Perhaps it was time . . .
Impossible! She’d guarded her secret too long to give it up now. In the twinkling of an eye she’d find herself back in the nest of vipers she had successfully eluded.
Slowly, sadly, Katy returned to her bed. For the first time since she was twelve years old, she dreaded what tomorrow would bring.
On the following morning Colonel Farr, not yet adjusted to a non-military life, almost made the disastrous error of sending for his mother. He had already barked out Mapes’s name when he recalled that he might be at his own desk in his own bookroom, but no gentleman would summon his mama to him as if she were a naughty schoolgirl, particularly a mama who was not only Dowager Countess of Moretaine but daughter of a duke.
But when he found his mother, reclining on a rose brocade chaise longue in a sunny room on the east side of the house, she was not alone. She was holding up a book, reading aloud to a young woman whose gaze was fixed on the countess in what appeared to be breathless anticipation. “Snow,” the colonel snapped, “you may leave us.”
Katy jumped to her feet, standing poised like a small animal mesmerized by a poacher’s lantern, before bolting from the room so fast he could swear he felt the breeze as she passed by.
The silence lengthened as Damon seated himself across from his mother, noting that the countess was now gripping her book as if she longed to throw it at him. He leaned forward, attempting to force his countenance into something less stern than the face he had seen in the mirror that morning. This was his mother, and, truth be told, he loved her dearly. Enough to give her shelter when his brother Ashby would not, or could not, protect her from that witch of a woman he had been foolish enough to marry.
“Mama,” Damon pronounced with care, “it would seem you have made a pet of a girl about whom nothing is known. She could be”—he struggled for a word not too shocking, settling on a weak, “—anything.”
His mother merely proffered a serenely superior smile. “She is Katy Snow. She has lived here for well over six years. We took a lost child, discovered her talents, and raised her accordingly. Do not, I pray you, force us to look for a flaw in our budding rose.”
“Mama,” said the colonel a bit more sharply, “her noble features likely come from the wrong side of the blanket. The chit is some noble’s bastard escaped from wherever she was farmed out for care.”
“Bastards are not usually taught a lady’s skills,” his mother replied with cool composure.
“Then she is an adventuress, carefully trained to ingratiate herself into a fine house. Something at which she had been most successful, I might add!”
The countess considered the matter. “I grant if she had been older when she came here—sixteen or more—we might have wondered, but not our Katy. And would an adventuress have waited so long to make off with the silver? Do not be absurd, my dear. That is the trouble with wars, I fear. They take our young men and turn their noble minds inside out and upside down.”
“Mama!” To the colonel’s indignant protest, his mother returned only the blandest look. He glowered. “The final possibility is worst of all. If we have been giving shelter to a runaway, we could be taken up for kidnapping. Whether she is a merchant’s brat or daughter of a duke, she is under age, and somewhere she has a father, brother, uncle, or guardian looking for her.”
“She could simply be an orphan. A lost child in need of a home.”
“A lost child with the skills of a lady,” the colonel riposted drily. “I fear it is all a take-in, mama. The child aped her betters, giving herself airs and graces as false as her lost voice. No doubt if she once opened her mouth, you’d hear Seven Dials or Shoreditch. Indeed,” said the colonel, accustomed to quick decisions, “she’s bamboozled you long enough. I’ll send her off today. You may, if you wish,” he added grandly, “write her a character. I shall see she has a mite to live on until she can find another position.”
Lady Moretaine, shocked into silence by her son’s speech, finally found her voice. “This is Katy’s home,” she cried. “You cannot throw her out!”
“Oh, can I not?” said Colonel Damon Farr. “I will not tolerate a guttersnipe masquerading as a lady.”
The Countess of Moretaine sat up, clutching the book between white-knuckled fingers. “Then we will leave, Katy and I. It is time, after all, for the child to know more of the world.” She nodded decisively. “Yes, indeed, we shall go to Bath.”
“You will do nothing of the kind,” the colonel roared.
“But, indeed, it is the very thing,” declared the countess. “Bath will do nicely for us. Perhaps we shall even find Katy a beau.”
Blast the chit! Did his mama’s life revolve around that encroaching little minx? Yet . . . somehow the reality of losing the angel who had brought him tea and biscuits held little appeal, no matter how sensible the plan might be. Damon suddenly found himself tempering his blusterings. “Mama, I have just come home. Surely you will remain for the rest of the summer. You cannot wish to leave the country when Bath and London are so thin of company. Unless, of course”—the colonel raised his dark brows—“you fancy joining the Prince’s fast set in Brighton?”
“Nonsense!” the countess gasped. “As if I would ever—” She broke off. “Naughty boy, you are funning, of course. “Very well, we shall stay a while, if you are certain you would not dislike it.”
Though not best pleased by his mother’s use of we, the colonel assured her he would be delighted to have her company.
“In that case,” said Lady Moretaine with rather more care than her usual forthright manner, “perhaps I should mention that Katy is accustomed to spending several hours each morning in the bookroom. I am an indolent creature, you may remember, rarely abroad before noon, so Katy’s mornings are free to do as she likes. And, even above riding, her preference is books.”
All signs of Colonel Farr’s brief slip into affability disappeared on the instant. His dark brows narrowed over his angular nose as he scowled at his mother. “I am sure I regret discommoding your companion, mama, but the bookroom is mine. I expect to spend the better part of my time there. I do not care to share it with some . . . foundling.”
“Damon . . . dearest boy, I understand it is difficult, coming home after so many years of war. But, truly, there are no enemies lurking here. Katy is a good girl, bright and true. Indeed, when you have become more accustomed to her ways, I believe you will find her a great help in the bookroom.”
“Never!”
“But, my dear, she has spent half her time here in the bookroom. Ask anyone. She has a remarkable thirst for knowledge. I doubt she has mastered Greek, but I have seen her reading Latin with my very own eyes. Gave me quite a start, I can tell you.”
“You’re mad. I beg your pardon!”
“As well you should,” said his mother.
“You are saying the girl reads?” Damon inquired carefully.
“Well, of course she reads. You are the only one among us who believes her born in a hovel.”
“And writes?”
“A fine hand—better than my own. I have her pen all my invitations.”
Hell and the devil, their goose was cooked. Better an adventuress than the girl should have strayed from some noble house. The reasons a girl of twelve might flee the comforts of a wealthy home were enough to turn his stomach sour. In truth, if he had not gone to war, they might never have occurred to him. No . . . more likely she was the by-blow of a married noblewoman, who had left the girl to the not-so-tender mercies of professional child raisers. Many a country cottage was full of children their mothers dared not claim.
An obscure country cottage where she was taught to embroider, arrange flowers, ride a horse, and play the pianoforte? Damon winced.
After taking punctilious leave of his mama, Colonel Farr sought the shelter of his bookroom. Here, at least, he could be comfortable, shutting away all thoughts of the female irritant who was disrupting his dream of peace and quiet. He strode through the door t
he footman opened—how easily one fell back into the routine of luxury!—and settled at his desk with a long-drawn sigh.
A slight rustle. The soldier, ever ready, found the source immediately. A slender girl, blond and enticing, perched atop the bookroom ladder. “You,” he groaned. Summoning his most clipped parade-ground tone, he barked, “You, there, come down at once!”
~ * ~
Chapter Four
Damon did not avert his eyes as Katy Snow descended the ladder, her derrière wiggling as seductively as any man could wish. Why should he? His mother might be fooled, but the girl was a homeless waif who should not have risen higher in the household than parlor maid.
Yet now she stood before him proudly, hands primly folded in front of a gown that was tucked and trimmed as fine as any lady’s. Lady Silence. He should never have called her that, even in mockery, for the name stuck in his mind, rankling. The girl was nothing but an adventuress, clever and conniving. She had feathered her nest at Farr Park with the softest down, and now she stood before him, head high, emerald eyes looking straight into his own, as if they were equals. Memory stirred. As she had looked that long ago day when he had left for the war.
Equal, hah! The bold-faced baggage didn’t see him on his feet, did she? She was standing, he was sitting. To the devil with treating her as if she were well and truly a gentlewoman.
“Pay close attention, girl.” Damon enunciated each word with biting clarity. “I will be spending most of my time in my bookroom. I want no distractions. You, therefore, will not enter this room while I am in it. Is that clear?”
The green eyes flared, her luscious pink mouth thinned into a line. Obviously horrified, she gaped at him as if she could not believe her ears. Slowly, she shook her head. No, no, no!
“This is my room, Damon declared.” My sanctuary. A cage for the lion still roaring within. “I require privacy for a book I plan to write.” And why the devil had he told her that? Colonels did not explain themselves.
To his astonishment, the arrogant jumped-up brat melted away, leaving a lovely young creature suddenly intent on making him understand what she wanted to say. She placed her fingertips in front of her mouth, reminding him she was always silent. She made mincing mice feet on the carpet, her slender fingers curled in front of her. Fathomless green eyes pleaded.
Damon scowled at her ploy, even as he interpreted her gestures. She was telling him she would move about as quiet as a mouse. In short, she was begging not to be exiled from his library.
When, fascinated by the uniqueness of the exchange, he did not respond, she tried again, holding her palms in front of her face, pantomiming the reading of a book. Again, the great green eyes, peeping over her fingertips, pleaded for his understanding.
“I have no objection to your reading,” he pronounced, “but you must select your books when I am not here and you must read them elsewhere.”
The girl drew a deep breath, her whole body taking on a pugnacious stance. Her right hand flayed the air, sketching agitated lines.
He almost laughed out loud. The minx! And when was the last time he had felt like laughing? He forced his wavering features back into a frown. “From what Mapes and Mrs. Tyner have told me, you don’t know one end of a feather duster from the other, so kindly do not try to fool me into thinking you are needed to keep my library clean.”
She was shockingly lovely, he thought as he waited for whatever argument she would think of next. Wisps of pale gold curls, escaped from the mass tied schoolgirl fashion at the base of her neck, framed an oval face marked by a patrician nose above a pink and inviting mouth. The emerald eyes were flawless, intelligent and penetrating; her skin classic English perfection. In short, a picture to warm a man’s dreams.
And his bed.
That was it, of course—the reason he was banishing her from the library. He was being noble, eschewing temptation. For his sake, as well as hers. Seducing the servants, most particularly his mama’s companion, was scarcely the act of an officer and a gentleman.
A blur of movement, and she was beside his chair—on her knees, blond head bent, shoulders shaking. She seized his hand. Damon froze. He hated tears. Had, in fact, abandoned all emotion. Caring, loving, feeling anything at all, was far too painful. His homecoming had, for a short time, broken his resolve, but Lady Silence would not. Indeed not.
The colonel shoved back his chair and stood. Grabbing the supplicant by her forearms, he settled her, none too gently, in his place at the desk. He picked up the quill, shoved it toward her hand. “I am told you can write,” he said, “so write down your name and where you come from. And why no one has asked you long since,” he added under his breath, “I cannot even imagine.”
What! By God, the chit was crossing her arms over her enticingly ample breasts. Once again, her lips had become a straight line. She was refusing to write? Refusing a direct order? “I fear Lady Moretaine must have been mistaken,” he told her. “I see you do not know how to write.”
The girl’s swan-like neck stretched taller. With superb disdain she took the quill and wrote on the paper he had thumped down before her: “You are a beast and a bully!”
Spoiled, by God! The girl was in sad want of a few sharp lessons in conduct. Which he wouldn’t mind administering.
Time enough to think of that later. “If I am a beast and a bully,” he informed her with scarcely veiled triumph, “then you understand why you must stay out of my bookroom.”
Her lips quivered. This time he feared the tears might be real. Or were they simply temper? The little baggage did not like to lose.
“How old are you?” Damon demanded.
That she was willing to answer, penning a clear, precise “18.”
And, suddenly, his belligerence drained away. He was Damon Farr, country gentleman, heir to his brother, the Earl of Moretaine. He was currently engaged in bullying a young woman ten years his junior, who also happened to be a member of his household staff. He might pay her wages and have the right to order her about, but he did not have the right to stand over her, glowering, demanding that she tell him her life story.
Well, perhaps he did. But his temper had flown, and he was ashamed. His mockery of a name for her—Lady Silence—seemed far too close to the truth. If the chit was shamming her noble bearing, she was remarkably good at it.
Delightful. He had in his employ an underage runaway of good family. He could expect a visit from Bow Street at any moment.
After six and a half years? If she were truly someone of importance, she would have been found by now.
Damon stepped away from the desk, sketched a quick gesture to indicate the girl could get up. She faced him warily, poised to run. Afraid? Was she actually afraid of him? Damnation! He had grabbed her, thrust her into his chair, come close to stabbing her hand with his quill. No wonder she looked at him so. Beneath his breath the colonel muttered a few succulent Spanish oaths, adding a resounding, if silent, Merde! for good measure. He supposed, in Katy Snow’s eyes, he was usurping her bookroom.
Perhaps his eyes could use an occasional rest from his quill and foolscap, from all those rows and rows of leather-bound volumes. And she smelled good, standing there so close in front of him, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulder. Lavender? He wasn’t sure. But the scent was light, evoking memories of England, not of the heavier perfumes worn by the dark-eyed ladies of Iberia.
Regarding her as quellingly as he had his newest recruits, Damon announced, “Mapes clumps over the carpet like a cart horse over cobbles, yet you enter a room as stealthily as you have entered our lives.” Ah . . . that caused her to blink. “Therefore, I assume you can continue to deliver tea and biscuits without disturbing my work.” As hope dawned, light flickered in her eyes, the nicely rounded body settled into a waiting stance.
“You know how to sharpen quills?” A vigorous nod. “You are perhaps acquainted with the location of most of the books in this library?” Another eager nod. Devil it, her whole face was beginning to g
low. He had designs on her virtue. What little gentleman was left within did not care to see her so eager to plunge to her doom.
“And I suppose you write a fine hand, good enough for a fair copy of my scribbles?” Yet another nod. She was smiling now. Foolish, foolish girl. Did she not understand he was dangerous?
“And when I do not need you,” he added sternly, “you will sit in that wingchair over in the corner and not make a sound, is that understood?”
She seized his hand and kissed it, eyes shining with joy. Her lips burned straight down to his black soul. Damon stifled a groan and shooed her off. “You will report to me in the morning at nine,” he told her sternly. “A female secretary is a most exceptional concept, but it is possible you may be useful. We shall see.”
A brief flash of green before she dropped her eyes and bobbed a curtsy, exiting the room with a decided bounce to her step.
What the devil was he thinking? He had just condoned the chit’s crime, undoubtedly aiding and abetting a runaway’s escape from her guardian. He was as soft as all the others in his household. Colonel Damon Farr heaved a sigh. If only that were true. Perhaps in years to come the layers of armor laid on for the war might gradually peel away, leaving him a ordinary man, a man capable of loving and being loved. Or perhaps he would never be that person again. To survive the Peninsula, he had become cold and hard. Cloaked in iron with no sign of a chink redemption might slip through. Nor an arrogant little minx like Lady Silence.
Odd, though, that she should trigger such maudlin thoughts. The chit was a servant, as far from a lady as the bar maid at The Hound and Hart. What possible influence could she have on his life?
Katy, the girl the cat dragged in. No significant influence . . . but fair game for the caged lion. After all, had she not insisted on entering the cage?
Ever so slowly, Colonel Damon Farr’s lips stretched into a thin smile.
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