The Unscrupulous Uncle, page 5
“Rest easy,” he commanded, again fighting tears, for the reality far exceeded anything she could have heard. “I saw him go down. The moment there was a break in the action, I sent Burt to bear him back to camp. You may remember Burt.”
“Of course. His cousin Ned is one of our footmen.”
“There is nothing more I can add. Rather than wait for word from home, I arranged to dispatch the body here – and was ultimately glad to have done so, for only you were left by the time the notice arrived. How did you survive so much grief?”
She turned bleak eyes toward his face. “I don’t know. I recall little after I wrote you, so I suppose I slipped into shock. By the time I recovered, the funerals were over, and Uncle Henry had taken care of everything else. I should have known that you would not have forgot us, but having no memory of that time, I assumed that there was nothing to know.”
“Did you really write me?” he asked suddenly.
“Of course. The evening of the accident. You must have got it!”
He shook his head. “Not a word. It hurt.”
They stared at each other for over a minute.
“This is very odd,” she said.
“Not really.” He shrugged. “The vagaries of war. We lost some ships in the early days. I suppose our mail was on them.”
“How cruel can life get?” she murmured rhetorically. “Not one word from you since Peter’s death.”
“But surely your uncle reported meeting me in London!”
She raised her brows. “When was this?”
“Early November. I came back to deal with all the legal business engendered by my parents’ deaths. I was planning to come down to see you, but frankly I was dreading having to face the ghosts here, so when I met your uncle in town, I turned coward and rejoined my regiment. He assured me that you were well. But I sent you a message.”
“Saying what?”
“Repeating my condolences and congratulating you on your betrothal.” But even as he spoke, cold settled into his stomach.
“What betrothal?” Shock widened her eyes.
“Lord Braxton said that you had accepted the hand of Roderick Graham just before the accident.”
“I have never heard of such a man. I have certainly never been betrothed. I was not even planning to come out until the following Season. You know I was barely seventeen that summer.”
“What is going on?” he demanded sharply.
“I have no idea. Why would Uncle claim that I was betrothed? Unless he expected to arrange something. There was no money for a Season. But why would he even try? No man wants a girl without a dowry.”
“Nonsense! Your dowry was settled when you were a child.”
“You have been away a long time, Damon. Papa could be quite the charmer, as I am sure you recall. He was also quite good at obscuring truth. When my uncle inherited, he discovered that there was no money. Even my dowry had disappeared. He would have done what he could to arrange my future – not out of goodness, of course, but to save himself the expense of keeping me. Whatever gentleman he hoped to convince must have refused.”
“Perhaps,” he agreed, though not believing it for a moment. The dowry had been there, set aside in a trust. And nothing would convince him that Peter’s father had been hiding indebtedness. He knew the man too well.
“You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?” she observed sadly. “But you did not know everything. Even Peter didn’t. How could you when you were both gone most of the time? I do not know if it was gaming or bad investments, though I suspect the latter. And Papa was not the sort to flaunt poverty. He would have continued as before, wearing a prosperous face and hoping that he could turn things around before the truth emerged. But he did not have time.”
Her words pulled Damon up short. Was it possible that he was less knowing than he thought? But either way, he must take care of Cat.
She continued, showing no sign of noticing his preoccupation. “But Uncle Henry is not the sort for pretense. He decreed that the only hope of recouping Papa’s losses was to tighten our belts. And it has worked, though it is unlikely that my cousins will enjoy London Seasons any time soon. Hopefully they will not have to wait until they are on the shelf like me, for they find adjusting to penury difficult. We have fewer servants than they would like and smaller wardrobes. I help where I can, but there is no point pretending that all is well.”
“Why do you not go out more?” he asked.
She shrugged. “There is no point in embarrassing my family. Poor relations are not accepted as equals. I do not wish to endure that. Even worse, there are those who might pretend nothing had changed. That is as good as a slap in the face to my aunt and cousins. It was difficult enough for them to move to a neighborhood where they were unknown. Things would only have been worse if I were seen to be the reason people included them.”
“After nearly eight years, such an excuse can no longer be valid,” he reminded her.
“Then perhaps I am a coward,” she admitted angrily. “I cannot face the change in my own status. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Of course not! And I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it, Damon. There are days when I want to scream in frustration, but we can only play the cards we are dealt. It does no good to swear at the dealer. When things get too bad, I come here. It is wondrously soothing to my spirits. Now enough of me. What have you been up to these last years? I hear you are quite the hero.”
“Not at all,” he disclaimed. “The real heroes are all dead, so when the government needs to trot someone out as an example, they must choose some poor bastard from the living.”
“You did not used to be so cynical.”
“War changes people, mostly for the worse. I do not wish to discuss it.” He paced restlessly around the clearing.
“Very well.” Her words were conventional, but he could hear the pain at what she could only interpret as another rebuff. Before he could formulate an explanation, her face cleared and her eyes lit with mischief, sending a frisson of warmth through his heart that the Cat he remembered still lived. “Uncle Henry got back last night. And my cousins will be out this afternoon. You can call on him without running the risk of another musicale.”
He chuckled. “Still looking out for me, Little Cat?”
“Unless war has destroyed your hearing, you cannot have enjoyed it, however much you praised them.”
“How well you know me. But praise? They must lack understanding of the English language. I merely agreed with your aunt that I had never heard the like. And you must agree that Drucilla shows great dexterity.”
“You have become a rogue!”
“Hardly. Merely displaying manners in the face of trial. Is there nothing you can do to discourage them?”
“No. They must prove that they are proper ladies by demonstrating their accomplishments. Since neither can set a stitch without knotting every thread in their sewing baskets or paint even the simplest picture well enough that they can identify it themselves the next day, they must rely on music. Be thankful they don’t sing. Even Aunt Eugenia cannot pretend their voices are acceptable.”
Damon shook his head. “How is Wiggles?” he asked, naming the puppy he had given her before leaving for war.
Her face softened. “He is fine, though I no longer have him. Aunt Eugenia cannot abide animals, so the Newmans have taken care of him since we heard about Peter. I still see him often. He has become a wily herd dog, helping Sam look after his sheep, though he reserves most of his affection for me.”
“And Lady Jane?” he asked, referring to her mare.
“Gone. Uncle Henry sold the stable as soon as he learned how bad finances were.”
She straightened, putting an end to his questions. “I must go, for there is much to be done today. Do you wish to call on Uncle?”
“Not yet. I must see how Mr. Connors goes on.” And he needed some information before he faced Lord Braxton. Too many things didn’t add up. They could not all be passed off as coincidence.
Catherine nodded. “Please convey my greetings to Mr. Connors and wish him a speedy recovery. I doubt I can visit him for several days. Mrs. Newman needs help.”
Damon raised a brow and she explained. “I will arrange care,” he offered. “It is the least I can do.” Peter would be appalled at such neglect.
Thanking him, she disappeared into the woods.
Chapter Four
Catherine climbed into bed, finally able to relax. Aunt Eugenia had ordered a fancy dinner and cleaning of the public rooms for a party she was planning the next evening. Wiggins had said nothing as they supervised maids and footmen, though both knew it was wasted effort. This would be another in a long line of entertainments that were not held. Few people were willing to endure recitals at the Braxtons’, so they usually found excuses to turn down invitations.
Dru and Horty had been equally annoying, demanding endless help with their wardrobes and creating petty chores to relieve their irritation at Damon’s absence. They had eagerly overdressed to attend a village fete celebrating the nuptials of Major Kersey’s grandson. When the earl did not appear, their disappointment surfaced as bad-tempered demands on Catherine, though it was obvious why he had stayed away. One of their quarrels revealed that both had sent word to Devlin Court that they would be attending. While they had been searching for him in the village, he had been in the clearing.
Pressing her face into the pillow, she reviewed that meeting. Damon had changed in eight years. Instead of a young man on the verge of maturity, he was now powerful and hardened in ways she could only imagine. As usual, his tawny curls raged in longish riot around a broad face whose amber eyes and flat nose had always reminded her of the lion in one of her picture books. But the face had aged. Browned by the Spanish sun, it now bore lines about his eyes that hinted at incessant squinting to discern distant movement of the enemy. And it bore other lines – from grief and pain? – across his forehead. His body was as solid as ever, but instead of comfort, it now radiated strength, and something else. Anger?
But she had dwelt on the subject longer than was prudent. It had been good to see him again, but she wished she had not. Their meeting recalled all that she had lost. Normally she was content with her lot, but once in a while something happened to illustrate just how far she had fallen. Even this room and this bed irritated her tonight, though it had been years since she had last noticed her surroundings. She now lived on the nursery floor in a room last used by her grandmother’s companion.
She could not recall the change. It had occurred while she was immersed in grief. Her aunt blamed the doctor, who had recommended a change of scene – or so they claimed. She knew the real reason was to remove the poor relation from one of the best rooms in the house. And she could hardly expect to live with the family. But at the moment it was difficult to appreciate a room no better than that occupied by her aunt’s maid.
Sleep still would not come, and she finally admitted that she was deliberately focusing on her position in a futile attempt to ignore Damon’s revelations.
He had set her mind to rest about Peter, and for that she was grateful. She had often been plagued by visions of her brother lingering in agony or hopelessly disfigured. Battlefield tales appalled her. She’d heard of men who had been blown to bits and others who had died slowly and painfully of gangrene or infection. Afterward, she’d suffered hideous nightmares in which Peter met a similar fate. Stories describing how scavengers stole uniforms, weapons, and even teeth from the dead had kept her awake for weeks. That Peter had died cleanly and been removed to Damon’s keeping even before the battle ended was a great comfort. She only wished that she had learned those details years ago.
It was Damon’s other claims that shocked her. A betrothal. He could not have invented that story. Nor was he the sort who would misunderstand a vague comment. Once Uncle Henry mentioned it, Damon would have pried loose every detail. If he believed the betrothal was a settled fact, then he must have been told so. But why would Uncle Henry lie about so momentous a subject?
She frowned and again shifted position, staring morosely at the ceiling. It was possible that Uncle Henry had exaggerated. He was prone to doing so, something Damon probably didn’t know. Henry had once bragged about selling her father’s best hunter to a Quorn member, boasting for days of the astute deal he had made. It turned out that Lord Graylock had only expressed an interest in looking at the horse, ultimately deciding that it did not meet his needs.
Perhaps something similar had happened with Damon. Her uncle had been trying to arrange a betrothal and, as usual, was a little too sure of success. The more she thought of it, the more certain she became. Uncle Henry had exaggerated, but Damon would have believed that everything was settled. And perhaps it was better that he had. Thinking all was well at home, he could have concentrated on his duties. It might even have contributed to his survival.
Having explained that situation, she was left with the lesser questions. Why had no one told her of Damon’s letters? It was hard to accept that she had been too grief-stricken to remember. He was the one person whose condolences would have soothed her. And it was even harder to accept that all the letters had been lost at sea. He had written twice, as had she. Four ships could not have gone down in the space of a month. And Uncle Henry had not mentioned meeting him in London. She would not have forgot that. The trip had occurred long after the accident and at least a month after she had emerged from her deepest grief. She had joined the family for dinner the night of his return, listening to tales of all that he had done in the city, including excruciating details of the people he had met, but there had not been a single word about Damon.
It could not be oversight, she realized. For some reason the Braxtons had decided to sever the connection and must have destroyed the letters. There was no question that they were gone. About six months after the accident, she had gone to the attic to find a more comfortable chair for her new room. A bundle of letters sat atop an old table, their thin coating of dust proving that they were recent. She had thumbed through them, noting that they were condolence letters to her for the loss of her parents and brother. Over the following weeks, she read and reread them, touched by the compassion of people she had never met. She had not mentioned finding them. Her aunt wanted her to put the past behind her and believed that never broaching the subject was the quickest way to do so. Eventually, Catherine had put the letters away and moved on with her life.
Hands shaking, she lit a candle and dug into her battered desk. The bundle was still where she had pushed it all those years ago. At the time it had seemed important to keep this memento of her former place in the world. Carefully turning over each letter, she verified that there was no word from Damon. And now that her suspicions were raised, she could think of at least a dozen others who should have written.
Other puzzles nagged at her mind. She had never questioned the statement that her dowry had been lost along with the rest of her father’s wealth. The shock in Damon’s eyes could not have been feigned. Of course, her father would hardly advertise a penchant for poor investments. But what if the dowry still existed?
She shook her head over this sudden resurrection of an old dream, put out the candle, and crawled back into bed. Ever the romantic, she had spent too many days picturing herself with a husband and children. It was a fantasy that she had deliberately discarded after the accident, for it did no good to dwell on what could never be. And it still could not, she reminded herself brutally. Even if the dowry existed, she never met eligible males. And even if she did, she was now firmly on the shelf. She had never appeared even in local society, for she had not yet been out when her parents had died. Within the month she would be five-and-twenty, an ape-leader in anyone’s book.
Firmly casting aside nonsensical hopes, she set her mind to planning the morning’s activities. The linen inventory should have been done a month ago. Several sheets needed mending. Hortense had torn the flounce on another gown – really, that girl must learn to move more gracefully. It was past time to prune the rose arbor – she would speak to Wye about it, for there was still enough grounds staff…
On that thought, she finally drifted into uneasy slumber.
“How could you!” demanded Peter Braxton. Blue eyes glared as blood oozed from the hole in his forehead, running down to drip off the tip of his aristocratic nose. “You promised! You promised to take care of Catherine for me!”
Damon opened his mouth to reply but no words emerged. He tried to raise his hand, but it refused to budge.
“How could you!” He had been wrong. It was not Peter who faced him, but Hermione, her voice vibrating with approbation. “You promised to be back in a sennight, but you have already been gone for eight days. How can I face society when you have abandoned me?” Tears dripped from her chin to feed an ever-widening pool on the floor.
Again Damon tried to speak – without success.
“How could you!” It hardly surprised him when his accuser again changed. “You could have discovered the truth anytime merely by contacting your steward!” charged Catherine. “Instead, you condemned me to a life of slavery.” Fury burned in her eyes, but before he could open his mouth, she vanished.
Two figures wrestled on the ground, suddenly visible through a break in the mist.
“His duty is clear!” gasped Peter, applying a hammerlock.
“To return to London!” insisted Hermione, twisting to pin his bare shoulder to the ground.
“A vow is a vow!”
“Even an implied vow!”
They sprang up, leaping toward Damon, who was still frozen in place – tied to the mast of his parents’ sinking yacht.
“Cad!” Hermione charged, slicing his cheeks with nails that extended three inches beyond talon-like fingers.
“Liar!” hissed Peter, pressing the point of a sword against Damon’s throat.
“Help!” shrieked Catherine.
Three heads swiveled. She was rapidly sinking beneath the waves, helped to her doom by a flock of chortling Braxtons whose flapping ribbons kept them hovering above the water even as they dropped a pianoforte onto her head.
