The Unscrupulous Uncle (2 page)

“Of course,” she agreed readily, eager to do anything to pay for her upkeep. The new arrangement also earned the gratitude of the staff, many of whom had resented Lady Braxton’s arrogance and petty complaints. Within the month, Catherine had taken sole charge of the manor, allowing the housekeeper to retire. Two servants who had protested using a baron’s daughter as an unpaid menial were dismissed. The rest silently conformed to the new regime.

Catherine had been satisfied with the arrangement. Accepting charity from an uncle who was already suffering financial problems would have bedeviled her conscience. She might not like her change in fortune, but work kept her mind off grief and regret.

The next adjustment had occurred near the end of deep mourning. She had looked forward to visiting neighbors again, but her fantasies had exploded during another chat with Uncle Henry.

“I truly hate to ask so much of you, my dear,” he apologized, pacing restlessly about the library. “But I have a serious problem. Eugenia lacks your training in society manners, for she was not born to this position. Thus her confidence is easily shaken. She has the odd notion that any invitations she receives are really meant for you and include her only from politeness. Perhaps you could remain behind until she discovers that the neighbors accept her for herself. Once she learns the truth, you are welcome to join her. It should not take long, for she has it backwards, as you well know. You are included only out of pity for the poor orphan or to show that they do not hold your father’s irresponsibility against you.”

“They know?” She had not believed that Uncle Henry would make his affairs public.

“Of course. It is impossible to keep secrets from servants, and they freely discuss their masters with others. You must not pay heed to the talk. Few openly condemn you, for you were not to blame.”

Yet she could not forget the shame her father had visited on the family. The last thing she wanted was pity from her former friends. She had readily agreed to remain behind so that Aunt Eugenia could establish herself as the new baroness. As time passed, she found that facing the neighbors was too humiliating. Peter would have called her craven, but she preferred to avoid a world in which she no longer had a place. Instead, she concentrated on running the house and helping the tenants, who had done nothing to deserve their change of fortune. As the family finances worsened, she took on more responsibilities. By age twenty, she did the household mending and was making her own clothes. By two-and-twenty, she was handling much of her uncle’s correspondence so that he no longer needed a secretary. It was the least she could do to repay the rising cost of supporting her.

Uncle Henry often thanked her for her assistance. Aunt Eugenia’s constitution had weakened until it required all of her energy to participate in neighborhood society, so she appreciated Catherine’s efforts. Hortense and Drucilla ignored her unless they wanted help. Sidney, her uncle’s heir, was rarely at Ridgway House, having been away at school when his father acceded to the title. More recently, he spent much of his time in town, and she was glad. The grievances he had nursed since childhood made him gloat over her new status as a poor relation. He did everything in his power to demean her.

Thrusting memory aside, Catherine followed her aunt to the morning room.

“We will hold the picnic on Wednesday,” announced Lady Braxton once she was settled on a couch. “Cook must surpass herself if we are to make an impression. Oh, how I wish we could afford a decent chef! How are we to attract the gentlemen’s notice with nought but Mrs. Willowby? Sir Mortimer’s cook is so much better.”

“Mrs. Willowby does quite well,” Catherine reminded her, refusing to mention that Sir Mortimer’s cook had worked at Ridgway until Lady Braxton’s insults drove her away. It was useless to repine over what could not be changed.

“I hope so,” said her aunt with a sigh. “How are we to find husbands for the girls when we must start with such handicaps? Imagine! Only five hundred pounds each for dowries. What lord will overlook that? And they must find lords. It would never do to marry down. As daughters of a baron, it is their right.”

“What do you know of these gentlemen?” asked Catherine to divert her from an oft-repeated tirade.

“Everything important. Lord Grey is a baron, his title reaching back hundreds of years. He has two estates and a considerable fortune. Sir Timothy is but a baronet, but he will do to keep Drucilla occupied while we fix Hortense’s interests with Lord Grey. She is already nineteen and must wed before she turns twenty or she will be considered on the shelf. That gives us six months.”

They turned to planning the picnic, hoping for a warm day though it was still early spring. Catherine accepted all her aunt’s suggestions, her mind on other things. This would be another pointless exercise. Neither Horty nor Dru could bring Lord Grey up to scratch. Her aunt might live on dreams of a wealthy, powerful alliance, but her cousins were not the girls to achieve one.

Damon Alexander Fairbourne, ninth Earl of Devlin, glared at the missive in his hand. Triple disasters had struck his estate, requiring his immediate personal attention.

He shivered. Though he had sold out eight months earlier, he had not yet visited Somerset, preferring to address other business first – like assuring the succession; he had pushed his luck far enough. Thus he had accepted invitations to several winter house parties and was now immersed in the London Season. It allowed him to forget his other reason for avoiding Devlin Court. Too many ghosts lived there, for everyone he had loved was gone.

Peter’s image floated before his eyes as it had done so often since Vimeiro, blotting out the sight of his study. How could he live without so basic a part of himself? After all this time it was still an unanswered question.

But the letter would not disappear.

“Tell Tucker we will leave immediately,” he ordered the butler, who had been silently awaiting instructions near the door.

“Yes, my lord.”

He scrawled a note to the Marquess of Tardale, postponing the meeting they had arranged for the following morning and crying off his plans to escort Lady Hermione to the theater. Two days to Devlin, three to address its problems – he should return in a sennight. Hermione would understand.

Lady Hermione Smythe.

His face softened as he thought of the beauty he had chosen to be his bride. Tall and slender, with blonde hair and green eyes, she sent chills tumbling down his spine whenever she entered a room. Hermione would drive away the ghosts. The prospect of a week apart was daunting, confirming the wisdom of his plans. She would preside over Devlin Court with the same graciousness his mother and grandmother had showed. His tenants would welcome a mistress who could share their concerns. She would fit perfectly into his life, offering conversation or loving silence according to his mood, her sweet temper guaranteed to make his home the sanctuary it had been in his youth.

But it would do no good to dwell on their upcoming separation. He reread the letter from his steward. Troubles never came singly or even simply. One of the cottages had burned to the ground, injuring the tenant and killing his eldest son. Already the family was behind with the spring planting. To make matters worse, a mysterious illness was sweeping the county’s dairy herds, promising bad times for the cheesemakers. Both problems would impact his rents. And the unrest that had plagued England for some years – most recently in the form of the corn riots – had now broken out in the village, as grumbling over dwindling incomes and rising prices turned to violence.

Damon sighed. He should have gone home earlier. Hastings was an excellent steward, but he had been left in sole charge of the estate since the previous earl’s death. It was too big a burden.

Damon considered settling his betrothal immediately so he need not rush back to town, but reluctantly abandoned the idea. Managing the trip with only one overnight stop was already questionable. If he delayed any longer, he would require two. And it might take hours to track her down. She was probably making calls or shopping. It was what ladies were expected to do when in town, and Hermione always conformed to expectations.

“I will leave immediately,” he informed Tucker as his batman-turned-valet adjusted his jacket. “Pack enough for a week, then follow in the carriage.”

“Of course, my lord,” replied Tucker with a grin. “Don’t you fret none. ’T’won’t be the first time we up and left in a hurry.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed as he pushed memory past the years to which Tucker referred, past the disillusionment of war and the devastation of death, to another departure. That had been his last visit home.

Home. His mouth tasted metallic, and he swallowed convulsively. He and Peter had bought colors in the spring of 1808, determined to counter Napoleon’s move into Portugal. It had been Peter’s idea, of course. He had been army-mad since escaping leading strings. That was all that had saved Damon’s sanity after Vimeiro. If he had led his closest friend to death, he could not have lived with himself.

Their fathers had protested, but the boys were fired with idealism and an age-old drive to test their mettle on the field of combat. Next to that, the argument that heirs should not endanger their lives did not sway them. After all, a good friend had died while hunting. When the boys remained adamant, Damon’s father had accepted defeat, mouthing all the appropriate words, though his disapproving expression belied most of them. Lord Braxton had eschewed pretense, condemning them both for willful disobedience, and even threatening to disinherit Peter if he persisted in this folly – an empty threat, as they all knew, for the estate was entailed to the eldest son. Peter hadn’t enjoyed the rift, but he understood his parent, having inherited his own passionate nature from his sire. He listened and agreed with many of Lord Braxton’s points, but the remonstrations changed nothing. The boys had been of age.

Lord Braxton’s diatribe had hurt Damon nearly as much as Peter. The baron was his godfather and was as beloved as his father. That had made Peter’s death even harder to bear. Damon had always been the steady, rational one of the pair, expected to protect Peter and prevent rash behavior.

“Master Peter would chastise you for avoiding home for so long,” observed Tucker, their long acquaintance under the most trying of circumstances allowing him to speak as a friend and advisor rather than a servant.

“There is no one there to care,” responded Damon sadly. “My parents are gone, as are his. His sister married some years ago. I don’t even know where she lives now. Under the circumstances, Peter would understand my reluctance.”

“Maybe so, but you still have to live with yourself. If nothing else, you can decide what changes must be made before you marry.”

Damon’s brows shot up. He had never considered the question, but Tucker had a point. The house had been untenanted for years. Was it ready to receive the new countess?

Chapter Two

Damon’s curricle threaded the gates of Devlin Court and snaked through the deer park, topping the rise that offered a spectacular view of the house. His vision blurred. The Court was one of the most beautiful estates in England. Nestled in a valley against a backdrop of forested hills, the Palladian facade added by his grandfather glowed in the warmth of the setting sun. Behind that new front sprawled the Court. Originally built in the E-shape that paid homage to Elizabeth – who had bestowed both land and title on the first earl – it had since been enclosed and enlarged into a sprawling maze of wings and courtyards.

But the sight did not explain his moistened eyes. Nor did his eight-year absence. He had known how it would be. Peter was everywhere – racing at breakneck speed along the stream that traced the valley floor; dodging behind trees in uncounted games; gracefully clearing walls and ditches on his favorite black horse. Damon cleared his throat in a futile effort to choke back a sob. For years he had struggled to banish his agony by thrusting all emotion from his life. It was disheartening to learn that he had failed.

Drawing off the road, he tethered the horses and walked briskly into the woods. What a splendid figure he cut! Major Lord Devlin, hero of the Peninsular campaign, a man who looked death and carnage in the face without flinching. Yet he could not even enter his estate dry-eyed!

“Go away!” he shouted at Peter’s lingering image. That quirky black eyebrow raised in silent laughter, but Peter complied.

Other ghosts immediately crowded close – his stern but loving father; his warm, compassionate mother, whose advice and help had extricated him from countless scrapes; Lord Braxton had been as stern as his own father, though more tolerant of his godson than of Peter; Lady Braxton was another he could turn to, particularly with problems he didn’t care to confess at home.

Even Catherine glared at him, blaming him for not protecting Peter from the perils of war. After all, Damon was the elder. He knew better how to go on in the world. And he was always the practical one. Peter had fluttered from interest to interest with butterfly quickness, shedding trouble like a snake shed its skin – and with as little memory of the event. Not that Peter had been a shallow man, merely one filled with
joie de vivre.
It was that quality that had countered Damon’s innate sobriety and stultifying common sense, injecting a warmth into his life that had also died at Vimeiro. In like manner, Damon’s practicality had kept Peter anchored firmly to the earth. They had been opposites, but of the same coin, one man who happened to occupy two bodies.

But such thinking was pointless. Peter was gone. Damon was left with only his own harsh self, untempered by Peter’s enthusiasm. These days, he acted only out of duty – to see the war to its conclusion; to marry and secure the succession; to address the problems plaguing his estate. Straightening abruptly, he strode back to his curricle. He was the Earl of Devlin, sole survivor of two once-vibrant families. It was time to start acting like an earl. He would not think of Peter again. It was the only way to carry on.