Louise M. Gouge (23 page)

Fleming and Ajax traded worried looks.

“That she is, milord,” the giant said. “The thing of it is, sir, this ain’t the best part of London for a decent lady to be out and about.”

“And on foot,” Fleming added.

A sick feeling swept away Hartley’s momentary optimism.

“Let’s go find the woman.” Greystone headed out the door. “She knew we would be coming.”

Back at the tavern, the proprietor was nowhere to be found. Fleming and Greystone searched the upstairs and returned just as the old slattern walked in the front door. Her face sported a recent injury.

“There’s the pretty boy.” She grinned at Hartley, revealing a bloody front tooth. “And Lord Greystone hisself.” She sauntered across the room as if they were old friends, then turned serious. “The girl got out, milord, but the fancy gentleman what locked her up followed. I can’t say where she went, ’cause I don’t know.” She hung her head and sniffed. “If I’d a-known when she was gonna get out, I woulda got her to a safe place, but she left afore daylight.”

Greystone patted her shoulder. “I believe you, Bess.” He fished a gold coin from his waistcoat and his old handkerchief from a pocket. “Here, take these. Why not find someplace else to live? Someplace where no one will beat you?”

She swiped the handkerchief under her nose. “Maybe I will, milord.”

“Where to now, milord?” Ajax chewed his lip like an anxious child.

Panic threatened to envelop Hartley. Where indeed?

“Let me go! Help!” A scream split the air, sending them all back out into the open. On the wharf by the river, his beautiful Miss du Coeur was struggling with two thugs who could not manage to subdue her. Her glorious brown hair was entirely undone and blew in the wind like a banner. Racing toward her, Hartley pulled out a pistol but feared to discharge the unreliable weapon lest he hit his beloved. The others reached the scene with him and drove off the ruffians, who fled like the cowards they were into the labyrinth of vice and depravity.

Flung aside by the criminals, Miss du Coeur reeled toward the edge of the wharf.

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
error ripped through Catherine as she slid across the muddy wharf, unable to gain a foothold with her tattered satin shoes. What a fool she had been. Now she would die without ever telling Lord Hartley that she loved him. His last memory of her would be words filled with misguided hatred.

In the slimy muck below her, she saw her own reflection move closer. Something clenched her around the waist. An arm, a very strong arm!

“My lady.” Lord Hartley’s unmistakable voice breathed into her awareness, and for a moment, she knew nothing but awe and relief.

“Hart—”
Thank You, God!

“My heart!” He pulled her into his arms a half second before she could plunge into the murky, disease-ridden depths.

“Cowards, the lot of them.” Mr. Fleming’s voice reached her consciousness. “Shall we pursue them, my lord?”

“No.” Lord Greystone stared off in the direction they had gone. “No use going any deeper into this den of iniquity. Do you not agree, Hartley?”

Lord Hartley was entirely too busy to answer, for he was holding Catherine and brushing her hair back from her face. She gazed up at him with love overflowing from her heart. And from the love and joy she saw in his eyes, she had not the slightest doubt that he returned the sentiment.

* * *

Catherine rested her head on Lord Hartley’s shoulder, ignoring the discomfort of the saddle. Seated in front of him on his horse, she would not tell him she could ride more easily behind him, for that would mean his arms would not encompass her like a warm blanket, as they now did.

They had said little at the wharf. In spite of their angry duel of words at their last meeting, nothing seemed more important than just holding each other in an almost desperate embrace. And now getting safely out of this horrid place called the Sanctuary took precedence over explanations and pleas for forgiveness. Yet Catherine knew she must make those pleas a priority as soon as possible.

As they wended their way through the filthy, crowded streets, several disreputable sorts shouted vulgar comments in their direction, calling her attention to her tattered clothing and unbound hair. When she looked up into Lord Hartley’s eyes, he gave her a rueful smile. “We shall find a hackney as soon as possible.”

“Never mind this lot.” Lord Greystone rode up beside them. “They have no idea who we are and will have no opportunity to besmirch our names.”

Nevertheless, Catherine bowed her head and let her hair cover her face like a shield. Through the uncombed strands, she saw Mr. Fleming riding ahead, making a way for them through the crowds. When this adventure was over and done with, she would have to tease him and suggest he become an actor. Still, although he had posed as a secretary, somehow she had always felt safe in his presence. Now she understood why.

Once they left Old Pye Street and neared Westminster Abbey, Greystone hailed a hackney, and Catherine was handed down into its cloistered interior. She looked up at Lord Hartley, aching to be back in his arms again. His green eyes reflected that same sentiment, or so she liked to think.

“Do not look so bereft, Miss Hart.” Lord Greystone gave her a fraternal grin. “If Hartley wishes to ride with you, I shall be your chaperone.”

The driver eyed her suspiciously, and in that moment the entire wretched business caused her face to flame. Without answering the viscount, she shrank back into the darkest part of the two-passenger carriage to hide her embarrassment.

Disappointment clouded Lord Hartley’s eyes. “To Blakemore House,” he said to the driver, then directed his horse to proceed down the street.

Within the half hour, the small procession arrived at the mansion. Lady Blakemore whisked Catherine away to her bedchamber before anyone had a chance to say anything more. The countess ordered a bath and a light repast and demanded an accounting of the past sixteen hours.

After telling her story, Catherine succumbed to exhaustion and slept far into the next afternoon. When she awoke, it all seemed like a bad dream, except for a few scrapes, the painful ache in her heart and the warm memory of Lord Hartley’s strong arms clutching her before she could fall into the foul waters of the Thames.

* * *

Hartley paced Lady Blakemore’s drawing room until he feared he would wear a hole in the red-and-gold Wilton carpet that lay in front of the hearth. He had counted the earl’s ivory figurines—there were twenty-seven—counted the seating and concluded that forty-one individuals could be accommodated comfortably in the five groupings of chairs and settees. He then examined the repaired wallpaper that hid the secret door.

Blakemore explained that he had not used the door since he was a boy and never gave it a thought. Nor could he guess how Edgar ever found it. They decided that a man intent upon evil would have no compunction about searching his employer’s home for any convenient device to use in his malicious schemes.

Just hours after they had rescued Miss du Coeur, Edgar had been apprehended boarding a ship about to set sail for China. He now waited in Newgate Prison for his trial. After Blakemore explained the extent of his cousin’s murderous plans, Hartley could not bring himself to visit him. He did manage to send a note promising to take care of Emily and Marcus; however, Edgar had responded that he had never cared much for his wife and son and was pleased to be rid of them. Such a man deserved no mercy, but Hartley still could find no satisfaction in the idea of his cousin’s execution. Perhaps he should be sent to Bedlam rather than hanged, for surely some sort of madness had driven him all these years.

These activities and musings did nothing to alleviate his impatience as he waited to learn whether Miss du Coeur would receive him. He had paced this room for over two hours, and still she did not appear.

At long last, the door opened, and she entered. Actually, she peered around it as if checking to see whether it was safe to come in. She looked so beautiful in her pink walking gown, so shy, so utterly appealing, that he laughed for joy over seeing her at last.

“My dearest heart, do come in.” Startled by his own words, he wished them back. What if she did not love him in return?

“Dearest Hartley.” She ran into his arms, sobbing. “How can you ever forgive me for all of my lies? How could I have been so foolish?”

He held her for a moment, savoring the scent of her rose perfume, the nearness of her being, the joy of her returning his love. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

She laughed and cried at the same time. “You choose.”

“My darling, of course I forgive you.” He took her hand and led her to a settee. “We were both puppets dancing to Blakemore’s tune.” A minor chord resonated within his heart. “I am grieved to think he could not trust me enough to explain everything to me from the beginning.”

“I asked the same question about my own situation. Lady Blakemore told me the Home Office was testing both of us
and
my father. An assassination plot against a king has greater consequences than a grievance between two families. Had it turned out to be genuine, Louis might never have made it back to France, and war might have erupted again between our two countries.” She dabbed at her tears with a silk handkerchief. “But I believe Mr. Radcliff was the puppeteer. How cleverly he used us both against each other, and all for revenge.”

Hartley sighed. “Not so entirely clever, was he?”

She shook her head and gazed off thoughtfully.

“Well.” He touched her chin and returned her gaze to himself. “Enough of that. We have something else to discuss.”

“Oh?”

He slipped down on one knee and gripped both of her hands. “My dearest heart, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Bursting into tears, she pulled back her hands and covered her face.

“I—I am...” How could he have so completely misjudged her feelings? “Please forgive me—”

“No, no.” She hiccoughed another sob. “I mean, yes, yes. I will marry you. Though after all I did, how can you want—”

“Shh.” He placed a finger on her lips. “Do not say another word about it. I forgive you.” To seal the matter, he bent forward and at last succumbed to the temptation to place a kiss on her sweet, soft lips.

* * *

Catherine had never felt more beautiful. Her lady’s maid had once again coiffed her hair into a thousand elegant curls with tiny white silk roses woven throughout. Her bridal gown, a white brocade creation with dark pink lace and ribbons around the square neckline, and short, similarly trimmed puffy sleeves, had taken Giselle three weeks to make. Fortunately, the wedding could not take place until the banns had been cried for those same three weeks. Lady Blakemore had insisted upon being the hostess for the wedding breakfast, and she had invited Mama and Lady Winston to assist her. But first came the wedding.

Catherine stood at the back of St. George’s Church with Papa at her side. At the front, Lord Hartley stood with Lords Greystone and Blakemore, awaiting her arrival. The music began, Papa squeezed her hand and they proceeded down the aisle. She was so grateful to have him to support her, for no matter how happy she was this day, her knees insisted upon trembling.

As her gaze settled upon Lord Hartley, whom she had decided to call Hart, all nervousness subsided. How handsome he looked in his green velvet jacket, sparkling white shirt and cravat, and green satin breeches. His gray-green eyes caught the colors and sparkled brilliantly in the sunny church sanctuary. His untamable curly blond hair gave him that youthful look that she so adored. But it was his warm, welcoming smile that melted her heart and brought a tear to her eyes.

Reading from the church’s prayer book, Mr. Richard Grenville conducted the wedding ceremony, and Catherine had every confidence that he and she and Hart said all the right words. But in the end, all she heard was the final phrase, which was followed by “in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

One day soon she must read the ritual over again and perhaps even memorize the wonderful holy words. For now, “I pronounce that they be man and wife together” was all she needed to hear. When Hart placed the gentlest, sweetest kiss upon her lips, she knew she was utterly and completely happily married.

Epilogue

“E
n garde.”
Catherine positioned herself for a duel, feet set apart and one hand lifted
behind her for balance, her slender walking stick raised in a challenge to
Hart.

After a long winter, the fresh spring air of Surrey invited
them out for daily walks over the hills surrounding their country home. When
they had come from London last August, she had been surprised to see not a
recently built manor house but a beautiful, ancient castle where she would live
with her beloved the rest of her days.

Now delicate violets and exquisite pink primroses filled the
April air with their lovely scents, while countless birdsongs sounded in the
nearby woods. A few feet away, Crumpet chased a butterfly, only to land in the
clear spring bubbling out from a small mound of rocks on the hill. These merry
signs of spring sparked in Catherine this bit of dueling mischief.

“Mais non, madame.”
Hart’s green
eyes twinkled in the sunlight as he lifted his cane—this one without a hidden
sword.
“Vous en garde.”

So he meant to launch the first attack. Catherine smirked.
“
Très bien, monsieur.
Proceed.” Expecting a
direct lunge, she prepared to deflect his assault. Instead, he pointed his
make-believe sword at her and circled it in the air so she could not guess his
next move.

With a giggle, she backed away but tripped on a protruding
root. As she staggered to keep from falling, alarm shot through her. She must
not fall! Hart dropped his cane and caught her around the waist just in time,
rolling onto the soft grass so she would land on top of him.

“Oof!” He flung his arms wide, then lay limp on the ground,
obviously feigning injury.

Catherine rolled off him and placed her head upon his shoulder.
“I shall lie here until you awaken.”

He exhaled a deep sigh of contentment. “That may not be until
August.”

She sat up and nudged his side. “What? And miss an entire
session of Parliament? An entire Season?” Not that she cared at all for Society,
but she would like to see her friends again after all these months.

“If I never had to participate in another parliamentary debate,
I would be pleased beyond measure.”

She sat up, plucked a blade of grass and tickled his upper lip.
“You do not mean that.”

“Only a little.” He sat up and snatched the blade to return the
favor, then gave her a peck of a kiss. Later she would demand much more from
him. “I may have rejected my father’s harsh view of God, but I still take my
responsibilities seriously. All of them.”

She sobered. “I know you do. You have been so good to Emily and
Marcus since Mr. Radcliff died.” She could not think of that man without a
shudder.

Hart pulled her into his arms and kissed her forehead. “I will
always grieve over his death.” The haunted look in his eyes hinted at a deep
remorse.

“It was not your fault. We are told that these horrible fevers
often sweep through prisons. He did not have a strong constitution.”

Hart waved a dismissive hand, perhaps still wrestling with his
unnecessary guilt. “I must make certain to spend time with young Marcus before
he goes to Eton. I want him to know he will always have a special place in our
family.” Hart plucked another blade of grass and chewed on its end. “Perhaps I
can influence him for the good. As my heir, he—”

“Well, I do agree we should continue to support his mother and
him.” She gave him a sly look. “But, as to his being your heir, it is entirely
possible that he will soon be supplanted by a little Lord Winston. Shall we say,
before All Saints’ Day?”

“What?” Hart’s eyes grew round, and his jaw dropped. “Are
you... Will we... I am going to be a father?” The excitement in his countenance
gave him that adorable youthful look she loved so much, but not without a
decided infusion of maturity he had sported of late.

Catherine laughed for joy. “Indeed you are, my dearest
Hart.”

“
My
dearest heart.” He gently
pushed her back down on the grass for a celebratory kiss.

As delicious warmth swept over her entire being, she lifted a
prayer of thanks to God for the path he had brought them on. Not a path of hate
and revenge, but of love and forgiveness and a grace that promised never to
end.

* * * * *

If you enjoyed this story by Louise M. Gouge,
be sure to check out the other books this month
from Love
Inspired Historical!

Keep reading for an excerpt from
The Baby Compromise
by Linda Ford.