Below stairs Katy found even less tolerance, Farr Park’s staff remaining almost universally unbending. No more tea in Mrs. Tyner’s cozy room. No more sage advice from Clover Stiles or flirtatious grins from Jesse Wiggs. Mapes was so formal she might as well have been a visiting duchess. Yet at times he seemed not to see her at all, as if she had simply vanished from his sight. Miss Nobody from Nowhere, unworthy of a proper butler’s attention.
It was very lowering. A good many salty tears were washed from Katy’s pillowcase each week.
And Damon—her glowering demon—was the worst. Each morning in the bookroom, he kept his head down, so studiously avoiding looking at her that Katy longed to whack him over the head with one of the library’s larger volumes. And yet, sneak that he was, there were times when she could feel his gaze boring into her back. But when she peeked, he was always head down, quill poised, quill scribbling, or feathers idly tapping against his mouth. Not looking at Katy Snow. Most carefully not looking at Katy Snow.
It was Miss Snow this and Miss Snow that, with only a rare absent-minded slip into Katy. In short, Damon, like Mapes, was so formal his manners practically squeaked. She’d swear that after the incident with his officers, he had buried lust so deep it might well be in China. And yet she could feel scorching heat in the dark eyes fixed on her back. More likely, she told herself sternly, a manifestation of heat from within herself, a product of the overactive imagination she was trying so hard to repress.
The truth was, she had destroyed Damon’s desire, as well as his trust, in one fell swoop. Or should she say, scream? He wanted nothing more to do with her except her convenience as a secretary. His periodic journeys to Castle Moretaine were almost a relief. Even though he returned each time surly as a bear, the absence of tension for a few days was more than welcome.
She was indeed a liar! So addicted to deception she even lied to herself. For each time Damon was gone, she missed him most dreadfully. Even when a glower emphasized the lines at the corners of his eyes, the slashes from nose to chin—carved by Iberian sun, stinging mountain cold, and watching good men die—she wanted to be near him. To gaze her fill at his dark head bent over his desk, researching, writing, puzzling out what to say next. A man of action struggling to fit himself into the confines of the world of words.
He might be a stiff-rumped, buffleheaded idiot where she was concerned, but she loved him anyway. She had betrayed his trust. He had betrayed hers. Surely that made them even.
If the granddaughter of a wool merchant and the potential heir to an earldom could ever be said to be even.
In mid-November Katy turned nineteen. The day was gray, cold and blustery, presaging a long difficult winter. The dowager did not forget, although her gift of soft bone-colored kid gloves was a mere token compared to her customary effusion of presents. Katy’s eyes filled with tears, however, when Cook made all her favorite foods for dinner that night. Damon, gruff and forbidding, evidently disturbed by the sight of Katy, the watering pot, handed her a guinea, a munificent gift if she had not felt like a servant being handed a vail at the end of a gentleman’s weekend in the country.
Conscience money, that’s what it was.
She nearly thrust it back at him, but remembered in the nick of time that money gave independence. So she curtsied, even as she hoped he could not mistake the fire in her eye. Love him she might, but accept his behavior meekly she could not.
Late that night, just as she was climbing into bed, there was a faint scratching at her door, and Clover slipped into her room. Standing proud and straight, she announced, “I’ve come to offer best wishes for your birthday.” Her lips quivered. “Katy,” she added softly.
A pause . . . and the two girls fell on each other, Clover’s stiffness dissolving in a flood of tears to match Katy’s own.
“It’s cruel we’ve been,” Clover sobbed. “Right cruel. You were a child, a babe on your own without kith or kin. Who was there to tell you how to go on?”
With shuddering breaths and tearful faces, the two old friends built up Katy’s fire and curled up before it for a coze that lasted until pre-dawn tinged the sky with silver.
The only other riffle in the quiet melancholy days at Farr Park was heralded by a message from Mr. Trembley. Katy drove the gig into the village on rutted, almost frozen roads that jarred her teeth and threatened to throw her from her seat until she slowed the old cob to a walk. Why should she be eager to learn what Trembley had to say? She no longer needed the grandparents who had given her up after only a few short weeks. Her situation at Farr Park might still be a bit awkward, but Damon was there, and her dear countess needed her. Nothing else mattered. So she would not leave them. They were, after all, all she had. What could some ephemeral connection to a wool merchant’s family mean to her now?
But somehow the old cob kept picking up the pace, seemingly sensing a barely controlled excitement Katy was unwilling to admit.
Martin Trembley stared at her from across a desk piled with leather folders tied with string and stacks of papers, some high enough to be in imminent danger of tumbling to the floor. The solicitor appeared to be measuring her in a far more penetrating manner than he had when she had made her initial request. “Miss Snow,” he said at last, “in conducting the search you requested, I have encountered far more than I expected . . . even a bit of a mystery.”
Ah! A quiver shook Katy’s stomach. A village solicitor—she had not expected him to be quite so astute.
“I regret to inform you that the person you wished to find is no longer among the living. Matthias Alburton passed on almost a year ago.”
A man she had never met, and yet she felt grief. Now she would never know her maternal grandfather.
“However . . . his wife, Emily Alburton, still lives. There is also a son and grandchildren, all living most comfortably in an area not far from Derby.”
A grandmother? She had a living grandmother?
“There was once a daughter,” Mr. Trembley added. “Belinda Alburton, who married up, as the saying goes. Harold Challenor, son of the Bishop of Hulme, and grandson of the old Duke of Carewe. But Challenor and his wife perished in a sailing accident, leaving a child, a girl barely six months of age. Lucinda. The Alburtons promptly took over care of the child and were just as promptly relieved of the baby by the Bishop and his wife, who declared the child should be raised to a life befitting her father’s station. The Alburtons were heart-broken, but believed they were doing the right thing when they let the babe go.”
“Mr. Trembley . . . I am astonished you have learned so much,” Katy murmured. The dratted man had obviously come to conclusions she had never dreamed of his discovering.
“The tale of the Alburtons’s grandchild is the talk of the entire midlands, and as far south as Peterborough and the Cotswolds,” said the solicitor, leaning forward as if to better gauge her reaction. “For it seems the child went missing shortly after the Bishop died and she was consigned to the guardianship of a Baron Oxley. Whose wife, I am told, is connected in some way to the Challenor family.”
“Surely old news, Mr. Trembley. Of little interest outside the family.” Blast the man! This was the worst, the very worst that could have happened. Why had she been so foolish as to open the path to ancient wounds?
Mr. Trembley could not know she was Lucinda Challenor, Katy reminded herself. She had not asked him to find her grandparents. She had asked only that he find a Matthias Alburton, wool merchant.
“The talk is current,” Mr. Trembley continued, his gaze never leaving Katy’s face, “because Lucinda Challenor has made a miraculous reappearance and been reunited with her family. Lord and Lady Oxley are ecstatic, as are the Alburtons.” The solicitor paused, dropped his gaze to the topmost paper on his desk. He pursed his lips, leaned back in his huge brown leather chair. “The Bishop of Hulme was not a poor man. He provided quite well for his only grandchild, though what has become of the money is a bit of a mystery. I have experts looking into it—”
&n
bsp; “I cannot afford it,” Katy interjected. “Truly, I shall be hard pressed to pay your fee. You have more than done as I asked. You are, in fact, most amazing in your thoroughness. I am infinitely grateful, but—”
Mr. Trembley cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Hear me out, Miss Snow. There is more . . . and I assure you I find this matter intriguing enough that I am pursuing it for my own edification. A village solicitor is not often given a puzzle of this complexity.”
Inwardly, Katy echoed one of Damon’s more colorful oaths. Outwardly, calling on the discipline of her years of silence, she appeared perfectly calm. Clasping her hands in her lap, she prepared to listen. What else had she been doing since the age of twelve? She had a talent for listening.
“Matthias Alburton and his wife never gave up hope their grandchild was alive,” said Mr. Trembley. “Alburton was so convinced of it, he left the missing child a sum of sixty thousand pounds.”
Katy gasped.
“Well might you be surprised if you thought Alburton an ordinary tradesman. The bulk of his estate, of course, went to his son, who is a very wealthy man indeed. And powerful. The family expanded from wool to weaving to owning mills throughout the midlands. Sixty thousand pounds was an easily affordable token thrown out to lure a missing child.”
“Which it did,” Katy breathed.
“Which it did,” Trembley agreed.
Dear God! She was an heiress.
Lucinda Challenor was an heiress. And the alleged Lucinda Challenor was currently residing at Oxley Hall. When not ogling Colonel Damon Farr. For he had told his mother that the Hardcastle family were regular visitors to Castle Moretaine, supporting the bereaved and increasing widow in her hour of need.
“My investigator reports that Miss Challenor bears a remarkable resemblance to you, Miss Snow.”
He knew! Or suspected. Dear Lord, who could have expected to find a shark swimming in the shallow stream of the village of High Henton. But he was her solicitor, was he not? Pledged to silence. Unless Mr. Trembley had considered how much blunt a few well-chosen words might produce from the baron . . . or from the Alburtons.
How much would they offer for news of the long-lost heiress? How much to lose her forever?
Katy fumbled to open her reticule. She summoned a smile, even though her jaws ached with the effort. “You have exceeded my expectations, Mr. Trembley.” Most horribly. “Pray tell me what is needed to settle your fee.”
He named a sum she suspected would not cover his investigator’s time for more than a few days, with nothing left over for himself. Solemnly, Katy counted out the coins. Through a narrowed mouth and a throat that threatened to swell shut, she thanked Mr. Martin Trembley and left, head high. But not before accepting the paper he held out to her, on which was written in flowing script the names and direction of the Alburton family. Her grandmother, her uncle, and her cousins.
Caught on the horns of a dilemma, that was the right phrase for her situation. Or teetering on the brink. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t. Any one of the old expressions would do.
She feared the Hardcastles. She must stay hidden.
Yet she could not allow an imposter to fool the Alburtons. Or seize the fortune her grandfather Alburton had left her. Although it would appear the Hardcastles had already helped themselves to the funds left her by her grandfather Challenor.
She could not even be certain of Mr. Trembley’s support. This was not a situation a girl of nineteen, with no legal rights, could handle alone. She had no choice—she would have to confess all to Damon and pray that he would protect her. But how? He, too, had no legal rights where she was concerned. He was not her guardian. Any efforts on her behalf would embroil him in an arcane plot created by the relatives of a foundling to whom he had given shelter, just when he was suffering from grief for his brother, attempting to deal with his mother’s melancholy, and handle the far-flung affairs of the Moretaine estate.
Katy allowed the cob to meander at its own pace along the road back to Farr Park. If she had any sense, she would keep going. Straight out of the lives of everyone who knew her.
Which, of course, she would not. She would not leave those who had given her shelter, given her love, just when they truly needed her. Never!
So she could not tell a soul. And could only pray Mr. Trembley was an honest man.
But when she arrived home, she found a fresh wind sweeping through the Park. The dowager raised a wan face to hers and declared, “Damon wishes us to remove to Bath after the holidays. He thinks I should take the waters.”
Bath! A marvelous notion. Exactly what the countess needed to coax her back to life.
And yet . . . Katy shivered. Bath was only a short distance west of Farr Park and not far south of Castle Moretaine. And Oxley Hall. With Damon as the lure, the Hardcastles would not be far behind, increasing the many languid visitors to the Pump Room by four.
And spelling disaster for Katy Snow.
~ * ~
Chapter Twenty-one
Would Wellington applaud his compromise? Damon wondered. Or damn him for a buffleheaded idiot?
Bath. Instead of sending Katy Snow packing, he was sending her to Bath.
And his mother, so fixed in her melancholy that he had not thought to be able to budge her, had welcomed the scheme with surprising alacrity. Suspicious alacrity. Now why . . . ? Was she grasping at her plan to find Katy a husband to distract her from her grief? Surely, without being able to vouch for the chit’s character, the dowager had long since abandoned that notion . . .
Unless . . . Hell’s hounds! Unless she was seizing the opportunity to part him from his secretary. Unless his mama actually thought he would be fool enough to . . .
If she had heard the truth of what happened in the woods at Castle Moretaine, she could easily suspect the worst. Or if she had intercepted one of his glances at Katy—perhaps an unguarded moment when the shutters had lifted, revealing the naked truth . . . Ah, yes, his mama could easily suspect her once-cherished foundling was in danger. Even with Katy no longer the darling of her heart, the dowager would feel responsible, obligated to whisk her companion out from under his constant presence.
Or had his mother’s speculations gone beyond fear of Katy’s ruin? Did she actually think he would stoop to a nameless waif for a bride? Marry a conniving little sneak? Was she mad?
Or did the countess fear he would never marry as long as Katy Snow flitted before him, pulsing with youthful beauty, vivacity, and intelligence? Even the sound of her playing the pianoforte could send his wits to grass, whether he was in the room with her or hearing the notes drifting in from the music room.
Truth was . . . his mother very likely had the right of it. Katy Snow was close to becoming an obsession. When he visited Castle Moretaine, Miss Hardcastle, Miss Challenor, and Lady Oxley inevitably arrived hard after. He forgave the young ladies their flirtatious manner, their simpering, fan-tossing, and forced giggles in a house of mourning, for they were young and not well acquainted with the late earl. But find them enticing, he could not. In an heroic effort to be gracious, he had even returned their flirtation in a half-hearted manner, yet experienced not an iota of stirring in head, heart, or loins.
The same could not be said for the time spent with Katy Snow. If he did not send her away, he was going to drag her down to the bookroom carpet and . . .
A swish of skirts, a deep indrawn breath. Damon looked up into twin pools of green fire. “Is it true?” Katy demanded. “You are not accompanying your mama to Bath?”
Damon leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms. Swallowed. If it were possible for Katy Snow to look any more delectable, he could not imagine it. The chit fairly quivered with outrage, cheeks flushed, even her tumbled blond curls seemingly aquiver. He knew her to be a scheming little baggage, yet he could scarce keep his hands off her. His fingers tingled, longing to free themselves from where he had tucked them. “I will, of course, escort the countess and her party to Bath,” he responded cooll
y.
“But you will not stay?”
“I will then go on to Moretaine.”
“Pray cease the roundaboutation, colonel. Will you, or will you not, be joining us in Bath?”
“By what right do you ask, Miss Snow?” Damon inquired silkily.
She huffed a long breath, then quite deliberately crossed her arms in imitation of his own. “By right of caring about your mama,” she retorted, enunciating each syllable with awful clarity.
He raised a dark brow, looked down his strong, aquiline nose. “And you think I do not?”
“I am shocked you could abandon her in her hour of need.”
“May I point out we are past mid-January, with more snow on the ground than the night that gave you your name. My brother has been gone for nearly four months. With the exception of my visits to Moretaine, I have been close by for all that time, and it has made very little difference that I can—”
“It has made every difference! Your mama adores you.”
“Hound’s teeth! He abandoned his crossed-arms pose to wave a commanding hand at Katy’s customary chair. Sit down, and let us discuss this in a civilized manner.” After his all-too-bewitching secretary was seated, Damon continued, “Now let us face the facts of the matter. We are both aware my mother has fallen into a melancholy and is in sad need of distraction. In Bath she may take the waters and talk to old friends. She may go shopping, take a drive in the country. When the weather improves, there are some splendid parks to be explored. All without any hint of disrespect for her period of mourning.”
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