Lady Silence (23 page)

How much would they offer for news of the
long-lost heiress? How much to lose her forever?

Katy fumbled to open her reticule. She
summoned a smile, even though her jaws ached with the effort. “You
have exceeded my expectations, Mr. Trembley.” Most horribly. “Pray
tell me what is needed to settle your fee.”

He named a sum she suspected would not cover
his investigator’s time for more than a few days, with nothing left
over for himself. Solemnly, Katy counted out the coins. Through a
narrowed mouth and a throat that threatened to swell shut, she
thanked Mr. Martin Trembley and left, head high. But not before
accepting the paper he held out to her, on which was written in
flowing script the names and direction of the Alburton family. Her
grandmother, her uncle, and her cousins.

Caught on the horns of a
dilemma
, that was the right phrase for her situation.
Or
teetering on the
brink
.
Damned if she did,
damned if she didn’t
. Any one of the old expressions
would do.

She feared the Hardcastles. She must stay
hidden.

Yet she could not allow an imposter to fool
the Alburtons. Or seize the fortune her grandfather Alburton had
left her. Although it would appear the Hardcastles had already
helped themselves to the funds left her by her grandfather
Challenor.

She could not even be certain of Mr.
Trembley’s support. This was not a situation a girl of nineteen,
with no legal rights, could handle alone. She had no choice—she
would have to confess all to Damon and pray that he would protect
her. But how? He, too, had no legal rights where she was concerned.
He was not her guardian. Any efforts on her behalf would embroil
him in an arcane plot created by the relatives of a foundling to
whom he had given shelter, just when he was suffering from grief
for his brother, attempting to deal with his mother’s melancholy,
and handle the far-flung affairs of the Moretaine estate.

Katy allowed the cob to meander at its own
pace along the road back to Farr Park. If she had any sense, she
would keep going. Straight out of the lives of everyone who knew
her.

Which, of course, she would not. She
would not leave those who had given her shelter, given her love,
just when they truly needed her.
Never!

So she could not tell a soul. And could only
pray Mr. Trembley was an honest man.

But when she arrived home, she found a fresh
wind sweeping through the Park. The dowager raised a wan face to
hers and declared, “Damon wishes us to remove to Bath after the
holidays. He thinks I should take the waters.”

Bath!
A
marvelous notion. Exactly what the countess needed to coax her back
to life.

And yet . . . Katy shivered. Bath was only a
short distance west of Farr Park and not far south of Castle
Moretaine. And Oxley Hall. With Damon as the lure, the Hardcastles
would not be far behind, increasing the many languid visitors to
the Pump Room by four.

And spelling disaster for Katy Snow.

~ * ~

Would Wellington applaud his compromise?
Damon wondered. Or damn him for a buffleheaded idiot?

Bath.
Instead
of sending Katy Snow packing, he was sending her to
Bath.

And his mother, so fixed in her
melancholy that he had not thought to be able to budge her, had
welcomed the scheme with surprising alacrity.
Suspicious
alacrity. Now why . . . ? Was she
grasping at her plan to find Katy a husband to distract her from
her grief? Surely, without being able to vouch for the chit’s
character, the dowager had long since abandoned that notion . .
.

Unless . . .
Hell’s hounds!
Unless she was seizing the
opportunity to part him from his secretary. Unless his mama
actually thought he would be fool enough to . . .

If she had heard the truth of what happened
in the woods at Castle Moretaine, she could easily suspect the
worst. Or if she had intercepted one of his glances at Katy—perhaps
an unguarded moment when the shutters had lifted, revealing the
naked truth . . . Ah, yes, his mama could easily suspect her
once-cherished foundling was in danger. Even with Katy no longer
the darling of her heart, the dowager would feel responsible,
obligated to whisk her companion out from under his constant
presence.

Or had his mother’s speculations gone
beyond fear of Katy’s ruin? Did she actually think he would stoop
to a nameless waif for a bride? Marry a conniving little
sneak?
Was she mad?

Or did the countess fear he would never marry
as long as Katy Snow flitted before him, pulsing with youthful
beauty, vivacity, and intelligence? Even the sound of her playing
the pianoforte could send his wits to grass, whether he was in the
room with her or hearing the notes drifting in from the music
room.

Truth was . . . his mother very likely had
the right of it. Katy Snow was close to becoming an obsession. When
he visited Castle Moretaine, Miss Hardcastle, Miss Challenor, and
Lady Oxley inevitably arrived hard after. He forgave the young
ladies their flirtatious manner, their simpering, fan-tossing, and
forced giggles in a house of mourning, for they were young and not
well acquainted with the late earl. But find them enticing, he
could not. In an heroic effort to be gracious, he had even returned
their flirtation in a half-hearted manner, yet experienced not an
iota of stirring in head, heart, or loins.

The same could not be said for the time spent
with Katy Snow. If he did not send her away, he was going to drag
her down to the bookroom carpet and . . .

A swish of skirts, a deep indrawn breath.
Damon looked up into twin pools of green fire. “Is it true?” Katy
demanded. “You are not accompanying your mama to Bath?”

Damon leaned back in his chair, crossed his
arms. Swallowed. If it were possible for Katy Snow to look any more
delectable, he could not imagine it. The chit fairly quivered with
outrage, cheeks flushed, even her tumbled blond curls seemingly
aquiver. He knew her to be a scheming little baggage, yet he could
scarce keep his hands off her. His fingers tingled, longing to free
themselves from where he had tucked them. “I will, of course,
escort the countess and her party to Bath,” he responded
coolly.

“
But you will not stay?”

“
I will then go on to
Moretaine.”

“
Pray cease the roundaboutation,
colonel. Will you, or will you not, be joining us in
Bath?”

“
By what right do you ask, Miss Snow?”
Damon inquired silkily.

She huffed a long breath, then quite
deliberately crossed her arms in imitation of his own. “By right of
caring about your mama,” she retorted, enunciating each syllable
with awful clarity.

He raised a dark brow, looked down his
strong, aquiline nose. “And you think I do not?”

“
I am shocked you could abandon her in
her hour of need.”

“
May I point out we are past
mid-January, with more snow on the ground than the night that gave
you your name. My brother has been gone for nearly four months.
With the exception of my visits to Moretaine, I have been close by
for all that time, and it has made very little difference that I
can—”

“
It has made every difference! Your
mama adores you.”

“
Hound’s teeth!
He abandoned his crossed-arms pose to wave a commanding hand
at Katy’s customary chair. Sit down, and let us discuss this in a
civilized manner.” After his all-too-bewitching secretary was
seated, Damon continued, “Now let us face the facts of the matter.
We are both aware my mother has fallen into a melancholy and is in
sad need of distraction. In Bath she may take the waters and talk
to old friends. She may go shopping, take a drive in the country.
When the weather improves, there are some splendid parks to be
explored. All without any hint of disrespect for her period of
mourning.”

“
Yes, but she needs your
support—”

“
My library is here, Snow. This is
where my work is. No one can be more aware of that than yourself.”
Katy opened her mouth, closed it again, shoulders hunching in
defeat. “I believe we have already retrieved from the shelves all
the books I will need.” Damon swept his right arm in an arc,
pointing her attention to the chaos surrounding them. There were
piles of books on every table and chair, books stacked on the floor
around his desk and in towers on each side of the broad mahogany
surface. “And did you not send off to London for the others I need
not a sennight ago?” Dumbly, Katy nodded.

“
So there you have it. I will go on
here in perfectly splendid peace and quiet, bringing you my latest
for a fair copy when I visit in Bath—” The colonel broke off,
uttering—fortunately only to himself—a very bad word. Katy had
pokered up so badly, he might as well have kicked her.

“
You preferred me when I didn’t talk,”
she accused. “Is that not so?”

“
I preferred you when I didn’t know you
were a liar and a cheat.” He should not have said it, of course,
but the opening was too tempting—a man must defend himself, must he
not? This beautiful young creature, the epitome of virginal
innocence, blessed with intelligence and internal fire . . .
infinitely tempting. She had been everything that was wonderful . .
. a light shining in the darkness of his days, dimming the pain of
war, the pain of grief . . .

Then, lo and behold, he discovered his
goddess had feet of clay. Yes, he hurt. And would be well rid of
her.

And, deep down, he knew his mother agreed.
Serena Moretaine was going to Bath—and taking Katy with her—as much
for his sake as for her own. And, perhaps, in spite of his mama’s
dim view of her companion’s betrayal, she was doing it for Katy as
well. The child deserved something better than the fate of becoming
the plaything of a roughened, disillusioned old soldier. Even a
colonel.

Especially a colonel.

Lucifer!
She
was sitting there, head bent, once again Lady Silence, crushed by
his harsh words. Good. No more arguments. That was as it should be.
“Before you go, Snow, please organize my sources, each stack with a
similar topic, then draw up a key so I may find things easily.” His
bookroom would be cold and dreary . . . and an incoherent shambles
within days of her departure.

“
Of course, colonel.” A subdued Katy
rose, bobbed a token curtsy, and went to work, attacking the stacks
on the burl elm side table first, meticulously reading each title
and rearranging as necessary.

Damon knew she longed to run off, out of
reach of his sharp tongue, but she wouldn’t. Not his Katy. She
would stick like a burr, doing her duty, as she had for all the
years she had been at Farr Park . . .

Where else did the chit have to go?

Damon picked up his quill, dipped it in ink.
The words he had written not half an hour ago blurred before his
face. Who really cared about Hannibal and his elephants anyway?

His vision cleared enough to reveal his last
sentence. It would seem, that according to Colonel Damon Farr,
someone named Katy had led an army across the Alps. He stared at
the page, blinked, looked again. Furiously, Damon scratched out the
offending name . . . so well, in fact, that he put a hole through
the page. Good! There mustn’t be so much as a trace of his mistake
for Katy to pounce upon when she wrote out the fair copy.

The colonel gritted his teeth, ostentatiously
consulted one of the volumes on his desk, then settled down to
write. The first day of February was scheduled for the removal to
Bath. It could not come soon enough.

Bath was much like a lopsided bowl, Katy
decided as their coach wound its way down the precipitous slope
into the city. Ancient tribes had settled inside the bend of the
Avon at the base of the bowl, as drawn by the warm bubbling springs
as all those who came after. The Romans had followed, building
bathing structures and villas, of which a glimpse or two could
still be seen. How much, Katy wondered, was still underground,
waiting to be discovered?

The city now spilled out of its ancient
walls, with beautiful buildings in the Palladian style creeping up
the steep hillside above the river, above the baths, the Pump Room,
and the impressive Gothic spires of Bath Abbey. It was not Katy’s
first journey to Bath. The countess usually paid a short visit to
an old friend there at least once a year, but this would be their
first extended stay. The first time they would have a house of
their very own. And time to explore the marvels of a city that was
infinitely fascinating, if no longer fashionable.

If only the colonel were staying with them .
. .

If only she could be certain the Hardcastles
would not decide to take the waters . . .

Without Damon’s presence,
there was no reason for the Hardcastles to make a winter journey to
Bath.
How could she not have realized that
before?

Katy brightened. Damon would be a regular
visitor to their residence on Brock Street, but since the
Hardcastles had access to him at Castle Moretaine, they were
unlikely to pursue him further. Once again, Fate had been more kind
than she deserved. Katy sat back against the squabs and closed her
eyes, vowing to do her very best to show her dear countess that she
was not an ungrateful wretch. She cared, she truly cared, about
Serena Moretaine. Katy had no recollection of her mother and
Grandmother Alburton, only hazy memories of her Grandmother
Challenor. The Dowager Countess of Moretaine had been her mentor
since she was twelve years old, the closest to a mother she had
ever known. Katy loved her dearly. With narrowed eyes and lower lip
extended into a pugnacious pout, she vowed that, no matter what the
risk, she would do her best to make the countess’s stay in Bath as
pleasant as possible.