The Unscrupulous Uncle (8 page)

“That is simple enough. I will send her to Braxton Manor for the summer. The household needs supervision. She can see that the place is being properly kept up. That should give you ample opportunity to snag the earl. The settlements may be just what we need to pay off some pressing debts.”

“What a suitable place for the girl!” exclaimed Lady Braxton. “Let her molder there forever.”

“Are you prepared to take over her chores?” he asked maliciously. “There is no money for a housekeeper.”

She sighed. “You are right, of course. But it is time she learned her place. When she returns, she must move into the housekeeper’s room.”

Chapter Five

Damon pulled his curricle to a halt in front of Ridgway House and frowned. His back was crawling the way it always did before a battle. Peter whispered warnings in his ear as he had so often done in Spain, but this time he could not distinguish the words.

Lord Braxton had invited him to join a dinner party after which the neighborhood gentlemen would consider the dairy herd problem, but he saw no other arrivals. Turning the ribbons over to Burt, he hesitantly plied the knocker.

“Good evening, my lord,” intoned Wiggins, motioning Ned to take Damon’s hat, driving coat, and gloves.

“Am I early?” murmured Damon.

“Not at all. You will be dining
en famile
tonight.”

“Does that mean that Catherine will join us?”

“She is no longer at Ridgway, my lord.” Despite the wooden face, Damon detected a warning tone. Wiggins had always had a soft spot for both himself and Peter, often extricating them from potential trouble.

His goose bumps doubled as every hair on his body stood to attention. Fragments of his morning nightmare returned, including an incongruous image of a pianoforte. Danger thickened the air, but he could not question Wiggins further, for they were no longer alone.

“How wonderful that you could join us, my lord,” gushed Lady Braxton, bustling across the great hall. Her evening gown was even fussier than her daytime wear, every square inch bedecked with ribbons, lace, and ruffles. Matching bows dotted a head covered in girlish ringlets. She simpered, multiplying her chins.

“My pleasure,” he replied dutifully, even as his mind was working out Wiggins’s warning. It increased his sense of urgency. Braxton’s lie added credence to the notion that they might actually try to compromise him.
Never!
he vowed, already plotting strategy.

Lady Braxton tried to maneuver Drucilla away while he spoke to Hortense, adding to his suspicions. But he had a powerful weapon in the rivalry between the sisters, a weapon he intended to use.

“That is a lovely gown, Miss Drucilla,” he said with a smile that kept the girl at his side. He allowed his gaze to rest on her abundant charms, making her blush and bringing a spark of malicious pleasure to her eyes. Her bosom swelled as her breathing accelerated. Would she pop out of that scandalous dress before the evening ended?

“Thank you, my lord.” She giggled, leaning closer to improve his view. “So pretty a compliment from one who must be London’s finest dresser will surely turn my head.” Her fan smacked the bruise on his arm and he nearly winced.

“Of course I must also commend your own elegant attire,” he said with patent untruth as he turned his eyes to Hortense. Her white gauze was so encumbered with bows that she resembled a ribbon counter in a linen draper’s shop. The only thing that might have increased her vulgarity was a king’s ransom in jewels. It was too bad that neither of these dim-witted chits could explain the loss of the Braxton fortune.

“Really?” she choked, batting her lashes and simpering foolishly, though her harsh voice destroyed the picture she was trying to present.

“Would I lie?” he asked outrageously. “I have not seen two such visions anywhere in London.” That, at least, was true, though hardly flattering.

They edged closer, jockeying for position until he feared that Hortense’s rapidly fluttering lashes might catch in his cravat. At least Drucilla could no longer put any power behind the shortened thrust of her fan.

He pushed credulity as far as he dared, flattering first one lady, then the other, until their tempers were near the explosion point. It would not do to actually have them tearing each other’s hair out – or his – but as long as each believed he might succumb to the charms of the other, he would be safe. Drucilla brushed her bosom against his arm while Hortense fanned his ear with her lashes. His skin crawled. War strategy was easier, both to design and to implement.

Dinner was tedious, with indifferent food and boring conversation. It was the first time in years that he had met the baron, and he wondered at the changes. Braxton was thinner, his gray hair and cadaverous face making him look twenty years older than when he had acceded. Unlike his family, Henry dressed conservatively, making few concessions to current fashion. Drucilla and Hortense continued to vie for Damon’s attention, their manners deteriorating as the meal progressed. Lady Braxton’s eyes raised new danger signals. He could almost hear her thoughts – should she pursue her original scheme, or might Drucilla make a more welcome spouse? He glanced at Wiggins and relaxed a trifle. At least he had one ally, not that he could count on much actual help from that quarter.

He breathed a sigh of relief when the ladies retired to the drawing room. Not giving Lord Braxton time to assume whatever role he had been assigned in this farce, he launched a discussion of the disease that was Braxton’s excuse for inviting him, soliciting the baron’s thoughts and hanging on his every word. Unfortunately, the man had not the slightest knowledge of the subject, his ridiculous assertions making it difficult to keep a straight face. Only Damon’s long absence on the Peninsula allowed him to credibly pretend to take the baron’s words to heart. He managed to stretch the conversation for over an hour despite Braxton’s growing irritation. But finally they had to join the ladies.

“Will you be staying at Devlin, my lord?” the baron asked with patent disinterest as they approached the door.

“Eventually,” admitted Damon. “This trip was in response to the Connors fire, but I will be returning to London in another day or two.”

“So soon?”

“I must be there when my betrothal is announced. My fiancée would be upset if I missed the ball.”

Braxton nearly choked. “I had not heard that you were betrothed.”

“Naturally not. The public announcement will be made on Friday and will appear in Saturday’s papers.”

Lord Braxton dropped the subject, unable to miss the steel that underlay Damon’s statement.

He had not meant to declare his intentions so openly, though it was nought but the truth. But claiming the betrothal as fact might depress the pretensions of this very vulgar family. Poor Peter would turn in his grave if he could see how low the barony had sunk.

“Lord Devlin is betrothed to a London miss,” stated Lord Braxton when they entered the drawing room.

“What?” Lady Braxton paled alarmingly.

“Who is she?” demanded Hortense.

“Why did you not mention her earlier?” asked Drucilla with a pout.

Damon spent several minutes fending off questions. “You will learn all when we make the announcement public,” he repeated for at least the tenth time, anger clear in his voice. He recovered his address and continued. “But I know that you will like her. Such charming ladies cannot help but become her closest friends. I count on you to introduce her around the neighborhood.”

Though pique lingered in all eyes, the girls replied with unexpected grace and Lady Braxton offered congratulations. Damon breathed a sigh of relief. His words were blatantly false, of course, for he could not imagine Hermione in the same room with these two, but with such a scheming mother they would not remain problems for long. It was only a matter of time before Lady Braxton settled on a new victim.

He kept a pleasant expression pasted on his face through the purgatory of another musical evening, wishing he could dispense with manners long enough to leave. But at least he had successfully diverted whatever plot Lady Braxton had devised.

While these congratulatory thoughts occupied one corner of his mind, the remainder was pondering Catherine’s absence. Wiggins was always very precise in his choice of words.
She is no longer at Ridgway
could only mean that she had been packed off elsewhere. Why? If Lady Braxton feared competition for her daughters, Cat would have left years ago. Likewise, if she feared Cat might interfere with a plot to compromise him, why would the lady wait for a week after he arrived before sending her away? It was only after their meeting that anything had happened despite his asking after her during both visits. The Braxtons must fear that she might reveal a secret – something beyond their apparent poverty. What were they hiding? It must be serious if it justified the expense of banishing her.

The insidious idea grew, seeming impossible at first but refusing to go away. Suppose Lord Braxton wished to harm Catherine. It appeared ludicrous on the surface, but there were too many oddities to ignore the possibility. The first was Braxton’s lie that Catherine was betrothed. She had denied the story, though the baron had sworn that her father had approved it. When sorting conflicting statements, Damon would believe Catherine over her uncle any day. She had a sense of honor worthy of a gentleman.

Then there was the poverty at Ridgway House. Everyone agreed that they lived in straitened circumstances. Yet the estate had always been productive. Peter’s father had been a devotee of Coke’s agricultural experiments, hiring an innovative steward and working with him to increase yields. Peter had a generous allowance, and plans had already been underway for Cat’s come-out in London. Peter had heard of no reverses. Lord Braxton had frequently scorned those who let greed tempt them into disastrous investments, stating that he was satisfied with the limited but guaranteed returns he received from Consols. He had never been a man to take risks, so why was his fortune suddenly gone? Surely his successor had not recklessly gamed it away!

The excruciating music finally ended and Lady Braxton suggested they adjourn to the conservatory to admire a rare tropical plant that had bloomed just that morning. Hortense grabbed his proffered arm, but Drucilla could not take the other. She had to listen to her mother praise her mutilation of a Bach prelude. The two women fell into step just behind him.

“Over here, my lord,” urged Hortense when they reached the end of the hall. She pulled him into the room, her enthusiasm setting off alarms in his head. Lady Braxton’s voice ceased as the door clicked shut. Hortense turned a predatory smile on him and reached up to caress his face.

“Harlot!” he hissed, knocking her hand into a thorn-encrusted branch. “You know not what you are asking.”

“I will take my rightful place in society at last,” she gloated.

“What a stupid wench!” he returned, shoving her bodily into the thorn tree when she tried to throw her arms around him. “I wouldn’t allow you near society’s servants let alone its members. If you persist in this farce, you will spend the rest of your days locked in a tower without even a maid for company.”

“There you are, my lord,” exclaimed Wiggins, interrupting Hortense’s gasps as he stepped out from behind a potted palm. “A messenger just arrived from Devlin requesting your immediate return.”

“Thank you, Wiggins,” replied Damon, heart still pounding from his narrow escape. “Will you summon my curricle?”

“It is already waiting.”

“You will give my regrets to your parents,” Damon said to Hortense, who was glaring at both of them. “I fear my wife will not be visiting you after all,” he added for her ears only. “I cannot allow her to associate with vulgar trollops.” She looked ready to explode, her fingers already curving into talons.

Striding away just ahead of Wiggins, he noted without surprise that Lady Braxton and Drucilla were nowhere in sight, but Lord Braxton was headed for the conservatory. After a brief farewell, Damon followed Wiggins to the door.

“If there are repercussions, come to Devlin,” he murmured to his old protector. “I will leave word with Wendell to look after you until we can arrange something.”

He was still furious when dawn crept through his window. Another sleepless night provided him more than enough time to ponder the very fishy smell emanating from Ridgway House. If Braxton had been engaged in deception for eight years, there must be a tremendous amount at stake. And Catherine was caught in the middle.

Burt had gleaned more information from his cousin Ned. Cat had assumed the duties of housekeeper shortly after Peter’s death and had accepted responsibility for more and more chores in the years since, becoming little more than a slave. No one knew why, but she had been abruptly packed off to Braxton Manor at noon. He did not like the timing, particularly since the official reason – inspecting the caretaker staff at the baron’s ancestral estate – did not jibe with her hasty departure. The first anyone had heard of her impending journey was shortly after Lord and Lady Braxton had met in the library. Even more disturbing was the news that she was expected back within the month. Was Braxton’s plot reaching a critical point?

He shivered, his face assuming the forbidding expression that his troops would have recognized. He could not sit by and see Catherine abused. It was time to fulfill his vow to Peter, first by exposing Lord Braxton. That meant investigating every incident since Damon had left home – the sailing accident, her father’s affairs, and Braxton’s financial standing before and after assuming the title. Ringing for Tucker, he ordered his curricle.

 * * * *

Catherine’s head hit the side of the badly-sprung coach, waking her from a fitful doze. A week of constant travel along appalling roads had left her exhausted, miserable, and confused. Marginal inns hadn’t helped, but her growing anger kept her from sliding into despair.

Why was she here?

“Eugenia needs a change of climate,” had been Uncle Henry’s first words when she arrived in the library in response to his summons. “Her constitution demands a more bracing locale. I suggested Braxton Manor, and her doctor agreed. She and the girls will make the trip next month, but I want you to leave immediately to open the house.”