Katy lowered her fork. Blinked. Cast a horrified glance at the others, then struggled to get up, her legs seemingly too weak to stand. Damon thrust back his chair and was rounding the end of the table when Katy broke free, dashing out of the room and toward the stairs as fast as her shaky legs could carry her. The colonel followed, gaining rapidly.
Serena Moretaine, slumped in her chair, her whole body quivering. It needed only this. And it was all her fault. She had thrown the two of them together, hoping Katy’s youth and high spirits would alleviate her son’s somber melancholy. In her concern for Damon, she had not considered any other possible consequences. Certainly not Damon’s lust or Katy’s ruin.
Katy was on the first landing of the great mahogany staircase when Damon caught up with her. “By God, girl, you look as if you’d been sentenced to hang. What was said to upset you so?”
She tried to shove him away. A gnat against a blue stone wall. His gold buttons pressed into her palms, even as his hands came down on her shoulders.
“It is not like you to fly into a pelter over nothing. So what is wrong?” He shifted his grip to one arm, turned her toward the remaining flight of steps. “Come, let us find some paper so you can tell me what has happened.”
She struggled, he gripped her harder. She gasped.
Damon loosed his grip, stepped back, and crossed his arms. “Oh, ho,” he breathed. “You just made a sound.”
Even as the emerald eyes sparked, Katy’s lower lip quivered. At long last, the colonel thought, she was at the breaking point. He should have felt triumph. Instead, he felt the worst kind of monster. This was Katy, the lost child he had given a home. Katy, who was closer to a daughter than a companion to his mother. Katy, his helper. His torment.
His darling termagant, who anticipated his every need.
The bright sun in his dull days.
Damon sighed, the epaulettes on his shoulders subsiding along with his temper. “This has been a bad day, Katy—for all of us. You may keep your secrets. For now. We will finish this conversation another time. Go. I will tell my mother you were unwell.”
For a moment, Katy bowed her head, almost as if offering a prayer of gratitude. He watched as she pulled herself up the stairs, grasping the banister for support, a far cry from the usual spirited Katy Snow. His avid gaze followed her along the gallery until she disappeared down the corridor.
Downstairs, they were waiting for him. Wondering. Speculating. What was Katy Snow to Damon Farr?
If only he knew. He very much feared this was the day his world had been turned upside down in more ways than one.
~ * ~
Chapter Twelve
Katy threw herself onto her bed, pummeled her pillow, then went as still as any small creature with hunters hard on its heels. Goosebumps prickled her arms, every sense alert, ready for the ultimate disaster—which was surely approaching at breakneck speed, a runaway, out of control. She was doomed. And, outside of a full confession, she had no way to prevent it. Yet confession would be the biggest disaster of all. They would hate her, all of them. Even her dear, darling Lady Moretaine.
And Damon.
No . . . no, surely they would understand? She’d been so cold and hungry, so frightened that she would have done anything—well, almost anything—to find a safe haven. But deception was an insidious thing, swinging full circle to devour the deceiver. That she was no longer content with her simple, sheltered life had been hard enough to admit, but then, like the horrid rattle of a ghost walking the echoing halls of her past life, came the threat of a visit to Castle Moretaine, so dangerously close to the Hardcastles of Oxley Hall. Which was a mere bagatelle compared to the announcement that the Hardcastles were to be invited to tea for the express purpose of parading before Damon the dubious charms of the Honorable Eleanore Hardcastle.
And Eleanore’s unknown long-lost cousin.
What unknown long-lost cousin? Could there be more than one?
Unlikely, most unlikely. Which meant . . . which meant problems Katy found too overwhelming to contemplate. Long-lost cousin could not possibly mean what she thought it might. Perhaps she had not heard correctly and was making much ado about nothing. Time enough to cross that bridge when she came to it. She had three days to discover a way to avoid that tea party, and avoid it she would. The Hardcastles would come and go and never know of Katy Snow’s existence.
Katy’s flurry of plans for escaping high tea went for naught, as not only did the dowager insist on her presence, the following morning Rankin roused Katy from the book she was reading and led her to the younger countess’s morning room, a cozy chamber decorated in peach and gold, with tall windows revealing a formal walled garden with fountain in the middle. The sound of birds twittering could be heard, even though the doors were closed. It was a lovely room, the most comfortable Katy had seen in this massive pile of stone.
“Ah, there you are, Snow,” said Drucilla, glancing up from the parchment notepaper atop the D-shaped satinwood desk in front of her.
Bad enough for the colonel to call her Snow, Katy fumed, but for the earl’s wife to address her mother-in-law’s companion as no better than a servant was a deliberate insult.
“I am told you write a competent hand,” Drucilla said in a tone that indicated she did not quite believe what she had heard. “I have decided to add two more families to our tea. You may pen the invitations.” Drucilla, elegant in a morning gown of jade green, with layers of ruffles at the hem and cuffs of her long sleeves, abandoned her seat at the desk to drape herself over a settee upholstered in ripe peach and scattered with tasseled pillows of amber satin.
A remarkable picture, Katy thought. But why waste it on me? Perhaps displaying herself as if posing for a painting was so ingrained in Drucilla’s life that she simply conducted herself accordingly at all times, no matter if the vision she was presenting was only for the eyes of one so unworthy as Katy Snow.
“Sit. I shall tell you what to write.”
Katy sat, and did as she was told, beginning to have a better idea of why the dowager insisted on referring to her daughter-in-law as The Dreadful Drucilla. Yes, she was cold and more than a little toplofty . . . and had probably married the earl for his title and wealth, but until this moment Katy would not have called her Dreadful. Most young ladies of the ton could be said to have married for advancement, rather than love. And being arrogant enough to be termed “high in the instep” flirted with being a compliment of the highest order. Drucilla was not a loving person . . . perhaps not even kind. But Dreadful?
Katy, finding herself almost sorry for the young countess, had not truly thought so. She had, in fact, been slightly ashamed, wondering at the ease with which she had taken the dowager’s opinion for her own. And yet, it did not seem possible that Drucilla remained ignorant of the severity of her husband’s illness. She must visit the sickroom. She must see . . . must guess. Yet, despite what should be obvious to the most calloused observer, she was inviting neighbors to high tea. Dreadful, indeed.
“Snow,” said the earl’s wife quite conversationally, as if she were discussing menus with her housekeeper, “my mama-in-law seems quite determined that you shall attend our little gathering. She has some quaint notion of introducing you to the other young ladies . . . even to their brothers.” Drucilla waved a languid hand, dismissing such an outrageous notion. Her lovely face was suddenly distorted by a sneer. “You are a servant, a child of the gutter, given shelter by my careless brother-in-law in a most indiscriminate manner, and raised far above your station by my mama-in-law, who must surely have been affected by the libertarian rantings of the Corsican Monster. An effrontery I will not tolerate. Introduce you to my guests indeed! When pigs fly, Snow. When pigs fly.”
Drucilla adjusted a fold in her soft muslin skirt, flicked a disarranged ruffle back over her fingertips. Satisfied by the perfection of her appearance, she returned her attention to Katy. “At my tea you will efface yourself in a corner. You will not mingle with my guests. You wil
l not cast your smile at anyone, do you hear? You will effect a blank countenance, as a proper servant should. You will serve the dowager and no one else. You will not encroach by passing tea cups or passing plates. You will not raise your eyes to your betters. Is that clear? Answer me, girl! Is that clear?”
What was clear was that in her cold-blooded anger Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, had forgotten that Katy Snow was also known as Lady Silence. Inwardly, Katy smiled. Nothing could have played more neatly into her hand than being told to hide in a corner. Also, she had an answer to her doubts about the dreadfulness of Drucilla. The younger Lady Moretaine was beyond toplofty and high in the instep. The younger Lady Moretaine was not a nice person. She was, in fact, nasty.
Which, in this case, was good,. The dowager would be furious, Katy knew, but could do nothing about her hostess’s orders without causing a complete break at a time when she needed to be at her elder son’s side. Drucilla was indeed queen of her castle.
For now.
A few minutes prior to the appointed hour for the Countess of Moretaine’s high tea, Damon Farr stood in the doorway of the seventeenth century drawing room, his gaze searching for his mama and Katy Snow. His mother he found with no difficulty, seated on a sofa next to Drucilla. But Katy? Ah, there she was in a shadowy corner, seated on a side chair set against the wall, hands clasped in her lap, making what appeared to be a valiant effort to be invisible. Though he had to agree that Drucilla could not introduce her guests to some unknown chit who wandered into his kitchen one night, Katy’s resigned attitude touched his heart. She was eighteen, a lady in all but pedigree. Naturally, she wished to meet other young people. Ruthlessly, Damon curbed a rush of anger at his sudden vision of Katy flirting with the sons of the local gentry. If the chit wished to be like other young misses her age, it was perfectly understandable.
Devil take it! The girl made his head whirl, but no time to think about it now. He could hear voices in the hall, the guests were beginning to arrive. For the sake of the House of Farr, he must put on what he thought of as his Wellington front, playing host in the his brother’s stead, addressing each of these strangers correctly, without faltering over their name or rank.
Fortunately, Katy had provided him with an annotated list of guests. Baron and Lady Oxley, daughter Eleanore Hardcastle, and as-yet-nameless cousin. Squire and Mrs. Richardson, son Joel, daughter Joan. Mr. and Mrs. Swann and daughter Edwina, a schoolroom miss. Mr. Dearborn, the vicar, his wife Amanda, son Gabriel, and daughter Patience. A competent chit, Katy Snow—the meek façade she was presenting at the moment undoubtedly hid a veritable volcano of seething thoughts.
Yet she looked so pale, so . . . lost. Perhaps a word or two before the onslaught of guests would cheer them both. Because when he wasn’t angry with her, or suspicious she was making game of him, she brought warmth and light into his life. And God knew he needed both right now.
Damon greeted the two countesses, then ambled toward Katy’s corner. Waving away her attempts at a curtsy, he stood beside her, a hand on the back of her chair, as the guests were shown in. Soon he would have to join the throng, but for the moment he was content to listen to Rankin announce the guests and stand over Katy like a dog guarding a bone. And wasn’t that a lowering thought? He ought to be ashamed of himself, but instead he leaned down, whispering in her ear, “The vicar’s daughter looks as if she wouldn’t say boo to a goose.” Katy’s lips twitched. “And Squire Richardson and his good wife appear to have reproduced themselves from the very same mold. One son, one daughter, as sturdily four-square and upright as any fine country family could wish.” A flash of green fire warned him not to be unkind. “No, no, they are undoubtedly very worthy.” Katy sat taller in her chair, turning her back, as it were, on his comments.
“Good God!” Damon hissed as a third family arrived, “does Drucilla think I wish to rob the cradle? That girl cannot be a day over fifteen. Though, on second look, it’s fifteen going on five and twenty.” He searched the list he had memorized and decided the newcomers must be the Swanns and their daughter Edwina. He looked to Katy for her reaction and saw that her hands were clasped so tightly together, the knuckles were white. Her face had turned the color of chalk. She looked, in fact, as if she were about to topple from her chair. She looked remarkably like the girl who had bolted from the dinner table just after Drucilla announced the tea party.
Damon laid a supporting hand on Katy’s shoulder just as Rankin announced, “Baron and Lady Oxley, Miss Eleanore Hardcastle, Miss Lucinda Challenor.”
Katy whimpered. He’d swear on a stack of bibles he heard her whimper. Later, later . . . he’d have to deal with it later. He’d already lingered too long; his presence was required. He tightened his grip on Katy’s shoulder, hoping she recognized his attempt at comfort for what it was, then strode across the room, holding out his hand to Lord Oxley, a beefy man of close to fifty. Damon greeted the baron’s wife with punctilious courtesy, turned to the two young ladies.
Now these two, he thought, were almost worth enduring Drucilla’s party. The elder, Miss Eleanore Hardcastle, was tall and stately, with chestnut hair and amber-eyes. Though her features were somewhat angular, she was a strikingly classic English noblewoman, precisely what a titled gentleman expected to have standing next to him at the top of his staircase. Miss Challenor, however, was of a different stripe altogether. Petite and blond, with a truly lovely face and sparkling green eyes—bold and wise beyond her years. Odd, that. If put side by side with Katy Snow, the two girls might almost pass as sisters.
Colonel Farr, no one’s fool, knew a mystery when he saw one. The strange resemblance, combined with Katy’s reaction, refuted coincidence. Blast the chit! Surely she could have trusted him enough to tell him why this particular family caused her so much anguish.
“Do tell us about Moretaine, my lady,” said Mrs. Dearborn, the vicar’s wife, as she accepted a cup of tea from her hostess. “We have heard he is quite poorly.” There was a general murmur of concern and sympathy from the other guests.
“As you may have heard,” Drucilla said, “he took a chill while shooting in Scotland. Instead of staying until he was better, he insisted on coming home. It is his lungs again, and I fear it will be a long convalescence this time.”
“Is he well enough to see me?” the vicar ventured. “When I called two days ago, the doctor turned me away.”
“I think a visit today, while you are here, would be an excellent idea,” Damon interjected before his sister-in-law could reply. “An excellent idea,” the colonel repeated, exchanging a significant look with the vicar.
Mr. Dearborn put down his cup. “Perhaps now?” he murmured.
“Rankin,” Damon said, “have someone escort the vicar to my brother.”
And in that moment all but the most oblivious and self-centered knew that the earl’s illness was indeed serious. That power had already passed to his heir, the next Earl of Moretaine. Among those who missed the message entirely were the very young Edwina Swann, who was considering practicing her flirtation skills on Philip Winslow, the earl’s secretary; Miss Hardcastle, still seething over the colonel’s obvious interest in her cousin; and Miss Challenor, who was fully occupied planning her campaign to win Colonel Farr.
And Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, who simply would not believe her reign could come to an end.
“Colonel,” said Miss Hardcastle rather too brightly, “we are told you were in the cavalry. Do tell us about your experiences on the Peninsula.”
“Believe me, Miss Hardcastle, you would not wish to hear them.”
“Come now, colonel,” said Lady Oxley, an imposing woman whose voice boomed nearly as loudly as her husband’s, “there must have been some lighter moments fit for a ladies’ ears.”
“I fear our lighter moments were as ribald as our battles were bloody.” Lord, what was the matter with him? Wellington would have pinned back his ears for such a gauche remark. “I beg pardon, my lady. My brother’s illness has scattered my wits.
There were indeed a number of moments that bear repeating.” Damon launched into the tale of what had happened when the only available officers’ billet was in a convent. Fortunately, it was one of the few times his troopers, mostly Irish, had behaved themselves—camping outside the convent walls, of course—while the sons of British noblemen practiced almost forgotten restraint inside. With one or two of the younger, more winsome nuns, it had not been easy, but they had managed the thing, moving on after three days with nothing more than sighs of relief echoing behind them.
“Splendid,” cried Miss Challenor. “A delightful tale. I can just see the column riding away, scarlet coats shining in the Spanish sun—”
“Blue.”
“Blue?” Miss Challenor’s green eyes went wide.
“My regiment—blue jackets with orange facings,” Damon told her.
“Oh.” Miss Challenor pouted. “’Tis not so striking a picture, I fear.”
“Now, now, missy,” said Squire Richardson, “soldiering is a hard thing. A pity young girls can’t see beyond the uniform.”
“Tell us about the Iberian ladies, colonel,” said Mrs. Richardson before her husband could launch into a tirade against the follies of the young. “Are they as dark and lovely as everyone says?”
“Indeed, ma’am,” Damon replied easily, “but we were more likely to see the camp followers, who were—ah—seldom the best that Portugal and Spain had to offer. Most noble ladies were confined behind miradors, intricately carved wooden screens that shield the balconies overlooking the street. The ladies could see us, but we could not see them. It is, I believe, a conceit borrowed from the Mussulmen, who conquered the region at one time.”
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