Lady Silence (15 page)

“
Splendid,” cried Miss Challenor. “A
delightful tale. I can just see the column riding away, scarlet
coats shining in the Spanish sun—”

“
Blue.”

“
Blue?” Miss Challenor’s green eyes
went wide.

“
My regiment—blue jackets with orange
facings,” Damon told her.

“
Oh.” Miss Challenor pouted. “’Tis not
so striking a picture, I fear.”

“
Now, now, missy,” said Squire
Richardson, “soldiering is a hard thing. A pity young girls can’t
see beyond the uniform.”

“
Tell us about the Iberian ladies,
colonel,” said Mrs. Richardson before her husband could launch into
a tirade against the follies of the young. “Are they as dark and
lovely as everyone says?”

“
Indeed, ma’am,” Damon replied easily,
“but we were more likely to see the camp followers, who
were—ah—seldom the best that Portugal and Spain had to offer. Most
noble ladies were confined behind
miradors
, intricately carved wooden screens that
shield the balconies overlooking the street. The ladies could see
us, but we could not see them. It is, I believe, a conceit borrowed
from the Mussulmen, who conquered the region at one
time.”

“
Merciful heavens,” murmured Mrs.
Richardson, “I had no idea.”

“
Come, Colonel, don’t tell us you never
saw a single beauty?” said the squire’s son, Joel, with a grin. Not
much younger than Damon himself and confidant of his position in
the world, he did not hesitate to tease an earl’s younger
brother.

Taking no offense, Damon responded with
a rueful grin of his own. “Wellington seemed to have an attraction
for women. They flocked to him, like iron shavings to a magnet.
Why, when he was as cold as an icicle, I never could understand,
but he enticed women from behind their
miradors
as easily as the Pied Piper led rats
from Hamlin. No matter where we were—except for that time in
convent,” he amended hastily—“there were always lovely ladies to
brighten our days.”

“
Surely not on the battlefield,” huffed
Mr. Swann, father of the nubile Edwina.

“
Ah, but there are always great gaps of
time between battles,” said the colonel, his spirits lightening
somewhat as he recalled a number of moments of camaraderie,
sparkling wit, dark eyes, lace mantillas, and, sometimes, much
more.

The squire harrumphed. The vicar’s wife
coughed. Joel Richardson laughed out loud. Gabriel, the vicar’s
son, turned his face away to hide a grin.

“
Naughty boy,” said Drucilla, but her
eyes gleamed with mirth.

In her corner, Katy dug her nails into
her palms.
Horrid man
. Why
she liked him she could not imagine.

“
My lady,” cried an upstairs maid,
bursting into the room, “vicar says you must come at once.
“Colonel, he asked for you as well. And for my lord’s
mama.”

Katy, heedless of the presence of the
Hardcastles, rushed to Lady Moretaine’s side, helping her beloved
dowager to her feet. The colonel took his mother’s arm, and the
three rushed out, leaving Drucilla, Countess of Moretaine, still
sitting in her chair. Gradually, as shock settled into reality,
Mrs. Dearborn, the vicar’s wife, closely followed by Mrs.
Richardson, rose and went to the countess’s side. They might find
the Countess of Moretaine a trifle sharper than they cared for, but
it was their duty to be of help in times of crisis. With gentle
words and great care, the two women brought the countess to her
feet and escorted her from the room.

~ * ~

“
You must stay by me every moment,
child,” Serena Moretaine said to Katy, as they sat in the drawing
room, two black crows perched in a vast field of green damask,
cream satin brocade, silk wallcoverings hung with priceless
paintings, and seemingly acres of gilt. “With Drucilla prostrate
upon her bed, I must manage alone, for Damon will be obliged to
move about, speaking to each of the guests.”

Katy, who knew quite well that the
Hardcastles would be among the mourners returning to the castle
after the earl’s funeral, shuddered. In the dramatic flurry that
had ended the tea party, she had escaped detection, but what if
Oxley and his wife had noticed her? What if they were using the
funeral to take another look at the dowager’s companion? Nearly
seven years had gone by. Surely no hint of the spirited,
overindulged child could be seen in Lady Moretaine’s silent,
demure, drably garbed companion—

“
I have never told a soul why I left
the Dower House,” the countess was saying. “It’s a lovely house,
not more than a mile from here, and I shall not begrudge Drucilla
use of it, if that is her wish. Poor girl . . . her grief seems
more genuine than I expected.”

More like Drucilla’s grief was for her
loss of position, Katy thought grimly. For the ignominy of
following in her mother-in-law’s footsteps, becoming yet another
Dowager Countess of Moretaine. If Drucilla had a son, she could
reign here in triumph until his majority. Without a son, she would
be expected to vacate Castle Moretaine, leaving it to the use of
the new owner.
Damon Farr, Earl of
Moretaine.

But Serena, her dear countess, was saying
something more. Katy gathered her wandering wits and listened with
increasingly avid attention.

“
At first,” said the dowager, “I
thought Drucilla was only flirting, practicing her wiles as young
women will. Ashby, dear Ashby, was . . . a quiet man. I fear he was
not exciting,” she added judiciously. “Drucilla craved more, always
more, and men flocked round her like bees to a nectar-filled
flower.” The countess flexed nervous fingers that contrasted
sharply with the stark black of her gown. “Ashby was indulgent,
perhaps too much so,” Serena sighed. “He had won a Diamond of the
First Water and was delighted—dazzled—to see her shining at the
apex of the
ton
.

“
And then one day during the Season I
paid a call at Moretaine House. A duty call, I must admit, as I had
never taken to the girl. She did not value Ashby as she should. Oh,
I saw it quite clearly. She was sometimes as sharp with him as she
was with everyone else. That is why . . .” The countess’s voice
faded, obviously considering if she could have made an error about
her daughter-in-law. She shook her head. “No, no, there can be no
doubt. I saw what I saw. When I entered Moretaine House that day in
London, Lord Redcliffe was coming down the stairs . . . My dear, I
know I should not sully your maiden ears with such things, but I
need to say this out loud, for I have kept it from Damon, and I
know he has never understood my desire to leave the Dower House,
even though he was quite splendid about allowing me to move to Farr
Park.”

Katy, fascinated, never took her gaze from
Lady Moretaine’s face.

“
A dashing rake, Redcliffe. Exactly the
sort to catch Drucilla’s notice. And”—the countess took a deep
breath—“he looked as if he had just tumbled out of bed. Certainly
his valet never turned him out in such a rumpled fashion! And
Drucilla on the gallery above,
en
déshabillé
. Oh, yes, my dear. Her dressing gown—no
more than a thin layer of silk—was wrapped over what I swear to you
was nothing at all. The windows are clerestory, and the sun was
shining, revealing, I assure you, far more of that witch than I
wished to see.

“
Well might you be shocked,” the
dowager pronounced as Katy’s eyes grew enormous. “That she should
take a lover before giving Ashby an heir. Not done, my child.
Simply not done. I turned and marched out of there, wrote
immediately to Damon for sanctuary, for I could not bear to see my
dear Ashby a cuckold.” Serena sniffed, fumbled for the handkerchief
in her reticule.

“
I suppose you think I should have told
him,” the dowager continued presently, “but I could not. It was
better to hide myself in the country for ten months of the year
than be tempted to break his heart. I hoped that when they had a
child, she would be content.”

Katy sat, hands in her lap, head down,
obviously unwilling to reveal so much as a hint of what she was
thinking.

The dowager was not fooled. Or possibly she
merely attributed her own suspicions to Katy. “I know what you’re
thinking, clever minx that you are,” the dowager added on a
resigned sigh, “though surely no one should be so skeptical at
eighteen. But you are right—if there were a child, no one could be
certain of its parentage.”

Katy nodded. Access to servants’ gossip had
left her with few illusions, including exactly how babies were
made. Though how anyone could wish to indulge in such an awkward
and surely anatomically impossible feat she could not imagine. She
supposed some people would do anything for a baby, but that did not
explain the scandal and anguish when others found themselves with
babies they did not want. Obviously, there was something she had
not yet grasped about the mating of the sexes.

The rumble of carriage wheels sounded upon
the drive. Footsteps. Rankin’s voice, subdued but clear, announced
the first of their guests. The funeral feast had begun.

“
Fox!” Damon grasped the hand of a
well-dressed gentleman near his own age, shaking it vigorously. He
turned to the slightly shorter man beside him. “Thayne. Good of you
come.”

“
Barely made it to the church, I fear.
Didn’t see the announcement until yesterday,” said Major Arthur
Foxbourne, the taller of the two men of decided military
bearing.

“
Bit like one of Old Hooky’s forced
marches, don’t you know,” added Captain Chetwin Thayne. “But we’re
old hands at that, so here we are.”

“
What good are comrades in arms if they
can’t support a man in his time of need?” Major Foxbourne
added.

“
Though we may fail to ‘my lord’ you
now and again,” said Captain Thayne. “Hard to adjust, don’t you
know. Our colonel, a lord. Calling you Moretaine don’t come
trippingly off the tongue, I can tell you.”

“
Nor to mine,” said Damon with a scowl
ferocious enough to silence both junior officers.

Ruthlessly repressing his surge of
melancholy, the new Earl of Moretaine said to the men who had
followed him through long years of war, men he knew far better than
his own brother, “You will stay, will you not? Two more in this
vast pile will scarcely cast a ripple, and old friends in time of
need are not easy to find.”

“
Of course,” said Major Foxbourne.
“Thayne?”

“
We’re both on leave with only our
mamas to miss us, alas,” said the captain. “Can’t say as I ever
slept in a castle before, though parts of this place remind me of
that convent—you recall the one, Farr?
Moretaine!
The one in Spain?”

“
I remember.” Damon’s grim features
lightened for a moment as thoughts of the almost surreal calm of
the convent flashed through his mind. He and his officers had
basked in it, savored it. It was there he had promised himself to
capture that quality in his own life and hold it tight. For a
while, an all-too-short while, he thought he had done it. “Rankin,”
the new earl called, “find rooms for these gentlemen. They will be
staying.”

After seeing that his friends were being
properly attended, Damon moved through the crowd of mourners,
accepting seemingly endless condolences, attempting to hide a wince
every time he was addressed as “my lord,” or “Moretaine.” It wasn’t
right. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He didn’t want it. Not
the title, not the responsibility, nor this monstrous sprawling
castle. He wanted to go home to Farr Park and never see any of his
ancestral properties again.

But he put on his best face, speaking with
Squire and Mrs. Richardson, proffering cordial nods to their
children. He moved on to other familiar faces, to Mr. and Mrs.
Swann, who seemed to have left their precocious daughter at home,
praise be. And then he plunged into a veritable sea of strangers,
grateful to discover Philip Winslow at his side, making
introductions, smoothing his way.

Ensuring his place in the new earl’s
household?

The vicar and his family popped up before his
gaze, like an island in a storm. After proffering his sincere
appreciation for Mr. Dearborn’s tasteful service and inspiring
eulogy, Damon slipped out the servants’ door and into the plain
ill-lit hallway behind. He leaned back against the wall and closed
his eyes, breathing hard.

What if they had not come to Castle
Moretaine? What if he had not had those last days with Ashby? The
precious time to reestablish a bond never truly severed?

And now—among all the unwanted
responsibilities of the estate—there was Drucilla.
Drucilla, the dowager
. Would she
accept life in the Dower House? He doubted it. She was a creature
of the city. He could only hope Ashby had provided enough for her
to live in town. Would she rouse herself from her bed long enough
to hear the reading of the Will? Very likely. He was unconvinced
the excess of emotion she was experiencing had anything to do with
grief.

As Damon slipped back into the immense
drawing room, he glanced at the settee on which his mother was
holding court, with Katy close beside her. She was holding up well,
A true lady, his mama. He was proud of her.