Lady Silence (28 page)

And woke to find her love gone. Off at first
light to Farr Park, saying—according to Jesse—that a mere dusting
of snow would not keep him from home.

Home. Home was where the heart was, was it
not? But Damon was at Farr Park, and she was in Bath. Katy
sighed.

At least he had not gone straight to Oxley
Hall.

But what would Damon do tomorrow? Next week?
Next month?

Katy looked out on a world sparkling with
fresh white snow and felt only dread in her heart.

~ * ~

Marriage was the only possible solution.

After a sleepless night of examining Katy’s
problem from every possible angle, Damon had his horses put to,
driving out of Bath as if the four horsemen of the Apocalypse
nipped at his heels. The brave soldier, fleeing the field. It
wasn’t that he had not tried to pen a note of reassurance to Katy
before he left . . . but each combination of words that chased
through his mind seemed as inadequate as the blob of ink that
dripped from his quill, leaving a mark on the pristine page as ugly
as Katy’s situation.

All will be well . . . I
will not reveal your secret . . . I am master of Farr Park, not my
mother . . . you will always have shelter there . . . You are my
Lady Silence. We will never be parted
.

Foolish fantasy. They could, and they
would.

So Damon had pulled on his gloves, clapped
his beaver to his head, grabbed his whip from the waiting groom,
and bowled out of town as swiftly as if it were a glorious spring
day. And now, two weeks later, he sat in the chaos of the bookroom
that had been his personal haven from a world of war and admitted
that nothing was ever going to be the same again. His life was as
higgledy-piggledy as his stacks and stacks of research books. It
took him hours to find a needed reference. And he could not find
himself at all.

Where was the daring soldier? The shining
knight to defend a fair maiden? Was Katy Snow not entitled to a
dragon-killer when she needed one?

But she was not threatened. Even if Oxley
suspected Katy’s identity, a second Lucinda Challenor was the last
thing the baron wanted. Surely.

Yet Katy—if her story were true, and every
instinct shouted that it was—could be a decided inconvenience to
whatever rig Oxley was running.

Money—it had to be about
money
. Damon itched to investigate, but feared that
questions could stir the dragon into action, precipitating Katy
into exactly the danger she must avoid. So here he sat, staring at
four walls, when he longed to engage the enemy, piercing the
dragon’s heart with one great swing of his cavalry
saber.

Marriage would do that rather
effectively. No muss, no fuss, no blood or nasty magistrates. But
without the consent of her guardian it would have to be Gretna
Green. And he could not have that stigma hanging over his Katy, not
with all the doubts about her parentage. She would be an outcast
from the
ton
for life. His
gallant rescue all for naught.

But . . . could anything that placed Katy by
his side for the rest of his life be so bad?

Devil take it!
He not only lusted after her, he
loved
her. He was rattling around Farr Park like
a lost sheep in a deep pit. Utterly miserable in the privacy of his
own carefully crafted Hell. He not only had to have her in his bed,
he had to have her in his life. Each and every day. He wanted to
watch her bloom into motherhood. He wanted to watch their children
grow. Whoever Katy was—however suitable, or unsuitable, a bride she
might be—she was his.

And at the moment she needed protection. He
must go to Bath at once—

“
Colonel,” Mapes announced, “there is a
Mr. Trembley to see you. The solicitor,” he added in response to
his employer’s blank expression.

Damon’s skin prickled, his military instincts
springing to the fore, wiping away the bittersweet vagaries of a
lover’s confusion. “Show him in, Mapes.” The colonel stood to greet
his unexpected guest. Somehow he knew this would be no ordinary
conversation.

Katy stared at the letter Serena Moretaine
was holding out to her, nearly snatching her hand back, for she
recognized that atrocious scrawl. How could she not? Now, after
three whole weeks of agony, of living on tenterhooks each and every
day, the abominable beast had at last written to her. She could
kill him, absolutely kill him!

Miss Snow,

I wish to inform you that steps are being
taken to resolve the matter we discussed when last I saw you. Do
not be anxious. I will elaborate on my next visit to Brock
Street.

Respectfully,

Farr

Respectfully, Farr!
The man was mad. Not that he knew she loved him to
distraction, but to send such a letter to someone he knew so well.
Odious! He could go straight to the devil for all she cared. That
was the problem, of course. She cared most dreadfully. So instead
of ripping the missive to shreds, Katy carefully folded it and
tucked it next to her heart.

March was rapidly approaching April, and even
the not-so-young residents of Bath were moving about with greater
alacrity. The walled garden behind their house was coming back to
life. White primula, golden narcissus, anemones, violets, even the
exquisite bloom of a pink camellia, while a forsythia lit one whole
corner with a waterfall of yellow sprays. Nearly every morning Katy
rode Mehitabel on the downs above the city, always properly
attended by the groom sent from Farr Park, whose presence she did
not protest. She still took long walks—sometimes as far as the
Marine Parade along the river; more frequently, slipping out the
garden’s rear door to explore the vast green below the Royal
Crescent and Brock Street. But she had not returned to Sydney
Gardens, which would forever be associated in her mind with Damon.
Even shopping on Milsom Street with the countess by her side took
on an air of sad nostalgia for dark clouds and drifting
snowflakes.

In mid-March, at the end of six months
of mourning, Lady Serena Moretaine had allowed herself the
pleasures of tea and an occasional round of whist or loo at the
Upper Assembly Rooms. While the dowager countess was occupied with
friends her own age, Katy frequently climbed the stairs to the
musicians’ gallery, where, hidden at the back behind the cello, she
listened to the lively music and watched the dancers swing down the
lines or swirl about the room to the
one
-two-three of the waltz, the ladies’ skirts
flying as if in a brisk wind. It was glorious.

Oh, to be able to do just that. To dance . .
. dance with Damon.

Dance with the devil, more
like!
.

She could not have him. Even as Lucinda
Challenor, she could not have him, particularly if Drucilla should
be delivered of a girl. Katy was ever conscious she should be brave
and do as the countess wished—make a serious search for a husband .
. . or a new employer . . .

The thought of either made her ill.

Katy sank down on an extra musicians’ chair,
with its classic simplicity of red velvet upholstery and softly
curved gilded wood. She could no longer ignore the niggling bit of
hope that kept her from doing as her beloved countess wished. If
Drucilla’s child were a boy . . . if Damon were not the next Earl
of Moretaine . . .

Nonsense!
No
amount of fantasizing would put Damon Farr within her
reach.

Nonetheless, she would wait. The
countess would be forced to ask Jesse Wiggs to thrust Katy Snow out
the door, bag and baggage. And
that
, Katy thought grimly, she would believe
when she saw it.

And then one morning in early April, when it
seemed as if the sun had never shone so brightly nor the birds sung
so sweetly, when pedestrians seemed to float over the cobbles, and
even the chairmen seemed to have a new lease on life, Colonel Damon
Farr returned to Brock Street. Katy, who was reading to the
countess, heard his voice in the hall. She faltered, swallowed, bit
her lip, and began again.

“
No, no, child, it is quite all right,”
Serena Moretaine said. “It has been far too long since he paid us a
visit. You may tell my son I wish to see him immediately, even in
all his dirt.”

In the flurry of the colonel greeting
his mother, Katy simply stood back and stared. Damon looked . . .
good. Much better. As if the cares of the world had lifted from his
shoulders since she had last seen him. She should be pleased . . .
but indications that he thrived without her were not . . . were not
. . .
Oh, devil take it!
She
was everything she should not be. Selfish, self-centered, arrogant.
Hopelessly in love.

“
I am here for a longer visit than
usual,” Damon was saying as he bent over his mother’s hand in
old-fashioned courtesy. “I am in need of an infusion of city life
to stir me out of my country ways.”

In stodgy old
Bath
? But Katy’s heart soared.

Then plunged to her toes. The Hardcastles
would come. Of course they would.

And she would be afraid, every moment of
every day.

To no one’s surprise, it took only
three days for Baron and Lady Oxley, Miss Eleanore Hardcastle, and
Miss Lucinda Challenor to descend on Bath. Katy, happy as a grig,
was circling the Pump Room, her arm tucked through the colonel’s,
when the Hardcastle family came sailing in, four pairs of eyes on
the
qui vive
for the object
of their interest. The baroness’s gaze alighted on Lady Moretaine,
and she charged across the room toward her, even though Eleanore,
who had spotted the colonel and Katy not fifteen paces away, tugged
at her sleeve, attempting to hold her mother back.

“
Serena, my dear!” Lady Oxley gushed.
“So delightful to see you here. The waters have surely been a
blessing, for you are looking splendid, quite splendid.”

“
Ah . . . thank you, Cornelia,” Serena
Moretaine murmured, looking up from the Bath ladies with whom she
had been enjoying a comfortable coze. After introducing the
newcomers to her friends, she added, “Are you passing through on
your way to London?”

“
Indeed, we are fixed here for some
time,” Lady Oxley replied. “Always wise to give young ladies a
taste of society before taking them to London, do you not
agree?”

Since Miss Hardcastle had already had
one Season and Miss Challenor gave the appearance of being able to
teach the
ton
a thing or two,
Season or no, the countess clamped her teeth over the obvious
reply. “A wise idea,” she murmured, while frantically wondering
what had happened to her son and her ever-resilient right arm, Katy
Snow.

At that moment Damon was rushing Katy down a
corridor, his goal a possible side or rear door out of the building
housing the Pump Room. “Ah, hah!” Baron Oxley’s boom of triumph
echoed hollowly around them. “Escaping, colonel? Can’t say as I
blame you. Frightening thing, women. Particularly when all three
have set their caps at the same man.”

Damon tried for humor. Raising an eyebrow and
proffering a thin smile, he said, “Surely not Lady Oxley?”

“
Hah! Worse than the gals, that woman.
A better pointer than my best bitch. She’ll snabble you for one of
’em before you can say Jack Robinson. You there,” the baron barked
at Katy, “what’s your name, girl?”

Keeping her eyes on the polished wood floor,
Katy bobbed a curtsey. “Katy Snow, my lord.”

“
Ain’t you the one couldn’t
talk?”

“’
Twas a miracle, my lord.”

Damon squeezed her arm. Hard.

The baron harrumphed. “Look at me when you
speak, girl!”

“
Miss Snow is my mother’s companion,
Oxley,” Damon intervened. “She expressed an interest in the Abbey’s
fan-vaulted ceiling, and I agreed to escort her there. A mission we
must complete, so we can escort the countess home in time for
nuncheon. If you are fixed in Bath for more than the day, I am sure
we will have opportunity to converse at another time.” The colonel
bowed and started to turn away.

Lord Oxley’s hand shot out, pulling up Katy’s
chin. His fingers bit into her flesh. “Enough!” Damon’s tone was as
quietly deadly as a bolt from a cross-bow. Defiantly, Katy’s green
eyes stared up into the baron’s ruddy scowling face. It was far too
late for dissimulation. And then, oddly, his burly body seemed to
deflate, like a balloon on a sudden descent from the sky. With a
small sigh and a slight shake of his head, he turned back toward
the Pump Room.

Dear God!
Katy
shivered.

“
He knows,” Damon acknowledged. “No
doubt about it, he recognized you.” He gripped Katy by both arms,
scrutinizing her as intently as the baron had done. “He has lost,
Katy. He knows it. We have only to put all our pieces in play, and
we have him.”

“
He is a bully and a cheat,” Katy
replied tonelessly. “That does not mean he is stupid.”

“
His only way out is murder. Can you
actually think he would stoop that far?”

Katy gave an infinitesimal shrug.
People were murdered for sixty shillings . . . sixty
pence
. Why not for sixty thousand
pounds?

Right there in a rear corridor of the Pump
Room, with maids and footmen scurrying to and fro to the kitchens,
Colonel Damon Farr took his secretary into his arms, holding her
tight. “I told you this matter was being investigated,” he murmured
into her hair. “I promise on every oath an officer and a gentleman
can give, that Oxley shall not have you back. Until I can get all
the pieces of this chess match lined up, however, you will not
leave the house without my escort. Is that clearly understood? And
no equivocations, mind? Well . . . answer me! Do you understand
your life may depend on doing as I say?”