Lady Silence (14 page)

And Eleanore’s unknown long-lost cousin.

What
unknown
long-lost cousin? Could there be more than one?

Unlikely, most unlikely. Which meant .
. . which meant problems Katy found too overwhelming to
contemplate.
Long-lost cousin
could not possibly mean what she thought it might. Perhaps
she had not heard correctly and was making much ado about nothing.
Time enough to cross that bridge when she came to it. She had three
days to discover a way to avoid that tea party, and avoid it she
would. The Hardcastles would come and go and never know of Katy
Snow’s existence.

Katy’s flurry of plans for escaping high tea
went for naught, as not only did the dowager insist on her
presence, the following morning Rankin roused Katy from the book
she was reading and led her to the younger countess’s morning room,
a cozy chamber decorated in peach and gold, with tall windows
revealing a formal walled garden with fountain in the middle. The
sound of birds twittering could be heard, even though the doors
were closed. It was a lovely room, the most comfortable Katy had
seen in this massive pile of stone.

“
Ah, there you are, Snow,” said
Drucilla, glancing up from the parchment notepaper atop the
D-shaped satinwood desk in front of her.

Bad enough for the colonel to call her Snow,
Katy fumed, but for the earl’s wife to address her mother-in-law’s
companion as no better than a servant was a deliberate insult.

“
I am told you write a competent hand,”
Drucilla said in a tone that indicated she did not quite believe
what she had heard. “I have decided to add two more families to our
tea. You may pen the invitations.” Drucilla, elegant in a morning
gown of jade green, with layers of ruffles at the hem and cuffs of
her long sleeves, abandoned her seat at the desk to drape herself
over a settee upholstered in ripe peach and scattered with tasseled
pillows of amber satin.

A remarkable picture, Katy
thought.
But why waste it on me?
Perhaps displaying herself as if posing for a painting was so
ingrained in Drucilla’s life that she simply conducted herself
accordingly at all times, no matter if the vision she was
presenting was only for the eyes of one so unworthy as Katy
Snow.

“
Sit. I shall tell you what to
write.”

Katy sat, and did as she was told,
beginning to have a better idea of why the dowager insisted on
referring to her daughter-in-law as The Dreadful Drucilla. Yes, she
was cold and more than a little toplofty . . . and had probably
married the earl for his title and wealth, but until this moment
Katy would not have called her Dreadful. Most young ladies of
the
ton
could be said to have
married for advancement, rather than love. And being arrogant
enough to be termed “high in the instep” flirted with being a
compliment of the highest order. Drucilla was not a loving person .
. . perhaps not even kind. But Dreadful?

Katy, finding herself almost sorry for the
young countess, had not truly thought so. She had, in fact, been
slightly ashamed, wondering at the ease with which she had taken
the dowager’s opinion for her own. And yet, it did not seem
possible that Drucilla remained ignorant of the severity of her
husband’s illness. She must visit the sickroom. She must see . . .
must guess. Yet, despite what should be obvious to the most
calloused observer, she was inviting neighbors to high tea.
Dreadful, indeed.

“
Snow,” said the earl’s wife quite
conversationally, as if she were discussing menus with her
housekeeper, “my mama-in-law seems quite determined that you shall
attend our little gathering. She has some quaint notion of
introducing you to the other young ladies . . . even to their
brothers.” Drucilla waved a languid hand, dismissing such an
outrageous notion. Her lovely face was suddenly distorted by a
sneer. “You are a servant, a child of the gutter, given shelter by
my careless brother-in-law in a most indiscriminate manner, and
raised far above your station by my mama-in-law, who must surely
have been affected by the libertarian rantings of the Corsican
Monster. An effrontery I will not tolerate. Introduce you to my
guests indeed! When pigs fly, Snow. When pigs fly.”

Drucilla adjusted a fold in her soft muslin
skirt, flicked a disarranged ruffle back over her fingertips.
Satisfied by the perfection of her appearance, she returned her
attention to Katy. “At my tea you will efface yourself in a corner.
You will not mingle with my guests. You will not cast your smile at
anyone, do you hear? You will effect a blank countenance, as a
proper servant should. You will serve the dowager and no one else.
You will not encroach by passing tea cups or passing plates. You
will not raise your eyes to your betters. Is that clear? Answer me,
girl! Is that clear?”

What was clear was that in her cold-blooded
anger Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, had forgotten that Katy Snow
was also known as Lady Silence. Inwardly, Katy smiled. Nothing
could have played more neatly into her hand than being told to hide
in a corner. Also, she had an answer to her doubts about the
dreadfulness of Drucilla. The younger Lady Moretaine was beyond
toplofty and high in the instep. The younger Lady Moretaine was not
a nice person. She was, in fact, nasty.

Which, in this case, was good,. The dowager
would be furious, Katy knew, but could do nothing about her
hostess’s orders without causing a complete break at a time when
she needed to be at her elder son’s side. Drucilla was indeed queen
of her castle.

For now.

A few minutes prior to the appointed hour for
the Countess of Moretaine’s high tea, Damon Farr stood in the
doorway of the seventeenth century drawing room, his gaze searching
for his mama and Katy Snow. His mother he found with no difficulty,
seated on a sofa next to Drucilla. But Katy? Ah, there she was in a
shadowy corner, seated on a side chair set against the wall, hands
clasped in her lap, making what appeared to be a valiant effort to
be invisible. Though he had to agree that Drucilla could not
introduce her guests to some unknown chit who wandered into his
kitchen one night, Katy’s resigned attitude touched his heart. She
was eighteen, a lady in all but pedigree. Naturally, she wished to
meet other young people. Ruthlessly, Damon curbed a rush of anger
at his sudden vision of Katy flirting with the sons of the local
gentry. If the chit wished to be like other young misses her age,
it was perfectly understandable.

Devil take it!
The girl made his head whirl, but no time to think about it
now. He could hear voices in the hall, the guests were beginning to
arrive. For the sake of the House of Farr, he must put on what he
thought of as his Wellington front, playing host in the his
brother’s stead, addressing each of these strangers correctly,
without faltering over their name or rank.

Fortunately, Katy had provided him with an
annotated list of guests. Baron and Lady Oxley, daughter Eleanore
Hardcastle, and as-yet-nameless cousin. Squire and Mrs. Richardson,
son Joel, daughter Joan. Mr. and Mrs. Swann and daughter Edwina, a
schoolroom miss. Mr. Dearborn, the vicar, his wife Amanda, son
Gabriel, and daughter Patience. A competent chit, Katy Snow—the
meek façade she was presenting at the moment undoubtedly hid a
veritable volcano of seething thoughts.

Yet she looked so pale, so . . . lost.
Perhaps a word or two before the onslaught of guests would cheer
them both. Because when he wasn’t angry with her, or suspicious she
was making game of him, she brought warmth and light into his life.
And God knew he needed both right now.

Damon greeted the two countesses, then ambled
toward Katy’s corner. Waving away her attempts at a curtsy, he
stood beside her, a hand on the back of her chair, as the guests
were shown in. Soon he would have to join the throng, but for the
moment he was content to listen to Rankin announce the guests and
stand over Katy like a dog guarding a bone. And wasn’t that a
lowering thought? He ought to be ashamed of himself, but instead he
leaned down, whispering in her ear, “The vicar’s daughter looks as
if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose.” Katy’s lips twitched. “And
Squire Richardson and his good wife appear to have reproduced
themselves from the very same mold. One son, one daughter, as
sturdily four-square and upright as any fine country family could
wish.” A flash of green fire warned him not to be unkind. “No, no,
they are undoubtedly very worthy.” Katy sat taller in her chair,
turning her back, as it were, on his comments.

“
Good God!” Damon hissed as a third
family arrived, “does Drucilla think I wish to rob the cradle? That
girl cannot be a day over fifteen. Though, on second look, it’s
fifteen going on five and twenty.” He searched the list he had
memorized and decided the newcomers must be the Swanns and their
daughter Edwina. He looked to Katy for her reaction and saw that
her hands were clasped so tightly together, the knuckles were
white. Her face had turned the color of chalk. She looked, in fact,
as if she were about to topple from her chair. She looked
remarkably like the girl who had bolted from the dinner table just
after Drucilla announced the tea party.

Damon laid a supporting hand on Katy’s
shoulder just as Rankin announced, “Baron and Lady Oxley, Miss
Eleanore Hardcastle, Miss Lucinda Challenor.”

Katy whimpered. He’d swear on a stack of
bibles he heard her whimper. Later, later . . . he’d have to deal
with it later. He’d already lingered too long; his presence was
required. He tightened his grip on Katy’s shoulder, hoping she
recognized his attempt at comfort for what it was, then strode
across the room, holding out his hand to Lord Oxley, a beefy man of
close to fifty. Damon greeted the baron’s wife with punctilious
courtesy, turned to the two young ladies.

Now these two, he thought, were almost worth
enduring Drucilla’s party. The elder, Miss Eleanore Hardcastle, was
tall and stately, with chestnut hair and amber-eyes. Though her
features were somewhat angular, she was a strikingly classic
English noblewoman, precisely what a titled gentleman expected to
have standing next to him at the top of his staircase. Miss
Challenor, however, was of a different stripe altogether. Petite
and blond, with a truly lovely face and sparkling green eyes—bold
and wise beyond her years. Odd, that. If put side by side with Katy
Snow, the two girls might almost pass as sisters.

Colonel Farr, no one’s fool, knew a mystery
when he saw one. The strange resemblance, combined with Katy’s
reaction, refuted coincidence. Blast the chit! Surely she could
have trusted him enough to tell him why this particular family
caused her so much anguish.

“
Do tell us about Moretaine, my lady,”
said Mrs. Dearborn, the vicar’s wife, as she accepted a cup of tea
from her hostess. “We have heard he is quite poorly.” There was a
general murmur of concern and sympathy from the other
guests.

“
As you may have heard,” Drucilla said,
“he took a chill while shooting in Scotland. Instead of staying
until he was better, he insisted on coming home. It is his lungs
again, and I fear it will be a long convalescence this
time.”

“
Is he well enough to see me?” the
vicar ventured. “When I called two days ago, the doctor turned me
away.”

“
I think a visit today, while you are
here, would be an excellent idea,” Damon interjected before his
sister-in-law could reply. “An excellent idea,” the colonel
repeated, exchanging a significant look with the vicar.

Mr. Dearborn put down his cup. “Perhaps now?”
he murmured.

“
Rankin,” Damon said, “have someone
escort the vicar to my brother.”

And in that moment all but the most oblivious
and self-centered knew that the earl’s illness was indeed serious.
That power had already passed to his heir, the next Earl of
Moretaine. Among those who missed the message entirely were the
very young Edwina Swann, who was considering practicing her
flirtation skills on Philip Winslow, the earl’s secretary; Miss
Hardcastle, still seething over the colonel’s obvious interest in
her cousin; and Miss Challenor, who was fully occupied planning her
campaign to win Colonel Farr.

And Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, who
simply would not believe her reign could come to an end.

“
Colonel,” said Miss Hardcastle rather
too brightly, “we are told you were in the cavalry. Do tell us
about your experiences on the Peninsula.”

“
Believe me, Miss Hardcastle, you would
not wish to hear them.”

“
Come now, colonel,” said Lady Oxley,
an imposing woman whose voice boomed nearly as loudly as her
husband’s, “there must have been some lighter moments fit for a
ladies’ ears.”

“
I fear our lighter moments were as
ribald as our battles were bloody.” Lord, what was the matter with
him? Wellington would have pinned back his ears for such a gauche
remark. “I beg pardon, my lady. My brother’s illness has scattered
my wits. There were indeed a number of moments that bear
repeating.” Damon launched into the tale of what had happened when
the only available officers’ billet was in a convent. Fortunately,
it was one of the few times his troopers, mostly Irish, had behaved
themselves—camping outside the convent walls, of course—while the
sons of British noblemen practiced almost forgotten restraint
inside. With one or two of the younger, more winsome nuns, it had
not been easy, but they had managed the thing, moving on after
three days with nothing more than sighs of relief echoing behind
them.