The Unscrupulous Uncle (12 page)

Sidney relaxed. “Of course. But how selfish to leave Mama and the girls in the lurch. This must have been sudden.”

“Not particularly,” she hedged. “Did Uncle Henry forget to inform you of my plans?”

For an instant, Sidney’s face revealed terror, and she wondered what he had been up to. Had he been off on some secret adventure that he wished to keep from his parents? But his expression quickly reverted to normal. “The housekeeper’s wedding was hardly worthy of notice.” He shrugged. “I expect he rejoiced at not having to pay your keep in the future.”

“Perhaps.”

Louisa bustled out of the shop. “I believe that is everything, Catherine. It is more than time we returned home.” She spotted Sidney and frowned.

“Louisa, this is my cousin, Mr. Braxton. Sidney, my husband’s cousin, Mrs. Collingsworth.”

They exchanged frosty greetings, and Louisa hurried Catherine into their waiting carriage.

“Your cousin? That is unfortunate. Many look him askance and some will not receive him,” she warned once they were under way.

“I am not surprised, for I have spent the last eight years living with his family. Is it merely his vulgar manners or has he done something to draw censure? We had heard of nothing.”

“His manner is unpleasant, though I would not describe it as vulgar. But his friends are not gentlemen.”

“Would you be more specific?”

“There are hints of violence against those who cross them. And their habits pass beyond acceptable bounds.” She blushed. “You would do well to avoid him, relative though he is. Damon would not wish your reputation to suffer from the association.”

“No,” agreed Catherine, wondering if Damon knew the details that Louisa was too delicate to describe. She did not wish his reputation to suffer from the connection, either.

In his youth, Sidney had been a problem whenever he visited Ridgway House. Damon and Peter usually welcomed Catherine’s company but refused to include the whining, sniveling boy in their activities. Though Sidney disliked all three, his hatred fell hardest on Catherine, in part because she could ride harder, jump higher, fish better, and climb trees faster than he despite being hampered by her skirts. And she was smarter. The high point of Sidney’s life had been the day she dwindled to being his poor relation and servant.

 * * * *

Catherine never found a good time to discuss Sidney with Damon. As usual, he was gone all day, returning only for dinner before shutting himself in the library. She could hardly talk about her cousin in front of the servants, who still considered her an interloper. When she had asked Damon what he spent so much time on, he claimed he was dealing with her uncle. The short, sharp retort precluded further conversation. And so she was left to wonder why he had married her. The question had grown in the week since their wedding until it dominated her mind.

 * * * *

Heart pounding in fear, Catherine bolted to the floor. What had awakened her? No one was in the room. Deciding that it had been a dream, she was returning to bed when the sound came again – an agonized shout.

She pulled on a dressing gown and hesitantly approached the communicating door leading to Damon’s room. It had not been opened since their marriage and she hated to break the implied taboo, but she could hear groans from the other side. Taking her courage in her hands, she entered her husband’s bedchamber. Damon thrashed about in his bed, murmuring indistinguishable words that occasionally rose to incoherent shouting.

She stretched her hand to awaken him, but froze as disturbing sensations tumbled down her spine. He was unclothed – at least the portion that she could see. Tawny hair covered a muscular chest and equally muscular leg and arm. He twisted, the motion pulling the bedclothes to his trim waist. The mat of chest hair tapered to a single line, tantalizing her eyes and drawing them lower until she felt an overpowering urge to slide the sheet aside. Licking suddenly dry lips, she shivered – and not with cold. He had changed since she had last seen him without a shirt. No longer a young man who exhibited the promise of strength, now he radiated power. Again she shivered, remembering his strength and gentleness the summer he had taught her how to swim.

He groaned, reminding her why she was here.

“Damon!” she called loudly, grabbing his arm to shake it. She had to repeat the call twice before he finally opened his eyes.

“Little Cat?” he murmured weakly. “What happened?”

“You were dreaming.”

He forced his fingers through his tangled hair and sighed. “Forgive me for waking you.”

“Does this happen often?” She sank into a chair near his bed and pulled her dressing gown tighter against the chill air.

“Not as much as it used to.” Her concern must have shown, for he managed a weary smile and patted her hand. “Don’t look so horrified, Cat. War leaves scars that take time to fade.”

“It was not the glorious adventure you expected when you bought colors, was it?” she said softly.

He shuddered, though she could see the effort he exerted to control it. “Not even close. So many friends lost.”

She squeezed his hand, which unaccountably remained in her own. “Would it help to talk about it?”

“I doubt it.”

“Are you sure? There were times – like when Charlie died – that discussion eased my sorrow. You should know. You were the only one who took the time to listen.”

“Ah, Charlie. He was the best of dogs, wasn’t he, Cat? But I cannot burden you with such horror. Waterloo. Badajoz. So much blood.” His face turned blank as he slipped back into memory. “And that sack! How did we lose control so badly? My God! The waste of it all. I lost a close friend at Toulouse. Was there ever a more useless battle? Napoleon had abdicated two days before.” He shivered, blushing as he noted the position of the bedcovers and quickly replaced them. His embarrassment surprised her, sending warmth into her own cheeks.

“Didn’t the same thing happen at New Orleans?” she murmured.

“True, though I wasn’t there. That one missed by over a fortnight. We must find some faster way to transmit news. Such carnage is unacceptable.” He sighed.

“Is that what keeps you from your rest? The waste?” she asked.

“Not really, or at least not entirely. I don’t know what it is. Perhaps if I can figure that out, the nightmares will fade. But there is no point discussing it now. Good night, Catherine. You will freeze if you do not go back to bed.”

The curt dismissal hurt, but she was wise enough to understand that he had disclosed too much. Damon had always been self-sufficient – except with Peter. She bade him good night and left.

Yet sleep eluded her. She had never before seen Damon unable to cope. All her life, he had been godlike – knowledgeable, capable, and efficient, accomplishing his goals with little fuss. She had, as usual, expected him to sweep away all her problems and restore her to a life of peace and happiness. The realization hit hard. She had been merely existing for eight years, knowing in the back of her mind that eventually Damon would come home to rescue her from her menial life and return her to her rightful place in the world. Even these last days had passed in limbo as she waited for him to finish his business and forge her a dazzling place in society as his wife.

How childish! Her fists clenched. She had wasted too many years waiting for someone else to make her happy. Ultimately, the responsibility was her own. She must carve a place for herself in the world and take control of her own destiny, starting with the callers that would arrive in the morning. She would prove herself worthy of London society. And perhaps there was something she could do for Damon. It would be a novel experience to resolve one of
his
problems.

Chapter Eight

“Bloody sharp!” swore Sidney Braxton, adding several more-colorful expletives as his fists clenched.

A ball of paper bounced off the grate and landed on the hearth, where it slowly unfurled. Why had Skinner demanded repayment of his loan? It was not in arrears, and the moneylender must know he could not lay hands on any cash until next quarter day. He was already living on tick.

His mood worsened when he picked up the morning
Post
to discover that Catherine had married the Earl of Devlin. His mother’s last letter had raved about the earl’s attachment to Hortense and their expected announcement. A well-breached brother-in-law would have been perfect, but Catherine must have interfered. How had she cut out his sister? She was an impoverished ape-leader with one of the sharpest tongues he had ever encountered. But the connection might still do.

An hour later Sidney’s determination hardened when a note arrived from his solicitor.
Due to unexpected financial reverses, your quarterly allowance has been canceled.
He again swore. That explained Skinner’s demand. How did those plagued cent-per-cents know of losses even before the principals?

“Good! You are wearing the sprig muslin,” Louisa exclaimed from the breakfast room doorway. “But your hair will never do.” Allowing no protest, she summoned her own maid from the hall and swept Catherine up to her room.

“This is ridiculous,” Catherine muttered as Angelique attacked her head.

“Not at all,” countered Louisa. “Appearance is everything. If you look like a dowd, your credit will suffer.”

“Patience, Louisa. Brigit lacks experience, but she is intelligent and talented. Tucker is teaching her about fabric care, she is learning about fashion as quickly as I am, and she has been experimenting with hair. In another month she will do as well as your own maid.”

“You haven’t got a month,” stated Louisa brutally, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You have two hours. Hire a hairdresser to teach her. I cannot risk my own reputation by sponsoring someone who will embarrass me. And I cannot believe you want to hurt Damon. If you wish, I can make arrangements for immediate instruction.”

“All right. And thank you.” She cringed at the notion that her mistakes would reflect badly on Damon, though she knew it was true. One of the lessons hammered home during her school days was the importance of appearance. First impressions were difficult to change. Already the day loomed as a terrifying challenge.

“Is your cook prepared for callers?” asked Louisa when Cat’s hair was nearly finished. “There will be dozens.”

Would her marriage really cause such an uproar? But she did not argue again. Normally she was too insignificant to elicit a second thought from society’s denizens, but that very characteristic worked against her now that she had married a wealthy earl. It was the first time she had considered Damon in that light, and she found the label oddly intimidating.

“Damon told Simms last night,” she reported. She had wondered at the time why he had bothered.

“Good. He will have everything in order then.”

Dear Lord, she was unprepared for society. How could she hope to avoid censure? “A school friend is calling soon,” she said, praying that she had not committed some dreadful solecism by issuing the invitation.

“Who?”

“Lady Peverell, wife of Sir Isaac. We attended Miss Grimsby’s Academy for Young Ladies together.”

Louisa nodded. “An unexceptionable lady. And I am delighted that you attended so prestigious a school. I believe Lady Ingleside and Lady Sommersby were also graduates of Miss Grimsby’s.”

Catherine frowned. “Lady Ingleside was born Sarah Havenworth, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, her father was Viscount Havenworth of Kensington, heir to the Earl of Marwood.”

“She was two years ahead of me. I cannot place Lady Sommersby. Perhaps she married since my father died. I lost track of society after that.”

“She was formerly Lady Elizabeth Drakeford, second daughter of the Marquess of Crossbridge – his principal seat is Renfrew Castle in Nottinghamshire, but he owns at least a dozen other estates. Her mother was his second wife, youngest daughter of the Earl of Crewes. Lady Elizabeth wed Lord Sommersby in July of 1810 in spite of her parents’ ambivalence to the match. He is merely a viscount with only one estate, though it is lucrative enough. There were rumors about bad blood between the families, but no specifics. Speculation over the wedding did not cease until their daughter was born ten months later.”

“Beth Drakeford.” Catherine choked back a laugh. It sounded as though Louisa had memorized Debrett’s. “She was always determined to get her own way – and often in trouble because of it. Again, I did not know her well, for she was two years younger than I, but we usually got along.”

“Excellent. Angelique will speak to Monsieur Henri about training Brigit. He is an outstanding
coiffeur.
I do not expect him to take her in hand himself, of course, but I am sure he can recommend someone. I will return before the first callers arrive. At least if you attended Miss Grimsby’s, I needn’t fret over your training.” Without waiting for a response, she whisked her maid out of the room. Catherine stared at the mirror. Her glossy black hair had been twisted into a knot atop her head, from which curls escaped to frame her face. For the first time in years she looked fashionable. Smiling, she sought out the butler to issue instructions for refreshments.

 * * * *

“You look marvelous,” exclaimed Edith a few minutes later. “Of course, you always were the prettiest girl in our class.”

“Hardly. You cannot have forgot Serena.”

“Her cutting tongue destroys her beauty the moment she opens her mouth. She would still be a spinster if her parents had not arranged a marriage. I heard she did not exchange a single word with him until after the settlements were signed. But tell me what happened. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I heard you were the Countess of Devlin. Not that you won’t make him the perfect wife – I always hoped you would wed him, to be honest; you seem so well suited, but he was in town until recently with nary a hint of his plans.”

“It was rather sudden,” admitted Catherine. “Though we have been friends forever, I had always considered him a brother.”

“Your brother’s best friend,” agreed Edith.

“And a neighbor and part of our family.”