The Unscrupulous Uncle

THE UNSCRUPULOUS UNCLE

Allison Lane

Prologue

Vimeiro, Portugal

August 20, 1808

“Promise me, Damon!” demanded Peter Braxton for the third time.

“Speaking of death attracts bad luck,” insisted his lifelong friend. “Would you force me to take that chance?”

Graceful despite his agitation, Peter strode rapidly away. He appeared slender to the point of fragility, as though he might vanish at any moment. But the impression was false. Beneath that surface he was as strong and determined as Damon himself. Damon often wondered how two men who looked so different could be so alike. Peter was six inches taller, Damon two days older. Peter was dark, Damon fair. Peter’s restless energy and excessive sensibility contrasted with Damon’s leonine power and sober sense. But their minds were nearly interchangeable, so attuned that they rarely had to question each other. If only Peter had not done so now!

“The French are bound to attack soon,” Peter reminded him, having circled back before passing the edge of their camp. “That first skirmish was nothing. They cannot allow us a toehold in Portugal. When the battle starts, I will need all my wits, but I can’t concentrate if my mind is distracted, Damon. You know I cannot.”

Damon nodded on a long sigh. It had ever been thus.

Peter continued. “So you must promise that if anything happens to me, you will look after Catherine. I need the words, Damon! I know Papa will do his best, but he understands her no better than he understands me.”

“Very well. I promise.”

The discussion was pointless, for he would have watched over her whatever Peter’s wishes. Their families were so close that he had long thought of Cat as the sister his own parents had never produced. Her face shimmered against the night sky as it had appeared the day he left home, her violet eyes brimming with unshed tears. Though she had known that buying colors was something Peter had to do, her acceptance did not mitigate her fear. But she trusted Damon to keep Peter safe.

 * * * *

A cannon roared in the distance as Damon struggled to escape black despair. Peter was dead. He still could not take it in. They had been closer than brothers, closer than twins for two-and-twenty years. His anguish grew until he wanted to scream and scream and scream, but a gentleman could never do something so crass, especially an officer newly returned from the battlefield.

He sucked in a deep breath, fighting for control.
How can I go on without you, Peter?

What a tragic penalty for youthful idealism! And how naïve they had been – buying colors so they could push Napoleon out of Portugal and Spain through their own strength of will.

His hand shook as he opened his writing case. Twice the pen slipped from his fingers, ruining a page with inkblots. Gritting his teeth, he tried again. How was he to break the news to Lord and Lady Braxton? They were as dear to him as his own parents. And how could he hurt Catherine so badly? He had failed her.

Oh God, Peter! Why?
His vision blurred as the tears he could no longer repress gushed down his face.

 * * * *

Seventeen-year-old Catherine Braxton awoke from the drugged haze she had hidden behind for the last week, determined to get herself under control. Peter would expect more than this craven escape from the world. She must see after the household until he returned. Had the news reached him yet?

Stifling another round of tears, she resolutely summoned her maid. She had wallowed in grief long enough. She was a Braxton, daughter of a proud lineage of barons and granddaughter to an equally proud line of earls through her mother. Never again would tragedy overset her.

Memory threatened her resolve, but she was finally numb enough to examine the facts dispassionately. The twenty-third of August had been a delightful day – warm and sunny, with only the mildest breeze. There was no hint of change when Lord and Lady Braxton agreed to go sailing with their dearest friends and neighbors, Lord and Lady Devlin. At the last minute Catherine had stayed behind to comfort an injured tenant until the surgeon arrived to set the girl’s broken leg.

She never saw any of them again. A sudden squall had capsized Lord Devlin’s yacht, killing everyone aboard. Despite all logic, she felt guilty for remaining alive.

Had Peter heard the news yet? Had Damon? Everyone had feared for their lives since the day they had bought colors. Who would have thought that it would be those who stayed behind who would perish?

Someone scratched on the door, thankfully distracting her thoughts.

“Enter!”

But instead of her maid, Uncle Henry Braxton strode into the room, noting her red-rimmed eyes with his usual disapproving grimace. Yet his underlying expression more closely resembled suppressed excitement.

“Troubles never arrive alone,” he announced ponderously, making none of the usual greetings and allowing her no time for her own. “Your irresponsible brother got himself killed. The barony is now mine.”

Catherine’s screams echoed all the way to the kitchens, bringing the servants on the run. Her shrieks stopped only when she fainted.

Chapter One

Spring 1816

Hortense Braxton stormed into the breakfast room and glared at her cousin Catherine. “Lazy ingrate! Why Papa allows you to cadge off of us, I do not know.”

“Is there a problem?”

“Of course there’s a problem! I must wear my pink muslin tonight, but you haven’t fixed that torn flounce. Why? It’s been a week since that clumsy oaf ripped it!”

It was the first time Horty had mentioned a tear, but Catherine was too wise to point that out. “I will look at it after breakfast,” she agreed quietly. “But are you sure you wish to wear that gown? It is becoming a trifle worn.”

“What choice do I have?” snapped Hortense. “Papa refuses to buy me a decent wardrobe. He is making me a laughingstock. Even young girls titter behind their fans when I appear. It is unconscionable that my beauty should be so tarnished!”

“Perhaps your new shawl will dress it up,” suggested Catherine. “Or cherry ribbons. Which would you prefer?”

“Both!” Horty’s expression changed from petulance to calculation. “And change the sleeves. Those puffs make me look a veritable child. Jones can try something new with my hair. It is time to show those cats that they can never hope to outshine me.”

“You and your delusions!” Drucilla Braxton scoffed, giving Catherine no chance to reply. “You make a cake of yourself by trying to be a diamond. That old gown is beyond repair. Besides, Cat won’t have the time. She must fix the neckline on my new lutestring. I cannot understand how the dressmaker cut it so badly. I’ll not look a dowd at Sir Mortimer’s dinner. He has houseguests from London!”

“Better a dowd than a courtesan.” Hortense sneered. “If you lower that neckline even half an inch, you will fall out the first time you breathe. Your antics embarrass us all.”

“Embarrassment? Ha! It is rampant jealousy. You are so flat you could rip your bodice off and no one would notice.”

“What shocking vulgarity! Mama will leave you in the schoolroom, where you can review fashion. Slenderness is all the crack.” She stared her sister up and down. “Perhaps you should try Byron’s regimen of boiled potatoes and vinegar. Gentlemen do not like fat.”

“Fat! Listen to the self-appointed expert!” Dru’s cup slammed onto the table, sloshing coffee across its surface. “I’ve heard you described many ways, Hortense Braxton, but fashionable was never one of them. Why only yesterday Jeremy Tuggens complimented my maidenly curves, disparaging your imitation of a fence post. And gentlemen have a penchant for blondes. You lose on that count too!”

“So you accept advances from a farmer’s son!” Hortense snorted. “Have you no concept of your position? But this discussion is pointless. Your scandalous neckline will have to wait. As the elder, I have first claim on Catherine’s services.”

“It is just as well,” agreed Drucilla. “If you wear the pink – which makes you look sallow and scrawny – even that rag I wear for gardening will attract Sir Mortimer’s guests.”

“How dare you?” demanded Hortense. Her fork hit the tabletop hard enough to dent the wood as she cast a malicious eye over her sister. “But of course! You are upset because no gentleman will look twice at you unless you throw your naked body into his arms.”

“Such language!” countered a seething Drucilla.

“What is the meaning of this contretemps?” demanded Lady Braxton from the breakfast room doorway.

“I wish Catherine to mend a small tear on my pink muslin so I can wear it tonight,” stated Hortense firmly. “But Dru is being difficult. Can you imagine? She wants to appear at Sir Mortimer’s dressed as a lady of the evening!”

“Fustian!” replied Drucilla. “I merely need Catherine to make a slight adjustment on my new gown, which does not fit as perfectly as it should.”

“Hortense, you will wear your white crepe,” ordered her ladyship. “You will not appear in colors before you are officially out. I have already spoken to Jones about your hair. She must take particular care with it, for I hope to arrange a match with one of Sir Mortimer’s guests. Both are of marriageable age and cannot help but look fondly on such a fine girl.”

Calculation appeared in Hortense’s eyes.

Lady Braxton nodded and turned her attention to her younger daughter. “Drucilla, there is nothing wrong with your gown. I checked it myself before we left the dressmaker’s. You had best spend the day reviewing deportment. You are young yet, and unknown, so any mistake can prove fatal. Use the evening to hone your social skills.”

Without giving Drucilla a chance to respond, she addressed her niece. “Catherine, you will plan a picnic for next week. And perhaps a dinner. We must take advantage of this opportunity. It isn’t often that we get such distinguished visitors to Somerset. If only we could go to town this Season!”

“Yes, Aunt Eugenia,” agreed Catherine.

“And speak to Cook about her blancmange. It was nearly inedible last night.”

“Immediately.”

“Mary was unacceptably pert this morning. If you cannot keep the girl under control, I will have to turn her off without a character.”

“I will take care of it,” promised Catherine, motioning Wiggins to remove her plate. This would not be a day she could linger over meals. Mary was a continuing problem. Though she was an outstanding worker, her high spirits left her unable to endure Lady Braxton’s abuse in silence. But losing this position would hurt her family.

“I thought I told you to remove that obscene tapestry in the ballroom,” complained Lady Braxton.

“Uncle Henry forbade it,” Catherine reminded her aunt, shuddering at the desecration Eugenia had suggested the last time the subject arose. The tapestry was not the least obscene, but Lady Braxton hated the Elizabethan decor and was determined to introduce a vivid Egyptian theme. “There is no other hanging that will fit, and he refuses to panel that wall. It is nought but rough stone beneath.”

“Papa is a pinchpenny,” grumbled Hortense. “An Egyptian ballroom would be the talk of the neighborhood.”

“But not from envy,” countered Drucilla. “Chinese is more fashionable these days.”

Hortense objected, and they were off.

Catherine ignored the argument. Squabbling between her cousins was so normal that it hardly registered. In the early days, she had cringed at every contretemps, bursting into tears when their tantrums destroyed items that her family had prized. Not until she realized that the girls enjoyed hurting her did she learn to hide her pain, but it had been too late to salvage her mother’s treasures. The collection of china figurines was long gone. Horty had smashed the oriental vases after Sir Mortimer’s son called her a jade. Dru had tossed an entire folio of watercolors into the fire the day Mr. Dawkins rebuffed her. Though physically different, the sisters had identical characters. Both were terrified of spinsterhood, so they threw themselves at every available man. Catherine could do nothing to stop them or even to guide them, for she only lived here on sufferance.

She had endured many changes in the last eight years. The first was the cancellation of her Season. Her father had squandered much of his wealth – including her dowry – leaving the barony on the verge of destitution and herself unmarriageable. Uncle Henry had offered her a home, but it was long before Catherine fully accepted the situation.

At least Uncle Henry understood her aversion to charity and had helped her retain some self-respect. “I have a favor to ask of you,” he had said a week after they had received word of Peter’s death. It was the first time she had ventured downstairs since the accident.

“Yes?” Catherine looked straight at her uncle, avoiding the empty library wall where her father’s picture had always hung. It had already been removed to the portrait gallery.

“You must stay busy if you wish to recover from your grief,” he pointed out after explaining the financial difficulties they all faced. “Eugenia has never run a house this size, and I must cut the staff, which will make the job even more difficult. Can you assist her?”