A Lady of Quality

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.