Louise M. Gouge (17 page)

Unfortunately, that delightful moment was interrupted when Mr. Radcliff slipped out of the room through the secret door so cleverly hidden in the fence lines of the floral wallpaper. The confusion on the baron’s face caused by his cousin’s disappearance should have amused her, but she found she did not like to see him discomfited. It was not in her nature to wish ill to anyone. How difficult it had been not to tell him what had happened behind his back.

“I hope you do not object to a phaeton. I borrowed it from Mrs. Parton.” Lord Winston indicated the small black carriage in front of the mansion. “As you can see, it is brand-new.”

“Oh, it is lovely.” As Catherine accepted his assistance into the pretty little conveyance, she could not help but notice his youthful eagerness. Her heart sank as she considered what she was about to do. Tempted to jump out, run back into the house and abandon her plans, she nonetheless forced her attention to the phaeton. “You must tell Mrs. Parton how much I admire it.”

Drawn by one horse, the doorless vehicle was more intimate than the four-horse landau, but no less grand in its appointments. Gold filigree patterns adorned the black sides, and the interior was upholstered in red. The four shiny black wheels had a fine red band circling the spokes. Brass-and-glass lanterns at the four corners held candles ready to be lit for evening travel. The black canvas top was down, but Catherine could see that it was lined with red velvet matching the seat, very grand for a sporting carriage. Behind the two-passenger bench was a small jump seat for the red-liveried groom, who now stood at the horse’s head awaiting the baron’s instructions.

Lord Winston climbed in beside her, took hold of the reins and nodded to the groom, a slender, brown-haired youth who sprang into place as eagerly as if he were a guest, not a servant.

“I see that you will drive us.” Catherine cringed inwardly. What a silly, unnecessary remark.

“Unless you would prefer to.” He gave her a mischievous grin and offered the reins.

Relieved at his response, she returned a similar smile. “You would be surprised at my driving skill.”

“My lady, these days I would not be surprised at anything.” He slapped the reins on the horse’s haunches and directed it toward the gate. “Is there some particular place you would like to visit?”

“Oh, no.” She forced herself to slip one arm around his nearest one, a bold gesture, to be sure, and one she was not the slightest bit comfortable making. It earned her a generous smile, so the baron must not think it too awfully bold. “This is a lovely day to be out, and I would not mind just a drive about the city, as long as—” She gasped softly. She had almost said as long as she was in his company, which would strain propriety more than she was willing to. “As long as the weather stays pleasant.” She removed her arm from his and raised her parasol.

If he noticed her embarrassment, he was too kind to mention it. “Then perhaps you will not object if we go to a tea garden both Lady Blakemore and Mrs. Parton have recommended.”

“A tea garden. How lovely. That is just the thing.” Just the thing to give her plenty of time to question him. But perhaps she would do well to begin now. “Lord Winston, I understand that you will soon be elevated to an earldom.”

His modest shrug surprised her. “I should have known Blakemore would tell you.”

“But is it not something to boast about?”

He spared her a brief glance, then looked back at the busy traffic as they turned onto Great Marlborough Street. “Perhaps if I had done something worthy of advancement. But this is an honor my father deserved for heroic service to His Majesty some years ago.”

“Ah.” With no little difficulty, Catherine refused to acknowledge his lack of pride. “But have you not done something heroic yourself? Did I not hear Lord Blakemore speaking of some letters you discovered regarding an attempt on the French king’s life?”

The baron frowned and glanced over his shoulder at the groom, yet maintained his calm as he slowly wended his way along the avenue. “I cannot be credited with that.” His well-formed lips quirked to one side in a charmingly worried expression. “Nor am I free to discuss it.” He eyed her and gave her a sober smile. “I do not mean to rebuke you for asking about it.”

“No, of course not.” How frustrating he was, denying any part in forging those letters! “And I did not mean to pry—”

“Milord!” The groom cried out. “The wagon!”

Catherine watched in horror as a large wagon drawn by two giant dray horses plunged toward them at great speed. The driver clearly intended harm, for he struck the beasts with a cracking whip and urged them to increase their pace. In the busy traffic, Lord Winston had few choices that did not require injuring someone.

“Jump, Billy!” he cried to the groom. He stood and with one arm gripped Catherine and flung her from the phaeton to the safety of a grassy lawn.

She landed painfully on her hands and knees and spun around just in time to witness the disaster. While Lord Winston tried to drive his horse to safety, the great wagon turned sharply and slammed into the little carriage. Canvas, velvet and leather tangled with splintered wood as it flew in all directions. The poor smaller horse screamed in fear and pain and stumbled to its knees. Amid the rubble, Lord Winston lay facedown on the cobbled street, with Billy the groom wailing above him.

Chapter Seventeen

A
s the fog began to clear from him mind, Winston first became aware of a horrid keening sound. Facedown in the street, he hoped it was not Miss Hart’s voice, for it was dreadfully common and grated on his nerves like nothing he had ever heard. Before he could renounce his affection for her for such a silly reason, his entire body began its own screaming, and his own voice bellowed out in pain.

“Ahhhh!” Shame forbade him to continue his cry, for it would only serve to further frighten Miss Hart. Gasping in deep breaths that racked his midsection, he managed to roll over on the bumpy cobblestones and saw to his relief that Billy was producing the screeching. The lady stood behind him, her bonnet missing and her glorious curls a shambles around her lovely, pale face, her pink lips set in a firm line. Through his pain he thanked God that she appeared uninjured.

“Lord Winston.” She knelt beside Billy, and now he could see her tears through the haze of his own watering eyes. “Thank the Lord you are not...that you are—” As she reached down to touch his face, a sob escaped her.

Despite his agony, an odd bit of joy tickled his insides. At the same moment he rejoiced in her concern for him, his pain resurged with a vengeance, and it required all his willpower not to cry out again. But where to search first for a broken bone, a torn bit of flesh?

“Thank the Lord is right, milord.” Billy swiped a red satin sleeve under his nose, making a mess of his livery. “What would Toby say if I lost me boss me first time out w’ ’im?”

Winston tried not to laugh at the boy’s innocently foolish remark, but a chuckle escaped him, causing his ribs to protest violently. “Oh. Mmm.” He permitted himself that small groan. “Help me up, lad. Your boss must look rather like a ragbag beside the road.”

“More in the middle than on the side,” Billy said on a choking laugh. He reached under Winston’s back and, with Miss Hart’s assistance, helped him to a sitting position.

“You saved us, of course.” The lady’s words held a cross tone, though he could not imagine why. “Why do you suppose that man was trying to kill us?” She turned in the direction the dray had gone, but a crowd had gathered, blocking their view.

What Winston could see were the splinters of Mrs. Parton’s brand-new phaeton spread across the ground, mingled with reins and canvas. He let out another groan, this time for his dear cousin’s ruined carriage.

“The horse.” He tried to stand, but knives of pain ripped through him. He settled back and found himself resting against Miss Hart’s shoulder.

“Shh. Try not to move.” Her tone had softened, as though she were talking to a child. Dizzy now from trying not to cry out, Winston rather liked the change. “Billy, see to the horse,” she said in a calm voice.

As the young groom rushed away, Miss Hart continued to take charge, addressing the crowd in an authoritative voice. “Would you please move back and let Lord Winston breathe? Is there a surgeon or physician among you?”

Most of the crowd appeared to be working-class folk, but one or two well-dressed upper-class people stood about.

“Winston?” A dapper middle-aged gentleman in a blue jacket moved to the front. “Good gracious, what in the world happened here?” Winston recognized the Marquess of Pierpoint. “Do sit still, sir, until my carriage is brought around. I shall see you home.”

“I saw the whole thing.” Another man wearing a stained butcher’s apron stepped forward. “You’d think that daft driver was out to kill ’im.”

“Aye,” said another man who was out of Winston’s view. “Nobody drives like that in this ’ere neighborhood. Aimed right at his lordship, ’e did.”

“You must give me a description.” Pierpoint took the two men aside and began to record their words on a small notepad.

“’Ere, now, let us through.” Leading the horse, Billy shoved his way between two bystanders who watched the goings-on as if it were a boxing match. “See, milord? ’E’s gonna be fine.”

Winston forced his attention to the limping, shaking beast. A ribbon of blood was already caking on its foreleg, and it snorted and bobbed its head as if disturbed by the crowd.

“You may see to the horse,” Pierpoint ordered Billy. “Take him home and tend his leg. But first tell Lord Winston’s butler that I shall bring your master straightaway, so he is to send for a physician.”

Billy gave Winston a questioning look, and Winston returned a shallow nod. The boy and horse again disappeared through the crowd.

“Do stand back, won’t you?” A man in green livery approached the marquess. “Milord, I’ve brought your carriage.”

“Good.” Pierpoint focused on Winston. “I say, my boy, an unpleasant business, this. Can you stand?” He eyed Miss Hart with a frown. “You are free to go, young lady. I am certain Lord Winston appreciated your assistance.” He reached into his waistcoat as if to produce a coin.

“How dare you?” She clung to Winston’s arm until he winced, and she quickly loosened her hold. Still, he could see she would not entirely release him. “I am Lady Blakemore’s guest, and Lord Winston was escorting me on an outing.”

“Indeed?” Pierpoint now eyed her up and down. “Well, I must say—”

“Miss Hart,” Winston managed to croak out. “May I present the Marquess of Pierpoint? Pierpoint, Miss Hart.” The marquess would understand that first presenting him to the lady, rather than her to him, was a declaration of her worthiness to be in Society.

“Ah, forgive me, Miss Hart.” Now the perfect gentleman, the marquess tipped his tall black hat to her. “If you can manage, do help me to lift the baron into my carriage.”

As they stood on either side of him and helped him to his feet, Winston forced his attention to her. “You were very brave, Miss Hart. You leaped from the carriage as if— Ah!” His left leg refused to support him. Fortunately, Pierpoint was on that side and supported his near fall.

“Oh, do be still.” She seemed to be angry again, doubtless because of Pierpoint’s initial insulting manner.

“You have lost your bonnet,” he whispered, but would say nothing about her soiled clothes.

She gasped and cast a quick glance toward the grassy spot where he had thrown her. Large streaks of that same grass now stained her new gown. He could not ignore how ably and fearlessly she had leaped to the ground and appeared to have sustained no injuries. What a truly remarkable young lady.

“Here we are.” Pierpoint and his footman took several minutes to complete the task of settling Winston somewhat comfortably in the elegant silver carriage. “I say, where did the young lady go?”

Miss Hart dashed back at that moment, bonnet in hand, and accepted their help to climb in beside Winston. “My parasol is missing, but at least my bonnet was still on the grass.”

“Good gracious.” Pierpoint settled on the opposite side, facing front. “What is this world coming to when lords and ladies are attacked in the streets? Why, those witnesses said the driver seemed intent upon doing you great harm.” He exhaled an explosive breath. “By the by, Winston, I ordered those witnesses to gather the wreckage and deliver it to your home. There may be something to salvage.”

“I thank you, sir.” Winston leaned back into the plush upholstery to assess the damage to his body. He could not decide which part of him ached more, his entire left leg or his ribs. Other pains had subsided as these grew worse, and the left side of his face burned, no doubt scraped or bruised. He touched his cheek with his gray glove. Only a small amount of blood stained the leather palm. None of the splintered wood had pierced him. That was a mercy. His insides offered no complaint other than to hint at hunger, which only made him angry.

They should be enjoying tea and crumpets at the White Rose. He should have already asked Miss Hart whether she would accept his courtship. Yet here he was, returning home like a soldier wounded in the battlefield. And now he must consider the obvious questions: Who wanted him dead? Or was the mysterious Miss Hart the target?

* * *

Trembling almost as badly as the poor horse that had drawn the phaeton, Catherine struggled to reclaim her calm, her good sense. When she had seen Lord Winston lying still in the street, she had feared he was dead. More than feared. She had been beside herself with terror. She tried to convince herself that her fear was due to anger. If he were dead, she could not force him to tell her why he had falsely accused Papa. But her heart would not listen to such nonsense.

She must face the truth. She loved the baron, at least as he presented himself to the world, and she had no idea how to uncover the real man. What she did know was that he, her enemy, had heroically saved her life by shoving her from the phaeton. She would not be so ungrateful as to deny that. He had even managed to save the groom and the horse from the worst of the wagon’s onslaught.

Now she must consider who would devise such a scheme so clearly intended to cause them injury, and why. Had the baron set himself against someone else, as he had Papa? Was that person seeking revenge?

Lord Winston shifted beside her and groaned in a soft, strangled voice, clearly not wishing to be heard. The marquess ignored the sound, probably to avoid embarrassing the baron. Too bad he had not granted her the same courtesy. The very idea that he should assume the worst of her simply because she was disheveled and grass-stained from her fall.

Yet she must admit to herself that much of her dislike of the marquess stemmed from the officious manner in which he had taken charge of the situation, one that she’d had well in hand before he arrived. Instead, he had practically shoved her aside to take control, while she wanted very much to be the one to help Lord Winston in his pain. Now, under the watchful eye of the marquess, she dared not even give Lord Winston a comforting pat on the arm. A sympathetic smile was all she could offer.

The short, quiet drive back to his Grosvenor Square town house took less than ten minutes. Once they arrived, the marquess dispatched one of his footmen to alert the household that their wounded master had arrived. The butler and Lady Winston were the first ones out of the door.

Catherine had expected the dowager baroness to become hysterical at the sight of her son’s bloody face. But the lady stoically took charge of the situation and had already ordered footmen to bring an old invalid chair down from the attic.

“The late Lord Winston frequently required it,” she whispered to Catherine, as if they were old friends.

Catherine once again felt that terrible pang of guilt over her plans to expose Lord Winston’s lies, for it would deeply grieve this sweet lady.

“Bring it here.” The baroness beckoned to the footmen who had the chair, then waved this way and that to the butler and other footmen to indicate who was to do what. “Dearest James.” Once he was seated, she patted his scraped cheek. “We shall have you good as new in no time.”

“I know you will.” He gave her a smile that was more of a grimace, but the affection beaming from his fine green eyes caused another sharp pang in Catherine’s heart. How she missed her own loved ones.

Lady Winston turned next to the marquess. “I thank you, sir, for your generosity.” Her pleasant tone nonetheless held a hint of dismissal. “We are so grateful.”

“Your servant, madam.” The look he gave her could only be described as admiring.

The baroness’s eyes widened briefly, and her cheeks grew pink. Then she glanced at his carriage, another clear sign of dismissal. “Good day, sir.”

“Very well, madam. I shall return the young lady to Lady Blakemore.” The marquess offered an arm to Catherine and gave her an expectant look.

“I—I...” How could she decline without insulting this generous nobleman?

“I thank you, but no.” Lady Winston took Catherine’s arm and tugged her toward the door. “I require Miss Hart’s assistance. We shall see that she gets back to Blakemore House.”

“Very well, madam.” Fortunately, the marquess did not appear insulted. “I shall see what I can learn about this wretched business—perhaps engage the services of a Bow Street Runner—and bring a report to Winston at his convenience.” He doffed his tall black hat. “I bid you all a good day.”

Nodding her thanks, Lady Winston ushered Catherine into the house while the butler and footmen moved Lord Winston into the large entry hall and closed the door.

“Miss Hart.” Once again she whispered in an intimate manner. “We are of course grateful to the marquess for bringing James home, but I could not send you back to Lady Blakemore until I am certain you are well. I hope you do not mind.”

“We are of the same mind, madam. I could not leave without knowing the extent of Lord Winston’s injuries.”

“I must warn you, my dear,” the baroness said. “He will deny their severity and refuse to let us dote upon him.”

“I heard that. And you are right, of course.” Lord Winston’s soft grin at his mother seemed to hold some special meaning between the two of them, probably like the understanding looks Catherine shared with her family members.

The thought should have made her angry, for she would like nothing more than to see them all, especially Papa, and know that all was well with them. Instead she found herself appreciating the bond between this mother and son.

“Llewellyn,” said the baroness, “take Lord Winston up to his bedchamber.”

“No, Mother.” He struggled to straighten in the invalid chair, flinching in pain as he did.

Catherine winced on his behalf, then noticed her own mild discomfort in her knees and hands from landing so hard on the ground. Her white kid gloves had been ruined, but the flesh on her hands had been spared.

“I should like to go up to the drawing room.” The baron spoke through clenched teeth. Despite his mother’s objections, he had his way, although Catherine noticed that the butler seemed none too pleased. Nevertheless, two hardy young footmen carried the baron, invalid chair and all, up the graceful curved staircase. Soon the baron and his mother were sitting in the room Lord Winston preferred, with Catherine comfortably seated across from them.

The baroness ordered water and towels, and tea, of course. Before they could be brought, Miss Beaumont rushed into the room carrying a large golden cat. “Oh, James, dearest.” She hurried to his chair and plopped the feline into his lap, then flung her arms around his shoulders. “Are you all right?”