The Unscrupulous Uncle (25 page)

Two men jumped out of the alley leading to the mews. Both brandished knives. The fight was brief, but intense. Damon’s walking stick sent one weapon clattering to the ground. Jack managed to twist the other loose and hurl it into some shrubbery. Ignoring the gentlemanly tactics taught at Jackson’s saloon, the two military men waded in and soon had the thugs on the run.

“You’re hurt,” observed Damon once he caught his breath.

“It’s only a scratch.” Jack was already tying up his left arm. “The cutpurses and footpads get bolder every year. Where is the damned watch?”

“You know the Charlies are worthless against scum like that,” Damon reminded him. “But I doubt that pair will be back. Come in and let Tucker look at that arm.” He led the way into Devlin House. “And that’s an order.”

“At once, Major Fairbourne, Lord Devlin, sir!” barked Jack, saluting smartly.

“You forgot
retired,
Jack.”

“And you forgot that I outrank you. I ought to call you out for insubordination.”

Laughing, they headed for the library.

* * * *

What was Sidney up to now? wondered Damon. Jack’s disclosures had shocked him more than he had admitted, putting a different complexion on the problem. Was Sidney stupid enough to believe that Catherine’s inheritance would revert to her family if she died without issue? Or was he trying to extort money?

He pulled out his solicitor’s report on Sidney’s finances.

The boy was deeply indebted to moneylenders, with no chance of covering even the interest. He had already received two warnings. The next step would be a beating. To make matters worse, he had recently dropped a bundle in Watier’s and another at a hell on South Audley. He must be growing desperate.

But Sidney was not the only problem. Though Damon had traced the most vicious tales to Cat’s cousin, others arose elsewhere. One had originated with Lady Debenham, but he could not believe so canny a lady would risk multiple fabrications. Thus he had another enemy whom he had not yet identified.

Chapter Sixteen

True to his word, the doctor kept Catherine in bed for the full week. The moment he let her up, she sent for Louisa, determined to resume her social schedule and try to deflect the gossip that had burgeoned in recent days. Some even charged that Damon had locked her up, then fabricated a tale of injuries to hide that fact. Edith had laughed at the cub who had made that claim, but those who loved scandal preferred lies to the truth. So Catherine would attend the Cunningham ball and brave the dance floor despite the bruises on her hip and thigh. Lady Cunningham’s entertainments were always sad crushes, hosting the cream of London society.

Like so many balls, this one was held in rented facilities, for only the largest homes could host such a gathering. But the decorations were opulent – banks of flowers and ferns, silk swagged around the walls, extra lamps augmenting the elaborate chandeliers, and even statuary and paintings brought in from the Cunningham residence. People surged in an ever-shifting mob, greeting friends and exchanging
on-dits,
their voices drawling in bored affectation. Jewels sparkled, gold and silver embroidery glittered, and eyes glowed.

The day had been warm with a thick mass of sooty air blanketing the city that allowed London’s stench to creep into Mayfair. The press of humanity in the ballroom added new smells that assaulted her nose: Lord Oldport’s heavy musk failed to mask the fact that he never washed; Lady Enderly’s cloying rosewater nearly obscured Miss Bentley’s delicate lavender – really! the woman must bathe in perfume, for she smelled like a courtesan; Lord Forley’s sandalwood fought with Lord Hartleigh’s spice as they argued over government reform; Lord Fantail minced past wearing an entire flower garden; and the refreshment room exhaled delectable aromas to entice the throng.

Music swirled as Catherine plunged into the conversation, accepting congratulations on her recovery and ignoring the sarcasm that underlay many of the voices. “It was my own fault for riding in the fog,” she explained many times. “Pegasus shied at a ghostly image – I think it was that odd-shaped shrub where the carriage road veers away from the Serpentine. Fortunately neither of us suffered any lasting harm.” She then deftly deflected the subject to Brummell and other
on-dits.
Miss Huntsley’s accidents always made humorous telling.

“You look much better tonight,” observed Edith when they managed to find each other.

“And feel better,” agreed Catherine with a smile.

“Lady Beatrice and Lady Debenham had the most amazing argument this afternoon – or as near an argument as either of those stiff-rumped gabsters would condone in public. Lady Beatrice’s cutting tongue neatly sliced Lady Debenham to ribbons, but Lady Debenham was not cowed. She used the most saccharine tones to imply that Lady Beatrice’s advanced age made it difficult to see what was under her nose.”

“Good heavens! What was it about?”

Edith sighed. “You, I fear, which took some of the delight from the scene – they were standing in Lady Marchgate’s drawing room in front of twenty witnesses. Lady Debenham laps up every foul tale Lady Hermione tells. Her determination has pushed Lady Beatrice into supporting you more stoutly than I could have imagined, for she deplores any hint that her judgment is lacking.”

“As do we all. And I can only bless Lady Debenham. If she had not put Lady Beatrice’s back up, I would doubtless be home by now with no hope of returning.”

They shook their heads over the vagaries of fate and turned their discussion to clothes. Louisa left them when Sir Thomas Morehead arrived. She rarely remained at Catherine’s side, for matrons did not need the constant supervision necessary for young innocents.

“Did you finally admit that you had milked your injuries long enough, cousin?” asked Sidney, joining them as soon as Louisa was out of earshot.

He is deliberately courting a public fight,
Cat warned herself. “Still in town, cousin?” she retorted. “A dutiful son would be helping his family.”

“They have no need of my assistance,” he lied. “A dutiful niece would thank us for eight years of support instead of turning us out in the cold.”

“You forget that we were living on my estate, supported by my income,” she riposted softly. “Shall we make that fact public?”

His face slipped into a scowl. “We will discuss your delusions later. Partner me for this country set.”

“I have already promised it.” It was not a lie. Mr. Johnstone arrived at that moment, and she joined the dancers.

Two sets later she was finally relaxing. After several sessions with a dancing master, she no longer had to worry about the steps, allowing her to converse with her partners, particularly during waltzes and quadrilles. Lord Rathbone was regaling her with
on-dits.

“Miss Huntsley is growing worse, poor thing.”

“I heard she made a cake of herself again,” she agreed.

“In Lady Horseley’s drawing room this morning. She had barely arrived when she bumped into a footman, knocking a tray of pastries into Princess Esterhazy’s lap.” He whirled her through a dizzying turn.

“So she has now insulted yet another Almack’s patroness. Are there any left?”

“I don’t think she has done anything to Lady Sefton, but Miss Huntsley must know her situation is hopeless. She succumbed to hysterics on the spot. It took two footmen to carry her from the room.”

Catherine sighed in commiseration, though there was nothing that anyone could do. Society did not condone deviation from its rules.

The dancers shifted, offering a glimpse of Damon across the room. She had not spoken to him since the attack and had not known he was at the ball. He was unusually handsome tonight, his deep wine jacket making his hair and eyes appear lighter. Or maybe it was the laughter that lit his face as he twirled Lady Hermione. She had not seen him so carefree since before Portugal.

“Lady Haskell told me the most farcical story this morning,” Rathbone said as the music came to a close.

She responded automatically to a ridiculous tale involving twin boys, a dog, and a monkey, but she would have wagered anything that he had sensed her plummeting spirits and was trying to jolly her out of a fit of blue-devils. It wasn’t working. As she laughed at the havoc wrought in Lady Haskell’s drawing room, her voice sounded forced even to herself.

She did better in the next set, flirting lightly with Lord Hartford, but her mind was contemplating her bleak future. Living with a man who preferred someone else would never work. It had been bad enough when she merely considered him a friend. Now that she loved him, it was intolerable. But what choice did she have?

Two more sets passed before Louisa finally deflected her chaotic thoughts. She looked like a cat who had been at the cream. “What happened?” Catherine demanded the moment her partner left. “Did you give Lady Debenham the set-down you have been swallowing for the past month?”

Louisa actually giggled. “No. The poor woman will get plenty of them from Lady Beatrice when the truth emerges.”

“Then why the smirk? Have you been snatching kisses in the garden?” she asked facetiously, then widened her eyes as Louisa blushed. “Heavens! You have!”

“No!” protested Louisa, but her color deepened. “I just wanted you to be the first to know that I accepted Sir Thomas’s offer. The announcement will be in tomorrow’s papers.”

Catherine shared her pleasure. Louisa had been widowed nearly twenty years before, following a ten-year marriage that had produced no children. It was too late to rectify that, but at least she would no longer live in lonely solitude. The news lightened Catherine’s spirits for a while, but it did not last. Her own future promised a full measure of loneliness.

An hour later her face was stiff from her forced smile. Her hip throbbed in pain. Lord Forley claimed a waltz, but she lost track of his conversation when she again spotted Damon dancing with Hermione.

Twice. Damon had led Hermione out twice. It was not unusual, but tonight it was the last straw. He rarely partnered his wife even once. She missed a beat, throwing Forley into a stumble. He only recovered after they had bumped another couple, catching Cat’s skirt and tearing the flounce.

“Forgive me, Lady Devlin,” Forley begged.

“It was entirely my fault,” she admitted, noting that the loose flounce was dragging on the floor. “But I must fix this or we will both fall. Excuse me.” She slipped quickly from the ballroom.

Even more than repairing her gown, she needed to think, so she located an empty antechamber and thankfully sank onto its couch.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face months and years of watching Damon dance with Hermione, ride with Hermione, flirt with Hermione. She couldn’t face the gossip, the scorn, or the pity. And she definitely couldn’t face a lifetime of cold, lonely nights wondering who he was with. But if she could not tolerate life with him, then she must leave.

She had already considered the possibility, so she knew what obstacles she would face. Would he grant her a portion of her inheritance so that she could live independently? Not at Ridgway, of course. It was too close to Devlin Court. But she could be happy in a cottage. Barring that, she would have to support herself.

Her hands pressed against her throbbing head as the enormity of her decision registered. Working for a living would sever all connection to her own class. But it might be her only option. She had sufficient experience to become a companion or a housekeeper – eight years of practice. She would have to change her name, of course, for no one would hire a runaway countess. The only problem would be producing the necessary references. She could never ask Aunt Eugenia. But perhaps she could write one for herself. A distant cousin had recently died. She knew little of the lady except that she had lived alone in the wilds of Cornwall. No one could check a note from a dead woman. It might do.

She was choosing a new name when Lady Hermione walked in.

“This room is occupied,” said Catherine.

“I know.” Hermione shut the door and glared. “It is time you faced facts, my proud lady. And it is more than time that you ceased spreading slander about me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play the naïve innocent, for you are too old to get away with it. I don’t know how you keep Lady Beatrice in your pocket, but the tales you are feeding her must stop.”

“A clear case of the pot calling the kettle black, for we both know how many lies and exaggerations you have started. But you are mistaken. I have not spoken of you to Lady Beatrice or anyone else. If she has taken against you, it is your own fault, for she is using your misbehavior to spite Lady Debenham. All of society knows where that lady gets her falsehoods.”

“Enough!” snapped Hermione. “You cannot bury the truth under innuendo. All of society knows you tricked Damon to the altar – was it for money or for social position? But dear Damon will make you pay. He loves only me – something your manipulative plotting can never change.”

“I fear your youth has betrayed you,” countered Catherine, refusing to admit the truth of Hermione’s words aloud. She was pleased that her voice remained steady. “Damon has always admired beauty – which you have in abundance – but do not confuse that with love. It was not you he chose to marry.”

“Chose?”

“Chose! As you would know if you were as close to him as you claim.”

Hermione laughed. “You cannot hurt me, so quit trying. Even your pathetic attempt to win his sympathy by faking an injury did not work. He is quite eloquent in his contempt, you know. You should have heard him last night.”

“The injury was quite real,” said Catherine, trying to decipher Hermione’s real purpose. Damon knew the truth and would never have uttered such lies. “But it would not surprise me to learn that you were responsible. I saw you near that copse only moments before my horse shied – a fact my groom can confirm.”

“Enough of your fantasies!” snapped Hermione, her face no longer set in a smile. “You cannot excuse incompetent horsemanship by inventing an attacker. Nor can you ignore the fact that Damon loves only me. You may have seduced him into marriage, but he despises being tied to a country widgeon who does not even possess basic social skills. His preference is obvious to the world. He will not even dance with you for fear of sustaining a crippling injury from your clumsiness. How we laughed when you tripped Forley just now! He is mortified at your vulgarity and appalled that you can never be the hostess he needs. Ostracism will soon banish you to the eternal boredom of the country, but don’t expect him to stay there with you. Crushing
ennui
would send him back to the society we both love, leaving you to rot. That wedding ring will never bring you a moment of peace. The one unalterable fact remains – Damon loves me and can only rue that he is stuck with you.”