“Merciful heavens,” murmured Mrs. Richardson, “I had no idea.”
“Come, Colonel, don’t tell us you never saw a single beauty?” said the squire’s son, Joel, with a grin. Not much younger than Damon himself and confidant of his position in the world, he did not hesitate to tease an earl’s younger brother.
Taking no offense, Damon responded with a rueful grin of his own. “Wellington seemed to have an attraction for women. They flocked to him, like iron shavings to a magnet. Why, when he was as cold as an icicle, I never could understand, but he enticed women from behind their miradors as easily as the Pied Piper led rats from Hamlin. No matter where we were—except for that time in convent,” he amended hastily—“there were always lovely ladies to brighten our days.”
“Surely not on the battlefield,” huffed Mr. Swann, father of the nubile Edwina.
“Ah, but there are always great gaps of time between battles,” said the colonel, his spirits lightening somewhat as he recalled a number of moments of camaraderie, sparkling wit, dark eyes, lace mantillas, and, sometimes, much more.
The squire harrumphed. The vicar’s wife coughed. Joel Richardson laughed out loud. Gabriel, the vicar’s son, turned his face away to hide a grin.
“Naughty boy,” said Drucilla, but her eyes gleamed with mirth.
In her corner, Katy dug her nails into her palms. Horrid man. Why she liked him she could not imagine.
“My lady,” cried an upstairs maid, bursting into the room, “vicar says you must come at once. “Colonel, he asked for you as well. And for my lord’s mama.”
Katy, heedless of the presence of the Hardcastles, rushed to Lady Moretaine’s side, helping her beloved dowager to her feet. The colonel took his mother’s arm, and the three rushed out, leaving Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, still sitting in her chair. Gradually, as shock settled into reality, Mrs. Dearborn, the vicar’s wife, closely followed by Mrs. Richardson, rose and went to the countess’s side. They might find the Countess of Moretaine a trifle sharper than they cared for, but it was their duty to be of help in times of crisis. With gentle words and great care, the two women brought the countess to her feet and escorted her from the room.
~ * ~
Chapter Thirteen
“You must stay by me every moment, child,” Serena Moretaine said to Katy, as they sat in the drawing room, two black crows perched in a vast field of green damask, cream satin brocade, silk wallcoverings hung with priceless paintings, and seemingly acres of gilt. “With Drucilla prostrate upon her bed, I must manage alone, for Damon will be obliged to move about, speaking to each of the guests.”
Katy, who knew quite well that the Hardcastles would be among the mourners returning to the castle after the earl’s funeral, shuddered. In the dramatic flurry that had ended the tea party, she had escaped detection, but what if Oxley and his wife had noticed her? What if they were using the funeral to take another look at the dowager’s companion? Nearly seven years had gone by. Surely no hint of the spirited, overindulged child could be seen in Lady Moretaine’s silent, demure, drably garbed companion—
“I have never told a soul why I left the Dower House,” the countess was saying. “It’s a lovely house, not more than a mile from here, and I shall not begrudge Drucilla use of it, if that is her wish. Poor girl . . . her grief seems more genuine than I expected.”
More like Drucilla’s grief was for her loss of position, Katy thought grimly. For the ignominy of following in her mother-in-law’s footsteps, becoming yet another Dowager Countess of Moretaine. If Drucilla had a son, she could reign here in triumph until his majority. Without a son, she would be expected to vacate Castle Moretaine, leaving it to the use of the new owner. Damon Farr, Earl of Moretaine.
But Serena, her dear countess, was saying something more. Katy gathered her wandering wits and listened with increasingly avid attention.
“At first,” said the dowager, “I thought Drucilla was only flirting, practicing her wiles as young women will. Ashby, dear Ashby, was . . . a quiet man. I fear he was not exciting,” she added judiciously. “Drucilla craved more, always more, and men flocked round her like bees to a nectar-filled flower.” The countess flexed nervous fingers that contrasted sharply with the stark black of her gown. “Ashby was indulgent, perhaps too much so,” Serena sighed. “He had won a Diamond of the First Water and was delighted—dazzled—to see her shining at the apex of the ton.
“And then one day during the Season I paid a call at Moretaine House. A duty call, I must admit, as I had never taken to the girl. She did not value Ashby as she should. Oh, I saw it quite clearly. She was sometimes as sharp with him as she was with everyone else. That is why . . .” The countess’s voice faded, obviously considering if she could have made an error about her daughter-in-law. She shook her head. “No, no, there can be no doubt. I saw what I saw. When I entered Moretaine House that day in London, Lord Redcliffe was coming down the stairs . . . My dear, I know I should not sully your maiden ears with such things, but I need to say this out loud, for I have kept it from Damon, and I know he has never understood my desire to leave the Dower House, even though he was quite splendid about allowing me to move to Farr Park.”
Katy, fascinated, never took her gaze from Lady Moretaine’s face.
“A dashing rake, Redcliffe. Exactly the sort to catch Drucilla’s notice. And”—the countess took a deep breath—“he looked as if he had just tumbled out of bed. Certainly his valet never turned him out in such a rumpled fashion! And Drucilla on the gallery above, en déshabillé. Oh, yes, my dear. Her dressing gown—no more than a thin layer of silk—was wrapped over what I swear to you was nothing at all. The windows are clerestory, and the sun was shining, revealing, I assure you, far more of that witch than I wished to see.
“Well might you be shocked,” the dowager pronounced as Katy’s eyes grew enormous. “That she should take a lover before giving Ashby an heir. Not done, my child. Simply not done. I turned and marched out of there, wrote immediately to Damon for sanctuary, for I could not bear to see my dear Ashby a cuckold.” Serena sniffed, fumbled for the handkerchief in her reticule.
“I suppose you think I should have told him,” the dowager continued presently, “but I could not. It was better to hide myself in the country for ten months of the year than be tempted to break his heart. I hoped that when they had a child, she would be content.”
Katy sat, hands in her lap, head down, obviously unwilling to reveal so much as a hint of what she was thinking.
The dowager was not fooled. Or possibly she merely attributed her own suspicions to Katy. “I know what you’re thinking, clever minx that you are,” the dowager added on a resigned sigh, “though surely no one should be so skeptical at eighteen. But you are right—if there were a child, no one could be certain of its parentage.”
Katy nodded. Access to servants’ gossip had left her with few illusions, including exactly how babies were made. Though how anyone could wish to indulge in such an awkward and surely anatomically impossible feat she could not imagine. She supposed some people would do anything for a baby, but that did not explain the scandal and anguish when others found themselves with babies they did not want. Obviously, there was something she had not yet grasped about the mating of the sexes.
The rumble of carriage wheels sounded upon the drive. Footsteps. Rankin’s voice, subdued but clear, announced the first of their guests. The funeral feast had begun.
“Fox!” Damon grasped the hand of a well-dressed gentleman near his own age, shaking it vigorously. He turned to the slightly shorter man beside him. “Thayne. Good of you come.”
“Barely made it to the church, I fear. Didn’t see the announcement until yesterday,” said Major Arthur Foxbourne, the taller of the two men of decided military bearing.
“Bit like one of Old Hooky’s forced marches, don’t you know,” added Captain Chetwin Thayne. “But we’re old hands at that, so here we are.”
“What good are comrades in arms if they can’t support a man in hi
s time of need?” Major Foxbourne added.
“Though we may fail to ‘my lord’ you now and again,” said Captain Thayne. “Hard to adjust, don’t you know. Our colonel, a lord. Calling you Moretaine don’t come trippingly off the tongue, I can tell you.”
“Nor to mine,” said Damon with a scowl ferocious enough to silence both junior officers.
Ruthlessly repressing his surge of melancholy, the new Earl of Moretaine said to the men who had followed him through long years of war, men he knew far better than his own brother, “You will stay, will you not? Two more in this vast pile will scarcely cast a ripple, and old friends in time of need are not easy to find.”
“Of course,” said Major Foxbourne. “Thayne?”
“We’re both on leave with only our mamas to miss us, alas,” said the captain. “Can’t say as I ever slept in a castle before, though parts of this place remind me of that convent—you recall the one, Farr? Moretaine! The one in Spain?”
“ I remember.” Damon’s grim features lightened for a moment as thoughts of the almost surreal calm of the convent flashed through his mind. He and his officers had basked in it, savored it. It was there he had promised himself to capture that quality in his own life and hold it tight. For a while, an all-too-short while, he thought he had done it. “Rankin,” the new earl called, “find rooms for these gentlemen. They will be staying.”
After seeing that his friends were being properly attended, Damon moved through the crowd of mourners, accepting seemingly endless condolences, attempting to hide a wince every time he was addressed as “my lord,” or “Moretaine.” It wasn’t right. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He didn’t want it. Not the title, not the responsibility, nor this monstrous sprawling castle. He wanted to go home to Farr Park and never see any of his ancestral properties again.
But he put on his best face, speaking with Squire and Mrs. Richardson, proffering cordial nods to their children. He moved on to other familiar faces, to Mr. and Mrs. Swann, who seemed to have left their precocious daughter at home, praise be. And then he plunged into a veritable sea of strangers, grateful to discover Philip Winslow at his side, making introductions, smoothing his way.
Ensuring his place in the new earl’s household?
The vicar and his family popped up before his gaze, like an island in a storm. After proffering his sincere appreciation for Mr. Dearborn’s tasteful service and inspiring eulogy, Damon slipped out the servants’ door and into the plain ill-lit hallway behind. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, breathing hard.
What if they had not come to Castle Moretaine? What if he had not had those last days with Ashby? The precious time to reestablish a bond never truly severed?
And now—among all the unwanted responsibilities of the estate—there was Drucilla. Drucilla, the dowager. Would she accept life in the Dower House? He doubted it. She was a creature of the city. He could only hope Ashby had provided enough for her to live in town. Would she rouse herself from her bed long enough to hear the reading of the Will? Very likely. He was unconvinced the excess of emotion she was experiencing had anything to do with grief.
As Damon slipped back into the immense drawing room, he glanced at the settee on which his mother was holding court, with Katy close beside her. She was holding up well, A true lady, his mama. He was proud of her.
Damon assessed the rest of the room, seeking those to whom he had not yet spoken. His gaze passed a large beefy man of vaguely familiar countenance, moved on. Returned. Why was he staring at his mother and Katy with a mighty frown that twisted his features into the grotesque shape of a gargoyle? He’d met the man somewhere. Titled . . . Oxley, that was it. Baron Oxley. The family had attended the ill-fated tea party. The wife was a friend of Drucilla’s. Ah, yes . . . now it came back. The events of the last few days must have addled his wits. The man was father to Miss Hardcastle, the sharp-eyed female who had looked him over with the avidity of a hawk assessing prey. And some sort of connection to the petite blond who bore such a remarkable resemblance to Katy Snow. The one with the winsome face and knowing eyes. Eyes as green, but far more bold than his Katy’s.
The baron was turning away, moving off toward the inevitable cluster of gentlemen forming in one end of the room, leaving the ladies at the other. Another oddity, that strange look. Damon filed it away for future analysis. There was something going on . . . flitting just outside his grasp. One more item in the host of problems he must confront.
But this one concerned Katy, of that he was nearly certain. Therefore, it was important. The clever little minx had wormed her way into his life, like a barbed hook that refused to budge. Either he lived with her insidious itch or he cut her out. And, for some reason, the latter idea had no appeal at all.
“My dear boy.” An elderly great-aunt tottered up, grasping his hand in both of hers. Damon managed a wan smile while frantically searching his memory for her name. He failed. If only Katy had made a list . . .
Much later, when all the guests had gone home and the house was quiet, the younger dowager countess of Moretaine descended the stairs, supported by two stalwart footmen. She allowed them to settle her black-clad figure into a wingchair in the library. Holding a handkerchief edged in black lace to her nose, she sniffed, rather dramatically Katy thought from her place beside the elder dowager. Drucilla then bowed her head, the very portrait of distraught widowhood.
There were no surprises. Ashby Farr’s Will was as well constructed and formally conservative as his life. His widow’s jointure was generous, as befitted his wealth. Drucilla would be able to live more than comfortably in whatever dwelling she desired, short of the extravagance of the Carlton House set. The bequests to servants and the church also reflected the late earl’s rank, wealth, and fine sense of noblesse oblige.
Joseph Benchley—the late earl’s solicitor, down from London for the occasion—cleared his throat, allowing a moment of silence to emphasize the importance of the next portion of the Will. In lieu of an heir of the earl’s own body, he pronounced in clear and ringing tones, the bulk of the estate—the late earl’s money in the funds, his speculative investments, his cash-on-hand—was left, along with the entailed properties and the family jewels, to his younger brother, Damon Wythorne Farr.
Drucilla shrieked. “The jewels are mine,” she wailed as every eye in the room stared at her in amazement.
“Lady Moretaine,” said Mr. Benchley a trifle sternly, “there may be certain pieces that the earl—the late earl—bought solely for you, but you must be aware that it is customary for family jewels to stay with the title.”
“They are mine!” Drucilla cried. “I will not give them up. Ashby said I should have them. He promised!”
Damon signaled Rankin, who stood just within the doorway. The two footmen appeared almost on the instant. “Your grief does you credit, my lady,” Damon said cooly. “When you are feeling more the thing, we will discuss this matter further.” He nodded, and the two footmen scooped up the countess and led her from the room, her sobs rending the air until Rankin shut the heavy oak door firmly behind her.
Serena Moretaine did not bother to disguise her snort of disgust. Later, in the privacy of her sitting room, she announced to her son, with Katy listening as usual with her ears a-twitch, “If I could give up my magnificent jewels to That Awful Woman, then she can most certainly give them up to the next Lady Moretaine.”
“And that may be when hell freezes over,” Damon growled. “Beg pardon, mama, but this is a day I do not wish to relive. Marriage is the last thing on my mind at the moment.”
“The jewels remain with the estate,” Serena declared fiercely, “whether you are married or no.”
All he wanted was to get away. Meet Fox and Thayne in the library, have Rankin mix punch with rum, brandy, and a myriad spices, talk about old times—anything but the present—and get roaringly foxed. Foxed. An old joke among the three of them. Foxy Foxbourne, foxed again.
Away. Now! Damon didn’t even sneak
a last lingering look at Katy Snow, as he so often did. After the briefest of farewells, he fled.
~ * ~
Chapter Fourteen
“A female who don’t talk,” mused Major Foxbourne, a man noted for his ability to catch ladies’ eyes with his classic good looks, sharp hazel eyes, and sophisticated polish. At the moment he was sprawled in a brown leather wingchair, his booted feet supported by a matching footstool. “Now there’s a phe–phe-nom-e-non worthy of another toast. “Still able to lift an arm, Thayne? Pour me another, dear boy.”
Obligingly, Captain Thayne picked up a bottle from the low table set before the three men in the earl’s library, managing to pour brandy into his friend’s glass with only a few drops spilled. With a long-drawn sigh he settled back into his chair. The captain was more addicted to humor than to brandy, his round face and mischievous blue eyes seemingly untouched by what he had seen and done in the war. “Astonishing,” he murmured. “A woman who can’t tell tales.”
“Writes a fine hand,” Colonel Farr drawled.
Arthur 1Foxbourne clasped his hands around his snifter and gazed hazily into the fire that was nearly burned down because none of the three had felt inspired to abandon either their reminiscences or the brandy bottle long enough to replenish it. “A female secretary . . . ain’t that a contradiction in terms?” he remarked. “No such thing. Daresay she serves well in other ways though, don’t she?”
The somnolent atmosphere in Castle Moretaine’s library suddenly crackled with the intensity of a thunderstorm. The colonel’s strong hands gripped the arms of his chair, his snifter teetering dangerously. He started to get up, thought better of it. The brandy seemed to have turned his legs to blancmange. It had been a long day, a long nasty day. “She serves well as my mother’s companion,” he said coldly. “As she serves me well as my secretary.”
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