Lady Silence (24 page)

And there it was! The magnificent vista of
the Royal Crescent, overlooking a vast sweep of parkland, the lower
portion dotted with grazing cows and sheep. And then they were
turning into Brock Street, each narrow townhouse distinguished by a
colorful door or distinctive architectural touch. How delightful
that Damon had been able to lease a house here, tucked on the
narrow street between the Royal Crescent and the Circus and only a
few steps from the Upper Assembly Rooms. Not that they would be
attending the assemblies, but perhaps the countess would care to
take tea there and talk to friends. They could listen to the music
drifting in from the ballroom. Perhaps, by the end of six months of
mourning, the dowager might even visit the card room.

And only a short ways down the hill were a
choice of baths—though Katy doubted the countess would be willing
to indulge in total immersion in the midst of winter, despite the
hot temperature of the water. But the new Pump Room, built some
twenty years before, was just beyond, situated smack dab in the
Abbey churchyard. And only a few niggling steps from a shop selling
the famous Bath buns. Katy’s mouth watered at the thought. And
beyond that were streets of small shops selling nearly everything
under the sun to the many hopeful people who came to Bath to take
the waters and plunge their aching bodies into the hot springs. A
far cry from the meager offerings of the village of High Henton.
Oh, yes, Bath was truly a delightful place.

If the colonel did not care to join them,
that was his loss. Foolish man!

“
I fear you will find it a trifle
cramped,” Colonel Farr told his mother as he ushered her from the
carriage, “but a house to let in this part of town is so rare, it
was an opportunity I could not ignore.”

“
Do not be absurd,” Lady Moretaine
pronounced as they stepped up to the front door, which was painted
a rich burgundy red, accented by a shiny brass knocker, and topped
by an elegant fanlight. “It is charming and could not be more
conveniently located, for we are above the miasma of the baths and
with only a few steps to the Royal Crescent. The entire vista of
the city and surrounding hills is spread out before us.” She patted
his arm. “And it is not as if we will be entertaining.”

Fine words, Katy thought a short while later,
but compared to Farr Park, their new residence was a doll’s house.
The townhouse was a mere two rooms wide, with a long narrow hall
down the center. Drawing room, dining room, and two parlors on the
ground floor, with four bedrooms above and servants rooms in the
attics. The basement, with no more than high thin windows letting
in the light on the lower side of the slope, contained the kitchen,
a modest wine cellar, laundry, and a box room.

She would recover from this feeling of being
shut in, Katy assured herself, but somehow her explorations
continued straight out the rear door, where, to her delight, she
discovered a walled garden. Though the plants were brown and dusted
with snow and the flagstone path glimmered with patches of ice, the
garden extended the full width of the house, with perhaps as much
as a hundred feet to the far wall, where a wooden door led to a
street behind. There did not appear to be a mews, as in London.
Horses and carriages must be kept elsewhere, Katy supposed, and
sent for when needed. Not surprising in a city where streets were
so steep sedan chairs and shank’s mare were more common
transport.

In spite of the shelter of the garden’s
six-foot brick walls, Katy could only take pleasure in picturing
its awakening over the next few months. At the moment, she had no
desire to linger in air cold enough to frost her breath. The garden
was, in fact, as cold and drab as her heart when she thought of
Damon leaving them on the morrow.

Miserable man.
He had parked them here, where he could conveniently forget
about them while he chased about the countryside, hotly pursued by
Eleanore Hardcastle and the alleged Lucinda Challenor.

And fended off Drucilla’s latest dramatic
fits and starts.

Poor man. Perhaps she should feel sorry for
him.

Pooh!
If he
was taken in by the Hardcastle’s maneuverings, he deserved his
fate.

No.
No one
deserved the dire destiny of being attached by a Hardcastle. And
Katy Snow, née Lucinda Challenor, would protect him, even if it
meant a full confession.

~ * ~

“
There you are!” Drucilla, Countess of
Moretaine, swept into the estate room as a footman stood at
attention, holding open the door.

Chairs scraped over a well-worn rug as the
three gentlemen occupying the room leaped to their feet. Colonel
Farr noted with some interest that Ashby’s secretary, Philip
Winslow, appeared to be strangling on his cravat, his face an
interesting shade of strawberry puce, as Lady Moretaine’s
well-rounded belly proceeded her into the room. Castle Moretaine’s
steward, a gentleman well along in years and accustomed to the
vagaries of the aristocracy, turned a face of bland inquiry toward
the young countess.

With an impatient gesture—remarkably like a
farmwife shooing chickens, Damon thought—Lady Moretaine said to her
steward and her late husband’s secretary, “You may leave us. I wish
to speak with Colonel Farr in private.”

“
My lady,” Damon protested, “we are
nearly finished here. I will come to you in the drawing room as
soon—”

Drucilla skewered him with a glare of
outrage. “
Now
, Colonel. I
wish to speak with you now.”

Even as Damon ground his teeth, he proffered
a polite bow. While he was seating his sister-in-law in the most
comfortable chair the estate room could offer, a scratched and
faded leather of venerable age, the other two men scurried out,
Philip Winslow still suspiciously red above the high white collar
of his shirt.

“
Well, Drucilla?” Damon inquired,
finding he was having some difficulty reining in his temper. He
should not let her rile him, but she did. Every time. Making his
visits to Castle Moretaine on behalf of estate business a duty he
longed to eschew. How he could endure another twenty-one years of
this agony until the babe reached its majority he could not
imagine.

There his Nemesis sat, in yet another new
gown of mourning with falls of black lace at neck and cuffs, each
banded at the top in jet beads that seemed to have the same shine
as her raven hair. As usual, Drucilla’s cheeks and lips were
rouged, standing in sharp contrast to her almost ghostly pale face.
And—again, as usual—she was unhappy with him. An attitude she
adopted whenever she was not openly gloating about her triumph over
him.

She looked up, amber eyes seething with a
fine combination of fury and disdain. “My father tells me that you
and he are named co-guardians for my son. That I have been
completely ignored. I cannot believe Ashby could have been such a
fool. Surely he was not in his right mind. I was so certain of
being named that I did not even question the matter until Father
mentioned it during a visit last week. It is vile, Damon, perfectly
vile. I will not have it!”

The colonel, who was still standing, thrust
his hands behind his back and stared down at the countess, making a
valiant effort to mask his loathing. “The Will was quite clear on
the subject, my lady. Your father and I are named guardians for any
child, boy or girl, born posthumously to the late Earl of
Moretaine. Ashby’s clarity of mind was never in question. He knew
exactly what he was doing. You are not named. “Ashby’s friend, Lord
Hervey, and Mr. Benchley, the solicitor, are also named as
Trustees, to help oversee the estate’s finances until the child
should come of age.”

“
At twenty-five!” Drucilla
huffed.

Damon shrugged. “Hopefully, an age of reason.
I shall be most happy to relinquish my guardianship at age
twenty-one, I assure you.”

Drucilla pressed three fingers to her
forehead, then flicked them dramatically into the air. “Am I to
have nothing to say about the rearing of my son,” she cried, “my
dear boy who will be earl the moment he is born?”

Damon almost applauded. For some seconds
silence hung between them while he rejected the succession of pithy
comments that chased through his mind. “Drucilla . . . no one
wishes to take away your rights as a mother,” he said at last. “And
I am sure your father and I will listen to your opinions about
governesses, schools, and such. But it was Ashby’s decision to make
us guardians, and we will exercise that right with care. We want
only the best for Ashby’s child.”

“
Liar!” Drucilla spat at him, her
fingers clenching the arms of her chair. “You wish my babe to the
devil. My Moretaine, my little earl. How can I possibly trust you
to take proper care of him when you would be earl if he is
gone.”

Damon’s hands tightened into fists. He closed
his eyes, took a deep breath. “Drucilla, I fear grief has addled
your wits. I will do my best to forget you ever made such an
unwarranted remark. My duty to my brother is first and foremost in
my life. Whether you are delivered of a boy or a girl, I will
endeavor to see the child is raised in the rank, luxury, and
education befitting a Farr. Even . . .,” Damon added softly,
enunciating every word with cutting clarity, “even if I have grave
doubts about the child’s paternity.”

The countess opened her mouth, but got
no farther than a sibilant hiss of outrage before Damon overrode
her indignation. “I will be watching, Drucilla. If the heir to the
House of Farr grows up to resemble Redcliffe or Philip Winslow or
any other on a considerable list my agent has compiled, I will make
life as difficult as possible for you. I loved my brother and would
love and protect any child of his body. And, alas, the law forces
me to respect the rights of any child born to you within ten months
of my brother’s death. But
you
I will not forgive.” Did he look as implacable as he felt? He
could only hope so. Drucilla, he noted with some satisfaction, had
turned as uniformly crimson as her painted cheeks.

“
Come!” Damon responded to a scratching
at the estate room door, exceedingly grateful for the interruption.
Berating a woman so obviously
enceinte
was not the act of a gentleman, no
matter how venal her actions might have been.

Rankin entered, his customary butler’s façade
spoiled by a slight flush about the ears. How long had he been
listening at the door? Damon wondered. Not that it mattered. No
household’s secrets were safe from its staff.

“
Lady Oxley, Miss Hardcastle, and Miss
Challenor are here, my lady. Shall I ask them to wait?”

Drucilla’s hands fluttered. “No, no. Tell
them I will be with them directly.” She turned to Damon, a mean
little smile curling her lips. “You need not look so pained, dear
brother. Either girl would do quite well for you. Daughter of a
baron or sixty thousand pounds. A fine consolation prize.” She
levered herself to her feet with some grace and started for the
door.

“
It has never occurred to you the babe
may be a girl?” Damon inquired softly.

Drucilla paused, turned half-way toward him,
chin high. “Do not be absurd,” she declared. And exited with all
the dignity of Anne Boleyn confronting the headsman.

Damon shook his head. Drucilla Moretaine was
a trollop, but no one could say she did not carry it off with
style. What mortification would be his if the babe were a boy born
in Ashby’s image. No. He would rejoice. But the thought of humbling
himself before Drucilla was too terrible to contemplate. Damon
swore, with feeling, and steeled himself to face the phalanx of
female visitors in the drawing room.

Katy was reading aloud to the dowager
countess when the thumps and thuds began. The poetry of
The Lord of the Isles
was swiftly
cast aside, as neither lady cared for it as much as the author’s
previous works, and the strange noises were loud enough to warrant
investigation. A cold breeze wafted down the central corridor,
insinuating itself into their cozy parlor overlooking the
winter-ravaged garden.

The front door was open.

The ladies’ heads swiveled toward the parlor
entrance, faces alive with speculation. Not only was the outside
door open, but it was remaining open for an unwarranted amount of
time for February. At Serena Moretaine’s nod of approval, Katy
sprang to her feet and rushed into the hallway that bisected the
house on Brock Street. Then, unable to believe her eyes, she dashed
toward the front of the house, where four stalwart carters were
attempting to wrestle something very large through the front
door.

It wasn’t possible. Surely
not. Yes, it was! A pianoforte.
Not as large as the
one in the music room at Farr Park, but an instrument that would
fit perfectly into the modest confines of their present drawing
room.

“
Ah, Miss!” Jesse Wiggs spoke from just
inside the drawing room door. “I was coming to find you. Clover and
me are ready to move furniture about, but we need to know where you
wants it.”

Jesse, Clover, and Archer, the countess’s
maid, were all the servants they had brought from Farr Park, as the
owner of the house on Brock Street had taken only his butler and
valet on an extended visit to London, leaving the remainder of his
staff in Bath. Jesse had been momentarily struck dumb when informed
he had been chosen as temporary butler for the dowager’s household
in Bath.