Lady Silence (11 page)

Damon swore, raised his chin, and while
peering down his nose at the mirror, gave his cravat one last
disgusted tweak. As if it actually mattered what The Dreadful
Drucilla thought. Then again, perhaps Briggs was right. What could
it hurt to trot out his uniform for dinner each night? One less
thing for the witch to complain about.
Hell and the devil
, what was wrong with him? He
hadn’t even met the woman. His entire opinion of Drucilla
Moretaine, was based on what his mama had told him. Ashby’s wife
could be a charming young woman who simply could not abide to live
in the powerful shadow of her mother-in-law.

No . . . that dog wouldn’t fight. Over the
years he had received letters from Ashby, as well as from his mama.
Letters distinguished by what they did not say. Letters full of
politics, social gatherings, and sporting events; yet, except for
the first halcyon days of the earl’s marriage, they had been
letters devoid of the slightest hint of connubial bliss.

“
Pack the uniform,” Damon ordered.
“And, Briggs . . . kindly do not refer to my mother’s companion as
‘the little miss.’ She gives herself enough airs as it is. I
suspect her encroaching ways are far more likely to upset our
hostess than my lack of wardrobe.”

“
Ah, but she’s a taking little thing,
sir. Seems quite like one of the family.”

“
Enough!” the colonel roared. “Pack
everything fit for an earl’s country seat. We leave at nine in the
morning.” If he could roust his mama out of bed. Which he very much
doubted.

Colonel Farr’s fears proved justified. In
spite of the dowager countess’s concern for her elder son, their
cavalcade did not depart until half ten. Damon, knowing good
manners would have him sitting with his back to the horses, avoided
an intimate all-day tangling of his long legs with those of the
diminutive Katy Snow, by choosing to ride beside the carriage. From
the eagerness of his stallion’s gate, he could tell that Volcán was
pleased to be on the road again, moving out into territory unknown
to the Arabian-bred horse. Blasted animal was probably already
sniffing for the smell of gunpowder, pricking his ears for the roar
of cannons and the crack of rifle fire.

Well,
he
was not. Though, in truth, the thought of a
confrontation between his mother and his brother’s wife was more
than a little daunting. At least that little baggage Katy Snow
looked more the thing. Odd, but sight of the plain brown gown she
was wearing today had brought back a flash of the long-ago child in
the ugly dress gazing at him defiantly, equal to equal. It was not,
he realized, his mama’s indulgence that had given the girl notions
above her station. Pride, even arrogance, had always been there.
His mother’s patronage had only given the chit the office to
display it.

Strange. He should have remembered that
before. Not that it mattered, for Katy Snow was of no importance.
She was a mere convenience to his mama, to himself. They could, of
course, manage quite well without her. He was, after all, on his
way to a reunion with the brother who had taught him to play
jackstraws, draughts, and chess. The brother who cheered his first
efforts in the saddle, helped him lift his first shotgun. The
brother to whom he had returned the favor by steering the newly
made earl around London’s more earthy attractions, including his
first visit to a bawdy house. That Ashby had preferred his library
and his club to gaming and whoring had made Damon shake his head at
the time. But now the memory brought a fond smile, for hadn’t it
turned out that the adventurous brother had a broad streak of the
recluse as well?

Damon’s smile faded. Home two months,
and he was only now visiting Castle Moretaine. Hell and the devil,
he’d burrowed in at Farr Park, as if trying to shut the whole world
out. Like a fox gone to ground while the hunters circled and the
pack sniffed for a scent. It was high time he stopped cowering and
licking his wounds. And well past time he paid a visit to the home
of his childhood. To the great, sprawling country seat of the Earls
of Moretaine. To the great, sprawling,
inconvenient
pile of stone that was Castle
Moretaine. A pity the lords of Moretaine had always been
politically adept, keeping the right face to both monarch and
Parliament, their home never suffering the fate of being
demolished, as had so many of England’s castles. But, eventually,
the stones of the massive curtain wall had been used to fill in the
moat and add to the village, a mile away. The living area had been
expanded with each generation, until the bailey—in a final burst of
construction in the mid-seventeenth century—had become nothing more
than a sizable courtyard. Damon sighed as he looked at the results.
A hodge-podge of architecture it might be, but it was the home of
his childhood, the principal seat of the family Farr.

Damon patted Volcán’s neck to indicate his
appreciation of the horse keeping to a steady trot even though his
rider’s mind was obviously wandering. A great campaigner, Volcán.
Damon glanced back, making certain that the two coaches—one with
his mother and Katy, the other with Briggs, the countess’s maid
Archer, and the remainder of the luggage, were still following
sedately behind.

They were. Colonel Farr sighed. The
incongruity of a veteran of nearly seven years of war, atop his
charger, leading a cavalcade composed of women and servants through
the serenity of the Cotswolds, struck him with force. This was what
he wanted, was it not? No challenges, no responsibilities, no—

Damon spurred Volcán into a gallop.
John Coachman knew the way. In the peaceful green hills of
Gloucestershire lieutenant colonels were superfluous. As he tore
down the road,
ventre à
terre
, Damon Farr reached for his saber.

But, of course, it wasn’t there.

The sun was nearing the western horizon when
they approached the great wrought-iron gates that barred the long
drive leading to Castle Moretaine. Dusk flirted with the trees as
the gatekeeper rushed out, stumbling over his own feet in his
eagerness to welcome home the prodigal mama and son. Ah, but he’d
not pay for drinks at The Golden Lion for a month or more! Fancy
that young scamp a colonel, and looking like his face would crack
if he smiled. But the dowager, now there was a one. Not a day older
than she when she left, not a day. And the young miss with her, a
real looker, she was. Going to set the tomcats on the prowl, yes,
indeed. And that grand Lady up there in the Castle wasn’t going to
like it, not one bit.

The gatekeeper followed the progress of the
coach until it disappeared around a curve in the heavily forested
park. Damon Farr and the dowager had come home. And none too soon.
None too soon at all.

“
A goodly part of it is fourteenth
century,” said Serena, Lady Moretaine, to her young companion,
whose nose was pressed to the coach window. “The cloisters around
the courtyard were enclosed at a later date, though the Gothic
style was imitated quite nicely, I think. Of course, the curtain
wall, moat, and drawbridge were taken down long ago.”

Katy knew her mouth was agape, her eyes
reflecting astonishment.
Castle
Moretaine
. Truly, she had thought it only a name,
given, perhaps, to some long-ago structure on the site. But it had
towers, turrets, even a glimpse of crenelations. An enchanted
castle, shining in light-colored stone, shaded pink by the last
rays of the sunset. Surely such a place could not house a Wicked
Witch, who might be on visiting terms with Baron Oxley and his
family.

They clattered through an opening in the
front wall and entered a vast courtyard, the gravel drive
illuminated by a veritable wall of torches. Obviously, they were
expected. On the inner side of the castle, Katy noted, the windows
were much larger, with Gothic arches and diamond panes of glass.
She had fallen asleep and waked in a fairy wonderland. This could
not be real.

But she could smell the acrid scent of the
torches, see the reality of an entire retinue of liveried footmen
lined up to serve them, putting down steps, unstrapping luggage,
directing the coachman to the stables. Katy thought she caught a
shine in the very proper butler’s eye as he solemnly welcomed the
dowager countess to the home in which she had reigned for so many
years. And, quite possibly, there was a suspicious moisture in Lady
Moretaine’s eyes as well. And then the colonel was beside them,
offering his mother his arm. Katy trailed them, six feet behind,
shrinking into her role, deliberately cloaking herself in
invisibility. For at Castle Moretaine silence would not be
enough.

~ * ~

Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, they were
informed by Rankin, who had been butler for nearly as long as Damon
could remember, awaited her guests in the new drawing room—a
designation used to distinguish the seventeenth century addition
from the Lord’s Withdrawing Room, part of the original keep. The
hall in the “new” wing was quite splendid, Katy thought, with a
fine double staircase, painted white, leading to a first-floor
gallery above. She was, however, disappointed by nary a sign of
suits of armor, chain mail, or crossed swords and lances. But they
must have been somewhere in this great sprawling pile for the
colonel was saying, “I always liked the old part best. Ashby and I
fought countless battles up and down the winding stone staircases
with our wooden swords. Knocked over a good bit of armor as well,
as I recall.”

“
And fenced,” said his mother
reprovingly. “Up and over the trestle tables—”

Damon chortled. “Ah, yes, we alternated
knights with cavaliers and roundheads. We drew straws to determine
who must play the roundhead, as neither of us wished to do so. Good
memories,” he said to his mother, who had halted beside him, with
Katy Snow hovering in the background as a good companion should. “I
am glad we came,” Damon added softly. “I had thought to put
childhood aside with the rest of my life, but it’s good to see the
old pile. And Ashby. He’s a good man . . . he has done his duty
here, as I did in the army.”

His mama laid her gloved fingers over his
arm. “I am proud of my sons. Of both of you.”

Damon flashed a genuine smile that dazzled
both females present. “Then onward!” he cried, as light-hearted as
Katy had ever seen him. “Let us beard the castle’s lord and lady in
their den.”

Rankin, stately in his livery, had been
patiently waiting at the foot of the grand staircase. Ascertaining
that the dowager and her son were once again ready to proceed, he
led them up to the gallery, where he threw open a great studded oak
door. He stepped inside, threw back his shoulders, and announced in
stentorian tones, “The Dowager Countess of Moretaine, Colonel Damon
Farr, and”—he lowered his voice to a near whisper—“Miss Katy
Snow.”

Katy, mindful of the many warnings she had
received, tried not to wince at being singled out in this fashion.
She should have stayed below, asked to be shown to her room. But
when she hung back with Briggs and Archer, who were directing the
unloading of the luggage, the dowager had beckoned her forward with
an imperious wave of her hand. So here she was, being announced in
an earl’s drawing room. As if she were a real person, not Katy Snow
who was supposed to be unseen as well as unheard.

Polite, but cool, words were being exchanged.
Katy, keeping her eyes fixed on the hem of the dowager’s traveling
costume, was surprised when her employer’s voice suddenly rose.
“And where,” she demanded, “is my son?”

“
Moretaine sends his regrets, my lady,”
said the Countess of Moretaine, “but the doctor has confined him to
his chamber until he is quite recovered from his chill. A ghastly
place, Scotland,” she added with a shudder. “Why he insists on
going there each autumn I cannot imagine. We shall have tea, then I
shall have a cold collation sent to your rooms. Moretaine will
receive you in the morning.” Damon studied their hostess with
considerable interest. He supposed the formality of referring to
her husband of four years by his title was not uncommon,
particularly in women who reveled in having snabbled a titled
husband. Still and all, he could not like it.

And yet a man would have to be blind not to
be dazzled by the countess’s sophisticated beauty. Her hair was the
glossy black of a raven’s wing, with the nearest of the room’s two
fireplaces burnishing blue highlights into strands artfully
arranged around her piquant face. Her eyes were a rich chocolate,
he thought, though the flickering candlelight made it difficult to
tell anything other than their icy indifference. Everything about
her spoke of her position among society’s elite. He had no doubt
her gown of burgundy satin was in the latest style, as was her
coiffure, so much shorter than his mother’s . . . or Katy Snow’s.
His brother’s wife was lovely . . . and cold as a frozen pass in
the Spanish mountains.

“
Colonel Farr,” said the vision of
loveliness, proffering a sudden smile that would have had most men
panting at her feet, “do sit by me and tell of your adventures in
the war. Moretaine has so regaled us with your exploits that seeing
you is quite like looking at a legend.”

Damon—social façade firmly in place, if a bit
grim—seated himself in a claret velvet armchair with ornately
carved arms, then found himself as silent as Katy Snow. She, he
noted out of the corner of his eye, had slipped onto a upright
chair set back against the wall in a corner as far away from the
Farr family as she could get. Good. That was the proper place for
the little minx.