Mortified, Katy bounced to her feet. With ingrained good manners, she crossed to the younger Lady Moretaine, who was still seated, and dropped into a curtsy whose depth indicated the proper respect and subservience expected from a lowly companion. Which is all I am, Katy reminded her rebellious inner self. A cypher. A useful one, but in the eyes of the nobility, a cypher nonetheless.
The colonel proffered a curt nod of approval. Once again, Katy trailed the Farrs, mother and son, as Rankin led them through a maze of passages to the guest wing, where the food and peaceful repose all three were anticipating encountered a sudden snag.
The dowager’s pale complexion turned pink, her bosom swelled. Katy Snow was to be placed in the old governess’s room? On the nursery floor? Indeed not! She needed the child close by at all times.
Fortunately, the elderly butler, who had served at the castle since—according to his frequent assertions to his staff—he was knee high to a tadpole, seemed to have no difficulty ignoring his mistress’s instructions. Katy was soon ensconced in a fine bedchamber next to the dowager countess, with Colonel Farr just across the hall.
Serena Moretaine savored her peace—laid down on a chaise longue with scrolled back and upholstered in brocade the shade of ripe peaches—for scarce five minutes before scratching was heard at her door. Archer, who had been hanging up the dowager’s gowns, scurried to answer the summons. It was Katy Snow, looking anxious.
“No, no, child. Do not look so glum,” said the countess, beckoning Katy to her. “Must I ring the bell and wait half an hour for someone to come up from the depths, then search for you, and finally see your presence an hour after I needed you? Absurd, quite absurd. Ah!” The countess frowned. “Yet still you look so solemn.”
“As well she might!” declared the colonel, who had entered his mama’s suite almost on Katy’s heels. “Did we not agree that Katy must be invisible? That she would do nothing to raise the fair Drucilla’s ire?”
“Fair!” exclaimed his mother. “Indeed she is not. That woman’s heart is as dark as her hair.”
The colonel groaned. “I will not mince nuances with you, mama. You have likely brought Drucilla’s wrath down on the child’s head. She has no way to defend herself without your aid, and I cannot have the two countesses of Moretaine quarreling like fishwives during this visit. We are here to see Ashby—”
“Fishwives! Fishwives,” the dowager repeated in a strangled tone softer than her initial shriek. Katy dropped to her knees beside the chaise longue and seized the countess’s hand.
Colonel Farr shifted to Parade Rest, arms akimbo, and scowled at both women. “We are here to visit my brother, who, it seems, is too ill to greet us. Does that not strike you as ominous, mama? Ashby has never been robust. I cannot like the sound of it. This is scarcely the time for female fits and fidgets—”
The countess burst into tears. Katy hugged her, fussed over her a moment, then bounded to her feet, fists clenched. Damon could almost see the words hovering on her lips, threatening to explode the myth that she could not talk. Indeed . . . a veritable torrent of words seemed poised on the tip of her tongue. The green eyes flared, the shapely lips quivered, her delicious bosom heaved. Almost, but not quite, enough distraction to deflect his worry about Ashby.
“Yes, I know,” said Damon, holding up his hand, palm out. “I am a beast and a bully and not fit to claim the title of gentleman. Nonetheless, you will both obey me in this. Mama, you will not quarrel with Drucilla. Katy, you will be the drab mouse who inches back into her hole, as if she had never ventured out. No, you baggage, do not roll your eyes at me! I am determined it shall be so.”
“We are not your troopers,” the dowager forced out between sobs.
“Indeed not. My troopers would be far more obedient.”
On a sudden surge of blue blood—or was it a vulgar display of tradesman’s temper?—Katy charged across the room. The colonel, with a certain detached interest, allowed her to pound his chest with several quite ineffectual blows before he calmly seized both arms and put her from him. He shook his head. “A pity no one saw fit to tan your bottom when you were young enough that it might have done some good,” he observed.
“Damon!” his mama cried, more shocked by his mention of such an intimate part of Katy’s anatomy than by the implied threat.
“Goodnight, mama.” The colonel bowed, while Katy seethed, as horrified by her behavior as she was at being put aside as if she were of no more significance than a gnat. “Let us hope that the morning brings more sanguine news of Ashby.”
And then he was gone, leaving the dowager and Katy Snow to console each other.
~ * ~
Chapter Eleven
“Sit, child,” Archer declared, raising her eyes from her mending to follow Katy Snow as she paced the countess’s sitting room. “You are exhausting me and wearing a path in the earl’s Turkey carpet while you’re at it.”
Katy tossed her expressive hands in a gesture of frustration, then clasped them tight in front of her, head bent. Whether offering a prayer or willing her feet to be still, Archer could not tell. “’Tis nonsense to expect the worst, Snow. The colonel was in a temper when he said he feared for Lady Moretaine’s health. And if you’re worried the earl will send you packing, you may rest easy. A better-tempered boy I never knew.”
Katy, wide-eyed, shook her head.
“Well, then,” Archer pronounced, “it does you credit to worry about the earl’s health and my lady’s anguish if she should find him poorly, but sit you must. You are making yourself ill and me along with you.”
When Katy stood, glowering at her, lower lip suspiciously close to a pout, Archer added more sharply, “You know quite well what curiosity did to the cat. Our lady will return shortly, and all will be revealed.”
Katy stamped her foot, flounced to a comfortable-looking chair upholstered in blue satin brocade, and plopped herself into it. Archer shook her head. The colonel had it right when he said someone should have tanned her bottom long since.
The door crashed open. Serena Moretaine stumbled into the room. She leaned against the door, the back of her hand to her mouth, her entire body shaking, as if she would sag to the floor at any moment.
“My lady!” Archer jumped to her feet, but Katy was already there, encircling the dowager with her arms, hugging her, speaking softly. Together, they steered the countess across the room, settling her onto the chaise longue. Archer rushed off to procure water from the pitcher on the nightstand in the bedchamber, while Katy fitted herself onto the edge of the chaise near the foot, wanting desperately to offer comfort, yet finding herself woefully inadequate in the face of such abject misery. Last night the countess had sobbed dramatically over no more than her younger son’s harsh words. Today, she was quite horribly silent, except for an occasional gasp for air. Last night had been a mere fit of temper. Today was anguish, pure and simple. Katy clasped both hands around the countess’s own and hung on. Eighteen suddenly seemed very young, far from the wise adult she had imagined herself to be.
Lady Moretaine accepted the crystal goblet of water from Archer, took a small sip. A shudder passed through her. “He is dying,” she said, looking straight ahead. “A chill from Scotland’s cold rain, and my son is dying. He should never have made the journey home. Yet he insisted, he tells us. Foolish, foolish boy. Everyone knows Scottish doctors are superior to our own. If he had but stayed . . .” The dowager’s voice trailed off. She took another sip from the goblet, her fingers shaking so hard the water sloshed from side to side.
“He says,” the countess continued, “he knew he’d been given his notice to quit. That is how he put it—quite coldly, I thought. My poor Ashby,” she added on a whisper. “He wished to come home to speak with Damon, for he says his brother will soon be Moretaine. He wanted time to instruct him.” The countess’s breath hitched in her throat. “For all his years at war, Damon took it as badly as I. Turned as white as my dear Ashby. He’s still there. Ashby asked . . . asked if I w
ould be so kind as to leave them alone . . .”
As the three women huddled together, offering and seeking comfort where comfort was impossible, Katy wondered about the younger countess, who had greeted them as if the earl were merely indisposed, suffering from nothing worse than a cold. Did she truly care so little? Or had the truth been kept from her? Or . . . was she one of those who saw only what she wished to see? Katy suspected the latter. Drucilla Moretaine was more selfish than venal. A woman who had married well and enjoyed flaunting her position at every opportunity. Which was probably the source of her clash with the elder countess, the perfect Lady of the Castle, whom Drucilla would never be able to emulate.
But if Drucilla suspected the severity of her husband’s illness, would she have been so calm, so cool, as she had been last night? If the earl were truly dying, she was about to lose her position. Surely a terrifying thought to someone who seemed to thrive on it.
As Archer answered a soft scratching at the door, Katy discovered her saddened heart could still leap at the thought of who was likely to be standing in the hall.
Damon.
The countess, who was lain back on the chaise, sat up with a jerk. “Have you seen the doctor?” she cried.
Glumly, the colonel nodded. “He confirms what Ashby told us. Each time he has had one of his bouts of illness, his lungs have grown weaker. He had been warned not to go to Scotland this year. He went anyway. Not something I would have expected our sensible Ashby to do,” he added softly, “but there it is. The doctor is not sanguine. He holds little hope.”
Lady Moretaine sucked in a deep breath, swallowed a sob.
“I told Ashby I am an incompetent in governing my own lands, that I can understand Spanish better than I shall understand his steward—I was hoping to see him smile, but it seems to please him to attempt to stuff my head with all manner of things I never wished to know.”
Abruptly, Damon sat in the chair Katy had vacated when she ran to the countess’s aid. He plunged his head into his hands. “My apologies, mama,” he muttered. “I fear my unflappable military façade is crumbling in a most unseemly manner.”
“Shall we leave you, my lady?” Archer asked.
“No, oh, no!” Vehemently, the countess shook her head. Katy squeezed her hand, holding on tight, willing her own youthful strength to the older women’s support.
Silence descended on bowed heads and inner anguish. Even Archer’s customarily busy fingers were still. Wind rattled a shutter. In concert with their feelings, the already gray day grew darker, casting the sitting room further into melancholy.
“An odd thing,” Damon said at last. “Ashby refuses to allow the doctor to speak frankly with Drucilla. Says he doesn’t wish to see her plunged into gloom.”
“Fustian! She must be prepared,” declared the dowager, showing a spark of her customary spirit.
“And so I told him, but he was adamant. It is a masquerade I cannot like,” Damon added. “I am a soldier. I am accustomed to fight battles head to head, with no need to hide behind a false front.”
Katy’s fingers jerked against the dowager’s hand. Warily, she looked from mother to son and back again.
“Indeed,” the dowager agreed. “I cannot imagine involving myself in such a deception. I wonder that Ashby could expect it. Surely you can persuade him—”
“I have already tried. He claims he wishes only to protect her.”
“Protect her! More like, she will suffer twice as much when he is gone.”
Damon shook his head. “Deception is anathema. Only Ashby’s illness could have caused him to sink to such an aberration.”
Katy Snow sat, staring blindly at the carpet. Masquerade. Deception. Anathema. She was trapped, with no way out. She must remain the mute Katy Snow . . . or lose her loving Farr Park family. Yet without the truth, she had no chance of ever being more than a servant—or, at best, a fleeting lover—to Colonel Damon Farr. A moot point, because at her revelation he would turn on her as viciously as all the others. Katy Snow, Deceiver. Liar. Lowest of the Low.
Outside, the gloomy day turned to a rain that pounded against the panes, augmenting the anguish within.
He was more than splendid—he quite took her breath away. Katy, following behind the dowager countess, came to abrupt halt in the doorway to the Yellow Antechamber, where they were to gather before dinner. She stared, mouth agape. Uniforms of any kind were rare in the vicinity of Farr Park, even in time of war. But a cavalry officer in full dress? If she had not already adored Damon Farr, this would have been the moment of her fall.
Donning his uniform seemed to have added inches to the colonel’s height. If he were wearing his shako, he would have towered over them like some ancient god. Katy snapped her mouth closed so hard her teeth cracked together. She feasted her eyes, watching the colonel greet his hostess and his mother before shaking hands with the earl’s secretary, Philip Winslow.
Blue jacket with orange facings. Pointed cuffs. An intricate lacing of gold braid and gold buttons, pristine white breeches tucked into shining black boots. An orange sash . . . but no saber. Oddly disappointed not to see her hero in the full regalia of a wartime warrior, Katy peered more closely at his long, lean thighs, hoping her eyes had been playing tricks on her. Hoping no one was noticing the direction of her eyes. Hoping, quite desperately, she was not blushing. Alas, it was quite true. The colonel wore a diagonal sash across his chest, matching the one about his waist, but no scabbard dangled from the end of it. Colonel Damon Farr had not come armed to his sister-in-law’s table.
But everything else was part and parcel of her heroic fantasies. Damon, dark and saturnine, leading his troopers as they charged across battlefield after battlefield, forever changing the boy she had worshipped since the day he had granted her a home. A man for whom the glory of war had worn away, leaving the hardened campaigner, somber . . . disillusioned . . .
And even more appealing in his hurt and vulnerability.
Katy closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then found her way to a seat in the corner, where it soon became evident that she was not the only female impressed by the colonel’s finery. Katy had had little opportunity to observe a Diamond of the First Water fulfilling the role expected of her. Fascinated, if appalled, she watched as Drucilla, toast of the ton in her come-out year of 1811, demonstrated why she was still an outstanding gem in society more than four years later. Katy glowered. It seemed The Dreadful Drucilla could be shockingly charming when she wished, and with Colonel Damon Farr she obviously so wished. The foolish man was lapping up the admiration quite as if he did not have the constant adulation of the females in his own household. Miserable wretch!
The dinner that followed was, as expected, strained, with the younger Lady Moretaine addressing the elder only to the length demanded by good manners, with nothing more than an occasional sniff of disdain hurled in Katy’s direction. Between such dainty bites as indicated Drucilla could live on air alone, she regaled Colonel Farr with all the on dits he simply must know before rejoining society. To his mild protest that he had no interest in the ton, his sister-in-law responded with a tinkling laugh. Silly boy, of course he must take his place in society. Such a loss to the match-making mamas if he did not.
Drucilla fluttered her lashes. The colonel actually smiled. Philip Winslow kept his head down, his grip on his fork suspiciously like a man who was considering using it as a weapon.
Katy nearly bit through a chicken bone.
“We must have a dinner party,” Drucilla announced, looking remarkably pleased with herself. “There are one or two families in the vicinity with girls the right age.”
“My son is not well enough for company,” the dowager declared, thoroughly shocked.
“I assure you, my lady, the neighbors are quite accustomed to Moretaine’s illnesses. It will not be our first dinner party without his presence.”
“But surely not this—”
“You are very kind, sister,” Damon interjected firmly, “but I ha
ve no interest in marriage. I would not wish to raise any expectations.”
“Nonsense! It must be apparent that Ashby and I are childless.” For a moment the young countess actually appeared to be suffering from a genuine emotion. “Someone must ensure the title.”
The colonel, looking pale, downed the remainder of his wine in one gulp.
“Perhaps afternoon tea,” the dowager suggested, for as much as she was determined to dislike any suggestion made by her daughter-in-law, Damon must indeed marry and produce an heir. If she had not already recognized the futility of her quixotic notion that Katy might do for him, she must give it up now. The future Earl of Moretaine could not marry a mysterious waif of no name, no family, no fortune. Therefore, as difficult as circumstances were, any opportunity for Damon to meet females of his own class must be encouraged.
Drucilla considered the dowager’s suggestion, finally nodding her acceptance. “Very well, afternoon tea. Three days hence. That is sufficient notice, I should think. The Richardsons and the Hardcastles have daughters. And I believe I heard something about another girl . . . some long-lost cousin or other, who has recently returned to the family. Splendid. You shall have three young ladies paraded before you, colonel.”
“That is . . . most thoughtful,” said the dowager through clenched teeth. “Thank you.” To be beholden to The Dreadful Drucilla was the outside of enough. Positively mortifying, but the opportunity was quite too good to be missed. The boy would have to marry, whether he liked it or not. The next heir in line was a London dilettante unworthy of the name Moretaine.
She must say something more, the dowager realized. Good manners demanded it. “Katy, is it not delightful?” she exclaimed. “You will have the opportunity to meet others your age.”
The elder Lady Moretaine did not see Drucilla’s lip curl or even hear her snort of disgust, for she was staring at Katy Snow who seemed frozen in her place, fork poised half way to her mouth, skin the color of parchment, eyes wide and unseeing. “Katy. Katy, my dear, what is wrong? Are you ill? Katy!”
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