“For shame, Cathcart.” Lady Harringdon swatted at him with her fan. “Lady Margaret who just married is the last of my daughters, as you know perfectly well. This pretty young person is Miss Westbrook, a relation on Lord Harringdon’s side. She accompanies me tonight as a prospective lady’s companion, and I assure you she is not susceptible to such overblown flattery as you attempt. Miss Westbrook, this dreadful flirt of a man is Lord Cathcart.”
“On the contrary, her ladyship is the dreadful flirt. I must scramble to keep up with her.” He bowed over Kate’s hand. “Can I persuade you into a dance, Miss Westbrook? Whether you’re a companion or a marriageable miss is of no consequence to me, as I already have an eminently satisfactory viscountess. I simply pride myself on standing up with the prettiest girl at every ball.”
Her heart lurched into a hasty cadence. This wasn’t the invitation from a titled gentleman she’d pictured—she’d imagined an unmarried man with subtler manners—but it would be a distinction nevertheless. And if other men saw her dancing, then other invitations might follow.
Yet how could she accept? Lady Harringdon had been on the point of asking her to take Miss Smith about the room and help her catch a partner. She wouldn’t be able to do that if she herself was dancing when Miss Smith returned.
She lowered her eyes to her hands, which sat folded in her lap. “I’m deeply honored by your invitation, sir.” Oh, she hated to pass up this chance, even for the sake of solidifying the countess’s good impression of her. “But I’m here tonight by Lady Harringdon’s goodness, and I—”
“A moment, please, Miss Westbrook.” Her aunt’s voice cut her off neatly. With her fan she waved the viscount away. “Will you please give us just a moment to consult, my lord?” The man retreated several steps; she snapped her fan open with such smart style as might reduce any sensible lady to tears of appreciation, and positioned it to screen her next words. “Have you any objection to dancing with him? He may flirt shamelessly, but he’s harmless, and perfectly devoted to his wife.”
“On my own account I shouldn’t mind, but I’d meant to walk about the room with Miss Smith.”
“I have a new assignment for you.” Assignment. It had a very pleasant sound. As though she were some daring lady spy, and Lady Harringdon the mastermind who sent her out on missions. “You strike me as a persuading sort of lady. Do you think you can contrive to have him ask our friend for a dance, once your set is finished? He himself can be no prospect, but a first dance may put the machinery in motion, as it were. Other gentlemen may take note.”
“Yes, of course.” Here was an assignment entirely fitted to her abilities: if there was one thing in the world she knew how to do, it was to persuade gentlemen to her will. She needn’t yet know how she would convince this viscount to dance with Miss Smith, to be sure that she would do it.
And if other gentlemen took note of her in the process, so much the better.
A country dance had begun some while since. They would have time to circle the room in conversation, waiting for the next set to form, and in that time she might accomplish a great deal. She nodded to Lady Harringdon, gave a single straightening touch to the pink ribbon woven through her hair, and rose from her seat to go take the viscount’s proffered elbow.
“I HAVEN’T YET engaged a secretary, I should mention.” Lord Barclay pivoted from the side table, where he’d been pouring a pair of drinks, and crossed the carpet to Nick’s seat at the hearth, one glass held out in offering. “I’m used to doing things for myself, and not quite ready to hand over the management of any decisions to someone else. Even handing over my correspondence is a step at which I balk.”
“I understand. I suspect it’s a common condition for second sons.” Nick took the glass, which held a finger’s breadth or two of some honey-colored liquid that was doubtless beyond his ability to appreciate. “We grow accustomed to making our own way out of necessity, and then we get rather attached to the habit.”
“Exactly so.” The baron settled into the opposite chair, crossing his legs and propping one elbow on the chair’s arm. “I do recognize that I shall have to eventually engage someone. I don’t expect you to know yet whether you’d be interested in that post—we might discover our temperaments don’t suit—but may I ask whether you entertain any political ambitions? I won’t presume that every barrister does.”
“I do, though I’ve fixed no firm date on their realization, nor clearly imagined the form it will take.” He tilted his glass a few degrees back and forth, to catch the fire’s glow on the amber liquid within. He wasn’t ready to confide the strength of his ambitions to a man who might have a great deal of power over whether they came to fruition or not. “And I meanwhile find a considerable satisfaction in my present work.” On those occasions when work presents itself, that is. “Were you always political yourself, or is it more a matter of wanting to do your duty by the title?”
“Truthfully, it’s more a matter of having my eyes opened by my time in the Hussars. I grew up rather complacent, Blackshear, as I’m sure you may surmise by merely glancing about here.” Indeed the library in which they sat was every bit as grand as the ballroom, in its way. Floor-to-ceiling shelves covered every wall, the expanse of books interrupted only by the open door, a pair of French doors to the terrace, and the marble fireplace. “I had polite ideas of the nation’s good, as my brother Astley does, or as I daresay most men do, who haven’t been exposed to much beyond their circle of privilege.”
“I can see how the army would change that.” Nick curled his fingers into a subtle grip on the chair’s arm, to avoid fidgeting. All too well he knew the kinds of changes military service could effect in a man’s way of thinking.
“Indeed. And even more so, the return to England, and the witnessing of what conditions are faced by returning soldiers who haven’t got a proper pension and in some cases aren’t equal to the demands of a steady situation. I couldn’t long observe that without thinking it a disgrace, and thinking that our nation must do better— But do you not care for cognac?” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, ready to swoop in and take Nick’s glass away. “Pardon me; I poured it without thinking to ask.”
Cognac, then. He hadn’t been quite sure. “No, I have no doubt it’s splendid. I only got caught up in the conversation and forgot to drink.”
“That’s my fault.” He got to his feet, grinning. “I get upon the subject of politics and I take the very air out of the room, or so Astley tells me. No intervals for a man to simply relax and enjoy his drink.” While speaking, he made his way to the French doors and undid the latch to crack one open. “Voilà. Air. The marquess can reproach me with nothing now.”
He seemed a remarkably good-natured man. Will had worn a sober, even distracted air in those months between when he’d come home from Belgium and when he’d announced his intention to fight a duel over someone else’s mistress and to marry her if he survived. Whatever had affected him so in wartime had apparently left Barclay untouched.
He might make Miss Westbrook a fine husband. Nick took a sip of the cognac, just enough to anoint all the tasting parts of his tongue. It had a vague flavor of fruit mixed with wood, and it burned a bit when he swallowed.
Despite his teasing her about snaring a duke, he knew the odds were much against her, when she must go to parties as a mere companion-in-training. He ought to do what he could to put the baron in her way. He’d be doing a kindness to her father, too, if an attachment took hold between her and Barclay. With a worthy, respectable suitor, welcome in the Westbrook home, she’d have no need to attend any more of these parties. Mr. Westbrook could let go his worries over the danger of predatory lords.
A tiny protest came, a twisting in his chest. Mere cobwebs of old habit. As a friend, he wanted to see her happily married to some suitable man, and that suitable man was not himself.
At any rate, his plan already provided for a likely meeting between Miss Westbrook and the baron. “Let’s speak a bit of the skills y
ou foresee needing, to become an effective parliamentarian, and how I may be of service to you in acquiring those skills.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cognac glass balanced in the fingers of his right hand. “I’d recommend some study in the principles of persuasion—I can prepare some cases for you to argue before me—but before we come to that, if you don’t mind, I propose we begin with the fundamental mechanics of speech. And for that, if you’ll agree to it, I propose to take you to the same teacher with whom I myself studied.”
“MR. BLACKSHEAR asked you to dance with me?”
The viscount had cheerfully offered up this information as soon as they’d started their circuit of the room, and Kate didn’t know whether to be grateful or galled.
“Don’t be piqued with him. He feared you might be approached by unscrupulous sorts while he was out of the room and unable to protect you from their unscrupulous ways. It occurred to him that if you were dancing with me, you couldn’t be dancing with anyone else, apart from briefly, during such exchanges as the figure of the dance requires.”
“He has reason to trust you, I collect.” She’d never met a friend of Mr. Blackshear’s. She couldn’t help being curious. It was difficult to imagine what he and Lord Cathcart had in common.
“An acquaintance going back to university days, and knowledge of my constancy to my wife. Speak of unscrupulous sorts, do you see that fellow who’s eyeing you there, the one with the prodigious collar points? Don’t dance with him if he asks.” The flippancy went right out of his voice. “He’s second in line for a dukedom, and Lady Cathcart tells me he’s good looking, but he has a rotten reputation and I know for a fact it’s deserved.”
Well, that sounded a bit like Mr. Blackshear. And the information was intriguing, particularly as the man in question was one whom Lady Harringdon had pointed out as a suitable prospect to Miss Smith. She hadn’t thought before of how useful a gentleman who kept abreast of these matters could be to a lady trying to make her way in society.
“Lord Cathcart.” She fixed him with her most winning smile as they took their place in the line. If he was going to speak so bluntly, why shouldn’t he welcome blunt talk in return? “I have an acquaintance who could profit from exactly that kind of advice. Since you’re willing to dance with a lady of no distinction as a favor to a friend, I wonder if I can persuade you to dance with another lady, amiable and deserving and a perfectly delightful conversationalist, as a favor to me.”
“BLACKSHEAR!” CATHCART beckoned him from a quarter of the way across the supper room, and broadened the gesture to include Lord Barclay as well. He had a pair of empty places at his table, which otherwise held the viscountess, Miss Westbrook, and her friend, though not, interestingly enough, Lady Harringdon.
Fine work, Cathcart. This was above and beyond what he’d requested, and all to the good. From even this distance he could see Miss Westbrook glowing at the distinction of sitting down with a titled husband and wife, for all the world as though she were a noble young lady with no questionable connections.
She glanced up at his approach and her smile went wider, her eyes sparkling like sapphires held up to a flame. He could almost feel a sharpening in Barclay’s attention as that gentleman had his first full look at her, though perhaps he was merely imputing to the baron what he’d observed in so many male callers at the Westbrook house.
She did make a very pretty picture this evening. She wore a white gown with pink ribbons on the sleeves and tied round under the bodice, and a matching pink ribbon woven through her blond hair. Now that he was near her for the first time tonight, he could see she had her hair in some more-elaborate-than-usual arrangement. Mostly, though, he just saw her smile.
“Sophie, my dear, I think you’ll remember Nick Blackshear; he was a year ahead of me at Cambridge.” Cathcart stood, making the introductions while ushering Nick and Lord Barclay to the open seats. “Blackshear, I believe Miss Westbrook is already known to you; here is her friend Miss Smith.” Between them they introduced Lord Barclay all around, and got him seated beside Miss Smith and directly across from Miss Westbrook. Nick took the place at her left.
Some mention of Parliament had occurred during the introductions, and it developed that Miss Smith had a brother in Commons. Barclay, having met several Mr. Smiths in that House, now set himself to puzzling out whether any of them was the Mr. Smith in question. Nick turned to his right. “My apologies,” he muttered to Miss Westbrook under cover of the others’ conversation. “I didn’t expect the discussion to turn political so soon.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” She smiled with such particular radiance that he knew Cathcart must have told her to whom she owed the dance. “I’m having a supremely enjoyable evening and I don’t begrudge others’ enjoying themselves as well. You’re enjoying yourself, I hope? Your meeting with Lord Barclay went well?”
“I believe it did.” He started in on his soup course. This was how they would enjoy themselves tonight and henceforward: privy to one another’s ambitions, secret sharers in each other’s triumphs. “He seems a very good man, the baron.” He inclined a bit toward her and spoke under his breath. “An excellent candidate for snaring in your web, if you can bring yourself to make conversation about laws and elections and the social good.”
“How little you know about snaring, Mr. Blackshear.” She glowed with good-humored confidence. “Gentlemen don’t want ladies who can converse on their favorite topics. They want ladies who can listen, wide-eyed. Let me demonstrate.
“Lord Barclay.” She retracted her attention from Nick and sent it all across the table as the baron and Miss Smith finished their conference on the identity of that lady’s brother. No trace of saucy manners remained: she was an innocent at her first rout, privileged to be sitting at a table with titled people. “What is it like in the House of Lords? We ladies, not being admitted, can only guess at all the pomp and ceremony.”
Lord Barclay might be too seasoned a man to gape, but he did, unmistakably, absorb a heavy dose of her charm. He inclined his head to her. “In fact there is a deal of ceremony. More than I would have expected.”
“A new creation has to dress in elaborate robes and carry in his writ of summons.” Cathcart sent this intelligence up the table with evident relish. “Those are the best sessions, when someone new parades about and the rest of us can tell ourselves we never looked so foolish.”
“Thank you for confirming my apprehension of how I looked. I felt like the worst sort of coxcomb.” Barclay grinned at the viscount, and then at Miss Westbrook. “And it proves to have been a harbinger of how things would go on.”
“Indeed?” She inclined forward by some, no doubt, few degrees, reflecting his smile straight back to him. Anyone would think she’d come to this party entirely in hopes of hearing about the workings of Parliament.
“I’d supposed we’d spend our time addressing issues of national welfare.” Barclay glanced around the table, too well bred to ignore the rest of the company in favor of the pretty girl opposite. “The alleviation of poverty, for example, or matters of health and disease, or perhaps some decisions having to do with import tariffs. But I swear last Monday we spent half the session hearing a petition on behalf of some gentleman in Southampton who believes his local magistrate is involved in some conspiracy to blacken his character and who wants the magistrate dismissed.” He picked up his soup spoon. “I don’t say such a man isn’t entitled to a hearing, and to justice. But does that matter really require the attention of the full House of Lords?”
“There’s a great deal of that sort of thing,” Cathcart assured him. “Wait and see. Proclamations from the Prince Regent, votes in favor of giving official thanks to this or that set of people involved in a military action. It’s in Commons, I think, where the real work of the nation is done. Am I correct, Miss Smith?”
“I do believe there’s less in the way of ceremony, and fewer proclamations.” Miss Smith, clearly, had never been informed that gentlemen preferred rapt
attention to a thoughtful reply. Or perhaps the rules were different for a lady who wasn’t setting her cap at a man. She angled herself to address the baron. “I expect you’ll develop alliances in time with those members of Commons who share your concerns and positions. Then you can have influence with those men, and work with them on the issues that interest you. Poverty, I think you said?”
Barclay now spoke at some length, much as he’d done in the library, about the welfare of former soldiers and how he’d come to concern himself with the poor. He had passion and conviction, but also an air of reason; this combination would be much to his advantage as a speaker. He did need to learn the value of brevity, and the skill of choosing which phrases to emphasize. His breath originated from too high in his chest, as well. Granted he spoke at a supper table and had no need to project his voice, but it was a good bet he’d speak the same way on the Parliament floor.
“Do you suppose he might hire you as a secretary?” Miss Westbrook’s soft voice broke into his thoughts. “Papa said he doesn’t have one.”
“It’s too early to speculate on that.” Nick reached for his wineglass. Uneasiness prickled just under his skin. To what extent had she and her father discussed this? Had they weighed and considered the likelihood that the Blackshear connections would present an insurmountable obstacle? Was that, in fact, what she was asking him now? His opinion on his chances of gaining a secretary post in spite of everything? “He’s engaged me to help him with speaking. That’s enough to thoroughly occupy me for the present.”
Cecilia Grant - [Blackshear Family 03] Page 12
