A Lady of Quality. Louise Gouge M.
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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