It was Damon’s other claims that shocked her. A betrothal. He could not have invented that story. Nor was he the sort who would misunderstand a vague comment. Once Uncle Henry mentioned it, Damon would have pried loose every detail. If he believed the betrothal was a settled fact, then he must have been told so. But why would Uncle Henry lie about so momentous a subject?
She frowned and again shifted position, staring morosely at the ceiling. It was possible that Uncle Henry had exaggerated. He was prone to doing so, something Damon probably didn’t know. Henry had once bragged about selling her father’s best hunter to a Quorn member, boasting for days of the astute deal he had made. It turned out that Lord Graylock had only expressed an interest in looking at the horse, ultimately deciding that it did not meet his needs.
Perhaps something similar had happened with Damon. Her uncle had been trying to arrange a betrothal and, as usual, was a little too sure of success. The more she thought of it, the more certain she became. Uncle Henry had exaggerated, but Damon would have believed that everything was settled. And perhaps it was better that he had. Thinking all was well at home, he could have concentrated on his duties. It might even have contributed to his survival.
Having explained that situation, she was left with the lesser questions. Why had no one told her of Damon’s letters? It was hard to accept that she had been too grief-stricken to remember. He was the one person whose condolences would have soothed her. And it was even harder to accept that all the letters had been lost at sea. He had written twice, as had she. Four ships could not have gone down in the space of a month. And Uncle Henry had not mentioned meeting him in London. She would not have forgot that. The trip had occurred long after the accident and at least a month after she had emerged from her deepest grief. She had joined the family for dinner the night of his return, listening to tales of all that he had done in the city, including excruciating details of the people he had met, but there had not been a single word about Damon.
It could not be oversight, she realized. For some reason the Braxtons had decided to sever the connection and must have destroyed the letters. There was no question that they were gone. About six months after the accident, she had gone to the attic to find a more comfortable chair for her new room. A bundle of letters sat atop an old table, their thin coating of dust proving that they were recent. She had thumbed through them, noting that they were condolence letters to her for the loss of her parents and brother. Over the following weeks, she read and reread them, touched by the compassion of people she had never met. She had not mentioned finding them. Her aunt wanted her to put the past behind her and believed that never broaching the subject was the quickest way to do so. Eventually, Catherine had put the letters away and moved on with her life.
Hands shaking, she lit a candle and dug into her battered desk. The bundle was still where she had pushed it all those years ago. At the time it had seemed important to keep this memento of her former place in the world. Carefully turning over each letter, she verified that there was no word from Damon. And now that her suspicions were raised, she could think of at least a dozen others who should have written.
Other puzzles nagged at her mind. She had never questioned the statement that her dowry had been lost along with the rest of her father’s wealth. The shock in Damon’s eyes could not have been feigned. Of course, her father would hardly advertise a penchant for poor investments. But what if the dowry still existed?
She shook her head over this sudden resurrection of an old dream, put out the candle, and crawled back into bed. Ever the romantic, she had spent too many days picturing herself with a husband and children. It was a fantasy that she had deliberately discarded after the accident, for it did no good to dwell on what could never be. And it still could not, she reminded herself brutally. Even if the dowry existed, she never met eligible males. And even if she did, she was now firmly on the shelf. She had never appeared even in local society, for she had not yet been out when her parents had died. Within the month she would be five-and-twenty, an ape-leader in anyone’s book.
Firmly casting aside nonsensical hopes, she set her mind to planning the morning’s activities. The linen inventory should have been done a month ago. Several sheets needed mending. Hortense had torn the flounce on another gown – really, that girl must learn to move more gracefully. It was past time to prune the rose arbor – she would speak to Wye about it, for there was still enough grounds staff…
On that thought, she finally drifted into uneasy slumber.
“How could you!” demanded Peter Braxton. Blue eyes glared as blood oozed from the hole in his forehead, running down to drip off the tip of his aristocratic nose. “You promised! You promised to take care of Catherine for me!”
Damon opened his mouth to reply but no words emerged. He tried to raise his hand, but it refused to budge.
“How could you!” He had been wrong. It was not Peter who faced him, but Hermione, her voice vibrating with approbation. “You promised to be back in a sennight, but you have already been gone for eight days. How can I face society when you have abandoned me?” Tears dripped from her chin to feed an ever-widening pool on the floor.
Again Damon tried to speak – without success.
“How could you!” It hardly surprised him when his accuser again changed. “You could have discovered the truth anytime merely by contacting your steward!” charged Catherine. “Instead, you condemned me to a life of slavery.” Fury burned in her eyes, but before he could open his mouth, she vanished.
Two figures wrestled on the ground, suddenly visible through a break in the mist.
“His duty is clear!” gasped Peter, applying a hammerlock.
“To return to London!” insisted Hermione, twisting to pin his bare shoulder to the ground.
“A vow is a vow!”
“Even an implied vow!”
They sprang up, leaping toward Damon, who was still frozen in place – tied to the mast of his parents’ sinking yacht.
“Cad!” Hermione charged, slicing his cheeks with nails that extended three inches beyond talon-like fingers.
“Liar!” hissed Peter, pressing the point of a sword against Damon’s throat.
“Help!” shrieked Catherine.
Three heads swiveled. She was rapidly sinking beneath the waves, helped to her doom by a flock of chortling Braxtons whose flapping ribbons kept them hovering above the water even as they dropped a pianoforte onto her head.
Peter’s sword severed Damon’s bonds, but Hermione threw herself into his arms and dragged his lips into a passionate kiss.
“You promissssed…”
Damon clawed his way into the air. Where was he? Heart pounding in terror, he peered through the gloom, finally identifying his room at Devlin Court. Dawn filtered through a crack in the draperies.
He sagged back onto the mattress and pulled the coverlet tightly around his shoulders, suppressing a shudder. That had been a bad one, though not his usual nightmare.
Frowning, he tried to recall the details, but he was too wide awake. They were already fading into oblivion. Hermione had been there. And Catherine. Were they fighting? But that made no sense. His obligations to Cat would not affect his relationship with Hermione. Unless they were fighting the Braxtons. There had been something about the Braxtons he was sure. But that made even less sense.
Perhaps the dream was a warning. If the Braxtons were desperate enough, they might pose a danger. Shaking his head, he rose to greet the day. Long experience had taught him that sleep was impossible after one of his dreams.
* * * *
Lady Braxton was alone in the morning room, so Catherine plunged in before she could lose her nerve.
“Aunt Eugenia, why did I never see the condolences that arrived after my parents died?”
“You did, dear. We read them together and then I left them for you to look at later. But when the doctor suggested we remove all traces of the past, I put them in one of the attics. You may have forgot.”
“You are right that I remember nothing of that time, though I went over the letters later. But that is not what I was asking. The packet was incomplete and I wondered where the others were put. Lord Devlin’s letters were missing, among others.”
“You are mistaken,” insisted her aunt coldly. “There was no word from his lordship. He was undoubtedly too caught up in the war to consider what was happening at home.”
“You forget yourself, madam,” stated Catherine just as coldly, shocking the woman into silence. “My father was Damon’s godfather. My brother was his closest friend. And his parents died in that same accident. Nothing was capable of distracting his attention at such a time. But I am not speculating. He wrote immediately after Peter’s death and again after receiving word of the accident. And he never got any of my condolences. He spoke with Uncle Henry in town two months later, sending me a message which I also never received. Why?”
“It is pointless to discuss ancient history,” declared Lady Braxton. “But what makes you believe such fustian?”
“I ran into Damon when I was out walking yesterday. He told me.”
“Then he lied to cover a lapse of manners. It was what he should have done, of course.”
No gentleman would behave thus. Catherine started to point that out but thought better of it. Even if her aunt knew of the letters, she was obviously unwilling to discuss them.
“Who lied?” demanded Hortense, appearing in the doorway with Drucilla.
Catherine cringed at the sight of her cousins. Both had modified their gowns to be more eye-catching. Dru’s neckline would be scandalous even in London ballrooms and seemed ludicrous on a country morning gown. Horty had embellished a walking dress with red and black ribbons placed to attract the eye to her less-than-abundant charms. They both wore a startling amount of makeup, looking like little more than Cyprians. Catherine felt ashamed to be related.
“Lord Devlin,” replied Aunt Eugenia.
“So you have been sneaking off to see his lordship!” exclaimed Drucilla, storming across the room to slap Catherine’s face. “How dare you try to cut me out?”
“Cut
you
out!” shrieked Hortense, poking Dru in the ribs. “There is nothing to cut. I am the eldest and the only one he is interested in. You are nought but a schoolroom infant making a cake of yourself by trying to act like a lady.”
“Ignorant fool!” shouted Drucilla, whirling to face her sister while Catherine put a hand to her ashen face. “No lord as well set up as Devlin would look twice at a flat-chested beanpole like you. You should have seen him grimace while you were plodding through your music!” She turned back to Catherine. “And don’t get your hopes up, Cat. All he could ever want from a penniless servant is dalliance. Or are you already his latest mistress?”
“Drucilla!” snapped her mother. “A lady does not speak of such things.”
“And whores should not be allowed in our house!” Dru pointed out, glaring at her mother. “It is time to decide what to do with our cousin. Either make her live and eat with the other servants or send her to play fetch and carry for Great-aunt Alice out in Cornwall. She should not be allowed to interfere with my gentlemen friends.”
Catherine paled even further at the venom in Dru’s voice. “You mistake the situation. I merely ran into him while out for a walk. Of course he stopped to greet me. He was my brother’s best friend and was with him when he died.”
“It is improper for you to be conversing with any gentleman,” intoned Lady Braxton. “Drucilla is right. Your position might lead him to make improper advances.”
“Exactly,” agreed Hortense. “And it is not good for Lord Devlin’s attention to stray. It would interfere with concluding my marriage contract.”
Drucilla took umbrage.
“Enough, girls!” barked Lady Braxton when their squabbling degenerated to hair-pulling. "I do not wish to hear another word. Catherine will avoid Lord Devlin by remaining in the park. Leave the tenants to Peckland,” she ordered. “You will have plenty to do in the house. I had to turn off Mary this morning.”
Catherine wisely refrained from admitting that she had met Damon in the park, thrusting down distress at the thought of never seeing him again. It was better for her peace of mind to avoid him, for he was a bitter reminder of all that she had lost.
* * * *
Lord Braxton was glaring at the estate books when his wife entered the library.
“We must do something about Catherine,” she began without preamble. “The chit is doing her best to destroy our girls’ marriage chances.”
“What is this?”
“You know that I am well on the way to arranging an alliance with the Earl of Devlin.”
“Do you actually believe he can stomach either of them?” he scoffed, throwing his usual reticence aside. “He is a gentleman.”
“Of course. Which is why he will offer for Hortense. His honor demands it.”
He stared a moment. “I see. Up to your old tricks, aren’t you?”
She ignored the comment. “Catherine deliberately sought his lordship out yesterday to play on his sympathy. And she is painting us in a false light to turn him against Hortense. Why, she even accused me of stealing letters that he claimed to have sent her some years ago!”
Braxton paled. “What tale is this?”
“She insists that the earl sent her several notes shortly after her parents died and even sent a message by you that she never received. All false, of course. I put every letter aside and gave them to her.”
“Of course you did,” he concurred, frowning in thought. “As to the message, it is true that I met the earl in London some years ago. He sent general greetings to the family – you know how one does. If I did not mention it, I can only remind her that other things pressed heavily on me. I was still reeling from the knowledge that my accursed brother had squandered the family fortune.”
“But what are we to do with Catherine?” she wailed, again ignoring his words. “She has never liked us. I fear Sidney is right. She resents her reduced status and is only waiting for the chance to stab us in the back. Destroying this alliance would be a perfect revenge.”