A Lady of Quality

“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.”