The Unscrupulous Uncle (27 page)

She finally reached the room that had been hers for the last eight years. The pillage was worse here than anywhere else. Belongings that she had kept since childhood had been meticulously destroyed – pages ripped out of books and then shredded; the china figurine her mother had given her on her tenth birthday broken and rebroken until no piece larger than a pea survived; clothing cut to ribbons. Even her shoes were slashed. Huddling in the corner, she succumbed to wracking sobs.

Dusk was falling by the time she pulled herself together to examine the room more closely. The condolence letters in her desk were gone, their hiding place exposed when her cousins smashed the desk itself. She shook her head over a piece of cover from
Cinderella.
She had often pictured herself in that role, especially during the months immediately after the accident. But she no longer felt any kinship with the girl. Prince Charmings did not exist in the real world. Even heroes had problems and flaws. It would have been satisfying to help Damon forget the trauma of war, but she would not have the opportunity. At least Peter did not have to live with such horrifying memories.

Peter. She stared at the wardrobe, almost afraid to look. She had never trusted her cousins, so she had hidden his letters as soon as she’d moved to this room.

Her shaking hands removed debris from the wardrobe bottom. Lifting the loose board at the back, she again burst into tears. They were still there – letters from Eton, from Oxford, and six from the army. Resting on top was the book of poetry that Damon had given her two weeks before he left for war.

Clutching the surviving mementos of her childhood, she headed for the kitchen. Her cousins had probably destroyed her personal possessions the moment they heard of her marriage. The rest was a more intense version of their usual temper fit, triggered because they had to leave the estate. They would have waited until the last minute, first throwing out the servants, whose loyalties lay with Catherine and the house.

As expected, the kitchen was untouched. Dru and Horty avoided anything related to menials. They were higher in the instep than the most haughty matron. Sighing in relief, she found ham, cheese, and apples in the larder. There was even a loaf of bread that was still fresh.

She next turned her attention to sleep. The unused wing had not been occupied in over a century, but the beds were intact. Another place her dear cousins had missed was the linen closet, so she had clean sheets. Slipping Peter’s letters and Damon’s gift under her pillow, she emptied her mind of problems and succumbed to the arms of Morpheus.

 * * * *

Damon returned to the ball as soon as he discovered that Catherine had fled.

“She left for Devlin Court an hour ago,” he told Jack. “I will follow at first light. Has Lady Hermione returned?”

“Not yet.” But his voice died as the lady in question appeared in the doorway on Lord James’s arm.

“My, she looks rumpled!” exclaimed Lady Beatrice, who was standing near Jack. “And her eyes!”

“You don’t suppose—” began Lady Marchgate, but she stopped as the pair approached. All eyes swiveled from Hermione to Damon.

Hermione curtsied to Lady Beatrice. “I must beg your forgiveness for my childish behavior this Season,” she began in a shaky voice, avoiding Damon’s eyes. Silence rippled across the ballroom. Even the orchestra fell quiet.

“What precisely have you done?” demanded the gossip.

“I exaggerated Mr. Braxton’s lies to create scandal for Lady Devlin,” admitted Hermione. “When you did not cut her, I made up new stories of my own. None of it was true.”

“Why?”

“That is the most shameful part,” said the girl, turning to ignore Lady Debenham’s furious gaze. “I was angry at her for exposing my older lies.” Gasps echoed all sides. Even Damon had not expected that. “I had coveted a title, you see,” she continued in a small voice that nevertheless reached every ear. “When Lord Devlin smiled at me last Christmas, I threw myself at him, claiming more interest than he had actually shown. He was too polite to contradict me so I was able to make him appear infatuated. I continued this dishonorable course in London, hoping that public pressure would force him to offer for me. But he refused. And he was right. My behavior was unworthy of my breeding. I have learned my lesson and only seek to repair the damage my plotting caused.”

“Very prettily said,” replied Lady Beatrice, but everyone saw the triumphant look she directed at a teeth-gnashing Lady Debenham. “We can forgive a youthful mistake – as long as it is not repeated.”

“It won’t be,” promised Lord James. “Lady Hermione has done me the honor of accepting my hand.”

“Thank you for your forbearance, my lady. I will strive to be worthy of it,” Hermione said, curtsying again before turning to accept congratulations from the crowd.

“That wasn’t necessary,” Damon murmured when it was his turn.

“It was to me,” she countered. “It was the best way I could think of to make amends.”

“Let that be the last fabrication,” he urged, then resumed his normal voice to offer his regards.

James waited until Hermione was speaking to Lady Marchgate. “Thank you, Devlin,” he murmured. “She, too, underestimated me. Perhaps it is time to adopt more sober attire. My father has granted me a seat in the Commons.”

“Then you have much to celebrate.”

 * * * *

Damon rolled over, but the bed was just as uncomfortable in his new position. Where would Catherine have spent the night? It had been midnight when she left, so she was unlikely to have got far. How much money did she have? That was another worry, for she had no idea of travel costs. Two nights at inns and several changes of horses would leave her in dire straits by the time she reached Devlin. Of course, Gordy may have got funds from Simms. It was a question he should have asked earlier, but he had not thought of it.

He again shifted, trying to fall asleep, for he faced a grueling journey if he could not catch up with her in the morning, but sleep was impossible. He tossed and turned through what was left of the night, memories and fears warring in his mind. If only he had met his responsibilities! He had left her unprotected after her family died and again after their wedding. If he had ignored his troops to such an extent, they would have been cut to ribbons – which was exactly what society had done to Cat.

He finally gave up and summoned Tucker.

“She what?” he repeated incredulously.

“She left ’er maid behind,” repeated Tucker. “And Gordy.”

“Then who is driving?”

“Barney.”

Damon glared.

“The ’ead groom. ’E’s capable enough.”

“And how did that come about?” he asked in an ominous voice.

“’Twas Gordy’s night off.”

He sighed. There was nothing he could do about it except order Brigit to accompany Tucker in the baggage coach. As dawn brightened the sky, he tooled his curricle around Berkeley Square, dodged several gentlemen weaving their way home to bed, and headed for Somerset.

The day brought both good and bad news. She was headed for Devlin, as he had expected, but she had not stopped for the night. Nor was she stopping for meals, opting for food baskets that she could eat while on the road. He should have suspected as much when he discovered that Brigit was still in London. What else could she have done without a maid to give her countenance? He cursed her haste and cursed Barney for allowing such abuse.

And he worried.

Why had she left? Did she hate him? He could hardly expect otherwise. He had never understood Mayfair. Though he had often been in town, his sojourns had been too short for him to really become part of society. He should have known how the
ton
would react. His ignorance had allowed Hermione to manipulate him into hurting Catherine, who might never forgive him.

Was that why she was in such a hurry? Or had something besides Hermione’s vitriol driven her from town? Surely the urgency could not be so great that she had to push a servant to total exhaustion. It was not like her to misuse the staff. But perhaps she did not have enough money for inns.

His own exhaustion was growing. By evening – which arrived early due to a heavy cloud cover – he could no longer sustain the pace. Though every thought screamed to continue, he knew that it was foolish to do so. He had made up at least half of her lead, but he risked driving into a ditch if he followed his heart.

And so he halted. But despite the sleepless night and hurried journey, he could find no rest. Catherine’s charges mocked him –
arrogant, dictatorial, selfish.
And she had a point. His treatment of her since his return was not what she was accustomed to expect from him. He had forgot that she was an intelligent girl with a strong will. One did not coerce Cat. One persuaded.

Like the summer she was fourteen. Her favorite horse had broken a foreleg. Any horseman knew that the injury could not be mended; the only remedy was to put the animal out of its misery. Peter could not face breaking the news, so the job fell to Damon. He had taken her aside, explained the injury, and described the pain the horse would suffer. He had told her how badly the horse would limp even if they managed the impossible and got the bone to heal. She had cried, of course, and had been saddened at the loss, but in the end she had agreed that no other course was possible. It was typical of the way he had helped her through the trials of childhood. Why in God’s name had he not remembered that sooner?

He rolled over on the lumpy bed and buried his head in the pillow. He had not offered one word of comfort or explanation since his return. Instead, he’d issued orders and expected her unquestioning compliance – as if she had been one of his subalterns. He had not yet made the switch back to civilian life. On the Peninsula, instant obedience was essential, often marking the difference between survival and death. But Catherine would resent being treated as a servant – especially after spending so many years in just that capacity.

Somehow he would have to make it up to her, and he must start by telling her exactly what he had done and why. It was too late to change the decisions he had made, so he could only pray that she would agree once she had all the facts. If not, his enemies could gloat over the unmitigated disaster he had made of his life. Now all he had to do was find her.

 * * * *

He did not catch up with Catherine the next day, and stopping to ask questions took time. It was nearly midnight when he finally arrived at Devlin Court.

She wasn’t there.

She had never been there.

Too tired to think, he collapsed into bed, postponing further action until morning.

Chapter Eighteen

“Where am I?” Heart pounding, Catherine jerked upright in bed, but one look at the dusty room brought memory surging back.

Ridgway was in ruins. Her prayer that the vandalism was less than she recalled died when she entered the drawing room. It was hopeless. Even the ceiling was damaged. She kept her eyes grimly on the floor as she crossed the great hall and climbed the stairs. Another view of the desecrated paneling would turn her stomach.

The library was better. Its furniture was intact, though the globes were ruined. Books had been dumped off the shelves, but they were in good condition, as were the ledgers. Her cousins had no inkling of how important the records were to the estate’s future.

She set to work straightening the books. Most lay directly beneath their accustomed places, so sorting was easier than it might have been. Her cousins lacked all sense. They had destroyed furniture that was already falling apart yet left intact a library that included many valuable first editions. She smoothed the cover of a 1612 copy of
The Tempest,
Shakespeare’s last finished work. What fools!

She was halfway around the room when she picked up a slip-cased volume that was lighter than its size suggested. Puzzled, she pulled out the book. Its center was hollow but far from empty, containing the paperwork for investments totaling nearly fifty thousand pounds, recorded under the name Henry Graveston. A bag held over a hundred gemstones, with ten thousand pounds in large banknotes tucked underneath.

Plopping into a chair, she stared at the fortune spread across the desktop. It had to be the money Uncle Henry had stolen from her trust. He was wily enough to have made plans in case his scheme was exposed, but why had he not taken these when he fled? Not that it mattered. Her own situation was now very different. She need not enter service after all. Placing everything into a secret drawer in her father’s game table, she set the hollow book on the shelf and continued her work.

An hour later footsteps echoed in the great hall. Hoping the servants had returned, she hurried out to the minstrel’s gallery. Sidney Braxton looked up, his face set in a satisfied smirk.

“Some inheritance,” he gloated. “My sisters know how to repay insults.”

“Aided and abetted by their brother, I presume. It is a small mind that stoops to spite.”

“So your sudden rise to the aristocracy has turned you into another judgmental harridan. You would not have sung such a tune before.”

“Why are you here?” Anyone would decry a crime of such magnitude, but there was no point in starting a fight when they were alone.

“You destroyed my expectations. You owe it to me to undo the damage.”

“Air-dreaming again? I owe you nothing.”

“That’s not how the moneylenders see it. I need something I can pawn or they will make an example of me.”

She laughed. “Help yourself, Sidney. Your loving sisters destroyed every valuable in the place, and your father robbed me of all but a rundown estate. What do you think has been supporting you all these years. I couldn’t give you more even if I wanted to.”

“You lie!” His voice turned shrill as he mounted the stairs. “I got nothing from you. My allowance was too small to cover even tradesmen’s bills.” Something in his eyes had changed when he realized that nothing was left. His face now wore the look of an animal at bay. “You always considered yourself better than us, didn’t you? But you will sing a different tune from now on. His bloody lordship will never trust you after your antics in town. Not that he will have time to think about them. Society suspects him of attempted murder. The authorities will keep him busy for years.”