“Master Damon!” exclaimed the butler when the earl appeared at the door, but he rapidly recovered his poise. “Or Lord Devlin, I should say.”
“You’ve not changed a bit, Wiggins,” said Damon with a smile. “Is Catherine at home?”
If anything, Wiggins became even stiffer. “I believe Lady Braxton is in the drawing room. I will see if she is receiving.”
Damon frowned at Wiggins’s retreating back. Times had certainly changed since the days when he had run tame here, rarely even bothering to knock. Had Catherine suffered a disfiguring injury that forced her to break off her betrothal? That might explain why she was never seen in company. But he immediately chastised himself for a lurid imagination. This was not like him; Peter was the one with his head in the clouds. Besides, Wendell would have heard of any accident.
“This way, my lord,” said Wiggins.
Some things were the same, observed Damon, following the butler across the great hall. The paneling glowed with care – though with the perfectionist Wiggins in charge, that was hardly surprising. The drawing room was exactly as before, the French furniture Peter’s mother had installed gracing a room designed by Adam. It had always been one of his favorite places, so soothing that one could not help but relax. The walls were covered with ice-green brocade above ivory wainscoting. The Axminster carpet repeated the design of the ornate stucco ceiling just as the chairs bore the same brocade as the walls. Rose velvet draperies festooned the windows. The one oddity was the pianoforte, which had unaccountably migrated from the music room. Only as he turned to greet his hostess did he note that the upholstery was frayed. A sharper look revealed a poorly mended hole in the carpet, sun damage to both draperies and wallcoverings, and the absence of two Chinese vases that had always sat on the mantel.
The new Lady Braxton was in her early forties, her faded blonde hair showing only a slight infringement of gray. Brown eyes were her most notable feature. A beribboned morning gown sported more ruffles than he had seen on the fussiest creation in London, yet did nothing to hide the lady’s overindulgence in sweetmeats and lack of all but the most innocuous exercise.
“I vow this is the greatest surprise!” she twittered, waving a pudgy hand in welcome. “We had not heard of your return, my lord. And to call on us the very first thing! But I suppose you have been told how charming my daughters are and had to see for yourself if the tales were true.”
“Actually—” he began, but she continued without pause.
“They will be down directly. I doubt you will encounter their like in London, at least not this Season. We will be there ourselves next year.”
“I will be charmed to meet them,” he replied, having already taken the woman’s measure. She might as well emblazon
mushroom
across her forehead. Peter had rarely mentioned his aunt, dismissing her as the family black sheep. She had never accompanied her husband when he visited Ridgway, and now he knew why. “But I also wish to speak with Miss Catherine. Peter would want me to answer any questions she might have about his final days.”
“She has long since forgot his death,” announced Lady Braxton airily. “There is no point in reminding her. I won’t tolerate another day of blue-devils. In any case, she is out. But here are my daughters. May I present Hortense and Drucilla? Girls, this is our neighbor, the Earl of Devlin.”
Damon greeted them politely, but inwardly he winced. Nothing about the elder appeared feminine. She was tall and thin, with a figure much like a mast and a face more closely resembling that of a horse, a forelock of brown hair nearly obscuring her dull brown eyes.
“I’m simply thrilled to meet you!” she simpered, batting her lashes so rapidly that they disappeared in a blur of movement. Latching long, pointed nails onto his sleeve, she leaned closer until he had to step backward to avoid contact.
He automatically responded to her words, unfastening her hand and briefly saluting her fingers before turning away with a suppressed shudder. Her gown was covered with even more ornamentation than her mother’s.
But Drucilla offered an equally painful sight. The younger Miss Braxton was short, inheriting her mother’s penchant for stoutness as well as her blonde hair. She also reminded observers of the animal kingdom, the round face, bucktoothed smile, short nose, and receding chin giving her a marked resemblance to a rabbit. Another fussily adorned gown emphasized her plump figure, its scandalous bodice threatening to spill its contents into full view.
“I daresay you are thrilled to be home at last,” she managed between giggles, thwacking his arm with her fan.
“Come sit by the fire,” urged Hortense, giving him no opportunity to reply. She practically dragged him across the room as Wiggins appeared with a tea tray.
“Yes, do,” echoed Drucilla, neatly slipping onto the couch at his side so that her sister dropped into her lap. Hortense’s squeak of furious surprise nearly sent Damon into paroxysms of laughter.
“Wine, my lord?” asked Lady Braxton.
By the time he was gingerly sampling an indifferent sherry, Hortense had regained her composure and removed herself to a chair. “Is Lord Braxton available? There is some business we must discuss.” Both girls immediately straightened. “I wish to learn more about this mysterious malady that has overtaken our dairy herds,” he added.
Four shoulders slumped in dejection, and Lady Braxton glared. “I will tell him you called when he returns from Taunton. You will visit again, I presume?”
He would have preferred to meet the baron elsewhere, but he still needed to speak to Catherine, so he nodded.
“Have you just returned from France?” asked Drucilla, finishing the question with another giggle. “Tales of your heroic adventures have thrilled us for years.”
“I have been back for some time,” he said resignedly. “But business has kept me busy elsewhere, most recently in London.”
“You must tell us the latest
on-dits!”
exclaimed Hortense, leaning closer in her excitement. She shifted her shoulders so that her low-cut neckline gaped. There was little to see.
Damon complied. It was as good a way as any to pass the time until he could leave. The Braxtons were appalling. At any moment he expected one or both of the girls to tear his clothes off in an attempt to get closer. His nearside arm was already bruised from Drucilla’s fan, which accompanied every one of her incessant giggles. Hortense had managed to scoot her chair closer until he could almost feel the breeze stirred up by her lashes. Lady Braxton beamed on the girls as if they were diamonds of the first water, approved by every patroness at Almack’s. But given her own lack of taste, he was not surprised.
He finally made his escape, but the hope of exchanging a private word with Wiggins was foiled when the girls insisted on accompanying him outside, gushing ignorant praise of his curricle – which they thought was a phaeton – and of his horses. How much would Catherine have changed after living for eight years with such brazen people? Peter’s eyes again castigated him.
* * * *
Catherine had hardly reached the top of the stairs when Drucilla pounced on her.
“You must help me refurbish this gown,” she ordered breathlessly. “He will return tomorrow and I must be ready. Oh, I just know he has fallen in love with me! He leaned quite close and his leg brushed mine three times.”
“Who?” asked Catherine, but Hortense’s strident voice drowned out her sister’s response.
“Ignore her, Cat. She is air dreaming again. You must add braiding to this pelisse. He will certainly invite me for a walk in the garden, for he could hardly take his eyes off me. I could feel him mentally undressing me as we spoke. It was horridly disconcerting, but one must face facts. He was interested only in me, despite her unbecoming attempt to throw herself into his arms. He was not deceived for a moment.”
“Unbecoming! Who was it who practically tore her gown off trying to thrust a nonexistent bosom in his face?”
“Ha! All he could possibly feel for you was pity that so fat a child will be condemned to eternal spinsterhood.”
“What is going on?” demanded Catherine, raising her voice above the clamor.
Both sisters broke into excited chatter, from which tangle she eventually deduced that the Earl of Devlin had called two hours earlier. She hardly noticed when the explanations degenerated into another brangle over which of the girls his lordship preferred.
Damon was home.
Her thoughts swirled, unable to move beyond that fact for some time. Memories of her second brother washed over her. Damon had always looked after her, providing help, advice, and companionship. Peter had been an exciting playmate, but he was also a dreamer who was unreliable in a crisis, so it was Damon who repaired her doll when its head broke off, Damon who picked her up and comforted her after her pony threw her against a tree, Damon who had consoled her the day her favorite dog was found dead in the meadow, and Damon who banished her fears about going away to school.
And yet he had failed her when it mattered most. Anger stirred. He had sent not one word after Peter’s death. She still had no idea how her brother had died. She assumed it was at Vimeiro since that was the date on his tombstone, but even that remained unconfirmed. Nor had he sent a word after their parents’ deaths. At first, she had excused his silence, knowing the depth of his own grief. But as the weeks and months passed, she could no longer accept that explanation. All her life they had considered each other’s parents as their own. She had grieved as much for Lord and Lady Devlin as for her own family. Yet Damon had said nothing, not even in response to the condolences she had sent. Had he decided to repudiate his childhood? Was his grief so all-consuming that he could spare no thought for her?
She almost wished she could tell him how badly his indifference had hurt. But she was afraid to talk about it. That could only reopen the wounds and resurrect her pain. Not that she need consider such an eventuality. She would not see him, even if he called again. Poor relations were not welcome in the drawing room.
Setting her face into a soothing expression, she turned her attention to calming her cousins’ dispute, using the expertise of years to prevent it from turning into a brawl.
Chapter Three
“I promise, I promise...
Damon pulled a pillow over his head, hoping against hope that he could return to sleep, but it was impossible. He had lain awake long into the night, shuddering over his call at Ridgway House. Peter’s accusatory eyes hovered long after he closed his own.
The Braxtons were appalling.
Family black sheep...
That euphemism covered a multitude of sins, from idiocy to eccentricity to openly criminal. Apparently Peter had applied it to a serious mésalliance. And that was not the worst of it. Once Lady Braxton dragged her daughters to London, Peter’s family name would be permanently blackened. The idea hurt as badly as if his own were threatened. But there was nothing he could do – except rescue Catherine. It was what Peter would have expected. Poor Cat. She must have suffered more than he had ever imagined.
I promissse...
But I tried to help,
he reminded his conscience. He had checked on her welfare after Vimeiro, assuring himself that her future was settled. Everything had seemed perfect. His vow was discharged and he could return to Portugal with an easy mind.
He groaned. Why had he not spoken directly to her? He should have verified that she was coping with grief, made sure that she was happy with her betrothal, and looked up her prospective husband. Peter had not trusted even his father to properly see after her future.
But Damon had done nothing, so relieved at avoiding Peter’s home that he had accepted the arrangements without question. Perhaps if he had investigated, he could at least have averted the final tragedy and saved her from years with her family when her betrothal ended.
Which led his thoughts to the other puzzle in this mishandled mess. Why had Catherine not responded to his letters? He had written three times – that heart-rending missive just after Vimeiro, another a fortnight later when he learned of the accident, and a note wishing her well when mourning was over and her wedding was due. She had acknowledged none of them. Nor had she sent a single word of condolence over his own losses. He rolled over, frowning. Grief aside, it was unlike her to ignore his existence. She could not have changed that much.
He finally fell into a fitful doze but was unable to rest. Dreams, memories, and nightmares tormented him. Peter urged him to action, berating him for negligence and weeping in frustration.
Damon groaned, awakening in a cold sweat to furiously pace the room in a vain attempt to wear his body down. Even Peter’s father glowered, cursing fate and reminding Damon that he was the only one now in a position to do anything.
Giving up, Damon rang for Tucker. Guilt would prevent any real rest until he discovered what had happened. He must rectify his oversight if he ever wanted to sleep peacefully again.
What could he do for Catherine? he wondered as he stared out the window. She ought to leave Ridgway House, but where could she go? Devlin Court would not do. Living there would destroy her reputation, and he doubted that Hermione would understand his obligations. In the eyes of the world, they were unrelated. But perhaps Hermione could sponsor Catherine into society. Finding a suitable husband would solve the problem quite nicely. And it should not be difficult. Catherine was not yet five-and-twenty. Her breeding was excellent, her dowry substantial, and her looks well above average.
* * * *
Damon pulled to a stop before Ridgway House, noting further signs of disrepair that he had missed the previous afternoon. Tucker had heard that the baron was destitute. How had he dissipated his fortune so rapidly? Or had he? Peter had often described his uncle as a miser, who for twenty years had visited his brother only to ask for money, even though the man’s income was adequate. Perhaps he was deliberately cultivating an impoverished facade to keep his wife fixed in the country. After growing up in the elegance of Ridgway House, he must know how unsuited she and his daughters were.