The Unscrupulous Uncle (6 page)

“I never got them,” she insisted.

“I wrote, Little Cat,” he repeated, reverting to his childhood address. “How could you believe I would ignore your pain?”

Her shoulders slumped. “Perhaps it was the shock. No one spoke of them after the first couple of weeks. But I recall neither letter. I made many excuses for you, but finally decided you had excised the past from your life.” She broke into wracking sobs.

He pulled her close, battling his own tears as he allowed her to cry into his jacket. Never in his darkest hours had he expected this. He had called himself her brother since the day she’d been born. She must have felt abandoned indeed. No wonder he had never received a response. It sounded as though she had collapsed for some time after the accident. And who could blame her? He had always considered her more sensible than Peter, but she was capable of the same intensity as her brother. It was a fact he sometimes forgot.

“Forgive me,” she begged at last. “How could I become such a watering pot after all this time.”

“There is nothing to forgive. The uncertainty would prolong your grief.” Why had she not asked her uncle for the details? he wondered, but it did not seem appropriate to question her actions. “Come and sit down. What do you wish to know?”

“Everything,” she replied so naturally that he might have been fifteen again, describing Eton to a breathless ten-year-old – in this same spot.

“There really is not much to tell.” He sighed, his face falling into a frown as he cast his mind back to those idealistic first days in Portugal. “We landed on the coast just north of Lisbon. There was a minor skirmish almost immediately, but it resolved nothing, and we all knew there would be a larger battle soon. But the French badly underestimated our forces. Wellington – or Sir Arthur as he was styled then – is a master of tactics, not only winning, but capturing the entire French force.”

“Then why did the war not end?”

He grimaced. “It was not Sir Arthur who negotiated the terms of surrender. Burrand and Dalrymple arrived the next day. Understanding nothing about Napoleon, they allowed the French to keep their weapons and return home. Both were court-martialed and relieved of their positions, but the damage was already done.”

“How did Peter die?” she asked directly, returning his mind to the point. It did no good to remember how many friends had suffered and died due to the incompetence of two men.

“It was in the first charge,” he replied sadly. “The only comfort is that he died instantly, taking a ball squarely between the eyes. I doubt he felt a thing.” His voice trembled, but she did not seem to notice.

“W-was he all right afterward?” she asked, almost apologetically. “There have been so many tales of desecration and pillaging on battlefields.”

“Rest easy,” he commanded, again fighting tears, for the reality far exceeded anything she could have heard. “I saw him go down. The moment there was a break in the action, I sent Burt to bear him back to camp. You may remember Burt.”

“Of course. His cousin Ned is one of our footmen.”

“There is nothing more I can add. Rather than wait for word from home, I arranged to dispatch the body here – and was ultimately glad to have done so, for only you were left by the time the notice arrived. How did you survive so much grief?”

She turned bleak eyes toward his face. “I don’t know. I recall little after I wrote you, so I suppose I slipped into shock. By the time I recovered, the funerals were over, and Uncle Henry had taken care of everything else. I should have known that you would not have forgot us, but having no memory of that time, I assumed that there was nothing to know.”

“Did you really write me?” he asked suddenly.

“Of course. The evening of the accident. You must have got it!”

He shook his head. “Not a word. It hurt.”

They stared at each other for over a minute.

“This is very odd,” she said.

“Not really.” He shrugged. “The vagaries of war. We lost some ships in the early days. I suppose our mail was on them.”

“How cruel can life get?” she murmured rhetorically. “Not one word from you since Peter’s death.”

“But surely your uncle reported meeting me in London!”

She raised her brows. “When was this?”

“Early November. I came back to deal with all the legal business engendered by my parents’ deaths. I was planning to come down to see you, but frankly I was dreading having to face the ghosts here, so when I met your uncle in town, I turned coward and rejoined my regiment. He assured me that you were well. But I sent you a message.”

“Saying what?”

“Repeating my condolences and congratulating you on your betrothal.” But even as he spoke, cold settled into his stomach.

“What betrothal?” Shock widened her eyes.

“Lord Braxton said that you had accepted the hand of Roderick Graham just before the accident.”

“I have never heard of such a man. I have certainly never been betrothed. I was not even planning to come out until the following Season. You know I was barely seventeen that summer.”

“What is going on?” he demanded sharply.

“I have no idea. Why would Uncle claim that I was betrothed? Unless he expected to arrange something. There was no money for a Season. But why would he even try? No man wants a girl without a dowry.”

“Nonsense! Your dowry was settled when you were a child.”

“You have been away a long time, Damon. Papa could be quite the charmer, as I am sure you recall. He was also quite good at obscuring truth. When my uncle inherited, he discovered that there was no money. Even my dowry had disappeared. He would have done what he could to arrange my future – not out of goodness, of course, but to save himself the expense of keeping me. Whatever gentleman he hoped to convince must have refused.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, though not believing it for a moment. The dowry had been there, set aside in a trust. And nothing would convince him that Peter’s father had been hiding indebtedness. He knew the man too well.

“You think I’m exaggerating, don’t you?” she observed sadly. “But you did not know everything. Even Peter didn’t. How could you when you were both gone most of the time? I do not know if it was gaming or bad investments, though I suspect the latter. And Papa was not the sort to flaunt poverty. He would have continued as before, wearing a prosperous face and hoping that he could turn things around before the truth emerged. But he did not have time.”

Her words pulled Damon up short. Was it possible that he was less knowing than he thought? But either way, he must take care of Cat.

She continued, showing no sign of noticing his preoccupation. “But Uncle Henry is not the sort for pretense. He decreed that the only hope of recouping Papa’s losses was to tighten our belts. And it has worked, though it is unlikely that my cousins will enjoy London Seasons any time soon. Hopefully they will not have to wait until they are on the shelf like me, for they find adjusting to penury difficult. We have fewer servants than they would like and smaller wardrobes. I help where I can, but there is no point pretending that all is well.”

“Why do you not go out more?” he asked.

She shrugged. “There is no point in embarrassing my family. Poor relations are not accepted as equals. I do not wish to endure that. Even worse, there are those who might pretend nothing had changed. That is as good as a slap in the face to my aunt and cousins. It was difficult enough for them to move to a neighborhood where they were unknown. Things would only have been worse if I were seen to be the reason people included them.”

“After nearly eight years, such an excuse can no longer be valid,” he reminded her.

“Then perhaps I am a coward,” she admitted angrily. “I cannot face the change in my own status. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Of course not! And I don’t believe it.”

“Believe it, Damon. There are days when I want to scream in frustration, but we can only play the cards we are dealt. It does no good to swear at the dealer. When things get too bad, I come here. It is wondrously soothing to my spirits. Now enough of me. What have you been up to these last years? I hear you are quite the hero.”

“Not at all,” he disclaimed. “The real heroes are all dead, so when the government needs to trot someone out as an example, they must choose some poor bastard from the living.”

“You did not used to be so cynical.”

“War changes people, mostly for the worse. I do not wish to discuss it.” He paced restlessly around the clearing.

“Very well.” Her words were conventional, but he could hear the pain at what she could only interpret as another rebuff. Before he could formulate an explanation, her face cleared and her eyes lit with mischief, sending a
frisson
of warmth through his heart that the Cat he remembered still lived. “Uncle Henry got back last night. And my cousins will be out this afternoon. You can call on him without running the risk of another musicale.”

He chuckled. “Still looking out for me, Little Cat?”

“Unless war has destroyed your hearing, you cannot have enjoyed it, however much you praised them.”

“How well you know me. But praise? They must lack understanding of the English language. I merely agreed with your aunt that I had never heard the like. And you must agree that Drucilla shows great dexterity.”

“You have become a rogue!”

“Hardly. Merely displaying manners in the face of trial. Is there nothing you can do to discourage them?”

“No. They must prove that they are proper ladies by demonstrating their accomplishments. Since neither can set a stitch without knotting every thread in their sewing baskets or paint even the simplest picture well enough that they can identify it themselves the next day, they must rely on music. Be thankful they don’t sing. Even Aunt Eugenia cannot pretend their voices are acceptable.”

Damon shook his head. “How is Wiggles?” he asked, naming the puppy he had given her before leaving for war.

Her face softened. “He is fine, though I no longer have him. Aunt Eugenia cannot abide animals, so the Newmans have taken care of him since we heard about Peter. I still see him often. He has become a wily herd dog, helping Sam look after his sheep, though he reserves most of his affection for me.”

“And Lady Jane?” he asked, referring to her mare.

“Gone. Uncle Henry sold the stable as soon as he learned how bad finances were.”

She straightened, putting an end to his questions. “I must go, for there is much to be done today. Do you wish to call on Uncle?”

“Not yet. I must see how Mr. Connors goes on.” And he needed some information before he faced Lord Braxton. Too many things didn’t add up. They could not all be passed off as coincidence.

Catherine nodded. “Please convey my greetings to Mr. Connors and wish him a speedy recovery. I doubt I can visit him for several days. Mrs. Newman needs help.”

Damon raised a brow and she explained. “I will arrange care,” he offered. “It is the least I can do.” Peter would be appalled at such neglect.

Thanking him, she disappeared into the woods.

Chapter Four

Catherine climbed into bed, finally able to relax. Aunt Eugenia had ordered a fancy dinner and cleaning of the public rooms for a party she was planning the next evening. Wiggins had said nothing as they supervised maids and footmen, though both knew it was wasted effort. This would be another in a long line of entertainments that were not held. Few people were willing to endure recitals at the Braxtons’, so they usually found excuses to turn down invitations.

Dru and Horty had been equally annoying, demanding endless help with their wardrobes and creating petty chores to relieve their irritation at Damon’s absence. They had eagerly overdressed to attend a village fete celebrating the nuptials of Major Kersey’s grandson. When the earl did not appear, their disappointment surfaced as bad-tempered demands on Catherine, though it was obvious why he had stayed away. One of their quarrels revealed that both had sent word to Devlin Court that they would be attending. While they had been searching for him in the village, he had been in the clearing.

Pressing her face into the pillow, she reviewed that meeting. Damon had changed in eight years. Instead of a young man on the verge of maturity, he was now powerful and hardened in ways she could only imagine. As usual, his tawny curls raged in longish riot around a broad face whose amber eyes and flat nose had always reminded her of the lion in one of her picture books. But the face had aged. Browned by the Spanish sun, it now bore lines about his eyes that hinted at incessant squinting to discern distant movement of the enemy. And it bore other lines – from grief and pain? – across his forehead. His body was as solid as ever, but instead of comfort, it now radiated strength, and something else. Anger?

But she had dwelt on the subject longer than was prudent. It had been good to see him again, but she wished she had not. Their meeting recalled all that she had lost. Normally she was content with her lot, but once in a while something happened to illustrate just how far she had fallen. Even this room and this bed irritated her tonight, though it had been years since she had last noticed her surroundings. She now lived on the nursery floor in a room last used by her grandmother’s companion.

She could not recall the change. It had occurred while she was immersed in grief. Her aunt blamed the doctor, who had recommended a change of scene – or so they claimed. She knew the real reason was to remove the poor relation from one of the best rooms in the house. And she could hardly expect to live with the family. But at the moment it was difficult to appreciate a room no better than that occupied by her aunt’s maid.

Sleep still would not come, and she finally admitted that she was deliberately focusing on her position in a futile attempt to ignore Damon’s revelations.

He had set her mind to rest about Peter, and for that she was grateful. She had often been plagued by visions of her brother lingering in agony or hopelessly disfigured. Battlefield tales appalled her. She’d heard of men who had been blown to bits and others who had died slowly and painfully of gangrene or infection. Afterward, she’d suffered hideous nightmares in which Peter met a similar fate. Stories describing how scavengers stole uniforms, weapons, and even teeth from the dead had kept her awake for weeks. That Peter had died cleanly and been removed to Damon’s keeping even before the battle ended was a great comfort. She only wished that she had learned those details years ago.