Louise M. Gouge (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

A
fter two days of traveling, Catherine could tolerate only a short lie down, so she put on a fresh gown and paced the hallways of Blakemore House. Mr. Fleming seemed as energetic as she, for he offered to accompany her down the long hallways and galleries of the vast mansion.

The return of their party had thrown the household into chaos. Nonetheless, upon learning of his lordship’s injuries, all of the servants proved more than willing to forgo the leisure they had anticipated during his absence. The French cook had no difficulty pulling together a fine repast for supper. Lady Blakemore ate in her husband’s bedchamber, so Catherine and Mr. Fleming were alone in the smaller dining room.

The young secretary seemed disinclined to engage in conversation, even though as employees they were considered equals. After a while, however, Catherine decided to satisfy her curiosity.

“Mr. Fleming, you acquitted yourself quite admirably during the attack. I was surprised to see your fighting skill.”

He looked up from his soup, sorrow in his expression. “As I was unable to successfully protect Lord Blakemore, Miss Hart, I cannot think myself all that skillful.”

“Sir, you are a secretary. No one expects you to protect anyone, or even to fight. Yet you did.”

“But I am...” He stopped speaking and returned to his soup.

Before she could question him further, Chetterly entered the room and approached her side of the table. “Miss Hart, Lord Hartley has asked to see you in the drawing room. Are you at home?”

Her heart leaped. She had expected to see him tomorrow and confess everything to him. Now she could clear her conscience before she went to bed.

“Yes.” She glanced at Mr. Fleming. “You will excuse me?”

His furrowed brow stopped her for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I hope you find Lord Hartley has recovered from his ordeal.”

She laughed. “As we all must.” How sweet and protective the young man was.

Chetterly led the way and opened the drawing-room door. Her pulse racing, Catherine swept into the room, barely able to keep from throwing herself into Lord Hartley’s strong arms.

“Good evening, sir. How nice of you to come. We did not expect you until tomorrow.”

Instead of the smile she anticipated, he lifted his chin and looked down that very fine nose, just as he had the day they had dueled at the fencing academy and he had flaunted his supposed superiority. “Good evening, Miss du Coeur.”

Her breath went out of her, and she grasped a nearby chair to keep from falling. “You know.”

He emitted an unpleasant snort of disdain. “I do.” The sneer on his finely sculpted lips changed his entire bearing. No longer the humble peer who almost refused his earldom. No longer the aspiring diplomat who hoped to humbly serve his king and country. No longer the bumbling swain who tried to win her affection.
This
was the man who had destroyed Papa, this arrogant dissembler who had deceived everyone, even Lord and Lady Blakemore.

Anger swept through her like a brush fire. “Well, then.” She scrambled for self-control, but could not stop her trembling rage. “If you know who I am, perhaps you will be so kind as to tell me why you destroyed a better man than you will ever be. Why?” Her voice had risen in volume. She paused to regain control. “My father, Comte du Coeur, is a good and godly gentleman, something you only pretend to be. Why did you forge letters accusing him of conspiring to assassinate his king? Why did you—”

“I forged no letters, madam.” His green eyes blazed with cold fury. “A French royalist or some honest Englishman saw to it that the letters were delivered to my home so that your father’s Bonapartist plot could be exposed.” He barked out an ironic laugh. “And you, with your swordsmanship, are clearly a party to the intrigue. Did you plan to murder me yourself or have someone else do it? Ah, yes. Your hired assassins made several attempts to murder me. Unfortunately for you, all of your plots failed.”

“Plots? Plots? You are the only one who plotted. And why? To advance your own interests. To somehow prove yourself worthy of your elevation, all the while acting the generous peer to lesser beings. You arrogant, undeserving bumbler.”

“Your father plotted an assassination.”

“You are a liar. You forged those letters.”

Silence ruled in the vast drawing room for a full ten seconds.

“That is entirely enough.” Lord Hartley slammed his fist against the back of a chair, knocking it over. “I am going straightaway to expose your deceptions to Blakemore.”

She glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You do that, Lord Hartley. But do not fail to mention your own sin. If you think Lady Blakemore will not believe my accusations against you, just wait and see.” Catherine owned no such assurance, but she could not permit him to have the last word.

“I shall, my lady.” He sketched an elaborate, disingenuous bow. “I shall.” He stormed past her, and the scent of his cologne lingered in the air around her.

She vowed to despise bay rum for the rest of her life.

* * *

Hartley felt sick to his stomach, but nonetheless he ran upstairs toward Blakemore’s suite on the next floor.

The footman outside the door bowed. “My lord, you may go through.” He opened the door inward.

Hartley nodded to the man, if only to prove Miss Hart...Miss du Coeur wrong. He was not arrogant. His consideration of others, even servants, was genuine.

The valet met him in the anteroom of the large suite. “How may I help you, Lord Hartley?”

Now was the true test. Would he insist upon exposing Miss du Coeur’s lies straightaway? Or would he put his friend and mentor’s interests before his own? With no little effort, he calmed himself.

“If Lord Blakemore is able to receive me, I would so much appreciate it.” He punctuated his request with a smile that felt more like a grimace. But then, noblemen need not smile at servants. Why had he felt it necessary?

“Of course.” The valet walked toward the bedchamber door just as Lady Blakemore emerged.

“Why, Hartley, what brings you here at this hour?” Her maternal tone proved his undoing.

“Madam,” he choked out, “we have all been deceived by Miss Hart. She is Miss du Coeur, the daughter of the Bonapartist who conspired to assassinate the French king.”

To his shock, the countess merely nodded. “You must speak with Blakemore. Do go through.” She waved toward the door. “I will speak with the young lady.” With that, she strode from the suite.

Good. She would give Miss du Coeur the set down she deserved.

To his dismay, the thought twisted in his belly. He shoved aside the mad desire to follow the countess and protect the girl.

* * *

Catherine righted the fallen chair, then slumped down into its comfortable upholstery. Her world had just been shattered, and she had no strength to stand. Just as she had always thought before her heart got in the way, Lord Hartley was a wicked, scheming man. The very idea that he would deny her charges made her sick with rage, but she would not surrender to tears.

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Lady Blakemore entered the room all warmth and smiles. “Why, whatever is wrong?”

Her generosity was more than Catherine could bear. She flung herself into the countess’s arms and wept. “Forgive me, my lady. I have misrepresented myself to you. I am not a gentlewoman or whatever you thought me to be. I am the daughter of Comte du Coeur, whom that dastardly Lord Hartley has accused of plotting against King Louis. But his accusations are false, I swear to you by all that is h—”

“Now, now, my dear. No need to blaspheme.” She smoothed back Catherine’s straight hair. “Of course you are Miss du Coeur. We knew it all along.”

“Wha—” Catherine dropped down on the nearest settee. “What are you saying?”

“My husband is a jolly man, my dear, but he is no fool. When Lord Hartley—Lord Winston at the time—brought the letters to the Home Office, Blakemore straightaway knew something was wrong, so he launched an investigation.”

“And found that Lord Hartley forged the letters for political advancement.”

“Gracious no, my girl.” She spoke in a whisper and looked around as if searching for eavesdroppers. “Hartley was too innocent, too naive ever to be a suspect, but there was someone else close to my husband who concerned him.”

“But why did you hire me?” Catherine’s head reeled. Hartley innocent? Naive?

The countess laughed softly. “Why, to protect you from yourself. We could not have Mademoiselle Catherine du Coeur gallivanting all over England trying to avenge her father when we all knew he was not in the slightest guilty.”

“You knew?” A thousand thoughts rushed in upon her, but only one stood out. “If I had been honest with you from the beginning, so many things would be different now.”

“Yes.” Lady Blakemore sighed. “And if we had been honest with you... But we had to trap the villain... Oh, enough of that. We did what we did. Now, I shall send Hartley down so the two of you can get this all sorted out.”

“Oh, no. I could not.” All this time she had forced herself to despise an innocent man instead of listening to her heart. He would never forgive her for the cruel things she said only moments ago.

“Hmm. Well, then, he may be coming down the stairs at any moment. If you do not wish to speak to him yet, perhaps you should wait here.”

Catherine nodded mutely.

“There, there, my dear. Do not weep.” The countess patted her cheek, then walked toward the door, where she turned back. “It will all work out in the end.”

Catherine sat with hands folded in her lap, wondering how long she must wait before leaving the drawing room. Perhaps it would be better to face Lord Hartley and have done with it, whether for good or for ill. She had no doubt he would never forgive her, nor did she deserve forgiveness. Against everything she had ever been taught or believed in, she had lied and, yes, plotted against a good gentleman, refusing the evidence of Lord and Lady Blakemore’s recommendations and her own eyes and heart.

Lord Hartley—had he chosen that name because he believed hers to be Hart? She had thought herself so clever with her wordplay.
Hart,
a play on
heart,
the translation of
du Coeur.
How close little Lord Westerly had come to exposing her in the park that day. What would have happened if he had?

Lord, forgive me for my lies. Why did I ever think ill of such a good man?

“Ah, there you are, my dear.” Mr. Radcliff slipped into the room through the secret door. “I understand you had a little adventure these past two days.”

The instant Catherine looked into his pale gray, soulless eyes, the truth slammed into her.

“You!” She stood and backed away from him toward the hearth, searching in vain for a poker or shovel.

“Oh, bother.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Now I shall have to take drastic action. Ellis.”

A large, roughly dressed man slipped into the room with a stealth that belied his size. “Aye, Cap’n?”

“Imbecile! I have told you to address me as
my lord.
” Mr. Radcliff waved a hand toward Catherine. “Seize the girl. We have had a change of plans.”

“No!” Catherine dashed toward the door, but the henchman was too quick. When she tried to scream, he threw a burlap bag over her head and flung her up on his shoulder. She kicked and writhed to get free to no avail. On the way out through what she assumed was the secret door, her head banged into the lintel, leaving her unable to think of anything but the pain.

* * *

“There is no way around it, my boy.” Blakemore lay propped up against the pillows on his four-poster bed. “Miss du Coeur lied about her identity, and we permitted the deception because we were trying to ferret out the real purpose for Radcliff’s scheme. You cannot imagine our relief when we discovered he did not mean to assassinate old Louis. He simply wished to take revenge upon those he felt had harmed him.”

Hartley grasped for calm, not daring to challenge his mentor’s wisdom in using a foolish young woman for such a dangerous operation. “So in addition to his desire to murder me and seize my title, he wants revenge against du Coeur?”

“Yes. All those years ago when a certain Miss Beecham married the Comte du Coeur, Radcliff was enraged. He had hoped to marry the young lady to advance his own prospects. You see, she was the great-niece of Lord Beckwith, a baron of some prominence at the time. Being a young man, Radcliff made a cake of himself over the matter, which took him down a peg in Society’s opinion and set him back considerably. No young lady would have him, so he had to settle for a woman of no fortune or consequence. He waited more than twenty years to destroy du Coeur and very nearly succeeded.”

That explained Edgar’s antipathy toward his own wife and son. The man had no capacity for love or even decent familial affections. Poor Emily and Marcus. Further, Hartley had missed several opportunities to learn the truth about Miss du Coeur. When doddering Lady Beckwith recognized her at Drayton’s supper, he should have paid attention instead of dismissing the elderly lady as senile.

“And I do not have to guess why Edgar wanted me dead.” The thought sickened him. “He could have had me murdered at any time over the past twenty-three years. I suppose he waited until he would inherit an earldom along with the barony.”

“Yes, but do not discount your father. Whatever coldness he exhibited to others, he did protect his own. Before leaving London that last time, he asked me to watch over you. I believe he knew he would never be well enough to return to Parliament.”

For all of his coldness and censure, Father must have cared for him, but Hartley would have to sort that out later. For now he still could not reconcile himself to Miss du Coeur’s lies. Had she ever loved him? Or had it all been a pose to trap him into a confession of his supposed forgery?

“I do not understand how you could permit Edgar to have free access to your home.” Hartley had made the same mistake, but Edgar was his relative. “Were you not concerned for your safety?”

Blakemore chuckled. “You know the saying ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer’? Radcliff had no quarrel with us. Like most villains, he thought himself much more intelligent than an old codger like me.” He shifted in his bed and frowned, obviously uncomfortable. “We hoped, Lady Blakemore and I, that you and Miss du Coeur would recognize the true character in each other, perhaps even fall in love.” The earl winced and grasped his broken forearm, then turned to Dr. Horton. “Hurts like the plague.” His weary sigh prompted Hartley.