Louise Gouge - A Lady of Quality

Winston never knew how to answer his cousin in this matter. In truth, Mrs. Parton, their distant relation, had spoiled Winston, except in the matter of Lady Beatrice, for whom she had favored Lord Greystone. But she had also been kind to Edgar. Perhaps Edgar feared Winston would neglect their friendship if...when he married.

His cousin’s ingratiating smile canceled such concerns. “Now, what about your clothes?”

Winston looked down at his black suit, which was miraculously free of cat hair thanks to the labors of his valet and the footmen keeping Crumpet out of the breakfast room. The little rascal was an excellent mouser, but he did love to get into mischief and was not always easy to apprehend when he escaped Winston’s suite. “Yes? What about them?”

“Dear boy.” Edgar posted his fists at his waist. “Why do you insist upon wearing this somber black all the time?” He waved a dismissive hand toward Winston’s suit. “You have the appearance of a country vicar.”

Winston endured his scolding with good humor. “As I have told you before, because this blond hair gives me the look of a sixteen-year-old and black makes me look older.” Never mind his annoying curls, which his valet had given up trying to control.

“Boring, actually.” Edgar waved a hand in the air. “Too late to do anything about that for today, but you must see your tailor soon and get some color into your wardrobe.”

“Yes, Edgar.” He had no intention of changing his wardrobe.

“Well, I must be off. Blakemore does not abide tardiness.” Edgar snatched a roll from the sideboard and stuck it into his pocket as he walked from the room.

That simple gesture, coupled with his cousin’s genuine concerns for him, stirred Winston’s soul and caused him to love Edgar all the more. How he wished Father had not thought so little of his former heir, but perhaps Winston could somehow make it up to him in the years to come.

A hearty sneeze in the hallway interrupted his trip back to the breakfast table.

“Get that beast away from me.” Edgar’s angry words shattered the usual calm of the town house.

Winston hurried to the door in time to see a footman seize Crumpet the instant before Edgar’s violent kick could make contact with its furry rump. Crumpet twisted in the man’s hands with a hiss and swung a paw at his cousin, claws extended.

“Sorry, sir.” John Footman grimaced as he caught sight of Winston. “Sorry, m’lord. He got away from me.” He clutched the golden creature and murmured, “There now, laddie, shame on you for botherin’ his lordship’s guest.”

Edgar gave another violent sneeze, glared at Crumpet, swung a grimacing smile at Winston and hastened down the front stairway.

“Sorry, m’lord,” the footman repeated.

“Never mind, John.” He took Crumpet from his servant and cradled him against his chest. As if blown by the wind, golden cat hairs instantly appeared on the front and sleeves of his black jacket. But Crumpet’s purring soothed away any concerns over his appearance. After all, Parliament did not meet on Wednesdays, and he had plenty of time to have his valet brush away the fur before his appointment with Lord Blakemore.

He recalled Miss Hart’s comment about only evil coming from people who did not like cats, but he would have to tell her of one exception. Poor Edgar could not be blamed if the beasts made him sneeze. Such an affliction did not mean that his cousin was evil. Not by any means.

At the thought of seeing Miss Hart again, warmth spread through his chest much like the effects of Crumpet’s purring. Neither of the two other ladies he had attempted to court this Season had generated such feelings. But Winston would heed Edgar’s cautions and make certain this young lady possessed sufficient family connections before launching a full pursuit.

* * *

No matter what Catherine did to her hair, even using a round, hot iron that scorched her stubborn locks, she could not force it to curl. She had never thought much about her coiffure until last evening’s ball, where she observed that most young ladies wore masses of pretty ringlets swept up in back and adorned with flowers, ribbons or strands of jewels. Even a few saucy curls to frame her face would certainly be just the thing to keep Lord Winston’s interest. Or so it seemed to her as she regarded her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.

Why could she not have plump cheeks like all of the fashionable young ladies? Or a well-rounded shape, like her own twelve-year-old sister? No, she was doomed forever to be a tall, thin reed, with hair as straight as a horse’s tail. The most she could do was to pull her long tresses into a tidy bun, leaving a few wispy strands to hang free at the sides. Or to pull those back with the rest. She could not decide which looked better.

How silly she was. Lord Winston’s interest in her had been obvious from the first moment their eyes met. If she changed her appearance, he might dislike the new look. And today, she must do nothing to drive him away. In any event, he had enough curls for two people.

Moving on to her attire, she chose a pretty blue muslin morning gown. Lady Blakemore had provided a modest but adequate wardrobe so Catherine would have something appropriate to wear wherever she went. Shame pricked her conscience over accepting these lovely clothes, which she could well afford herself. But she must continue to play the part of the poor, genteel miss.

Standing in front of the tall mirror on her wardrobe for a final inspection, she declared herself ready for Lord Winston’s visit and left her bedchamber on the third floor of Blakemore House.

When she first agreed to Mr. Radcliff’s plan to work as the countess’s companion, she had feared living in town would prevent her from getting her daily exercise. But this Mayfair mansion sat upon a large property with many acres to walk about in safety. Even on a rainy day, the long corridors that took her from her quarters to the rest of the house provided plenty of exercise. She arrived at the first-floor drawing room feeling quite invigorated.

“Miss du Coeur.”

Catherine gasped upon hearing her real name, but it was Mr. Radcliff who addressed her in a quiet tone. Her friend was the only denizen of the bright, sunlit room, and he stood before a table in the corner admiring the earl’s collection of small ivory sculptures of African animals.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Radcliff.” She scurried across the large room so they could talk without fear of being heard by the footman just outside the door. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from his clothes, an odd fragrance for a gentleman to wear. But to question his choice would be rude. “Do you have any news?”

“I? Why, no, my dear. Until I came to work this morning, I have been home with my wife and son. You are the one who has ventured out into the excitement of Society. What happened at the marquess’s ball? Did you manage to dance with my cousin?”

Catherine’s heart twisted at his injured tone. This poor gentleman had from the first expressed sorrow over Lord Winston’s evil actions. How it must grieve him to be unable to expose the baron’s treachery without seeming to covet the man’s title.

“I did not have to manage at all.” Catherine smiled at the memory. “Lady Blakemore accosted the baron and practically dragged him over to me for an introduction.” Last evening, she had stared down at her hands and held her breath to generate a blush in her cheeks. But she need not mention such artifices, lest Mr. Radcliff think less of her. “He invited me to the supper dance, and we spent the rest of the evening together. In fact, he accepted Lady Blakemore’s invitation to have tea with us after his appointment with Lord Blakemore.”