Louise Gouge - A Lady of Quality

“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.

“Ah, yes.” The earl chuckled. “Well, never mind that. Plenty of fish in the sea.” Again one eyebrow lowered. “I noticed that you sat with Lady Blakemore’s companion at Drayton’s supper last night. Did you find Miss Hart’s company agreeable?”

Winston’s cravat seemed to tighten around his neck. He felt the need to loosen it, but clasped his hands together to prevent such a self-conscious gesture. “Agreeable. Yes. Entirely pleasant.”

Blakemore leaned back with a frown. “I gather you have some reservations about the young lady.”

At this perfect opening for his questions, Winston gave a slight shrug to suggest he was indifferent, though his emotions were far from detached. The young lady had occupied his thoughts since last night and even more so since this morning, when his discussion with Edgar had generated a certain protectiveness toward her. But it would not do to confess such feelings to the earl. “In truth, I know nothing of her family or her pedigree. Perhaps you can enlighten me.”

Blakemore blinked and gripped his round chin thoughtfully. “Why, I have no idea. Lady Blakemore would not have hired her without the proper pedigree.”

“Of course not.” Winston hoped his question had not cast aspersions on the countess. From Blakemore’s good-natured expression, he guessed it had not. Still, it would help if he knew whether Miss Hart came from the gentry or the aristocracy.

“However, if she does not suit you, then do not give the matter another thought.” Blakemore stood, and Winston had no choice but to do the same. Nothing had been settled by their discussion, but he dared not press the matter of accompanying the earl to France, lest he cause offense. Following him toward the door of the chamber, Winston had a clear view of the top of Blakemore’s balding head, which barely reached his own shoulder. Yet so much character and power resided within the shorter man that Winston could not help but hold him in great esteem.

The earl stopped abruptly and faced Winston, wagging a paternal finger in his direction. “I would not have you marry in haste, my boy, but if you can find a suitable wife by mid-August when our party leaves for Paris, then all the better for your ability to serve king and country at my side.”

Winston’s heart raced. The earl had just as much as said he was accepted as part of the delegation to the French. At least, it sounded that way. “I thank you, sir. I shall certainly make every effort to do so.”

“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?”