Lady Silence (13 page)

As Archer answered a soft scratching at the
door, Katy discovered her saddened heart could still leap at the
thought of who was likely to be standing in the hall.

Damon.

The countess, who was lain back on the
chaise, sat up with a jerk. “Have you seen the doctor?” she
cried.

Glumly, the colonel nodded. “He confirms what
Ashby told us. Each time he has had one of his bouts of illness,
his lungs have grown weaker. He had been warned not to go to
Scotland this year. He went anyway. Not something I would have
expected our sensible Ashby to do,” he added softly, “but there it
is. The doctor is not sanguine. He holds little hope.”

Lady Moretaine sucked in a deep breath,
swallowed a sob.

“
I told Ashby I am an incompetent in
governing my own lands, that I can understand Spanish better than I
shall understand his steward—I was hoping to see him smile, but it
seems to please him to attempt to stuff my head with all manner of
things I never wished to know.”

Abruptly, Damon sat in the chair Katy had
vacated when she ran to the countess’s aid. He plunged his head
into his hands. “My apologies, mama,” he muttered. “I fear my
unflappable military façade is crumbling in a most unseemly
manner.”

“
Shall we leave you, my lady?” Archer
asked.

“
No, oh, no!” Vehemently, the countess
shook her head. Katy squeezed her hand, holding on tight, willing
her own youthful strength to the older women’s support.

Silence descended on bowed heads and inner
anguish. Even Archer’s customarily busy fingers were still. Wind
rattled a shutter. In concert with their feelings, the already gray
day grew darker, casting the sitting room further into
melancholy.

“
An odd thing,” Damon said at last.
“Ashby refuses to allow the doctor to speak frankly with Drucilla.
Says he doesn’t wish to see her plunged into gloom.”

“
Fustian! She must be prepared,”
declared the dowager, showing a spark of her customary
spirit.

“
And so I told him, but he was adamant.
It is a masquerade I cannot like,” Damon added. “I am a soldier. I
am accustomed to fight battles head to head, with no need to hide
behind a false front.”

Katy’s fingers jerked against the dowager’s
hand. Warily, she looked from mother to son and back again.

“
Indeed,” the dowager agreed. “I cannot
imagine involving myself in such a deception. I wonder that Ashby
could expect it. Surely you can persuade him—”

“
I have already tried. He claims he
wishes only to protect her.”

“
Protect her! More like, she will
suffer twice as much when he is gone.”

Damon shook his head. “Deception is anathema.
Only Ashby’s illness could have caused him to sink to such an
aberration.”

Katy Snow sat, staring blindly at the
carpet.
Masquerade. Deception.
Anathema.
She was trapped, with no way out. She must
remain the mute Katy Snow . . . or lose her loving Farr Park
family. Yet without the truth, she had no chance of ever being more
than a servant—or, at best, a fleeting lover—to Colonel Damon Farr.
A moot point, because at her revelation he would turn on her as
viciously as all the others.
Katy Snow,
Deceiver. Liar. Lowest of the Low.

Outside, the gloomy day turned to a rain that
pounded against the panes, augmenting the anguish within.

He was more than
splendid—he quite took her breath away
. Katy,
following behind the dowager countess, came to abrupt halt in the
doorway to the Yellow Antechamber, where they were to gather before
dinner. She stared, mouth agape. Uniforms of any kind were rare in
the vicinity of Farr Park, even in time of war. But a cavalry
officer in full dress? If she had not already adored Damon Farr,
this would have been the moment of her fall.

Donning his uniform seemed to have added
inches to the colonel’s height. If he were wearing his shako, he
would have towered over them like some ancient god. Katy snapped
her mouth closed so hard her teeth cracked together. She feasted
her eyes, watching the colonel greet his hostess and his mother
before shaking hands with the earl’s secretary, Philip Winslow.

Blue jacket with orange facings. Pointed
cuffs. An intricate lacing of gold braid and gold buttons, pristine
white breeches tucked into shining black boots. An orange sash . .
. but no saber. Oddly disappointed not to see her hero in the full
regalia of a wartime warrior, Katy peered more closely at his long,
lean thighs, hoping her eyes had been playing tricks on her. Hoping
no one was noticing the direction of her eyes. Hoping, quite
desperately, she was not blushing. Alas, it was quite true. The
colonel wore a diagonal sash across his chest, matching the one
about his waist, but no scabbard dangled from the end of it.
Colonel Damon Farr had not come armed to his sister-in-law’s
table.

But everything else was part and parcel of
her heroic fantasies. Damon, dark and saturnine, leading his
troopers as they charged across battlefield after battlefield,
forever changing the boy she had worshipped since the day he had
granted her a home. A man for whom the glory of war had worn away,
leaving the hardened campaigner, somber . . . disillusioned . .
.

And even more appealing in his hurt and
vulnerability.

Katy closed her eyes, took a deep
breath, then found her way to a seat in the corner, where it soon
became evident that she was not the only female impressed by the
colonel’s finery. Katy had had little opportunity to observe a
Diamond of the First Water fulfilling the role expected of her.
Fascinated, if appalled, she watched as Drucilla, toast of
the
ton
in her come-out year
of 1811, demonstrated why she was still an outstanding gem in
society more than four years later. Katy glowered. It seemed The
Dreadful Drucilla could be shockingly charming when she wished, and
with Colonel Damon Farr she obviously so wished. The foolish man
was lapping up the admiration quite as if he did not have the
constant adulation of the females in his own household.
Miserable wretch!

The dinner that followed was, as
expected, strained, with the younger Lady Moretaine addressing the
elder only to the length demanded by good manners, with nothing
more than an occasional sniff of disdain hurled in Katy’s
direction. Between such dainty bites as indicated Drucilla could
live on air alone, she regaled Colonel Farr with all the
on dits
he simply must know before
rejoining society. To his mild protest that he had no interest in
the
ton
, his sister-in-law
responded with a tinkling laugh. Silly boy, of course he must take
his place in society. Such a loss to the match-making mamas if he
did not.

Drucilla fluttered her lashes. The colonel
actually smiled. Philip Winslow kept his head down, his grip on his
fork suspiciously like a man who was considering using it as a
weapon.

Katy nearly bit through a chicken bone.

“
We must have a dinner party,” Drucilla
announced, looking remarkably pleased with herself. “There are one
or two families in the vicinity with girls the right
age.”

“
My son is not well enough for
company,” the dowager declared, thoroughly shocked.

“
I assure you, my lady, the neighbors
are quite accustomed to Moretaine’s illnesses. It will not be our
first dinner party without his presence.”

“
But surely not this—”

“
You are very kind, sister,” Damon
interjected firmly, “but I have no interest in marriage. I would
not wish to raise any expectations.”

“
Nonsense! It must be apparent that
Ashby and I are childless.” For a moment the young countess
actually appeared to be suffering from a genuine emotion. “Someone
must ensure the title.”

The colonel, looking pale, downed the
remainder of his wine in one gulp.

“
Perhaps afternoon tea,” the dowager
suggested, for as much as she was determined to dislike any
suggestion made by her daughter-in-law, Damon must indeed marry and
produce an heir. If she had not already recognized the futility of
her quixotic notion that Katy might do for him, she must give it up
now. The future Earl of Moretaine could not marry a mysterious waif
of no name, no family, no fortune. Therefore, as difficult as
circumstances were, any opportunity for Damon to meet females of
his own class must be encouraged.

Drucilla considered the dowager’s suggestion,
finally nodding her acceptance. “Very well, afternoon tea. Three
days hence. That is sufficient notice, I should think. The
Richardsons and the Hardcastles have daughters. And I believe I
heard something about another girl . . . some long-lost cousin or
other, who has recently returned to the family. Splendid. You shall
have three young ladies paraded before you, colonel.”

“
That is . . . most thoughtful,” said
the dowager through clenched teeth. “Thank you.” To be beholden to
The Dreadful Drucilla was the outside of enough. Positively
mortifying, but the opportunity was quite too good to be missed.
The boy would have to marry, whether he liked it or not. The next
heir in line was a London dilettante unworthy of the name
Moretaine.

She must say something more, the dowager
realized. Good manners demanded it. “Katy, is it not delightful?”
she exclaimed. “You will have the opportunity to meet others your
age.”

The elder Lady Moretaine did not see
Drucilla’s lip curl or even hear her snort of disgust, for she was
staring at Katy Snow who seemed frozen in her place, fork poised
half way to her mouth, skin the color of parchment, eyes wide and
unseeing. “Katy. Katy, my dear, what is wrong? Are you ill?
Katy!”

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.

~ * ~

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.