The Unscrupulous Uncle, page 9
“Please call me Louisa,” begged Mrs. Collingsworth. “It is how Damon always addresses me, the dear boy.”
“Was he expecting you?” Catherine asked uncertainly.
“Of course. He asked me to call on you today. I am his cousin, as you probably know.”
“I didn’t.”
“Isn’t that just like a man! They never make things easy.” She snorted inelegantly, but her eyes were busy scrutinizing Catherine. “He claimed you would need guidance while augmenting your wardrobe and making your bows to society.”
“I certainly do,” she agreed, relaxing. “I feel like a fish out of water despite my breeding.”
“Breeding is the key, of course, but only experience prevents mistakes. We will start with your wardrobe. I hope this gown is not indicative. With due apologies to your modiste, it simply will not do for London.”
Catherine smiled. “I should not expect it to. I made it myself three years ago, and I must admit that it is one of my newest. I doubt anything I own is suitable, but I have barely recovered from the rigors of travel so have made no attempt to shop.”
Louisa set her half-finished tea onto a table. “Come along, then. We’ve more to do than I expected. The sooner you have proper attire, the sooner you can venture out. And you’ve little time. Your marriage announcement will be in the papers tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Catherine gasped. Why had Damon told his cousin and not his wife?
“Yes. Let us pray Madame Celeste has something already made up that you can wear in the morning, for you will be amazed at the number of callers.”
Her mind in chaos at the prospect of greeting crowds of strangers when she had never even entertained friends, Catherine swallowed. “You will help me, I hope.”
“Of course. Now come along. We haven’t a moment to waste. Oh, congratulations, my dear. I should have offered them sooner. I see I was wrong in questioning Damon’s intelligence these past months. You will make him a charming wife.”
Catherine meekly followed Mrs. Collingsworth to her carriage and allowed the woman to shepherd her into Madame Celeste’s elegant salon. The modiste was a voluble Frenchwoman, whose eyes gleamed at the news that they needed an entire wardrobe.
“Magnifique!” she exclaimed, whisking Catherine into a fitting room where she was poked, prodded, and measured to within an inch of her life. Louisa followed, nodding agreement to Celeste’s every suggestion as bolts of silk, muslin, gauze, and crepe were draped across Catherine’s shoulders. Two assistants dashed in and out with more offerings. “Trés bien,” murmured the modiste, tossing a shimmer of satin around Cat’s neck. “Observe what violette does to madame’s eyes. Trés elegante! And the rose silk to emphasize her creamy complexion, n’est-ce pas?” she added, shaking out another wave of fabric.
“Lovely,” agreed Louisa. “I knew you could help. This will be her first foray into London society, and the right clothes will mark her as a diamond.”
“Naturellement.”
Catherine wondered if Louisa was paying attention, for she ordered gown after gown, many embellished with expensive lace or intricate embroidery – morning, afternoon, and evening gowns, walking dresses, carriage dresses, riding habits, pelisses, bed gowns, dressing gowns – enough to make her head spin. Fashion plates flashed before her eyes until they all looked alike. Which would flatter her figure? Was she tall or short? Fat or thin? She could no longer remember.
“This is too much,” she protested when Celeste bustled off to a storeroom, bursting with energy as though her tiny figure encased the power of a thunderstorm.
“Nonsense, child!” said Louisa. “These are merely the basics. It will take at least a fortnight before you know what else you will need. The Season is at its peak, as you must know.”
“I don’t. I have lived secluded from even country society for eight years.”
“You poor dear. No wonder this seems so confusing. But you will come about very nicely. These gowns will see you through a basic schedule. You will want to decide your social calendar before your next shopping excursion. Do you prefer balls? Soirees? Al fresco events? Theater? One cannot wear the same outfits too often. Nor can one appear rumpled in public. There is logic to frequent changes, you will discover. It is far easier to don a new gown than to stay in your room while your maid removes wrinkles so that you can stand in a dress you sat in all morning.”
Catherine groaned.
“Now you enjoy a nice cup of tea while Celeste finds something you can wear today. I will return shortly.” With that, Louisa slipped from the fitting room. A servant deposited a tea tray on a table and bustled out without a word. Catherine suddenly found herself alone.
Too dazed to do more than wonder what Damon would say to such profligacy, she let her mind drift until a burst of laughter caught her attention. She knew that voice.
Catherine poked her head out of the curtained fitting room. “I was right. It’s Edith Spencer – or was.”
The blonde in the hallway gasped. “Catherine!” Ringlets danced and blue eyes widened. But the welcoming smile quickly faded to a frown.
“Pardon my forward tongue, Lady Peverell,” begged Catherine formally, her face burning in embarrassment. “I forgot that you had dropped the acquaintance when my fortunes reversed.”
“I?” Shock blazed in Edith’s eyes. “After you refused to answer my letters, I could only conclude that you had turned your back on the past.”
Cat muttered one of Peter’s favorite oaths under her breath. “Can you step in here for a moment? There is no need to broadcast this imbroglio to the world.”
Edith sent Celeste’s assistant to her own fitting room and joined Catherine. “I know that look,” she began, lowering her voice to a whisper at Cat’s gesture. “What happened?”
“You are the second to claim authorship of letters I never received. You sent two shortly after the spring term ended, and I responded to both. I wrote twice more after my parents died, but never got a reply, so I assumed that you could not accept my demotion to poor relation.”
“I wrote the moment I heard of their accident,” swore Edith. “And four more times over the following six months. At first, I thought you were too grief-stricken to reply, but finally accepted that you were cutting all connections.”
“Absurd, but who can blame you? I suppose you never received my congratulations on your marriage, either.”
Edith shook her head. “What is going on?”
“I don’t know, though I suspect my uncle is responsible. All mail is delivered to him for sorting, and outgoing letters go to him for franking, so it would be easy to censor my correspondence. But this is no place to talk. Call on me tomorrow – Devlin House in Berkeley Square.”
“You are staying with the earl?” asked a shocked Edith.
“We were married last week, but until the official announcement appears, it might be better to keep that quiet. I must figure out my uncle’s game.”
Edith nodded and slipped out to attend to her own fitting.
“Voilà!” exclaimed Madame Celeste, hurrying in with her arms full of gowns. Louisa fluttered behind. “Two afternoon gowns, an evening gown, and this!” She held up her trophy with a triumphant flourish – a rose silk ball gown with a beaded bodice, vandyked hem, and lacy overskirt sparkling with diamante. “They were made for Lady Dancy, but she is mauvais ton and can do without.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Entre nous, her bill is too long unpaid.” Tossing the ball gown over Catherine’s head, Celeste kept up a continuous stream of words, giving her client no time to reply. “La parfection, n’est-ce pas? Or will be momentanément. We tuck here and tighten there. Tiens!” Another tug straightened the overskirt, and Celeste beamed.
Catherine stared in awe at her mirrored image. Even the unflattering hairstyle could not detract from the sparkling cloud of the elegant ball gown – or the shockingly exposed bosom that peeked over its bodice. She frowned. “Is this not too low?” The last thing she needed was to imitate the vulgar Drucilla.
“Non, non, non!” insisted Celeste. “You are married, n’est-ce pas? It is parfait, and quite modest.”
“Even young girls wear lower gowns,” added Louisa. “You’ve nothing to fret about.”
“Very well.” Catherine bowed to their superior knowledge.
It was another hour before the gowns fit to Celeste’s satisfaction. Relieved that daytime wear was more demure, Cat admitted exhaustion and suggested they go home.
Louisa was outraged. “What of gloves?” she demanded. “And hats? And slippers! You cannot appear in bare feet with your hands and head uncovered. Nor can you be mismatched.” She waved a wad of fabric swatches, one for each gown they had just ordered.
“Of course not,” agreed Catherine gamely.
And so began a round of other shops. Catherine was quickly disabused of her suggestion that white or black went with everything. The ton knew Damon was wealthy. Did she wish them to believe he was also miserly? Each gown must have its own accessories. Gloves, stockings, slippers, shawls, parasols, bonnets, and a host of other trinkets piled in their carriage. The footman packed the boot full, then started on the interior. Catherine entertained a vision of herself and Louisa perched on the roof, fighting to clutch still more packages. She was numb with exhaustion by the time she exited the last shop.
“What are you doing in town?” demanded a male voice.
She nearly tripped. “Hello, Sidney.” It had been a year since he had last visited Ridgway House, and the time had not been well spent. His face was sallow, with lines of dissipation already showing around his mouth and eyes, though he was barely three-and-twenty.
“Has Papa decided to come up to London at last?” he asked almost fearfully.
“Of course not. I am here with my husband.”
Shock removed the last vestige of pink from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow that clashed with his elaborate clothing – an extravagant cravat, hugely padded sky blue jacket, and tight silver pantaloons hugging legs improved by false calves. Or so she assumed. Sidney had never been anything but skinny.
“Married?” he choked, then recovered his usual sneer. “To whom? The gardener’s son?”
“To an old friend recently returned from the army,” she responded, loath to reveal Damon’s identity. Sidney would discover it in the morning, but she could more easily deflect his unpleasantness when she was not so tired.
Sidney relaxed. “Of course. But how selfish to leave Mama and the girls in the lurch. This must have been sudden.”
“Not particularly,” she hedged. “Did Uncle Henry forget to inform you of my plans?”
For an instant, Sidney’s face revealed terror, and she wondered what he had been up to. Had he been off on some secret adventure that he wished to keep from his parents? But his expression quickly reverted to normal. “The housekeeper’s wedding was hardly worthy of notice.” He shrugged. “I expect he rejoiced at not having to pay your keep in the future.”
“Perhaps.”
Louisa bustled out of the shop. “I believe that is everything, Catherine. It is more than time we returned home.” She spotted Sidney and frowned.
“Louisa, this is my cousin, Mr. Braxton. Sidney, my husband’s cousin, Mrs. Collingsworth.”
They exchanged frosty greetings, and Louisa hurried Catherine into their waiting carriage.
“Your cousin? That is unfortunate. Many look him askance and some will not receive him,” she warned once they were under way.
“I am not surprised, for I have spent the last eight years living with his family. Is it merely his vulgar manners or has he done something to draw censure? We had heard of nothing.”
“His manner is unpleasant, though I would not describe it as vulgar. But his friends are not gentlemen.”
“Would you be more specific?”
“There are hints of violence against those who cross them. And their habits pass beyond acceptable bounds.” She blushed. “You would do well to avoid him, relative though he is. Damon would not wish your reputation to suffer from the association.”
“No,” agreed Catherine, wondering if Damon knew the details that Louisa was too delicate to describe. She did not wish his reputation to suffer from the connection, either.
In his youth, Sidney had been a problem whenever he visited Ridgway House. Damon and Peter usually welcomed Catherine’s company but refused to include the whining, sniveling boy in their activities. Though Sidney disliked all three, his hatred fell hardest on Catherine, in part because she could ride harder, jump higher, fish better, and climb trees faster than he despite being hampered by her skirts. And she was smarter. The high point of Sidney’s life had been the day she dwindled to being his poor relation and servant.
* * * *
Catherine never found a good time to discuss Sidney with Damon. As usual, he was gone all day, returning only for dinner before shutting himself in the library. She could hardly talk about her cousin in front of the servants, who still considered her an interloper. When she had asked Damon what he spent so much time on, he claimed he was dealing with her uncle. The short, sharp retort precluded further conversation. And so she was left to wonder why he had married her. The question had grown in the week since their wedding until it dominated her mind.
* * * *
Heart pounding in fear, Catherine bolted to the floor. What had awakened her? No one was in the room. Deciding that it had been a dream, she was returning to bed when the sound came again – an agonized shout.
She pulled on a dressing gown and hesitantly approached the communicating door leading to Damon’s room. It had not been opened since their marriage and she hated to break the implied taboo, but she could hear groans from the other side. Taking her courage in her hands, she entered her husband’s bedchamber. Damon thrashed about in his bed, murmuring indistinguishable words that occasionally rose to incoherent shouting.
She stretched her hand to awaken him, but froze as disturbing sensations tumbled down her spine. He was unclothed – at least the portion that she could see. Tawny hair covered a muscular chest and equally muscular leg and arm. He twisted, the motion pulling the bedclothes to his trim waist. The mat of chest hair tapered to a single line, tantalizing her eyes and drawing them lower until she felt an overpowering urge to slide the sheet aside. Licking suddenly dry lips, she shivered – and not with cold. He had changed since she had last seen him without a shirt. No longer a young man who exhibited the promise of strength, now he radiated power. Again she shivered, remembering his strength and gentleness the summer he had taught her how to swim.
He groaned, reminding her why she was here.
“Damon!” she called loudly, grabbing his arm to shake it. She had to repeat the call twice before he finally opened his eyes.
“Little Cat?” he murmured weakly. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming.”
He forced his fingers through his tangled hair and sighed. “Forgive me for waking you.”
“Does this happen often?” She sank into a chair near his bed and pulled her dressing gown tighter against the chill air.
“Not as much as it used to.” Her concern must have shown, for he managed a weary smile and patted her hand. “Don’t look so horrified, Cat. War leaves scars that take time to fade.”
“It was not the glorious adventure you expected when you bought colors, was it?” she said softly.
He shuddered, though she could see the effort he exerted to control it. “Not even close. So many friends lost.”
She squeezed his hand, which unaccountably remained in her own. “Would it help to talk about it?”
“I doubt it.”
“Are you sure? There were times – like when Charlie died – that discussion eased my sorrow. You should know. You were the only one who took the time to listen.”
“Ah, Charlie. He was the best of dogs, wasn’t he, Cat? But I cannot burden you with such horror. Waterloo. Badajoz. So much blood.” His face turned blank as he slipped back into memory. “And that sack! How did we lose control so badly? My God! The waste of it all. I lost a close friend at Toulouse. Was there ever a more useless battle? Napoleon had abdicated two days before.” He shivered, blushing as he noted the position of the bedcovers and quickly replaced them. His embarrassment surprised her, sending warmth into her own cheeks.
“Didn’t the same thing happen at New Orleans?” she murmured.
“True, though I wasn’t there. That one missed by over a fortnight. We must find some faster way to transmit news. Such carnage is unacceptable.” He sighed.
“Is that what keeps you from your rest? The waste?” she asked.
“Not really, or at least not entirely. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps if I can figure that out, the nightmares will fade. But there is no point discussing it now. Good night, Catherine. You will freeze if you do not go back to bed.”
The curt dismissal hurt, but she was wise enough to understand that he had disclosed too much. Damon had always been self-sufficient – except with Peter. She bade him good night and left.
Yet sleep eluded her. She had never before seen Damon unable to cope. All her life, he had been godlike – knowledgeable, capable, and efficient, accomplishing his goals with little fuss. She had, as usual, expected him to sweep away all her problems and restore her to a life of peace and happiness. The realization hit hard. She had been merely existing for eight years, knowing in the back of her mind that eventually Damon would come home to rescue her from her menial life and return her to her rightful place in the world. Even these last days had passed in limbo as she waited for him to finish his business and forge her a dazzling place in society as his wife.
How childish! Her fists clenched. She had wasted too many years waiting for someone else to make her happy. Ultimately, the responsibility was her own. She must carve a place for herself in the world and take control of her own destiny, starting with the callers that would arrive in the morning. She would prove herself worthy of London society. And perhaps there was something she could do for Damon. It would be a novel experience to resolve one of his problems.
