“No!”
Briggs, a burly man of medium height with both face and temperament of a bulldog, persisted. “From what I hears in the kitchen, colonel, that there lady, your brother’s wife, is right partic’lar about how folks look. Her husband being an earl an’ all. Maybe you should have the little miss write to that Weston—”
“If I desire new clothes, Briggs, I am quite capable of ordering them myself.” Damon scowled at the fashionable wrinkle he’d been attempting to put into his cravat before descending for dinner. He used to know how to manage the demmed things—had, in fact, thought he recalled the skill quite competently—until he had looked at himself through the critical eye of Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine.
Briggs snapped to attention. “Yes, sir, o’course, sir.” Eyes straight front, he added, “Just thought what with you going to a castle and all . . .”
Damon swore, raised his chin, and while peering down his nose at the mirror, gave his cravat one last disgusted tweak. As if it actually mattered what The Dreadful Drucilla thought. Then again, perhaps Briggs was right. What could it hurt to trot out his uniform for dinner each night? One less thing for the witch to complain about. Hell and the devil, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t even met the woman. His entire opinion of Drucilla Moretaine, was based on what his mama had told him. Ashby’s wife could be a charming young woman who simply could not abide to live in the powerful shadow of her mother-in-law.
No . . . that dog wouldn’t fight. Over the years he had received letters from Ashby, as well as from his mama. Letters distinguished by what they did not say. Letters full of politics, social gatherings, and sporting events; yet, except for the first halcyon days of the earl’s marriage, they had been letters devoid of the slightest hint of connubial bliss.
“Pack the uniform,” Damon ordered. “And, Briggs . . . kindly do not refer to my mother’s companion as ‘the little miss.’ She gives herself enough airs as it is. I suspect her encroaching ways are far more likely to upset our hostess than my lack of wardrobe.”
“Ah, but she’s a taking little thing, sir. Seems quite like one of the family.”
“Enough!” the colonel roared. “Pack everything fit for an earl’s country seat. We leave at nine in the morning.” If he could roust his mama out of bed. Which he very much doubted.
Colonel Farr’s fears proved justified. In spite of the dowager countess’s concern for her elder son, their cavalcade did not depart until half ten. Damon, knowing good manners would have him sitting with his back to the horses, avoided an intimate all-day tangling of his long legs with those of the diminutive Katy Snow, by choosing to ride beside the carriage. From the eagerness of his stallion’s gate, he could tell that Volcán was pleased to be on the road again, moving out into territory unknown to the Arabian-bred horse. Blasted animal was probably already sniffing for the smell of gunpowder, pricking his ears for the roar of cannons and the crack of rifle fire.
Well, he was not. Though, in truth, the thought of a confrontation between his mother and his brother’s wife was more than a little daunting. At least that little baggage Katy Snow looked more the thing. Odd, but sight of the plain brown gown she was wearing today had brought back a flash of the long-ago child in the ugly dress gazing at him defiantly, equal to equal. It was not, he realized, his mama’s indulgence that had given the girl notions above her station. Pride, even arrogance, had always been there. His mother’s patronage had only given the chit the office to display it.
Strange. He should have remembered that before. Not that it mattered, for Katy Snow was of no importance. She was a mere convenience to his mama, to himself. They could, of course, manage quite well without her. He was, after all, on his way to a reunion with the brother who had taught him to play jackstraws, draughts, and chess. The brother who cheered his first efforts in the saddle, helped him lift his first shotgun. The brother to whom he had returned the favor by steering the newly made earl around London’s more earthy attractions, including his first visit to a bawdy house. That Ashby had preferred his library and his club to gaming and whoring had made Damon shake his head at the time. But now the memory brought a fond smile, for hadn’t it turned out that the adventurous brother had a broad streak of the recluse as well?
Damon’s smile faded. Home two months, and he was only now visiting Castle Moretaine. Hell and the devil, he’d burrowed in at Farr Park, as if trying to shut the whole world out. Like a fox gone to ground while the hunters circled and the pack sniffed for a scent. It was high time he stopped cowering and licking his wounds. And well past time he paid a visit to the home of his childhood. To the great, sprawling country seat of the Earls of Moretaine. To the great, sprawling, inconvenient pile of stone that was Castle Moretaine. A pity the lords of Moretaine had always been politically adept, keeping the right face to both monarch and Parliament, their home never suffering the fate of being demolished, as had so many of England’s castles. But, eventually, the stones of the massive curtain wall had been used to fill in the moat and add to the village, a mile away. The living area had been expanded with each generation, until the bailey—in a final burst of construction in the mid-seventeenth century—had become nothing more than a sizable courtyard. Damon sighed as he looked at the results. A hodge-podge of architecture it might be, but it was the home of his childhood, the principal seat of the family Farr.
Damon patted Volcán’s neck to indicate his appreciation of the horse keeping to a steady trot even though his rider’s mind was obviously wandering. A great campaigner, Volcán. Damon glanced back, making certain that the two coaches—one with his mother and Katy, the other with Briggs, the countess’s maid Archer, and the remainder of the luggage, were still following sedately behind.
They were. Colonel Farr sighed. The incongruity of a veteran of nearly seven years of war, atop his charger, leading a cavalcade composed of women and servants through the serenity of the Cotswolds, struck him with force. This was what he wanted, was it not? No challenges, no responsibilities, no—
Damon spurred Volcán into a gallop. John Coachman knew the way. In the peaceful green hills of Gloucestershire lieutenant colonels were superfluous. As he tore down the road, ventre à terre, Damon Farr reached for his saber.
But, of course, it wasn’t there.
The sun was nearing the western horizon when they approached the great wrought-iron gates that barred the long drive leading to Castle Moretaine. Dusk flirted with the trees as the gatekeeper rushed out, stumbling over his own feet in his eagerness to welcome home the prodigal mama and son. Ah, but he’d not pay for drinks at The Golden Lion for a month or more! Fancy that young scamp a colonel, and looking like his face would crack if he smiled. But the dowager, now there was a one. Not a day older than she when she left, not a day. And the young miss with her, a real looker, she was. Going to set the tomcats on the prowl, yes, indeed. And that grand Lady up there in the Castle wasn’t going to like it, not one bit.
The gatekeeper followed the progress of the coach until it disappeared around a curve in the heavily forested park. Damon Farr and the dowager had come home. And none too soon. None too soon at all.
“A goodly part of it is fourteenth century,” said Serena, Lady Moretaine, to her young companion, whose nose was pressed to the coach window. “The cloisters around the courtyard were enclosed at a later date, though the Gothic style was imitated quite nicely, I think. Of course, the curtain wall, moat, and drawbridge were taken down long ago.”
Katy knew her mouth was agape, her eyes reflecting astonishment. Castle Moretaine. Truly, she had thought it only a name, given, perhaps, to some long-ago structure on the site. But it had towers, turrets, even a glimpse of crenelations. An enchanted castle, shining in light-colored stone, shaded pink by the last rays of the sunset. Surely such a place could not house a Wicked Witch, who might be on visiting terms with Baron Oxley and his family.
They clattered through an opening in the front wall and entered a vast courtyard, the gravel drive illumi
nated by a veritable wall of torches. Obviously, they were expected. On the inner side of the castle, Katy noted, the windows were much larger, with Gothic arches and diamond panes of glass. She had fallen asleep and waked in a fairy wonderland. This could not be real.
But she could smell the acrid scent of the torches, see the reality of an entire retinue of liveried footmen lined up to serve them, putting down steps, unstrapping luggage, directing the coachman to the stables. Katy thought she caught a shine in the very proper butler’s eye as he solemnly welcomed the dowager countess to the home in which she had reigned for so many years. And, quite possibly, there was a suspicious moisture in Lady Moretaine’s eyes as well. And then the colonel was beside them, offering his mother his arm. Katy trailed them, six feet behind, shrinking into her role, deliberately cloaking herself in invisibility. For at Castle Moretaine silence would not be enough.
~ * ~
Chapter Ten
Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, they were informed by Rankin, who had been butler for nearly as long as Damon could remember, awaited her guests in the new drawing room—a designation used to distinguish the seventeenth century addition from the Lord’s Withdrawing Room, part of the original keep. The hall in the “new” wing was quite splendid, Katy thought, with a fine double staircase, painted white, leading to a first-floor gallery above. She was, however, disappointed by nary a sign of suits of armor, chain mail, or crossed swords and lances. But they must have been somewhere in this great sprawling pile for the colonel was saying, “I always liked the old part best. Ashby and I fought countless battles up and down the winding stone staircases with our wooden swords. Knocked over a good bit of armor as well, as I recall.”
“And fenced,” said his mother reprovingly. “Up and over the trestle tables—”
Damon chortled. “Ah, yes, we alternated knights with cavaliers and roundheads. We drew straws to determine who must play the roundhead, as neither of us wished to do so. Good memories,” he said to his mother, who had halted beside him, with Katy Snow hovering in the background as a good companion should. “I am glad we came,” Damon added softly. “I had thought to put childhood aside with the rest of my life, but it’s good to see the old pile. And Ashby. He’s a good man . . . he has done his duty here, as I did in the army.”
His mama laid her gloved fingers over his arm. “I am proud of my sons. Of both of you.”
Damon flashed a genuine smile that dazzled both females present. “Then onward!” he cried, as light-hearted as Katy had ever seen him. “Let us beard the castle’s lord and lady in their den.”
Rankin, stately in his livery, had been patiently waiting at the foot of the grand staircase. Ascertaining that the dowager and her son were once again ready to proceed, he led them up to the gallery, where he threw open a great studded oak door. He stepped inside, threw back his shoulders, and announced in stentorian tones, “The Dowager Countess of Moretaine, Colonel Damon Farr, and”—he lowered his voice to a near whisper—“Miss Katy Snow.”
Katy, mindful of the many warnings she had received, tried not to wince at being singled out in this fashion. She should have stayed below, asked to be shown to her room. But when she hung back with Briggs and Archer, who were directing the unloading of the luggage, the dowager had beckoned her forward with an imperious wave of her hand. So here she was, being announced in an earl’s drawing room. As if she were a real person, not Katy Snow who was supposed to be unseen as well as unheard.
Polite, but cool, words were being exchanged. Katy, keeping her eyes fixed on the hem of the dowager’s traveling costume, was surprised when her employer’s voice suddenly rose. “And where,” she demanded, “is my son?”
“Moretaine sends his regrets, my lady,” said the Countess of Moretaine, “but the doctor has confined him to his chamber until he is quite recovered from his chill. A ghastly place, Scotland,” she added with a shudder. “Why he insists on going there each autumn I cannot imagine. We shall have tea, then I shall have a cold collation sent to your rooms. Moretaine will receive you in the morning.” Damon studied their hostess with considerable interest. He supposed the formality of referring to her husband of four years by his title was not uncommon, particularly in women who reveled in having snabbled a titled husband. Still and all, he could not like it.
And yet a man would have to be blind not to be dazzled by the countess’s sophisticated beauty. Her hair was the glossy black of a raven’s wing, with the nearest of the room’s two fireplaces burnishing blue highlights into strands artfully arranged around her piquant face. Her eyes were a rich chocolate, he thought, though the flickering candlelight made it difficult to tell anything other than their icy indifference. Everything about her spoke of her position among society’s elite. He had no doubt her gown of burgundy satin was in the latest style, as was her coiffure, so much shorter than his mother’s . . . or Katy Snow’s. His brother’s wife was lovely . . . and cold as a frozen pass in the Spanish mountains.
“Colonel Farr,” said the vision of loveliness, proffering a sudden smile that would have had most men panting at her feet, “do sit by me and tell of your adventures in the war. Moretaine has so regaled us with your exploits that seeing you is quite like looking at a legend.”
Damon—social façade firmly in place, if a bit grim—seated himself in a claret velvet armchair with ornately carved arms, then found himself as silent as Katy Snow. She, he noted out of the corner of his eye, had slipped onto a upright chair set back against the wall in a corner as far away from the Farr family as she could get. Good. That was the proper place for the little minx.
“Colonel?” The younger Lady Moretaine, eyebrows raised, was holding out a cup of tea.
With an inward grimace at his wandering thoughts, Damon accepted the cup, noted that his mother and Drucilla already had cups in hand, so took a sip of his own. Ah . . . an aromatic brew of the finest quality. The next best thing to hot spiced punch after a day-long journey.
Guilt struck him. “Katy,” he called, “come get your tea. You must be as parched as the rest of us.”
As he watched her slink across the great expanse of carpet, guilt struck from the opposite direction. Had the girl not been told to efface herself, to stay as far away from the younger countess as possible? And Katy had done just that. And he, the idiot colonel, was calling her forward, because innate good manners forbade him to drink tea while the child sat in the corner, undoubtedly tired and thirsty and— hell and the devil, he’d set the cat among the pigeons. Or, more like, set the baby bird down in front of the cat.
With a careful precision that broadcast her disdain, Drucilla poured tea into a fourth cup. “Well, come and get it, girl,” she snapped. “Don’t just stand there as if you’ve never seen a teacup before. I am quite certain my dear mama-in-law has managed to teach you a few essential manners, at the very least.”
Damon blinked. How dare she? He might criticize Katy Snow, but she was his waif. He could doubt her origins, Drucilla Farr could not. “Take the cup,” he growled to Katy, even as he glowered at the countess, who remained supremely oblivious to his displeasure.
Keeping her eyes on her teacup, lest it slosh onto the elegant carpet, Katy scurried back to her chair by the wall. She hadn’t even asked for cream or sugar. In fact, the thought of asking The Dreadful Drucilla for anything was quite appalling. If only . . .
The constraints of her long masquerade were beginning to pull down her spirits. Not that she was some princess in disguise, she told herself bitterly. If she faced the matter squarely, the girl called Katy Snow was merely the overly indulged object of a doting grandfather’s affections. In spite of one brilliant star on her family tree, the Drucillas of this world would always take precedence. She might have been raised to hold her head high, been given an education superior to that of most boys, yet, truthfully, she was the end result of a misalliance between the younger son of a younger son and the daughter of a wool merchant.
If only her papa and mama had lived . .
.
But she had never known them. Both drowned when caught by a sudden summer storm while they were sailing, leaving a six-month-old to be brought up by her grandparents. Katy had heard the story many times, of how her grandfather the bishop, third son of the Duke of Carewe, had stormed into her parent’s modest home and snatched her from the arms of her maternal grandmother, the wool merchant’s wife. No grandchild of his would be raised by vulgar cits! And all connection between the families, tenuous at best, had been severed on the spot. For close on twelve years she had lived with her paternal grandparents, though she barely recalled her grandmother, who had passed on when she was four, leaving her to be raised in comfortable luxury by the scholarly but indulgent bishop.
And then he was gone, that light of her life, Cedric Challoner, Bishop of Hulme. And she had been delivered into the hands of her grandfather’s second cousin, Cornelia Hardcastle, wife of Baron Oxley, in whom her beloved grandfather had mistakenly placed his faith.
“Katy. Katy, my child, come along. We are going to our rooms.”
Katy? Katy Snow was a dream, a figment of the imagination of Farr Park’s staff. She was not Katy, had never been Katy. Could not continue to be Katy. But what to do, what to do? Once, she had thought herself content . . . but no longer. She had only been content to bide her time, to grow up in peace—
“Katy!” the colonel echoed his mother, but more sharply. “Stop dawdling, girl, and come along.”
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