost invisible. Acknowledgments often embarrassed them. But such schooling would come later, should there be a later for himself and the young lady.

In the next chair, Lord Rettig lounged, goblet in hand, but offered them only a brief glance before sipping his wine.

Warmth crept up Winston’s neck. Like him, Rettig was a baron, one with no special distinctions that qualified him to give his equals the cut. Before the footman could finish pulling the chair out for Miss Hart, Winston held up his hand to stop him so that he might test the waters.

“Miss Hart, may I present Lord Rettig.” If the baron did not rise for the introduction, he would instruct the footman to find them another place.

Rettig did not rise. He merely looked the lady up and down through his quizzing glass—a despicable practice meant to put inferiors in their places—and yawned.

“Ah, yes. Lady Blakemore’s...companion.” His tone dripped with disdain, and his lips curled into an arrogant sneer. He turned decidedly away to his own supper partner, a lady Winston did not know. Nor was an introduction forthcoming.

Winston fisted his hands at his side, longing to strike that sneer from Rettig’s face. But Father’s scriptural admonition echoed in his mind. Be slow to wrath, my son. For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God. He took a quiet, deep breath and addressed the footman. “I think we would prefer—” He surveyed the table for another pair of empty chairs.

“Oh, do let us sit here.” Miss Hart blinked her lovely eyes and leaned close to him, sending a whiff of rose-scented perfume his way. “The Dowager Lady Beckwith, on your left, is a dear old soul, though a bit deaf.” Her whisper fanned over his cheek and sent a pleasant sensation down his neck. “Perhaps we can make her evening enjoyable.” She nodded toward the lady’s partner, a rakish sort obviously more interested in the pretty young miss on his other side.

Winston’s heart lightened at Miss Hart’s kindness. “Yes, of course.” How generous and even diplomatic of her to think of an old woman’s enjoyment rather than her own.

As the footman resumed his attempts to seat them, the dowager viscountess looked up and gave Miss Hart a beneficent smile. “Ah, there you are, Kitty. I was hoping to see you this evening.”

Beside him, Miss Hart jolted.

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.

Chapter Three

“Come in, Edgar.” Winston beckoned his cousin Radcliff into the sunny breakfast room of his Grosvenor Square town house. “Have you eaten? My cook has laid out far too much food for one person.” He selected eggs, rolls and sausages from the oak sideboard and moved toward the head of the table. Last night at Lord Drayton’s ball, he had been too occupied with Miss Hart to have much appetite. Now his stomach rumbled in complaint over such neglect.

“Good morning, Winston.” Radcliff’s tone, always cheerful, sounded particularly good-humored this morning. “Did you enjoy last evening?” He took a plate and studied the selection of food.

“A very grand affair.” Winston hesitated to mention Miss Hart, lest nothing come of his interest in her. As charming as the young lady had seemed last night, this morning his father’s admonitions came to mind, warning him against haste in forming any alliance. Still, he looked forward to this afternoon when he would visit Blakemore and have tea with his wife and her companion. He considered asking Lady Blakemore’s permission to take the young lady for a drive, but decided such a move would have to wait until he learned of her family connections. And he really must do that today.

“Meet anyone interesting?” Edgar took the chair adjacent to Winston’s and laid a linen serviette across his lap. He leaned toward Winston and arched his eyebrows to punctuate his question, as if he knew the answer.

Winston almost choked on his buttered roll. Edgar had always seemed able to read his mind. To deflect the question, he eyed his cousin’s plate, which held a single sausage and one roll. “Is that all you want?” As sanguine as he felt this morning, he would gladly feed the world. After months of fruitless searching for a wife, perhaps he was close to achieving his goal.

Edgar accepted a cup of coffee from the footman. “I never know whether Blakemore will invite me to join him for breakfast or not.” He sipped his beverage. “It’s always best to arrive for work a little hungry so as not to offend him. Unfortunately, I cannot depend upon his feeding me, so I must eat something.” He emitted a rueful chuckle.

“Indeed?” Winston grimaced at the thought. His cousin was as thin as a banister spindle and could ill afford to miss a meal. As Blakemore’s secretary, surely he had the liberty to nourish himself in the kitchen in the course of a day’s work. “Well, you must eat your fill here as often as you like before going to work.”

“I thank you for your generosity. But let us not dwell upon my eating habits. Must I repeat my question, cousin?” Edgar gave him a knowing smirk. “Did you meet anyone interesting last evening? A young lady, perhaps?”

Winston bit into a sausage to avoid answering, savoring the blend of spices with which his chef had seasoned it. How annoying that Edgar was so persistent. But then, this was his dear cousin, who had known him all his life. Surely he could confide in him.

“Very well, yes, I did meet a young lady.” He waved to the footman to refill his coffee cup, then made a great ceremony of adding sugar and cream before taking a sip. Then adding more sugar.

Edgar laughed. “You know I will not leave until you tell me everything.”

Winston’s heart lightened at this prompting. Edgar cared deeply for him, even though his birth had displaced his cousin as Father’s heir. Any other gentleman might resent it, but Edgar had never appeared to covet the title or the wealth, even though he had been relegated to the edges of Society and forced to earn his living, a shame for any aristocrat.

“Her name is Miss Hart, and she is Lady Blakemore’s companion.” There. He confessed it. Now he sat back and waited for the honest opinion that would doubtless be forthcoming.

Edgar gaped at him for a full ten seconds. “That chit? Why, my dear, naive cousin, I never would have imagined that quiet little mouse would dare to set her cap for a peer of the realm.” He snorted out his disgust. “Why, she has no family to speak of. No name, no dowry. Why would you permit some scheming girl like that to engage your heart?” He rose from his chair and paced the length of the table and back. “Well, then, go ahead. Fall in love with her. But do not speak of marriage. Set her up in her own house and...you know.”

For several moments, Winston could only watch his cousin in stunned silence. Then heat blasted up his neck and into his face. He stood and slammed his serviette down on the table. “You will not speak of her in that manner. I am convinced she is a lady. Do you even know her?” Hands fisted, he took a step toward his cousin.

Edgar blinked but did not move. Then his breath seemed to go out of him. “Forgive me, cousin.” He set a hand on Winston’s shoulder. “She and I are employed in the same house, but we have barely spoken two words to one another. And I must admit that I have never observed anything but proper comportment on her part.” He gave Winston a sad smile. “Please permit me to explain myself. I wish only the best for you. With your ancient and well-respected title, you could marry an earl’s daughter, even a duke’s, someone to advance your position in Society and give you connections and influence in that diplomatic career you aspire to. Perhaps even snare that earldom Old Farmer George promised your father. Why choose a girl who is doubtless a mere gentlewoman and can provide none of that?”

Despite his disapproval of Edgar’s impertinent reference to their poor, mad sovereign, Winston’s anger evaporated, replaced by gratitude for his cousin’s concerns. “I cannot disagree with what you say. Be assured that I am not in any hurry to marry Miss Hart after chatting with her for a single evening. I merely find her appealing. And, after all, one does hope to possess some degree of affection for his wife, as you feel for Emily.”

Edgar’s expression seemed to twist into disgust, and he turned away. Had Winston been mistaken about Edgar’s love for his wife? Yet when his cousin faced him again, his genial smile had returned. “Yes, one does wish to love and be loved. So what is your plan to woo this little...this young lady?” His words dispelled Winston’s concerns.

“After my appointment with Lord Blakemore, for which I thank you, dear cousin—” he punctuated his gratitude with a nod and received one in return “—I will take tea with Lady Blakemore and Miss Hart. If all goes well and Miss Hart’s family connections prove acceptable, I may ask the countess for permission to take her for a carriage ride. That is, if you do not think it too soon...or improper...for such an outing.”

“You may be certain that Lady Blakemore will decide what is proper regarding Miss Hart. But you must remember that ladies hire companions to keep at their sides for their own convenience, not to marry them off.” Edgar blew out a sigh of apparent frustration, and Winston felt for a moment like a foolish schoolboy. “But if you insist upon this plan, which carriage will you take? What have you purchased since coming to London?”

Consternation swept over Winston. “I never thought to purchase a new carriage for town. Father’s old ones stored in the mews could use some repair, but—” He had already spent a large sum to replace the roof of this town house, which had languished uninhabited for six years during Father’s final illness.

“But nothing!” Edgar huffed with indignation. “How can you take a young lady out for a drive in a shabby conveyance? You would become Society’s laughingstock. No, no, you must postpone your outing until you have a new one. A landau, a barouche, a coach. No, not a coach. It must be an open carriage to protect the young lady’s reputation. You must have a landau. And a matched pair of horses, of course. You do have a matched pair?” He clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his pacing across the parquet floor, as if the fate of England depended upon the matter.

“Yes, of course. Some of Father’s best cattle from home.” Winston scratched his chin, partly amused by Edgar’s antics, partly chagrined by his own lack of forethought. “But there’s no time to order a new landau. My appointment with Lord Blakemore is in a few hours, and Lady Blakemore will expect me to stay for tea, as I promised. Perhaps I can borrow Mrs. Parton’s new landau.”

Edgar chewed his lip. “Yes, that’s just the thing. You must send her a note straightaway, and I’ll wager she will give you whatever you wish. All of our relatives have always done that, have they not?” A hint of pain clouded his thin features, a haunted look that often appeared when they discussed their family.

Winston never knew how to answer his cousin in this matter. In truth, Mrs. Parton, their distant relation, had spoiled Winston, except in the matter of Lady Beatrice, for whom she had favored Lord Greystone. But she had also been kind to Edgar. Perhaps Edgar feared Winston would neglect their friendship if...when he married.

His cousin’s ingratiating smile canceled such concerns. “Now, what about your clothes?”

Winston looked down at his black suit, which was miraculously free of cat hair thanks to the labors of his valet and the footmen keeping Crumpet out of the breakfast room. The little rascal was an excellent mouser, but he did love to get into mischief and was not always easy to apprehend when he escaped Winston’s suite. “Yes? What about them?”

“Dear boy.” Edgar posted his fists at his waist. “Why do you insist upon wearing this somber black all the time?” He waved a dismissive hand toward Winston’s suit. “You have the appearance of a country vicar.”

Winston endured his scolding with good humor. “As I have told you before, because this blond hair gives me the look of a sixteen-year-old and black makes me look older.” Never mind his annoying curls, which his valet had given up trying to control.

“Boring, actually.” Edgar waved a hand in the air. “Too late to do anything about that for today, but you must see your tailor soon and get some color into your wardrobe.”

“Yes, Edgar.” He had no intention of changing his wardrobe.

“Well, I must be off. Blakemore does not abide tardiness.” Edgar snatched a roll from the sideboard and stuck it into his pocket as he walked from the room.

That simple gesture, coupled with his cousin’s genuine concerns for him, stirred Winston’s soul and caused him to love Edgar all the more. How he wished Father had not thought so little of his former heir, but perhaps Winston could somehow make it up to him in the years to come.

A hearty sneeze in the hallway interrupted his trip back to the breakfast table.

“Get that beast away from me.” Edgar’s angry words shattered the usual calm of the town house.

Winston hurried to the door in time to see a footman seize Crumpet the instant before Edgar’s violent kick could make contact with its furry rump. Crumpet twisted in the man’s hands with a hiss and swung a paw at his cousin, claws extended.

“Sorry, sir.” John Footman grimaced as he caught sight of Winston. “Sorry, m’lord. He got away from me.” He clutched the golden creature and murmured, “There now, laddie, shame on you for botherin’ his lordship’s guest.”

Edgar gave another violent sneeze, glared at Crumpet, swung a grimacing smile at Winston and hastened down the front stairway.

“Sorry, m’lord,” the footman repeated.

“Never mind, John.” He took Crumpet from his servant and cradled him against his chest. As if blown by the wind, golden cat hairs instantly appeared on the front and sleeves of his black jacket. But Crumpet’s purring soothed away any concerns over his appearance. After all, Parliament did not meet on Wednesdays, and he had plenty of time to have his valet brush away the fur before his appointment with Lord Blakemore.

He recalled Miss Hart’s comment about only evil coming from people who did not like cats, but he would have to tell her of one exception. Poor Edgar could not be blamed if the beasts made him sneeze. Such an affliction did not mean that his cousin was evil. Not by any means.

At the thought of seeing Miss Hart again, warmth spread through his chest much like the effects of Crumpet’s purring. Neither of the two other ladies he had attempted to court this Season had generated such feelings. But Winston would heed Edgar’s cautions and make certain this young lady possessed sufficient family connections before launching a full pursuit.

* * *

No matter what Catherine did to her hair, even using a round, hot iron that scorched her stubborn locks, she could not force it to curl. She had never thought much about her coiffure until last evening’s ball, where she observed that most young ladies wore masses of pretty ringlets swept up in back and adorned with flowers, ribbons or strands of jewels. Even a few saucy curls to frame her face would certainly be just the thing to keep Lord Winston’s interest. Or so it seemed to her as she regarded her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

Why could she not have plump cheeks like all of the fashionable young ladies? Or a well-rounded shape, like her own twelve-year-old sister? No, she was doomed forever to be a tall, thin reed, with hair as straight as a horse’s tail. The most she could do was to pull her long tresses into a tidy bun, leaving a few wispy strands to hang free at the sides. Or to pull those back with the rest. She could not decide which looked better.

How silly she was. Lord Winston’s interest in her had been obvious from the first moment their eyes met. If she changed her appearance, he might dislike the new look. And today, she must do nothing to drive him away. In any event, he had enough curls for two people.

Moving on to her attire, she chose a pretty blue muslin morning gown. Lady Blakemore had provided a modest but adequate wardrobe so Catherine would have something appropriate to wear wherever she went. Shame pricked her conscience over accepting these lovely clothes, which she could well afford herself. But she must continue to play the part of the poor, genteel miss.

Standing in front of the tall mirror on her wardrobe for a final inspection, she declared herself ready for Lord Winston’s visit and left her bedchamber on the third floor of Blakemore House.

When she first agreed to Mr. Radcliff’s plan to work as the countess’s companion, she had feared living in town would prevent her from getting her daily exercise. But this Mayfair mansion sat upon a large property with many acres to walk about in safety. Even on a rainy day, the long corridors that took her from her quarters to the rest of the house provided plenty of exercise. She arrived at the first-floor drawing room feeling quite invigorated.

“Miss du Coeur.”

Catherine gasped upon hearing her real name, but it was Mr. Radcliff who addressed her in a quiet tone. Her friend was the only denizen of the bright, sunlit room, and he stood before a table in the corner admiring the earl’s collection of small ivory sculptures of African animals.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Radcliff.” She scurried across the large room so they could talk without fear of being heard by the footman just outside the door. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from his clothes, an odd fragrance for a gentleman to wear. But to question his choice would be rude. “Do you have any news?”

“I? Why, no, my dear. Until I came to work this morning, I have been home with my wife and son. You are the one who has ventured out into the excitement of Society. What happened at the marquess’s ball? Did you manage to dance with my cousin?”

Catherine’s heart twisted at his injured tone. This poor gentleman had from the first expressed sorrow over Lord Winston’s evil actions. How it must grieve him to be unable to expose the baron’s treachery without seeming to covet the man’s title.

“I did not have to manage at all.” Catherine smiled at the memory. “Lady Blakemore accosted the baron and practically dragged him over to me for an introduction.” Last evening, she had stared down at her hands and held her breath to generate a blush in her cheeks. But she need not mention such artifices, lest Mr. Radcliff think less of her. “He invited me to the supper dance, and we spent the rest of the evening together. In fact, he accepted Lady Blakemore’s invitation to have tea with us after his appointment with Lord Blakemore.”

“Ah, how fortuitous.” He glanced past her toward the door. “Perhaps I had better disappear. I have told Winston we have barely spoken two words to each other and are not in the slightest way acquainted.”

“Yes, that is best.” That bothersome scratching within her soul began again, but she forced it away. “Before you go, do you have any words of advice for me?”

He gazed off toward the front windows. “Hmm. No, my dear, I believe you will know exactly what to do. Engage his emotions, make him love you. The next steps will come in due time.”

The door swung open, and Lady Blakemore entered, her gaze directed toward the front windows. Catherine hurried back across the room to greet her and to put some distance between herself and Mr. Radcliff. But when she glanced back, he was nowhere to be seen. An icy shiver swept up her back.

Chapter Four

“Ah. There you are, my dear.” Lady Blakemore’s expression was pleasant, but a hint of displeasure shaded her words.

“Forgive me, my lady.” Catherine struggled to appear calm. How could Mr. Radcliff have vanished without a sound? He had been yards away from the servants’ entrance and across the room from the door Lady Blakemore just entered. Perhaps a secret portal in that papered wall? The vertical fence posts among the rose vines might disguise a seam. Such an escape could prove useful to her one day. She struggled to dismiss the mystery and pay attention to her employer. “I thought I was to meet you here.”

“Hmm. Well, no matter.” Lady Blakemore studied Catherine up and down. “You look quite charming, my dear, but not too pretentious for a companion.” She waved Catherine to a red tapestry settee near the alabaster hearth and sat in an adjacent chair. “Now, today, we will be at home, although not formally. Only a few friends will be calling to discuss plans for the upcoming festivities in August. While there will be countless formal state celebrations, many of us wish to have our own private parties to celebrate the war’s end.” She fluttered an exquisite blue silk fan before her face. “Mrs. Parton will be here soon, of course. Perhaps Lady Bennington...” Folding the fan, she tapped it thoughtfully against her opposite hand, listing other possible attendees for the afternoon.

And Lord Winston? Catherine could not help but wonder whether Lady Blakemore had entirely forgotten her invitation to the baron.

“So, of course that means we must cut short our time with Lord Winston. Should he fail to finish his appointment with Blakemore in time, we will have to inform him that his visit must wait.” Was that a question in Lady Blakemore’s eyes as she spoke?

“Yes, my lady.” Catherine schooled her expression to display indifference, despite her disappointment. Yet why should she be disappointed? Hadn’t Mr. Radcliff told her of Lord Winston’s ambitions to accompany Lord Blakemore to France in late August? If the baron succeeded in attaching himself to the earl, she would be in his company for more than sufficient time to engage his interest and ply him for the truth about his plot against Papa.

On the one hand, she could hardly wait to get started. On the other, she wondered if she was up to the task, for her lies continued to grate upon her soul. At those times, she pictured poor Mama, Lucien and Isabella being confined to their home in Norfolk and living every moment in fear of bad news, even arrest. She imagined Papa hiding in some hovel or cave, unable to venture out even to obtain food. Such thoughts were sufficient to renew her determination to bring wicked, lying Lord Winston to justice.

* * *

“I admire your integrity, Winston.” Lord Blakemore clapped him on the shoulder and guided him away from the oak desk across which they had discussed Winston’s future. “Many a young whelp in his first year in Parliament would jump at the chance to play the spy.” At a small grouping of furniture near the spacious office’s tall windows, the earl gave a gracious wave of his hand. “Sit here, my boy, so you can view my wife’s exquisite gardens.” He chose a straight-backed chair for himself. “I had thought you the perfect candidate for espionage after the du Coeur affair. A great bit of luck, those letters falling into your hands the way they did.” He absently lined up a book with the edge of the mahogany table beside him. “Tell me all the details of how it happened.” Interest lit his round face.

Winston silenced the pride that tried to well up within him each time he related the event. After all, none of it had been his doing. “Very simply, in late January a young boy brought the packet of letters to my home in Surrey. A footman received them and placed them on my desk.”

“Ah.” Blakemore scratched his chin. “And who was this boy?”

“The footman said he was a short, stocky lad of about ten or so. He did not give a name.”

“Hmm.” The earl stared off toward the windows. “Lady Blakemore’s roses have done exceedingly well this year, especially the reds.” He seemed to have forgotten their conversation, at least for a moment. Then he focused again on Winston. “Perhaps we should question your footman a bit more. Find out what we can about that lad.”

Winston’s heart sank. He had no doubt the letters were authentic, but he had still been in mourning over Father’s death and had not thought clearly how to handle the matter. “Harry had been with us only a few weeks, and the work did not suit him. He left in February to join the army, and I have no idea of his fate.”

“Bad luck, that.” Blakemore clicked his tongue and gave his head a little shake. “In any event, your quick thinking in delivering the letters to the Home Office was brilliant. Why, you saved our country and the Prince Regent from great disgrace, not to mention saving old Louis’s very life. Will you not reconsider espionage?”

“I thank you, sir, but no.” Winston lifted a hand to cover an artificial cough while he considered how to make his excuses. He must take care not to sound overly proud of something that had come his way through no effort of his own. Nor must he sound judgmental of those who chose to spy. Father had often chided him for both pride and judging others too harshly. “Of course, I understand some men are called to employ subterfuge, even as the Scriptures tell us that both Moses and Joshua sent out spies to explore the land of Canaan. But the Almighty has not directed me to such a path.”

Blakemore chuckled in his jolly, mellow way, but the wiliness in his eyes dispelled all impressions that he was anyone’s fool. If that were not enough for Winston to trust him, he had Father’s recommendation. Look to Blakemore and Bennington for your examples, my son. They will not lead you astray. In his four months in London, Winston had come to admire both earls. Now that Bennington was consumed with family matters regarding several of his eight offspring, Winston was grateful that Blakemore would consider stepping in as his mentor. Now if he could persuade him to take him to Paris as part of his diplomatic entourage, Winston would have achieved a cherished dream.

“I admire your determination to seek God’s direction, for above all, we must receive our orders from above.” Blakemore pointed upward, and his expression softened. “Kings and princes come and go, nations rise and fall, but only God is eternal.”

“Indeed.” Most Englishmen, Winston included, would say England was eternal as well, for she clearly had the blessing of the Almighty. Still, he was pleased to hear Blakemore speak of his faith, for it affirmed all that Father had said about him.

“Now.” The earl sat forward in his chair. “Concerning your request, why do you wish to accompany my little band to France? What do you hope to gain?” With his lighthearted tone, the earl might well have been asking why Winston wanted to tag along on a picnic.

“To serve God by serving my king and country.” And to obtain through his own efforts the earldom the old king promised to Father. But he would not bring up that matter. At least not until he knew Blakemore better, and Blakemore knew him.

“Very commendable.” The earl slapped his hands on his chubby knees. “Just what I hoped to hear. And furthermore, I believe you, my boy. You are a credit to your father.”

“Again, I thank you.” Even as warm satisfaction filled Winston’s chest, his mind sprinkled bits of icy doubt on the earl’s last affirmation. While other gentlemen might praise him, Father had never quite given his full approval, nor had God. All the more reason to continue his quest for righteousness through serving his king or, in this case, the Prince Regent.

“Now, about another matter.” One of the earl’s bushy eyebrows rose while the other one dipped.

Winston sensed his peer was about to impart some sage advice or dire warning. He did not know whether to be honored or concerned. “Yes, sir?”

“Scripture states that whoso finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor of the Lord. It is my conviction that every gentleman who enters the diplomatic corps must be married. An agreeable wife provides stability, settles something in a man’s heart, not to mention fulfills the duties of hostess for those obligatory entertainments.” Once again, his expression grew wily. “Have you found a wife, my boy?”

Winston cleared his throat, feeling the pinch of embarrassment. “I have not, but not for want of trying.” The only two ladies who had attracted his interest had chosen others, two brothers, in fact.

“Ah, yes.” The earl chuckled. “Well, never mind that. Plenty of fish in the sea.” Again one eyebrow lowered. “I noticed that you sat with Lady Blakemore’s companion at Drayton’s supper last night. Did you find Miss Hart’s company agreeable?”

Winston’s cravat seemed to tighten around his neck. He felt the need to loosen it, but clasped his hands together to prevent such a self-conscious gesture. “Agreeable. Yes. Entirely pleasant.”

Blakemore leaned back with a frown. “I gather you have some reservations about the young lady.”

At this perfect opening for his questions, Winston gave a slight shrug to suggest he was indifferent, though his emotions were far from detached. The young lady had occupied his thoughts since last night and even more so since this morning, when his discussion with Edgar had generated a certain protectiveness toward her. But it would not do to confess such feelings to the earl. “In truth, I know nothing of her family or her pedigree. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Blakemore blinked and gripped his round chin thoughtfully. “Why, I have no idea. Lady Blakemore would not have hired her without the proper pedigree.”

“Of course not.” Winston hoped his question had not cast aspersions on the countess. From Blakemore’s good-natured expression, he guessed it had not. Still, it would help if he knew whether Miss Hart came from the gentry or the aristocracy.

“However, if she does not suit you, then do not give the matter another thought.” Blakemore stood, and Winston had no choice but to do the same. Nothing had been settled by their discussion, but he dared not press the matter of accompanying the earl to France, lest he cause offense. Following him toward the door of the chamber, Winston had a clear view of the top of Blakemore’s balding head, which barely reached his own shoulder. Yet so much character and power resided within the shorter man that Winston could not help but hold him in great esteem.

The earl stopped abruptly and faced Winston, wagging a paternal finger in his direction. “I would not have you marry in haste, my boy, but if you can find a suitable wife by mid-August when our party leaves for Paris, then all the better for your ability to serve king and country at my side.”

Winston’s heart raced. The earl had just as much as said he was accepted as part of the delegation to the French. At least, it sounded that way. “I thank you, sir. I shall certainly make every effort to do so.”

“Now, you must excuse me. I have some correspondence that will not keep.” Blakemore opened the office door and beckoned to his secretary. “Radcliff, see Winston down to the ladies, will you?”

“Yes, my lord.” Edgar rose from his desk and hurried around it, bowing as he came. “This way, Lord Winston.”

“Now, now, Radcliff.” Blakemore chuckled in his inimitable way. “I know Winston is your cousin, and you are his heir. When we are in private company, you may call him Winston.” He eyed Winston. “With your permission?”

“Of course.” Winston punctuated his assertion with an amiable pat to Edgar’s shoulder. “My cousin is a friend who is closer than a brother.”

“Indeed.” Blakemore’s eyebrows arched, then furrowed. “Well, then, carry on.” He turned and disappeared into his office.

Edgar waved away Winston’s apologetic grimace. “How did it go?”

“I think he said I am to accompany him, but it was rather indirect.” He searched his mind for some way to interpret the earl’s remarks. “He did say I should marry.”

“Then let us begin the pursuit. This way to the drawing room.” Edgar marched across the carpeted anteroom with the bearing of a footman. Always the perfect servant, even though he would have had the title after Father’s death had Winston not been born. As always, Winston was humbled by his cousin’s lack of self-importance. Somehow he must find a way to elevate his standing in Society.

As they descended the wide staircase to the first floor, passing giant portraits of Blakemore ancestors and other English nobility, the babble of feminine voices reached their ears.

“Ah. Lady Blakemore’s guests.” Edgar snickered. “A gaggle of giddy geese, if ever I heard one.” He glanced at Winston as if seeking his agreement.

Winston shrugged, unsure of what to think. In this moment of uncertainty, Edgar was no help at all, especially when he nudged Winston forward. “Enjoy yourself, cousin.” Then he scurried back up the broad stairway.

Neither did the blue-liveried footman at the drawing-room door offer any help, for his face was a blank page.

“I believe Lady Blakemore is expecting me.” He tried to sound severe, but his voice cracked as if he were a twelve-year-old boy. Did every young aristocrat suffer such difficulties during his first year in London Society? Or was it merely the uncertainty of what lay beyond this door with all of those ladies?

The old footman’s blank facade remained in place. “Yes, milord.” He opened the door and announced, “Lord Winston.”

Winston forced his feet over the threshold. The instant he entered, silence swept over the room, and a dozen or so mostly older ladies’ faces turned in his direction, eyes sparkling with interest. A certain young lady, the only one he had hoped to encounter, directed her gaze toward the cold white hearth, clearly indifferent to his arrival.

* * *

Catherine could barely make out Lord Winston’s reflection in the shiny silver vase beside her, but the view was sufficient to reveal he was looking her way with some degree of chagrin. Good. She would remain properly aloof until she had secured his interest.

“Gracious, Winston.” Lady Blakemore moved toward him. “You gentlemen always claim that we ladies talk overlong, but you and Blakemore have prolonged your discussion into my meeting time.” She lifted a gloved hand toward him. He took it and executed a perfect bow over it.

“My apologies, madam.” Winston did not sound flustered, but the warm color of his cheeks indicated some high feeling. “Another time, then?”

“Oh, no,” cried one of the ladies, Lady Grandly, if Catherine was not mistaken. “We must have a gentleman’s opinion about our fetes, mustn’t we, ladies?”

A chorus of indistinguishable but agreeable remarks filled the room. Catherine swallowed a laugh to see Lord Winston backing toward the door.

“I hardly think...” He held up his hands in an attempt to ward off two other ladies, to no avail. Each seized an arm and almost dragged him into the room.

Where had they learned their manners? Catherine’s mother would be horrified to see such behavior. Perhaps members of London’s haute ton had their own set of social rules. The two older ladies drew the baron to a long settee in the center of the room and across from Catherine. She slowly turned to face him so as not to seem as eager as the others for his presence.

Yet he stared at her with a helpless, hapless expression in his eyes. Could it be a plea for her help? She offered a brief consoling smile, but quickly sobered. A companion must never attempt to compete with eligible young Society ladies such as the Misses Waddington, each of whom took a seat at Lord Winston’s side. One cast a cross glance at Catherine, and she stared down at her folded hands, forbidding her temper to rise. She was the daughter of Comte du Coeur, a French nobleman equal to an English earl, and she had precedence over these two spoiled daughters of a mere English baron. For now, she must play the part of a nonentity. Yet with the French nobility who had remained loyal to Louis all the rage among the English aristocracy these days, those silly girls would be appalled over their own rudeness to her if they learned who she was.

“Ladies, please.” Lady Blakemore stood in the center of the room, her arms crossed. “Do release poor Winston to whatever business he must attend to.”

“Indeed,” dear old Mrs. Parton huffed. “You must not delay him from his work.”

“But Parliament does not meet today.” Lady Grandly gazed fondly at her two daughters, the girls sitting on either side of Lord Winston. “So his business cannot be too pressing.”

A second baroness, plump and handsome in her old age, added, “We must convince Winston to attend the assembly at Almack’s tonight, mustn’t we, ladies?”

Again the room buzzed with agreement. Catherine stifled another laugh as Lord Winston’s color deepened. How could such a wicked man blush? No doubt it was due to his fair coloring. She had always pictured Papa’s accuser as being cool and calculating, utterly in command of himself and able to send a man to his death without a qualm. Perhaps even a ladies’ man. Lord Winston seemed to possess none of those qualities.

“Tut-tut.” Lady Blakemore, tall and regal, tapped her fan against her open palm. “Release the poor gentleman. I have an errand for him, so you must not imprison him any longer.”

“At your service, madam.” Lord Winston stood so abruptly that one of the Miss Waddingtons nearly fell into the spot he vacated.

Catherine had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing. Apparently the baron was oblivious to his own charms. All the better for her plans.

* * *

Winston grasped Lady Blakemore’s call to service like a lifeline. “How may I assist you, madam?”

The countess’s jaw dropped slightly, and she batted her eyelids. “Ah. Well. It is not a matter that will interest these ladies. Would you be so good as to follow me out?” She stepped over and gripped his arm, propelling instead of leading him toward the door.

The footman inside the room opened the way for them, and the countess shoved him through the portal, leaving behind muted cries of disappointment.

Winston did not know whether to be flattered or irritated. Where were these ladies last night at the marquess’s gala, when he could not find a supper partner until the last minute due to all the uniforms in the ballroom? Ah, the mysteries of women.

Once outside in the foyer, Lady Blakemore waved him to an occasional chair beside a small table. “Sit here.” She disappeared back into the drawing room.

He sat on the brown tapestry-covered chair, not relaxing in the slightest. Had the countess merely meant to rescue him, she would have sent him on his way. But now he had no choice but to wait for whatever she had planned.

Within thirty seconds, she reappeared, Miss Hart trailing behind her. Winston’s chest tightened. He did not care for being manipulated, if that was what Lady Blakemore was doing. But then, was he not contradicting himself? Had he not brought Mrs. Parton’s landau so he could take the young lady for a drive if all went well?

“Winston, Miss Hart must run an errand for me. I saw that you brought Julia’s landau. Would you be so good as to drive her?” The countess’s face revealed no guile, but her eyes did have a certain brightness about them.

“Madam, I should be honored to do your bidding.” Most errands were the work of footmen, but after she had rescued him from the bedlam of her drawing room, he would not complain. “Miss Hart.” He bowed to her and offered his arm.

“Lord Winston.” She curtsied and placed a hand on his arm, but gave him no smile. Turning to the countess, she said, “Before we go, my lady, perhaps you should tell me what you would have me do.”

“Oh.” Lady Blakemore blinked. “Why, I... Hmm.” She tapped her chin with a long, tapered finger and stared off for a moment. “Why, flowers, of course. You must go to Mr. Lambert’s flower shop on Duke Street and order several large bouquets of flowers.”

Now Miss Hart blinked. “Flowers?”

“Why, yes, my dear. We must have flowers for the supper table this evening.” More blinking, along with a tilt of her head. “We always require fresh flowers when having guests.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Miss Hart’s lovely face crinkled with confusion. “I thought we were dining alone this evening. Who is your guest, if I may ask?”

“Why, Lord Winston, of course.” The countess turned a beaming smile on him. “You seemed unenthusiastic about attending Almack’s tonight, so I thought I should provide you with an excuse to decline. What better way to avoid the assembly than to have supper with us?”

He chuckled, then laughed aloud. “So you would have me fetch flowers for the sole purpose of entertaining me?”

“What a clever boy you are.” She patted his cheek. “Now run along. And if you decide to take a turn around Hyde Park after going to Duke Street, I believe the rain will hold off for another few hours.”

In spite of the warmth creeping up his neck due to her overly maternal gesture, he marveled at her ability to create such a scheme so quickly. With both Lord and Lady Blakemore pushing him toward Miss Hart, he had no choice but to go along with it. The drive in the park was his plan all along, and their approval seemed the confirmation he needed. If all went well, supper tonight would be an added benefit. If not, he could always beg off.

“Madam, I thank you.” He placed a hand over Miss Hart’s, which still rested on his arm. To his surprise, she did not seem to share their merriment, if her frown and lifted chin were any indication of her temperament. Perhaps this would not be the pleasant outing he had anticipated after all. This business of courting was thoroughly confusing to him. Was it his responsibility to cheer her? Or hers to amuse him?

Or would they merely tolerate each other while dancing to Lord and Lady Blakemore’s tune?

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.

Chapter Six

At the sight of Miss Hart being accosted by two villains, Winston’s heart jolted with fear such as he had not felt since Father died. But while he could not save his sick, elderly parent, he could save this lady. Seizing his cane from the carriage, he called for Toby to bring his whip, and the two of them raced toward the melee.

As they quickly covered the distance, their hats flying off in the wind, Winston saw Miss Hart wriggling and twisting and cheered her courage. When the heel of her half boot connected sharply with her captor’s shin, the man howled, which served to alert others in the park that a crime was in progress. To Winston’s relief, a crowd began to gather. But to his horror, before he could reach Miss Hart, she was flung to the ground and landed hard. The impact sent her bonnet flying, and her long, dark hair fell loose from its pins and formed a silken shawl about her shoulders.

He reached the scene and slammed his cane against the skull of the man who had thrown her down. The attacker landed on his back and emitted a loud cry of agony. In one fluid movement, Winston slammed one Hessian boot down on the man’s chest, unsheathed his sword from the cane and stuck the point into the villain’s neck, drawing blood. Toby set upon the other man with his whip until he curled into a ball and screamed in pain.

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