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.