The Unscrupulous Uncle (9 page)

“Of course,” she had responded automatically. “But there is much to do here. Would it not be better if I waited until a week before they leave?”

“Not in this case. The manor needs repairs. The steward is busy with the spring planting so you must supervise the work.”

“How many rooms will you wish to use?”

“The house is so small that you may as well open everything. Sidney will spend at least part of the summer there, and Eugenia will want to entertain our old neighbors. Hire sufficient staff – though no excess; the budget will not allow waste. And you needn’t concern yourself with the journey. I will send outriders to handle all arrangements.”

“Very well,” she agreed, hiding her astonishment at his uncharacteristic generosity. It would have been less surprising if he had dispatched her on the stage.

They had spent the next half hour discussing repairs, leaving her barely fifteen minutes to pack before the coach arrived to carry her to Cumberland. Not until she was away did she have time to think. Then more and more questions arose. Why was she here?

Her uncle’s orders were patent nonsense. In eight years at Ridgway House, he had never once considered returning to Braxton Manor. It might be the family seat, but her father had described it as small, derelict, and barely livable. He had originally offered it to Henry to prevent the very vulgar Eugenia from blackening the family name in society. Lady Braxton would never agree to revisit so isolated a place. Catherine could still recall her aunt’s joy at leaving the ancestral pile far behind. Uncle Henry disliked strife, capitulating to his wife whenever she made a stand. And Dr. Mumford would never send Lady Braxton to Cumberland for her health. He had often declared that no climate was more beneficial than the coast of Somerset. So what was Henry’s purpose?

She conjured up many possibilities, each more ludicrous than the last. The only one that made any sense was that her aunt had demanded her removal to facilitate trapping Damon into marriage. Catherine had heard enough hints to deduce that Eugenia had engineered her own wedding. But while Uncle Henry might have agreed – solely to keep the peace – he would never have condoned the expense of sending her so far away. Nor would he have considered the even more expensive notion of opening and staffing Braxton Manor. Regardless of the true state of his finances, the man was a nipfarthing, even begrudging the cost of putting quality food on the table when they entertained. If he needed to get her out of the way, he could have locked her up in Ridgway – or in a nearby cottage, if he feared the servants might support her. So why this very costly journey?

The carriage finally turned along a heavily rutted drive and crept to a halt before an aging manor house. The outside appeared dark, damp, and dingy, a perfect setting for a gothic tale of ghostly horrors.

Her reception was even worse than she had imagined and lent credence to Henry’s claim about the work that was needed. The staff consisted of an elderly woman, a fifteen-year-old maid, and an even younger groom who doubled as a footman. The woman sent the groom to fetch the steward, then gave Catherine a brief tour of the manor.

It was obvious who had last lived there. Structural maintenance had been ignored in favor of garish decorating. The intended style was indecipherable, for the rooms contained a little of everything, as cluttered as her aunt’s gowns. But the deplorable state of the house was not the worst news. Catherine had gone to her room to change for dinner, her spirits sagging after an interview with an openly antagonistic steward. When she tried to go downstairs, she discovered that her door was locked with no sign of a key.

“His lordship thinks you need a little holiday,” reported one of the outriders when she rattled the handle. His unpleasant laughter echoed along the hallway.

Dear Lord!
That explained the steward’s attitude. Uncle Henry must have ordered that she be incarcerated. But why?

Panic set in.

She checked the window. At any other time, the view would have been spectacular – forested mountains cradling a narrow valley through which a river tumbled in wild abandon. But today she saw only the thirty-foot drop to the ground. There was not even a ledge to offer the chance of reaching an unlocked room.

She whirled as the door opened, but hope died in an instant. Her two burly jailers blocked the entrance, watching in stone-faced silence as the timid maid set a full coal scuttle by the fire and placed a dinner tray on the table. At least she would neither freeze nor starve. But how was she to keep madness at bay with no occupation?

 By morning she had cried herself dry but still had no explanation for her predicament. Somehow she must escape and get word to Damon. He could discover what was going on. With that in mind, she began to cultivate the maid, requesting assistance with her hair and dress so the guards would allow the girl to stay.

Chapter Six

“What a devil of a coil,” murmured Damon as he turned down New Bond Street. His frown made him conspicuous, other gentlemen’s expressions conveying either weary boredom or hearty cheer.

It was a warm day, and a remarkably clear one. A brisk breeze had pushed the usual haze of smoke and coal soot to the east, leaving the sky a brilliant blue. Bond Street was crowded with colorfully dressed ladies and equally colorful dandies. A flower cart filled the air with a heady scent, footmen raced by on errands, and two girls exclaimed over hats displayed in a window. Acquaintances chattered as though they had been separated for weeks rather than hours, exchanging scandalous
on-dits
and enthusing about the day’s social calendar. Hawkers pushed their wares, shouting above the noise. Horses and carriages rattled over the cobblestones, the confusion made worse when a horseman cantered past.

But Damon was oblivious. Only the tiniest corner of his mind knew where he was. Shock deadened the rest.

“How could he do it?” he asked rhetorically, deaf to greetings from Mr. Caristoke and Lady Wormsley as his feet automatically threaded the crowd. “How can he sleep?”

Approaching Bruton Street, which would lead him home, he sidestepped two ladies exiting a modiste’s shop and blindly turned the corner, unaware that he had just cut Lady Hermione in front of at least fifty members of the
ton
.

“What can I do?” The question that had kept him awake much of the night still plagued him. And there were no easy answers. His life was suddenly in chaos. Every time he reached a decision, guilt raised new doubts that thrust him back into uncertainty.

Bruton Street emptied into Berkeley Square. He crossed the central garden, pausing a moment under the plane trees as his face twisted in pain. His plans lay in ruins. Even worse, his life was a mockery. He had always conducted himself according to the strictest principles of duty and honor. Yet it had been a lie.

Honor.

He snorted as he climbed the steps to his town house. No matter which course he chose, honor would suffer. Not that anything would change. What was one more infamy when added to years of disgrace?

Duty. Who had the strongest claim?

The ghosts again stood before him – Peter, his accusatory stare burning into Damon’s soul to condemn him for negligence, selfishness, and ignoring a solemn oath; his godfather, face twisting in pain that admonished Damon for failing to keep Peter safe and bemoaned Catherine’s fate; Hermione, reminding him that his courtship was too far advanced to withdraw, her smile recalling the evening he had spirited her into the garden and swept her into a scandalous embrace that society would deem utterly compromising if anyone knew about it; Peter’s mother and his own, who had always believed the best of him; and Catherine in tears as she asked about Peter’s last days. He had not told her that Peter’s final thoughts had been for her future.

And sitting in the center of a gigantic web that trapped all these faces in its sticky coils was the present Lord Braxton. Damon shuddered. How could a gentleman conceive of such wickedness?

The first blow had struck at Doctors’ Commons. Damon had arrived in London at dusk, leaving the knocker down to avoid callers. When the records office opened the next morning, he was already waiting at the door. An eager young clerk helped him locate the thirteenth baron’s will. It read very much as he had anticipated – bequests to the servants and to a couple of distant relatives; a sizable jointure to his wife that would assure her independence; a dowry of ten thousand pounds for Catherine, along with guardianship arrangements until she was of age; and the remainder going to the fourteenth baron.

Damon had almost missed the codicil. It was dated two days after he and Peter had joined their regiment, but its provisions were so incredible that he’d stared at it for an hour before the reality sank in.

He could hear Lord Braxton dictating it, his harsh voice unable to hide his pain. That same voice had flailed them from the moment they had revealed their commissions. The accusations again rang in his ears – heartless, irresponsible, undutiful, dishonorable. Damon shook his head, staring at the paper in his hands. The baron would have destroyed the codicil when his temper cooled. It was too obviously the product of anger and grief. But there had been no time. Two months later, he was dead – without learning that Peter had already perished.

Damon read the provisions one last time, though they were already engraved on his heart. The solicitor had died less than a week after reading the will. It was conceivable that no one but the new baron knew the terms. Certainly Catherine seemed not to. Even an honorable and strong-willed man would have been tempted. Henry Braxton was neither.

He must have conceived his plot immediately. The man he had named as Catherine’s betrothed did not exist. Nor did the lad’s father. Neither were listed in Debrett’s
Baronetage of England,
a book Braxton may not have known existed at the time – the first edition had been published only a few months earlier. Not that deceit was anything new for the current baron. Damon’s secretary had uncovered several tales about the fourteenth Lord Braxton. In his youth, he had been suspected of fuzzing cards, though no one offered proof, and his winnings were never outrageous. Others had accused him of stealing small but valuable objects from their homes. Damon had long known that Braxton was susceptible to pressure, but that kind of cowardice often made men sneaky, and vicious toward those weaker than themselves.

What had Catherine suffered during eight years as housekeeper and whipping boy for her uncle’s family? Peter’s eyes again glared at him. Damon had vowed to look after her, but had not done it. Now he faced an impossible decision. Unless Catherine wed within seven days, her unscrupulous uncle would get away with massive fraud.

That was what had kept him sleepless.

He downed a glass of brandy and settled into the chair in his library. Catherine was at Braxton Manor, practically on the Scottish border – he had just learned the estate’s location from the old baron’s man of business. It was a five day trip, even on horseback. Could he find an acceptable candidate for her hand, convince him to wed her sight unseen, obtain a special license in the appropriate names, travel to Cumberland, convince Catherine to marry a total stranger, and finalize the nuptials in one week? Of course not!

The only solution was to wed her himself.

He ran a hand through his hair and poured another brandy. His chest felt as if all the dead from Waterloo were piled on it.

How could he turn his back on Hermione? It was not just the dishonor. He suspected he was falling in love with her. She was beautiful, refined, talented, and as conformable as any man could wish. Nor was she an empty-headed ninny like so many young ladies. But regardless of his own feelings, society expected a declaration. His attentions had been marked to the point of indiscretion. If he failed to come up to scratch, her reputation would suffer – badly. How could he do that to her? Even if she understood his reasons, he could hardly expect forgiveness. And he wanted to marry her, devil confound fate! Was it fair to Catherine to wed under those conditions?

Yet how could he condemn Peter’s sister to slavery? The Braxtons were already treating her badly, and that would only get worse. The baron would never keep her at Ridgway, for she would be a constant reminder of his sins. He might find her a post with someone else or turn her off without a shilling. More likely, he would sell her to some elderly lecher who would pay for the privilege of debauching so tasty a morsel.

Damon swallowed bile at the picture his mind had painted. He had promised to look after Catherine and had never quite shaken the belief that dragging those fateful words into the light of day had killed his closest friend. Could he live with himself if he added to his sins? Frustrated fingers again raked his tawny mane, his mind sidetracked for a moment by the thought that it was past time for a haircut.

Agonizing over fate was pointless. The decision had been made the moment he saw the codicil. All his raving for two days had been nought but a desperate attempt to deny the inevitable. But why? Damon Fairbourne eschewed emotion. He left that for Peter. No matter what he did, he would be labeled a cad. No matter what he did, one of the women would get hurt. Catherine’s claim had precedence.

He paid one last visit to Doctors’ Commons, packed a few essentials into his saddlebags, and left at first light. This could not possibly be worse than what he had faced in Spain and Belgium.

* * * *

“There was a gentleman askin’ for a night’s shelter,” whispered Brigit as she set Catherine’s dinner tray on the rickety table by the fireplace.

“Did he give his name?” she murmured, showing interest only because the maid was her sole visitor. Communication on any subject was preferable to her unproductive thoughts. They spoke softly to hide their conversation from the guard, for he demanded silence.

“Somethin’ Devil. Soames sent him away.”

Devlin! Somehow Damon had discovered that she was imprisoned here and had come to rescue her. But she thrust the thought violently aside, knowing that it was unlikely and refusing to allow hope to grow lest disappointment make the coming days even worse.