The Unscrupulous Uncle (24 page)

It had faded, of course. By the following summer she was hopelessly infatuated with Sir Mortimer’s son, Toby. The next year it had been Lord Rathbone, who had spent several weeks on Toby’s estate. By the time Damon bought colors, he was again her stalwart older brother, and she hardly recalled her love.

He had retained that status. His return to Devlin Court and the way he rescued her from Braxton Manor echoed their lifelong relationship as he comforted her fears and soothed away her pain. How stupid of her to allow her feelings to grow beyond the bounds he had always set. Despite marriage, nothing had really changed. She was still the hoyden whom he allowed to tag along at his heels.

Her outburst the day she had found the codicil had been shameful. If she had been given time to absorb the shock, she could have discussed the situation rationally. Instead, she had abandoned her temper and killed even his brotherly affection, forcing him more firmly toward Hermione. Even yesterday’s rapport was unreal. She had indeed been naïve. Thoughts of Peter had shattered his composure. He must have confused the time and place, turning to her as he would formerly have turned to him. It was but a momentary aberration that meant nothing.

Pegasus suddenly jumped straight into the air and twisted completely around, exploding into a jolting gallop the moment he hit the ground. Caught by surprise, Catherine tried to hang on, but her balance had been too badly compromised. Her leg slipped off the horn, throwing her into the air.

Tuck your head and roll,
ordered her father’s groom.
Land on your feet,
yelled Peter.
Falls hurt less if you relax,
Damon had advised as he’d plucked her out of a hedge on her eighth birthday.

Her hip slammed against the horn, jerking her other foot loose from the stirrup.
Tuck! Feet! Relax!
She tried to relax and twist her legs under her, but before she could do more than think about it, she hit the ground. Pain exploded through her head, and the world went black.

 * * * *

“Where is that damned carriage?” demanded a harsh voice.

“It cain’t get here yet, sir,” protested her groom.

She tried to move, but failed. Was she dead? Yet this hardly sounded like heaven. A lurid curse burned her ears before the first voice continued.

“Of course. It has been barely ten minutes.”

Colonel Caldwell, she identified groggily. He sounded less in control than she would have expected of a Wellington aide. Fingers gently prodded her head.

“At least nothing is broken.”

“Who would do such an ’orrid thing?” demanded the groom.

“You are sure it was a dart?”

“Look.” A tense silence followed. “I found it on the ground just where ’er ’orse spooked. An’ there’s an ’ole in ’is flank. I saw nobody, but we was by them trees, so there was ample place to ’ide.”

“Do you really believe that someone hid in the trees, waiting for Lady Devlin to pass so that they could cause an accident?” asked the colonel incredulously.

“Could be. We ride ’ere most every day at just this time – even when it rains. ’Er ladyship loves t’exercise.”

The argument continued above Catherine’s head, but she was no longer listening. Her head throbbed as new pains joined those already holding her motionless.

Damon.

There had been two people by that copse – her husband and the woman he wanted to wed. She would never have believed that he would stoop to murder, but she had misjudged him more than once. The Damon who had returned from the Peninsula was a harsher man than the boy she had known. And he was inured to death. How many people had he killed in the last eight years? To have achieved his heroic stature, the number must be high. One more would hardly matter.

Blackness returned, spiraling her into unconsciousness.

* * * *

The next time Catherine woke, she was in her own bed in Berkeley Square.

“Thank the good Lord!” Brigit exclaimed, rushing to offer a drink to her mistress. “Lord Devlin will be relieved. He’s been frantic about you.”

Right!
she scoffed silently, gagging on the bitter liquid as the details of her morning ride returned. “How long have I been here?”

“Most of the day. It’s nearly dinnertime. I must tell his lordship that you are awake.”

“No!” She struggled to sit up, but pain forced her back.

Brigit squeaked in alarm.

“You will tell him nothing,” said Catherine more calmly. “And you will not allow him in this room. He caused my accident. His anxiety is because the fall did not kill me.”

“You are delirious, my lady.”

“Not at all. My groom knows that a man in the copse of trees we were passing deliberately tried to harm me. I saw Lord Devlin in that copse. How badly am I hurt?”

“Nothing is broken. You have a badly bruised hip, a concussion from landing on your head, and a cut on your thigh where the horse kicked you. And you were unconscious so long the doctor had to bleed you. It will be a week before you can rise.”

Catherine groaned.

“He left some powders to help the pain.”

“Good. I cannot think clearly right now, but promise me that you will admit no one to this room. Certainly no one sent by Lord Devlin. And make sure you personally pick up my trays in the kitchen.”

“If you insist,” agreed Brigit doubtfully.

Catherine took one of the powders and slipped back into sleep.

“She what?” demanded Damon.

“She believes you caused her accident,” repeated Brigit. In a few words, she told him Catherine’s tale.

“Surely she knows me better than that!” he snapped before bringing his voice under control. The maid looked terrified. “She is wrong, of course, but I will not annoy her. It is more important that she rest and recover in peace.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You will keep me informed of her progress.”

“Of course.”

Once Brigit left, Damon paced furiously around his study. His initial reaction was to strangle her for suspecting him of so base an action, but he had to admit that the evidence was damning. And what had really happened?

He had been riding in the park, trying to figure out what to do about Ridgway in light of Catherine’s opposition to selling the place. So intent was he on his thoughts that he almost missed Hermione’s greeting. He had stopped to talk to her – it could not have been for more than a minute – then left her by the copse and continued on his way. The news of Cat’s accident had greeted him on his return home. It was his first hint that she had been in the park.

Who would wish to harm her? While there were plenty of people who might be irritated at her – starting with her family and Hermione, he had to admit – none of them had a sufficient grievance to justify an attack. There had been incidents in recent years of violence against the aristocracy, but he did not believe it in this case. Women were rarely the target.

But perhaps it was aimed at him. Could someone hate him enough to strike at him by injuring his wife? Hardly. He had always retained the respect of his men. In fact, the losses among his own troops were lower than in other battalions, something his men were inordinately proud of, for they had seen just as much action and been through just as desperate a fight. His estates had been well run in his absence, so his tenants had no complaints. It was true that he had instituted some changes on his return, but most had been suggested by the tenants themselves, who were better educated than most and proud to be keeping up with new techniques.

Aside from his neglect of Catherine, the only toes he had trampled were those of Lord Braxton. His marriage had thwarted the man’s plots. But Braxton had fled the country, and Sidney’s pique had been lessening in recent days.

He would have to talk to Jack. The colonel had come upon Catherine almost before she hit the ground, sending his own groom racing to Berkeley Square to fetch a carriage. He might have seen who else was in the vicinity. And he must talk to Hermione. The culprit could have passed her while making his escape.

 * * * *

Catherine shifted to a more comfortable position.

“Let me rearrange those pillows,” offered Edith, already performing this service. “You look a little peaked.”

“Why? There is nothing wrong with me outside of a few bruises.”

She had relaxed her orders when Edith called, admitting that boredom was a larger enemy than her unknown assailant. She had not revealed the cause of the accident, claiming that Pegasus had spooked in the fog. Part of her reticence arose from ambivalence. Though the evidence pointed to Damon’s guilt, she could not really accept it. Her injuries had led to two days of feverish delirium that made it difficult to separate fact from fantasy. Surely not even war could change him that much! She knew him better than any other living person. Could she have been so wrong in her estimation of his character?

“Lady Jersey’s rout last night was quite exciting,” reported Edith, settling back into a chair.

“An exciting rout?” quizzed Catherine. “Surely not!”

“Exciting,” repeated her friend. “Everyone was buzzing with the latest news of Brummell.”

“What did he do now? Make up his quarrel with the Prince?”

“Never! After three years, neither of them would consider it. But you know that Brummell has been plunging very deep of late.”

“True.”

“Well, two nights ago he admitted defeat, leaving the theater during the first intermission to slip away to France. They say he owed thirty thousand pounds.”

“Good heavens!”

“His fall has prompted the younger bucks to cease imitating him.”

“And just as well. None of them approach his flair.”

“True. The best-dressed gentlemen set their own styles. But Brummell’s departure was not the most thrilling event of the evening. Miss Josephine Huntsley returned to town, making her first public appearance in years.”

Catherine frowned. “The name is not familiar. Should I know her?”

“I forget that you were not here. She first came out in 1810, proving to be the most inept, unprepared disaster I have ever witnessed. She was barely seventeen at the time and had no training as far as I could tell. Frankly, I cannot imagine how Lady Jersey came to invite the girl to her rout, for she had long since banned her from Almack’s. It was what drove her from town.”

“The poor thing.”

“Save your sympathy. That was the final caper of a week of shocking behavior. She was so clumsy that she routinely knocked things down, including at least one gentleman in the middle of a country dance. She managed to ruin six gowns and three of Weston’s jackets by tipping over a punch bowl and spattering everyone nearby. And somehow she tore her own gown so badly on Bond Street that she was bare from ground to bosom.”

Catherine stared.

“Yes, shocking. I am amazed that her parents allowed her near London. They must have known of her problem. It is even more amazing that she is back.”

“Has she improved in the interim?”

“Not that I noticed. Her father has doubled her dowry, but even the fortune hunters shy away. Who would accept so disastrous a wife? After bumping into Lord Hartford, she staggered into the Countess Lieven, ripping the flounce half off the lady’s gown.”

“Dear Lord. She’s a patroness!”

“Precisely. But instead of apologizing, Miss Huntsley fled the scene, knocking over a pedestal supporting what used to be a priceless Chinese vase. Then she tripped, falling down the stairs and taking four ladies and two gentlemen with her. Lady Haliston will be confined with a twisted ankle for at least a week.”

“Gracious! Is she really that clumsy or is she so terrified of making a spectacle of herself that she does just that?”

“Who knows? But the resulting talk drove all earlier gossip from everyone’s minds.”

Something in Edith’s voice put Catherine on her guard. “What were the earlier tales?”

“There are hints that Lord Devlin was responsible for your accident.”

“What?” Catherine’s mind raced. She doubted that the servants had repeated her suspicions. They were loyal to Damon and would never do anything to hurt him. Damon would certainly not voice the thought. “That is preposterous!” she said now, automatically jumping to his defense. Whatever the truth, she would not fuel rumors.

“Of course it is,” Edith agreed. “But you need to be aware of the stories. He would not be the first to be ruined by innuendo.”

They spoke no more of it and Edith left a short time later. Catherine remained deep in thought. Perhaps someone had witnessed the attack but did not dare speak up – a servant, for example. But if Damon was innocent, the tale was another attempt to cause trouble. It could only come from the culprit. Those who had been nearby – Colonel Caldwell and Lady Hermione – would never spread such stories.

 * * * *

Damon had also heard the rumor, likewise refusing to believe that his servants were responsible. Even Brigit considered him innocent. But that bolstered his theory that someone was striking at him through Catherine. The only credible culprit was Lord Braxton. Had the man returned?

He needed answers before Catherine left her sickbed. Protecting her was impossible if he did not know who threatened her. He waited until he and Jack were walking toward Berkeley Square after an evening at White’s, then laid out his fears and lack of evidence.

“I suspect Lord Braxton may have pushed Sidney into recklessness,” he concluded. “Sidney is too harebrained to concoct these stories and too cowardly to act on his own.”

“Do not be too sure of that,” countered Jack. “His friends are very crafty, and he has learned much from them. More than once they have lured cubs into scandal, then agreed to hush it up in exchange for a generous settlement.”

“Damn! Why did you not tell me about this before?”

“I thought you knew. Sidney’s reputation has never been good.”

“I had no idea. You know I avoid town as much as possible. But what was Braxton about to let his heir fall in with a set of sharps?”

“I suspect he didn’t care.”

Damon stared at his friend, his mind racing. “That might explain that very odd caller at Harte’s office two days after—”