Lady Silence (21 page)

The colonel’s eyes narrowed to slits, his
voice taking on a grim quality his officers would have recognized
as boding no good for the person on the receiving end of his wrath.
“I did not mistake your words, my lady,” he replied coldly. “I
merely question their veracity.”

“
How dare you?” Drucilla shrieked,
hitting her fan so hard against the arm of her chair that the
fragile carved ivory sticks cracked.

“
I dare because you have been childless
for four years. Because the timing of your grand announcement is
far too convenient to be believable.”

“
You are no gentleman!”

“
I am a colonel. It would appear that
will have to be sufficient,” Damon returned, knowing from painful
experience when to concede a battle he could not win. If Drucilla,
wife of Ashby, late Earl of Moretaine, declared she was
enceinte
, then the title would go
into abeyance. Damon Farr would still control the estate as
executor of his brother’s Will, but his tenure as earl had been
short-lived. For if Drucilla was delivered of a son, the infant
would be the new Earl of Moretaine.

“
Drucilla,” he added quietly, “if this
child is indeed my brother’s, I should be the happiest of men, for
I do not want the title. I never have. If this is a figment of your
hysterical imagination, then I can only offer my pity. Time will
surely solve our dilemma. But if you are planning to put some
cuckoo in my brother’s place, beware. You will find me an
implacable foe.”

“
Such a fierce scowl, brother—when you
know quite well that half the nests in the
ton
have cuckoos in their midst.”

“
Not for heirs!”

Drucilla sighed, running her fingers lightly
over the folds of the silk and lace overlying her abdomen. “Perhaps
not. But poor Ashby . . . I had almost given up hope. Such a
delightful surprise!”

“
Drucilla, I swear to you—”

She laughed, a light tinkling sound, as
if she hadn’t a care in the world. “As you well know, there is
nothing you can do,
Mister
Farr. My son will be the next Earl of Moretaine.”

Damon very much feared that was true.

Except it was highly doubtful the child
would carry a drop of Farr blood.
Ashby, I
have failed you. Forgive me.

“
You have a caller, miss. Mapes says
for you to come at once. He’s shown him into the morning room.” The
maid bobbed a curtsy, as if Katy were a mere guest at Farr Park,
and took herself off. A caller? Someone was actually willing to
speak to her? Perhaps it was Mr. Trembley. But four days seemed
much too soon for the solicitor to have acquired any news of her
grandparents. Defiantly, Katy wrapped a colorful fringed shawl over
one of the dark Castle Moretaine gowns that served as
semi-mourning, and hurried downstairs. The morning room. Evidently,
she was no longer thought fit to receive guests in the drawing
room.

Or perhaps the caller did not meet the
butler’s standards for the drawing room. Katy’s steps faltered as
Elijah Palmer rose at her entrance. So far since her return, she
had managed to avoid Farr Park’s steward. She liked the blond,
broad-shouldered and good-natured Mr. Palmer and knew quite well he
liked her. She could not bear to see the look of betrayal in yet
another dear friend’s eyes.

“
Katy. Miss Snow, ” he amended hastily.
“I hope you do not object to my call. I have not had the pleasure
of encountering since you returned.”

“
Not at all. I am pleased to see you.”
Was he not angry? All she saw in his fine blue eyes was a touch of
sadness. Katy settled into a barrel-shaped klismos chair,
indicating with a wave of her hand that Mr. Palmer should return to
the chair he had occupied when she came in. But he remained
standing.

“
I . . . I . . .” Elijah Palmer
hesitated, tried again. “It has come to my attention that you are
in an awkward situation, Miss Snow. That everyone seems to have
forgotten you were but a child when you came here, that you could
not be expected to understand what you were doing.”

“
But I grew up, Mr. Palmer. I should
have rectified the situation.”

“
Eighteen is still very young. Far too
young to venture out into the world, alone.”

So much emotion swept through her, Katy
swayed, clutching the arm of her chair for support. What a good,
kind, perfectly
wonderful
man. Had he heard about her visit to Mr. Trembley? Or did he
merely guess her intention to once again run away?

“
I would not have the courage to speak
else,” Mr. Palmer was saying, “though when I mentioned the matter
to the earl—the new earl—I felt I had his blessing.” The Farr Park
steward leaned forward in his chair, his good countryman’s face
alight with hope. “Katy . . . I offer you my name and my
protection. I have wanted you for my wife for years now. Marry me,
Katy. I will never let them hurt you, and in time the gossip will
die.” He reached out, seized her hand. “Please, my dearest girl,
say you will be mine.”

~ * ~

It was the best offer she would ever have.
And she had sat there like a ninny, gaping at the poor man as if he
had suddenly grown two heads.

Once again, Katy scrunched down on a
footstool before the cozy fire in her bedchamber, chin cupped in
her hands, and railed at her sad lack of common sense. Elijah
Palmer was a fine man . . . and a friend. How many women would
consider themselves fortunate to marry a friend instead of a
stranger chosen for title, wealth, or ancient family name?

He was the only person who
understood
.

Love . . . desire were ephemeral, though
where she had acquired such a cynical notion Katy was unsure. But
friendship was forever . . .

Not in her case. Her friends had fled like
rats from a sinking ship.

No one likes a liar.

Yet Elijah Palmer understood.

And so, knowing quite well she should
tell him he deserved a woman who would love him as he should be
loved, she had compounded her deceptions by asking him to give her
time. The dear man had looked so pleased that she had not rejected
him outright . . . he had even raised her hand to his lips in a
marvelously old-fashioned gesture that had nearly broken her heart.
Why,
why
could she not love
such a fine specimen as Mr. Palmer? As Lucinda Challenor she might
have looked higher, but Katy Snow had no such
expectations.

Lucinda Challenor, the wretched imposter, was
firmly ensconced at Oxley Hall, and even if Katy could prove her
claim, she would not do so. For her overly trusting grandfather,
the bishop, had named Baron Oxley her guardian. A disaster of
catastrophic proportions.

She would never go back!

Yet it was not right to keep Mr. Palmer
waiting, like a second string to her bow. Particularly when the
first string was snapped in two, as irretrievably shattered as her
heart. Sounds of scurrying in the hall, the faint lilt of voices,
broke Katy’s reverie. More visitors? Impossible. No one but Elijah
Palmer was speaking to her.

Footsteps on the stairs, Mapes’s
ringing tones giving orders to the footmen. A sharp command in a
female voice.
Archer?
A thud
in the corridor. A trunk.
The countess’s
trunk?

The dowager was back! But why? Katy rushed
toward the door of her bedchamber, stopped abruptly with her hand
on the knob. Her forehead sank against the wood. She was no longer
the countess’s pampered pet. She was the Disgraced Deceiver, the
all-but-prisoner awaiting her fate. She no longer had a right to
pop in and out of the countess’s rooms at will.

And yet . . .

Katy inched open the door, peered into the
hall. At the moment all was quiet. Damon had not returned, of
course. His responsibilities were too great. Unless . . . he had
made the journey solely for the purpose of dealing with Katy
Snow.

She tip-toed down the hall, turned down a
side corridor, and cracked open the door to the narrow gallery
above the bookroom. Not a sound. Well, of course it was empty. Even
if Damon had come home, he would scarce make the bookroom his first
stop.

Nonetheless . . . moving silently as a
mouse, very like the Katy of old, she slid past the rows of dark
leather bindings engraved in gold until she could see behind
Damon’s desk, which had been partially hidden beneath the overhang
of the gallery.
Ah! He was
there
. Katy fell to her knees, clutching the
balusters, peering down at her infuriating love.

Slumped in his comfortable chair, his face
dark with misery, he was glaring at the brandy decanter perched
before him, his fingers beating a tattoo on the leather blotter. He
looked . . . defeated. At the end of his tether. Almost as bad as
the soldier who had returned to Farr Park last summer.

Damon. Her love. Who had once been her
friend.

There was only one thing to do.

Katy rose and tip-toed to the narrow spiral
staircase at one corner of the gallery. Ever-so-softly, she
descended.

But he was a soldier. She was only half-way
down the dizzying staircase when he barked, “For God’s sake stop
pussy-footing! Come over here and sit.” Like a gimlet-eyed predator
stalking prey, he watched her every step of the way.

Katy’s chair was exactly where it had been
before they left for Castle Moretaine—at his right hand, not two
feet from his own. She sat. Questioning green eyes met turbulent
gray. “What has happened?” she asked.

The colonel steepled his fingers, his lower
lip jutting into self-mockery. “It seems,” he told her, “that I am
to be an uncle.”

It took her a moment.
Uncle?
“Drucilla?” she
breathed.

Damon snorted. “Of course Drucilla. Could
anyone else manage to stir up such a bumblebroth?” After being
pierced by Katy’s steady, accusing gaze, he qualified his remark.
“Believe me, child, your crimes pale in comparison to this. The day
after the funeral, with Drucilla still demanding the entire
collection of family jewels, my mother decided to tell me about her
escapades. Redcliffe, it seems, was far from her only lover. It is
likely the House of Farr is about to hatch a cuckoo. Moretaine will
be lost to us forever.”

Katy bit her lip, offered the only comfort
that came to mind. “But you said you did not want it, the title or
the lands.”

“
I do not! But I’ll not see that
rapacious whore sitting in my brother’s home, laughing over her
triumph.”

Inwardly, Katy sighed. They both knew he had
absolutely no choice. “We have nine months to pray for a girl,” she
ventured.

“
Seven. It seems Drucilla very
graciously waited until she was certain. Or so she
says.”

“
Is she shamming it?”

“
Doubtful. She’s a schemer, inclined to
hysterics only when they serve her purpose.” Damon tapped the tips
of his fingernails against the glass decanter. “And to think I
wondered why my mother called her The Dreadful
Drucilla.”

“
You are home to stay then?” Katy
asked, her voice little above a whisper.

“
My brother’s many affairs require a
veritable bevy of solicitors to settle the estate, but I am
executor, so I fear I must return to Moretaine on a regular basis.
I cannot like it, but I have no choice. The least I can do for
Ashby is make certain his affairs are not mismanaged . . . until
the outcome is clear.”

“
But surely you will be Trustee, and
still in charge, even if the child is a boy?”

“
Indeed. How absolutely delightful.
Twenty-one years of hell fighting Drucilla’s whims every step of
the way.”

“
It
must
be a girl!” Katy cried. Then she scowled,
her chin firming into that determined line Damon had come to know
so well. “Though it is not at all fair,” she qualified, “that girls
should be so scorned. Our laws are archaic. Even the monarchy may
pass to a female, but not some peer’s entailed acres.”

“
Enough, child. A discussion of the
rights of women has no appeal at the moment.” How very strange, he
thought. In this dark moment it was Katy Snow who stood his friend.
A Katy Snow who no longer had to settle for nods or shakes of her
head, to cryptic notes scribbled on scraps of paper. Katy, who
understood his moods, tolerated his temper. Katy, who refused to
give in to his lust.

Katy, the Deceiver.

Whom he had wronged.

He must send her away. There could be no
place for her here. Yet what would they do without her? She had
infected the very air of his house. When she was happy, Farr Park
sang. The rooms were bright, faces wreathed in smiles. When Katy
was sad, as she was now, the atmosphere was cold and dark. People
crept about with long disapproving faces, as lugubrious as grave
diggers.

Would Farr Park come back to life if he sent
Katy, the deceiver, away?

Hell’s hounds!
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Damon shoved the brandy
decanter to the far side of the desk. “Miss Snow,” he pronounced,
“it is my considered opinion that my mother has suffered enough. If
she is willing to tolerate your presence—not forgive, you
understand, merely tolerate—then I believe we should go on as we
did before. At least until I can think what must be done with you.
I accepted you into this household, however foolish that may have
been, and I feel responsible for you. I cannot simply thrust you
out the door and forget about you.” Now there was an admission he
should not have made! He’d never control the arrogant little minx
now.