A Lady of Quality

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.