The Unscrupulous Uncle, page 8
“Have you heard why I am here?” she whispered.
“No, miss. Soames don’t talk to no one, and Gordy is right nasty.”
“Then I must investigate for myself. Are you sure you can get me out?”
“Yes, miss. Gordy is on duty now. He’s drunk most of the time and always demanding more, so adding laudanum to his ale should be easy. Our brew’s bitter to begin with. Soames takes his place ’bout midnight. Once you sneak out of the house, you can get to the village in half an hour. I gots a cousin who will loan you a horse.”
“We shall see. I want to leave as soon as possible, but you must come with me. There is no telling what they would do to you when I am gone. It will be impossible to hide your part in this.”
Brigit shivered, fear creasing her face. But after a moment’s thought, she straightened her thin shoulders and nodded. “I’ll do it, miss. But that means you can’t leave until later. They would miss me in the kitchen if I don’t show up for supper.”
Catherine frowned, but had to agree. “There should be no pursuit if we are lucky.” Actually, she could not see how to avoid one. When Soames found Gordy, he would check her room. Even a relocked door and a bolster in the bed would not fool him. But she did not want to scare Brigit more than necessary.
She deliberately turned her thoughts to planning, working out the details of her escape. Once she was free, she would summon Damon. He would know how to find the answers and would know what to do with them. Life had not really changed so very much. Always he had been there to pick up the pieces and make everything right again.
Two hours later, they slipped through the trees that flanked the drive. Each carried only a single bundle. How far could they get before morning? Borrowing the cousin’s horse would not do with two of them, and she lacked money for even a short stagecoach journey – assuming she dared show her face in the village. Was Damon still at Devlin Court? Perhaps she should send letters both there and to London. But how were they to avoid detection until he could come for them?
Damon strode restlessly along the stream that tumbled past the rear of the village inn. His reception at Braxton Manor had eliminated the last doubt that he was doing the right thing. If Lord Braxton was so desperate that he would lock his niece away in the wilds of Cumberland, what would he do later on?
No one had seen Cat since her arrival. The villagers had watched a carriage enter the estate a week earlier, supposedly bringing Lord Braxton’s secretary to check the books. Some hoped that the house would be reopened, for the secretary was still there and had brought two servants. Sidney was of an age to marry. He might move into the manor like his father before him.
Turning aside a wealth of anecdotes about the miserly Henry and the prankish Sidney, Damon had visited the manor, posing as a weary traveler whose carriage had broken down. Few estates would refuse refuge to a lord in such circumstances, but Braxton Manor had done so. And the man who had answered the door resembled a pugilist rather than a butler or footman. A maid had peeped furtively around a corner, curiosity battling fear in her eyes. The sight pushed his own fears several notches higher.
So what was he to do? If he did not find Catherine soon, all his efforts would go for nought. Should he try to break into the house? The groom at the village inn claimed that the manor contained a prisoner, attributing the tale to his cousin, who was the estate groom.
A movement caught his eye on the far side of the stream. He squinted into the darkness, wishing clouds did not obscure the moon. Two figures were slipping from tree to tree, heading for the bridge that would give them access to the road. He would not have paid them much heed except that the land across the stream belonged to Braxton Manor.
Circling away from the water to mask his own movements, he headed for the bridge, then crouched behind a large shrub so he could see. A female stepped out on the drive and walked boldly toward the village. He might have shrugged and left, but she was obviously looking for something. After peering around, she motioned and was immediately joined by Catherine.
Damon let them cross unmolested, then followed them away from the village.
“Catherine!” he called softly when they were half a mile down the road.
She jumped, started to run, then turned as if she had finally identified his voice. “Damon?”
He caught her as she swooned, tears already escaping both of her eyes. Easing her onto the ground, he smoothed the hair back from her forehead as he had done so often before. How many times had he extricated her from scrapes? At least this one was not her fault, though the poor girl appeared to be at the end of her rope.
“Who are you?” demanded her companion, whirling to smack him across the back with a dead branch.
“A friend,” he insisted, wincing. “I won’t hurt her.” He pulled out his handkerchief. “Will you wet this in the stream?”
The girl stared suspiciously, eyes darting between Catherine and Damon. “You’s that devil fellow who come to the door.”
“The Earl of Devlin,” he corrected. “I came to free Miss Braxton. Once we revive her, she will introduce us.”
She stared a moment longer, then accepted his handkerchief. The stream was barely six steps away.
* * * *
Catherine woke with a cool cloth pressed against her forehead. For a moment she could not remember where she was, but as an arm shifted her into a more comfortable position, she opened her eyes to see Damon’s face less than a foot from her own. She burst into tears.
“Shh… Everything will be all right, Little Cat,” he murmured, drawing her against his coat to muffle the sound.
“They locked me in my room with a guard in the hall,” she cried. “And I don’t even know why!” Another wave of fear intensified her hysteria.
“It’s all over. No one can hurt you now,” he promised, stroking her silky hair with his free hand.
Tension flowed out with her tears as it had always done when her lionhearted brother took charge. She was safe. At last. Damon could fix anything.
Damon? “What are you doing here?” she demanded, sitting up as the improbability of his presence registered.
“I came to marry you.”
Head spinning, she sagged against his arm as black spots threatened to blot out the world. Surely her ears were playing tricks on her. This could not be real.
“Please don’t swoon again,” he begged after muttering what sounded like imprecations. “This is not the best place to revive you.”
She giggled. They were sitting on a pile of leaves on a mountainside in the middle of the night. “Of course. This is a dream. That’s why nothing makes sense. A wicked ogre spirited me away. In another minute my fairy godmother will materialize – or is it wizards who do that? You are really Merlin in disguise.”
“This is no dream, Little Cat,” vowed Damon, shaking his head. “More of a nightmare. Can you stand?”
The question brought all the terror flooding back. “We must get out of here,” she begged. “What is the time?”
Damon pulled out his watch. “Nearly eleven.”
“Dear Lord! We’ve only an hour. Soames will relieve Gordy at midnight and discover that I am gone.”
“He checks your bed?” Anger turned his voice to granite.
“Not that I know of, but Gordy is unconscious, so Soames will be suspicious.”
“Right. Who is this?” He nodded to her companion.
“Brigit – the maid who helped me escape. I could not leave her there to bear their anger.”
“Of course not, but this complicates matters. I brought only one horse with me. He cannot possibly carry all three of us.”
“My cousin gots a horse I can borrow,” spoke up Brigit. “At least as far as Brampton. There’s another cousin there to leave it with.”
“Excellent. Go get your cousin’s mount, Brigit. I will collect mine. Catherine, you stay out of sight. Will you be all right alone?”
“Of course.” She had recovered her composure and set aside her fear. With Damon in charge her escape would be no different from an afternoon riding party.
* * * *
Damon took one look at Brigit’s sorry beast and sighed. “Catherine, you will ride with me. How far is it to Brampton?”
“Ten miles, my lord,” spoke up Brigit.
He tossed Catherine in front of his saddle, then swung up behind her, setting a pace as fast as he guessed the other horse could sustain.
“Do you know why Uncle Henry ordered this?” Catherine asked once she had described her sudden journey and week-long incarceration in words that made him want to call the baron out and thrash her jailers to within an inch of their miserable lives.
“Yes, but it is complicated,” he admitted. “Your uncle has been cheating you for years. He must have feared exposure when I returned, so he panicked and sent you up here. I want to deal with him, Catherine, but can only do so if I am your husband. Bringing him to heel will require more legal status than I have as a family friend.”
“So your proposal is only a crusade against injustice,” she said with a snort.
“Of course not!” His arms tightened, pulling her closer to his chest and noting that Brigit was avidly taking in every word he said. “We have always been friends, Cat. Most couples have far less going for them when they wed.”
“Do you really wish to marry me, Damon?”
The plaintive voice slashed through his conscience, but it was too late to change course now. He looked into her eyes and lied, thankful that the darkness obscured his expression. “You would make me the happiest of men if you will accept my hand.”
“Very well, Damon. I will endeavor to see that you never regret this.” She burrowed her head into his shoulder and relaxed.
“Thank you, Cat. We will visit the vicar first thing in the morning.”
She sat up in surprise. “Now?”
“I’ve a special license with me. If I am to deal with your uncle, there is no time to waste. And it will protect you from pursuit. Once we are wed, Braxton’s thugs will no longer have any power over you.”
“I see.”
Catherine snuggled back into his arms, comforted by the words. His proposal was not a spur-of-the-moment quixotic gesture. He must have gone to London for a license before following her to Cumberland. Dear Damon, always doing whatever was necessary to fix her problems. She need never be unhappy again. Life would pick up where it had left off eight years ago.
She slept.
* * * *
Everything went smoothly, though it took far longer to reach Brampton than Damon had expected. The town was in the next valley. Dawn broke as they plodded wearily down the last slope.
Brigit’s cousin was the innkeeper. Though surprised by their arrival, he accepted his cousin’s horse and confirmed that he had a post-chaise for hire.
The vicar was also shocked at the early hour, but he agreed to marry them after a few private words with Damon. They returned to the inn to find Soames quizzing the ostler. Less than a minute after confronting Damon, the man mounted his horse and headed north.
Chapter Seven
Two days after arriving in London, Catherine stood at her window, idly watching the crowd clustered around Gunter’s confectioner’s shop across Berkeley Square.
It had been an exhausting journey. Soames had hardly ridden out of sight before Damon bundled her into a coach with a basket of cheese and rolls. That set the pattern for the succeeding days. He insisted they start at dawn, then pressed forward with hardly a pause until well after dark. Aside from their brief hours of sleep, they matched or exceeded the speed of the King’s mail. But she had no idea why he was in such a hurry.
The past three weeks seemed more like a dream than reality. She had agreed to her uncle’s request without thought, trained into unquestioning obedience by eight years of servitude. Her incarceration and escape had left her terrified for the future. But Damon had appeared out of the dark, sweeping her into his arms and marrying her in the best fairy tale tradition. Relief had driven away despair. But now that the numbness had worn off, relief appeared premature.
Damon seemed more distant now than during the years when she believed he had forgot her. He had not consummated their marriage. He was rarely at home, ignoring her when he was by shutting himself in the library. Aside from his brief explanation for proposing, he had told her nothing. Nor had he introduced her to anyone in town. She did not even know where to buy clothes or how much she could spend. Such neglect put her firmly in her place – a slave who had been sold to a new master. The details of her food and housing may have changed, but she still had no control of her life and no respect from her owner.
Even Brigit had changed. Catherine was training her as a lady’s maid and would have welcomed the conversation they had shared on their journey, but the girl was so intimidated by Damon’s London servants and the wonders of the city that she seldom opened her mouth.
Catherine, too, found the servants haughty. They obeyed her orders, but slowly and in so condescending a fashion that she could only conclude that they disapproved of her. So far she had not assumed control of the household, though she must do so soon if she hoped to win acceptance as Countess of Devlin. At the moment she felt as much a prisoner here as at Braxton.
Again she sighed. It was time for a frank talk with Damon. Now that she was recovered, they needed to discuss their respective duties, and she must assume her place as his wife.
* * * *
Damon slammed out of his solicitor’s office. The current Lord Braxton was an even lower form of life than he had thought. A complete accounting of Catherine’s inheritance would be impossible. Braxton had kept all the records himself, making little effort to keep her funds separate from his own.
Damon shook his head over the revelations of the past week. He had written to his country solicitor before leaving Brampton, enclosing a copy of the thirteenth baron’s will and ordering him to see Lord Braxton immediately – in person – to announce Catherine’s marriage and demand all records. That had been a canny strategy, for Harte had arrived before the report from Catherine’s jailers, giving Braxton no time to destroy proof of his perfidy. Braxton knew his gamble had failed. He’d fled to the continent that very night. It was Harte’s one error. The solicitor had not believed that the baron was cheating, so he did not bring the authorities with him. By the time a quick scan of the books had revealed the fraud, Braxton was gone. Harte had apologized profusely, though in truth, Damon did not rue Henry’s escape. Bringing him to trial would tarnish the Braxton name that had long been both proud and honorable.
Now Damon faced the enormous chore of straightening out his wife’s finances. Braxton had diverted much of the income into his own pockets, making a complete recovery impossible. It would take a long time to trace all the missing cash. Fury engulfed him as he drove his curricle back to Berkeley Square – and a hefty dose of guilt that his negligence had allowed the situation to remain undetected for so long. It was a fault he could never fully rectify.
So far he had kept his return to London a secret. It had seemed reasonable to address Catherine’s affairs before plunging into the social rounds, so he had delayed announcing his marriage. Catherine could not face society alone, and he was too busy to help her.
But he recognized the lie the moment he put it into words. In truth, he could not face Hermione. He knew his delay was worsening the damage to her reputation, for the longer society considered them on the verge of betrothal, the bigger the scandal that would result when the truth emerged. And the news was bound to leak out. He owed her an untarnished reputation. He must prove to the world that she was not responsible for his defection. The only way was to continue his friendship, but it would take time, even if he started immediately. The first step was braving her anger to explain what had happened.
Tomorrow, he promised. Or maybe the next day.
Circling the cluster of carriages in front of Gunter’s, he berated himself. He was a coward in more ways than one. He had been ignoring an even worse problem than Hermione – consummating his marriage. After a lifetime of accepting Catherine as his sister, he could not force himself into her bed. Somehow he must come to grips with their new relationship. She was his wife and deserved his respect and support. Yet he could hardly talk to her. The gulf of the past eight years loomed wider every day. His experiences had left their mark, turning him into a grim, cynical shadow of the man she had known, but she was unaware of the change, still treating him as the protective big brother. Yet she must also have changed. Her life in thrall to her uncle’s family could not have been easy. Death would have marked her as well. It was something they must discuss, but he did not know where to begin.
Time! Where was he to find the time? He must straighten out Cat’s inheritance, introduce her to society, and rescue Hermione’s reputation. All were pressing problems requiring his entire attention.
He handed the ribbons to a footman and headed for the library, his frown suddenly vanishing. Why had he not thought of it earlier? Before Catherine could greet the ton, she must have a new wardrobe. It was unlikely that she knew much about current styles – or about members of society and their interminable rules. A chaperon would solve both problems and leave him free to tackle his other chores. He penned a note to his cousin Louisa, then returned his mind to business.
* * * *
“Mrs. Collingsworth,” announced the butler, ushering that lady into the drawing room.
Catherine looked up in surprise. This was the first caller since they had arrived in London. Mrs. Collingsworth was a middle-aged lady with fading brown hair and squint lines around her brown eyes that hinted she might be shortsighted. But her gold-striped poplin morning gown and bronze pelisse were exceedingly elegant, making Catherine feel dowdy and inadequate in her ancient wool round gown. She pulled the dignity of her new position around her like a shield, determined to conduct herself properly.
“Welcome, madam,” she said, noting that Tom was already setting a tea tray at her elbow. Was such anticipation normal for a London staff, or was the lady invited? No one had bothered to inform her.
