The Unscrupulous Uncle, page 14
“So what? He asked about Sidney’s motive when we were discussing Sidney’s spite. You said yourself that must be it. Should I have lied and claimed Sidney was retaliating because we pushed him into the stream when he was five years old?”
Damon glared. “You do not discuss money with people you barely know!”
“Jack is your closest friend. He will not spread the tale further. He is trying to protect me from Sidney’s malice, but cannot do so unless he knows the facts. If you don’t like it, perhaps you should disprove the rumors yourself!”
“No one can help you if you don’t cease the top-lofty condescension, Catherine,” he charged.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dancing. Refusing sets because the gentlemen aren’t good enough for you will do you far more damage than anything Sidney might say.”
“Well, pardon me for avoiding society for eight years!” she spat, fighting tears. “You never considered that I might not know the steps, did you? It is so much easier to accept the criticism of others without thinking for yourself. I never thought you would turn into another mindless sheep, who blindly follows the fashion of the moment.”
She turned away to stare out over Berkeley Square, her tears now impossible to hide. Damon’s own behavior was making the situation worse, but how could she explain that without dredging up Hermione? There was no way they could rationally discuss Sidney if she clouded the issue with his former betrothal. But before she could find the right words, the door slammed.
She groped her way into bed, muffling her sobs with the pillow.
Chapter Eleven
Damon spurred Pythias to a hard canter, grateful that the early riders were not yet out. He needed to think – something he could not do in bed, for nightmares had intruded every time he dozed off. Finally giving up, he had headed for the park to blow away the cobwebs.
When had he lost control of his life? He hated scandal, yet for four days he had been caught in the center of one. Granted, it had not initially been Catherine’s fault, but she was keeping the stories alive. Both her address and her behavior were sadly lacking. She either remained silent in the face of Sidney’s charges or erupted in childish brangling. Her barbed comments had been overheard more than once. Repeating them made her sound like an arrogant fishwife.
And she continued to throw caution to the winds. The only way to counter the gossip was to demonstrate rigid propriety at all times. Instead, she had driven in the park with Rathbone – a renowned rake – and attended the theater with Lord James, a feebleminded, posturing poppinjay whose baggy pants and ridiculous cravats must make him a laughingstock. Neither action would have mattered in the normal course of events, but with her morals already suspect, she was pouring oil on the flames. Why couldn’t she have chosen her escorts from those known for rigid propriety – Ashton, Norwood, or Rufton, for example.
New tales surfaced daily in the clubs, accusing her of vulgar language, continuing liaisons, and a blue education. This last did not bother him, for she had always been intelligent. If only she would apply her common sense to dealing with society! But revealing serious interests at this time was unfortunate, for proving one rumor lent credence to the others.
His friends understood his dilemma. Hermione’s support was all that had kept him from creating a scene at the masquerade when Sidney started his tirade. She had even offered to teach Catherine about society, not that he had accepted. It would be unfair to drag her away from her own activities, and he doubted her parents would approve. But her concern had touched him. If only he had been able to follow his heart!
But he hadn’t. And the current disaster was mostly his own fault. He had ignored his promise to Peter for years, allowing Catherine to suffer alone. Had he done his duty and personally checked on her welfare, he would have learned of the will and could have insisted on a Season. If he had visited her after selling out, there would still have been ample time to find a respectable suitor. But he had not. By the time he’d discovered the truth, the only option had been to marry her. But the mistakes did not stop there. He should have presented her to society himself instead of relying on Louisa. His presence would have kept Sidney under control. Yet that would have meant throwing Hermione to the dogs, making her pay for his desertion.
He pulled up under an oak tree to allow Pythias a breather, then moved on at a more sedate pace.
Reviewing how he had arrived in this mess was pointless. He must look to the future. Hermione’s reputation would soon recover – she was again surrounded by much of her usual court – so he must start building a relationship with his wife. They had known each other all their lives…
But that was part of the problem. He felt no lust for her. He had thought of her as a sister for so long that bedding her seemed almost incestuous. Yet she was a beautiful woman. He mentally ticked off her attributes – glossy black hair, violet eyes, creamy heart-shaped face, voluptuous bosom, slim legs – but he could not move beyond anger at the loss of Hermione, whom he had wanted to bed from the moment he saw her.
He frowned. There must be some way to resolve his problem. Perhaps he should try to recapture the warmth they had shared before he left for Portugal. Was he still capable of warmth? That naïve young Damon had died at Vimeiro. Hardening his heart was all that had preserved his sanity through the carnage of war. Man was a brutal being, tamed by only the thinnest veneer of civilization. But that surface cracked easily.
He ruthlessly suppressed memories of the atrocities he had witnessed. He himself had done things that in the cold light of a London drawing room seemed almost bestial. He was hardened by seven years of fighting and now possessed too complex a character to revert to the simplicity of youth. But he must try. It was better than doing nothing. Another scandal-ridden public appearance could damage Catherine’s reputation beyond repair.
“Good morning.” Hermione’s cheerful voice interrupted his reverie. She turned her horse to trot beside his, her groom dropping back out of earshot.
“You are in looks today,” he noted, admiring the military style riding habit that drew attention to her curvaceous figure.
“Thank you, my lord. My modiste finished this yesterday and I could hardly wait to try it out.”
“It suits you,” he said gallantly.
“Are you trying to worm your way back into my good graces?”
“Is it necessary? I thought you had forgiven me.”
“And I thought you wished to restore my damaged credit. Yet you ignored me at Lady Dickenson’s Venetian breakfast yesterday and did not even attend Lady Durham’s ball.”
“You had ample escort, my lady, as you must admit.”
“But you deliberately avoided me – which Lady Beatrice noted, of course. She cited that as proof that your recent attentions have been contrived. You know she is determined to blame me for your desertion. Four people cut me dead last night, and I danced less than half of the sets. You promised to help me. It is the least you can do after throwing me over so publicly!”
Damon flinched. “I always keep my promises, but I cannot attend every entertainment. If I follow you around like a puppy, people will impute even worse motives.” Damn Lady Beatrice for an interfering harridan!
They rode in silence for a couple of minutes. The spring birds were in good voice, each valiantly defending its territory with song. But his spirits refused to lift.
“You seem troubled,” observed Hermione at last. “Perhaps you should send your wife home to the country until she learns to comport herself properly.”
“It is not your place to judge her,” he responded coldly, though the suggestion offered a solution to his immediate problem. Was that really the answer? But he could not send her home without accompanying her, which smacked of running away. None of the Braxtons were likely to behave civilly, and he knew from experience how little they followed convention.
“Of course not,” Hermione agreed immediately. “I was quite out of line. It is just that I care for you. It hurts me to see what she is doing to your name, for you deserve far better. I understand why you turned down my offer, but someone needs to teach her.”
For once her accompanying smile did not warm his heart. Instead, her continuing criticism irritated him. “What are your plans for this week?”" he asked, pointedly returning to the subject.
She sighed. “It is difficult to start over this late in the Season. We will visit Vauxhall tonight with my cousins. Lord Gresham is including us in a theater party tomorrow – not that he is the least bit interesting. I may need rescuing from his ponderous prose by the first interval.”
“I can’t help you there. We are promised to Lady Peverell’s musicale.” But he could not avoid another wave of guilt. Restoring her reputation would be a harder battle than he had expected if the best escort she could find was a dullard like Gresham. Yet he could not abandon Cat, either, especially in light of Sidney’s spite. Only his own presence promised any hope of deflecting the lad.
“What a boring evening for you,” observed Hermione. “Perhaps you can slip away and call at the theater.”
“I’ve seen Hamlet too often already,” he replied shortly, again irritated but unable to decide why. “And you have an escort for the evenings. No one will think it the least odd that I am elsewhere. I will make a point of greeting you in the park during the fashionable hour, and I expect we will both attend the Stafford ball.”
She nodded.
He made his excuses and departed. He would also be at Vauxhall, but Hermione did not need him. He planned to recapture some of the warmth he had once shared with Catherine. Only then would he have any hope of controlling her behavior. At the moment, the least hint of criticism was enough to trigger an argument.
* * * *
Lord James was Catherine’s first caller of the afternoon. Today’s Cossacks were a lively green and gold stripe that appeared ludicrous below his impeccable cravat and form-fitting green jacket. She managed to keep from laughing until he produced a jeweled quizzing glass and minutely scrutinized her gown.
“Forgive me,” she gasped at last. “That was abominably rude.”
“My behavior or your own?” One brow lifted.
“Mine, of course.”
“You disappoint me. Did you not realize that I was demanding your laughter?” An elaborate pout elicited new giggles.
“You are serious!”
“You feel better for the release, do you not?” She nodded and he grinned. “I have to occasionally poke fun at people’s affectations, including my own. And you must concede that today’s fashions are ridiculous. Consider Lord Pinter. One could run him through without inflicting injury, for most of him is false – calves, thighs, shoulders, even his hair. The lad is bald as an egg with a figure like a skeleton.”
“Perhaps he should adopt Cossacks,” she suggested.
“God forbid! I only wear them to distance myself from Brummell’s imitators. They’ve hardly a thought amongst them. And no originality, for their latest fancy is to ape their youngest siblings.”
“The lisping?”
“Of course. It’s remarkably silly.” He demonstrated, speaking in a high, girlish tone and fluttering his hands while he minced across the room, leaning forward on his toes until she was sure he would fall. “Tho thorry thothiety thinkth you a courtethan, my dear. You mutht be horridly dithtrethed!”
“Idiot!” she choked through renewed laughter. “Do you know that outfit resembles a skirt when you walk like that?”
“Naturally. It is meant to. Absurd, I agree, but one must keep au courant, though frankly I believe it a trifle much.” He had reverted to his normal voice, but retained the foppish mannerisms as he preened before a mirror. “Now admit that you feel better.”
“If you insist.”
“Stubborn, aren’t you? But there is a lesson in this madness. Society’s spite is merely another affectation that will be gone and forgot after a few tomorrows. None of them really mean it, but they are frightened of being out of step.”
More visitors arrived, and she thrust down a spurt of disappointment. Having a friend she could laugh with was a luxury she had not enjoyed since Damon left for war. The dour man who had returned wasted no time on humor. She had not realized how much she missed the gaiety that had filled her childhood.
Lord James’s claims were absurd, of course, his own affectations prompting most of them. But they gave her something to think about as she studied the posturing of her guests. And that kept her mind off her problems.
“I heard the most astonishing tale about Mr. Sidney Braxton,” exclaimed Lady Beatrice an hour later. “Do you recall how he was injured while riding in Lord Gregory Mallowfield’s curricle last year? It lost a wheel and careened into a tree.”
Catherine raised her brows, for she had not heard of it, but the other guests were all nodding agreement.
“Lord Gregory was terribly upset,” recalled Lady Debenham.
“He even called in Dr. Massington – and we all know how expensive he is – to treat young Braxton’s back,” added Lady Marchgate.
“That is not all he did,” reported Lady Beatrice. “Lord Gregory paid Braxton five hundred pounds to quiet his charge that the incident was a deliberate attempt to injure him.”
“Preposterous!”
“That is a fortune!”
“Who would believe such a claim?”
Lady Beatrice snorted. “Lord Gregory’s grandfather would. But that is not all. Mr. Braxton was seen in Kent – riding to hounds with Lord Hawkins – at the very time he was supposedly suffering back spasms in London. One wonders if he did not arrange the accident himself.”
“Shocking!”
“Who saw him in Kent?” demanded Lady Debenham.
“Lord Hartleigh.”
“A true gentleman,” decided Lady Cunningham.
“If Braxton lied about the accident, can we believe him about anything else?” asked Lady Marchgate, looking pointedly at Catherine.
“I don’t see how,” declared Lady Beatrice.
“But one lie does not make all his claims untrue,” insisted Lady Debenham. “I have confirmation from Sir Anthony Wilkins that Lady Devlin was seen publicly embracing Lord Rathbone several years ago.”
A collective gasp filled the room.
“Under a kissing bough, no doubt,” scoffed Lady Beatrice.
“Hardly. At a summer picnic when they believed themselves unobserved.” She glared at Catherine.
“We all know Rathbone’s reputation,” said Lady Cunningham.
“At least you make the charge to my face,” observed Catherine calmly. “How different it sounds in the telling. I was sixteen at the time. Lord Rathbone had just won a rowing competition against my brother. Since I had wagered a whole sixpence on that outcome, I was delighted enough to hug him.” She let her eyes twinkle with mischief. “I admit that he had no objections. Even in those days he was a confirmed flirt.”
Several ladies laughed. Lady Beatrice gloated. Catherine kept her composure, though she heaved a silent sigh of relief at having survived another inquisition. How many other tales from the past would these tenacious gossips uncover? Thank heaven no one knew of that stolen kiss! She had not even told Edith.
* * * *
Catherine set aside her cares for the evening. She and Damon were to visit Vauxhall Gardens with Edith and Sir Isaac Peverell, Louisa, Sir Thomas Morehead, and Captain and Mrs. Hanson. She had not previously met Sir Thomas, who was one of Louisa’s friends, or Captain Hanson, who had served on the Peninsula with Damon.
At first sight the gardens looked like a fairyland. The party had taken boats across the Thames rather than endure the roundabout route required of coaches. Part of the glamour of Vauxhall was the inaccessibility that kept the riffraff from descending in large numbers, as they had done at Ranelagh Gardens some years before, creating a crime problem that had driven away the upper classes and forced it to close. Many people were predicting a similar fate for Vauxhall once the new Bridge was completed, for its terminus was almost atop the gardens.
Thousands of lights led the eye from the wharf to the gates, with even more lanterns decorating the gardens themselves. Music wafted out to draw them closer.
“It looks like something out of The Arabian Nights,” Catherine murmured as Damon led her down the main concourse toward the box Sir Isaac had reserved for the party.
“Not quite, but I see what you mean.”
Vauxhall was not all that resembled a fantasy tale, decided Cat as the evening progressed. Damon was being remarkably attentive. Though the group stayed together as they wandered through the gardens, only Damon escorted her, his muscular arm resting beneath her fingers. He took delight in her delight, sharing her laughter at the puppets, her awe at the rope dancers, and her admiration for the cunning lights that displayed trees and shrubbery to advantage. They danced, waltzing around the plaza until she was dizzy with exhilaration. And with hope. The caring brother she had idolized in her youth was back. And more. Shivers tumbled down her spine as he pulled her closer than was acceptable in a ballroom.
Not until they returned to the box for the usual supper of wafer-thin slices of ham and beef did his attention broaden to include others.
Edith took the chair next to Catherine, rolling her eyes at the gentlemen, who were caught up in discussing a pension bill for war veterans that had recently been introduced in Parliament. “That looks suspiciously like a betrothal party,” she said, nodding toward a box across the plaza.
Mr. Jeremy Crenshaw, Miss Letitia Armstrong, and their respective families were raising glasses in obvious celebration. Several young men peppered the lanky Mr. Crenshaw with quips – ribald in nature, if their expressions and raucous laughter were anything to go by.
“It took a few days longer than you suggested, but they are now settled,” agreed Catherine, but she missed Edith’s reply as her eyes snapped two boxes to the right. Lady Hermione was ignoring her own party to stare longingly at Damon. And he was staring back, oblivious to the conversation he had been enjoying only moments before.
