The Unscrupulous Uncle (11 page)

Now Damon faced the enormous chore of straightening out his wife’s finances. Braxton had diverted much of the income into his own pockets, making a complete recovery impossible. It would take a long time to trace all the missing cash. Fury engulfed him as he drove his curricle back to Berkeley Square – and a hefty dose of guilt that his negligence had allowed the situation to remain undetected for so long. It was a fault he could never fully rectify.

So far he had kept his return to London a secret. It had seemed reasonable to address Catherine’s affairs before plunging into the social rounds, so he had delayed announcing his marriage. Catherine could not face society alone, and he was too busy to help her.

But he recognized the lie the moment he put it into words. In truth, he could not face Hermione. He knew his delay was worsening the damage to her reputation, for the longer society considered them on the verge of betrothal, the bigger the scandal that would result when the truth emerged. And the news was bound to leak out. He owed her an untarnished reputation. He must prove to the world that she was not responsible for his defection. The only way was to continue his friendship, but it would take time, even if he started immediately. The first step was braving her anger to explain what had happened.

Tomorrow, he promised. Or maybe the next day.

Circling the cluster of carriages in front of Gunter’s, he berated himself. He was a coward in more ways than one. He had been ignoring an even worse problem than Hermione – consummating his marriage. After a lifetime of accepting Catherine as his sister, he could not force himself into her bed. Somehow he must come to grips with their new relationship. She was his wife and deserved his respect and support. Yet he could hardly talk to her. The gulf of the past eight years loomed wider every day. His experiences had left their mark, turning him into a grim, cynical shadow of the man she had known, but she was unaware of the change, still treating him as the protective big brother. Yet she must also have changed. Her life in thrall to her uncle’s family could not have been easy. Death would have marked her as well. It was something they must discuss, but he did not know where to begin.

Time! Where was he to find the time? He must straighten out Cat’s inheritance, introduce her to society, and rescue Hermione’s reputation. All were pressing problems requiring his entire attention.

He handed the ribbons to a footman and headed for the library, his frown suddenly vanishing. Why had he not thought of it earlier? Before Catherine could greet the
ton,
she must have a new wardrobe. It was unlikely that she knew much about current styles – or about members of society and their interminable rules. A chaperon would solve both problems and leave him free to tackle his other chores. He penned a note to his cousin Louisa, then returned his mind to business.

 * * * *

“Mrs. Collingsworth,” announced the butler, ushering that lady into the drawing room.

Catherine looked up in surprise. This was the first caller since they had arrived in London. Mrs. Collingsworth was a middle-aged lady with fading brown hair and squint lines around her brown eyes that hinted she might be shortsighted. But her gold-striped poplin morning gown and bronze pelisse were exceedingly elegant, making Catherine feel dowdy and inadequate in her ancient wool round gown. She pulled the dignity of her new position around her like a shield, determined to conduct herself properly.

“Welcome, madam,” she said, noting that Tom was already setting a tea tray at her elbow. Was such anticipation normal for a London staff, or was the lady invited? No one had bothered to inform her.

“Please call me Louisa,” begged Mrs. Collingsworth. “It is how Damon always addresses me, the dear boy.”

“Was he expecting you?” Catherine asked uncertainly.

“Of course. He asked me to call on you today. I am his cousin, as you probably know.”

“I didn’t.”

“Isn’t that just like a man! They never make things easy.” She snorted inelegantly, but her eyes were busy scrutinizing Catherine. “He claimed you would need guidance while augmenting your wardrobe and making your bows to society.”

“I certainly do,” she agreed, relaxing. “I feel like a fish out of water despite my breeding.”

“Breeding is the key, of course, but only experience prevents mistakes. We will start with your wardrobe. I hope this gown is not indicative. With due apologies to your modiste, it simply will not do for London.”

Catherine smiled. “I should not expect it to. I made it myself three years ago, and I must admit that it is one of my newest. I doubt anything I own is suitable, but I have barely recovered from the rigors of travel so have made no attempt to shop.”

Louisa set her half-finished tea onto a table. “Come along, then. We’ve more to do than I expected. The sooner you have proper attire, the sooner you can venture out. And you’ve little time. Your marriage announcement will be in the papers tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Catherine gasped. Why had Damon told his cousin and not his wife?

“Yes. Let us pray Madame Celeste has something already made up that you can wear in the morning, for you will be amazed at the number of callers.”

Her mind in chaos at the prospect of greeting crowds of strangers when she had never even entertained friends, Catherine swallowed. “You will help me, I hope.”

“Of course. Now come along. We haven’t a moment to waste. Oh, congratulations, my dear. I should have offered them sooner. I see I was wrong in questioning Damon’s intelligence these past months. You will make him a charming wife.”

Catherine meekly followed Mrs. Collingsworth to her carriage and allowed the woman to shepherd her into Madame Celeste’s elegant salon. The modiste was a voluble Frenchwoman, whose eyes gleamed at the news that they needed an entire wardrobe.

“Magnifique!”
she exclaimed, whisking Catherine into a fitting room where she was poked, prodded, and measured to within an inch of her life. Louisa followed, nodding agreement to Celeste’s every suggestion as bolts of silk, muslin, gauze, and crepe were draped across Catherine’s shoulders. Two assistants dashed in and out with more offerings.
“Trés bien,”
murmured the modiste, tossing a shimmer of satin around Cat’s neck. “Observe what
violette
does to madame’s eyes.
Trés elegante!
And the rose silk to emphasize her creamy complexion,
n’est-ce pas?”
she added, shaking out another wave of fabric.

“Lovely,” agreed Louisa. “I knew you could help. This will be her first foray into London society, and the right clothes will mark her as a diamond.”

“Naturellement.”

Catherine wondered if Louisa was paying attention, for she ordered gown after gown, many embellished with expensive lace or intricate embroidery – morning, afternoon, and evening gowns, walking dresses, carriage dresses, riding habits, pelisses, bed gowns, dressing gowns – enough to make her head spin. Fashion plates flashed before her eyes until they all looked alike. Which would flatter her figure? Was she tall or short? Fat or thin? She could no longer remember.

“This is too much,” she protested when Celeste bustled off to a storeroom, bursting with energy as though her tiny figure encased the power of a thunderstorm.

“Nonsense, child!” said Louisa. “These are merely the basics. It will take at least a fortnight before you know what else you will need. The Season is at its peak, as you must know.”

“I don’t. I have lived secluded from even country society for eight years.”

“You poor dear. No wonder this seems so confusing. But you will come about very nicely. These gowns will see you through a basic schedule. You will want to decide your social calendar before your next shopping excursion. Do you prefer balls? Soirees?
Al fresco
events? Theater? One cannot wear the same outfits too often. Nor can one appear rumpled in public. There is logic to frequent changes, you will discover. It is far easier to don a new gown than to stay in your room while your maid removes wrinkles so that you can stand in a dress you sat in all morning.”

Catherine groaned.

“Now you enjoy a nice cup of tea while Celeste finds something you can wear today. I will return shortly.” With that, Louisa slipped from the fitting room. A servant deposited a tea tray on a table and bustled out without a word. Catherine suddenly found herself alone.

Too dazed to do more than wonder what Damon would say to such profligacy, she let her mind drift until a burst of laughter caught her attention. She knew that voice.

Catherine poked her head out of the curtained fitting room. “I was right. It’s Edith Spencer – or was.”

The blonde in the hallway gasped. “Catherine!” Ringlets danced and blue eyes widened. But the welcoming smile quickly faded to a frown.

“Pardon my forward tongue, Lady Peverell,” begged Catherine formally, her face burning in embarrassment. “I forgot that you had dropped the acquaintance when my fortunes reversed.”

“I?” Shock blazed in Edith’s eyes. “After you refused to answer my letters, I could only conclude that you had turned your back on the past.”

Cat muttered one of Peter’s favorite oaths under her breath. “Can you step in here for a moment? There is no need to broadcast this imbroglio to the world.”

Edith sent Celeste’s assistant to her own fitting room and joined Catherine. “I know that look,” she began, lowering her voice to a whisper at Cat’s gesture. “What happened?”

“You are the second to claim authorship of letters I never received. You sent two shortly after the spring term ended, and I responded to both. I wrote twice more after my parents died, but never got a reply, so I assumed that you could not accept my demotion to poor relation.”

“I wrote the moment I heard of their accident,” swore Edith. “And four more times over the following six months. At first, I thought you were too grief-stricken to reply, but finally accepted that you were cutting all connections.”

“Absurd, but who can blame you? I suppose you never received my congratulations on your marriage, either.”

Edith shook her head. “What is going on?”

“I don’t know, though I suspect my uncle is responsible. All mail is delivered to him for sorting, and outgoing letters go to him for franking, so it would be easy to censor my correspondence. But this is no place to talk. Call on me tomorrow – Devlin House in Berkeley Square.”

“You are staying with the earl?” asked a shocked Edith.

“We were married last week, but until the official announcement appears, it might be better to keep that quiet. I must figure out my uncle’s game.”

Edith nodded and slipped out to attend to her own fitting.

“Voilà!”
exclaimed Madame Celeste, hurrying in with her arms full of gowns. Louisa fluttered behind. “Two afternoon gowns, an evening gown, and this!” She held up her trophy with a triumphant flourish – a rose silk ball gown with a beaded bodice, vandyked hem, and lacy overskirt sparkling with diamante. “They were made for Lady Dancy, but she is
mauvais ton
and can do without.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Entre nous,
her bill is too long unpaid.” Tossing the ball gown over Catherine’s head, Celeste kept up a continuous stream of words, giving her client no time to reply.
“La parfection, n’est-ce pas?
Or will be
momentanément.
We tuck here and tighten there.
Tiens!”
Another tug straightened the overskirt, and Celeste beamed.

Catherine stared in awe at her mirrored image. Even the unflattering hairstyle could not detract from the sparkling cloud of the elegant ball gown – or the shockingly exposed bosom that peeked over its bodice. She frowned. “Is this not too low?” The last thing she needed was to imitate the vulgar Drucilla.

“Non, non, non!”
insisted Celeste. “You are married,
n’est-ce pas?
It is
parfait,
and quite modest.”

“Even young girls wear lower gowns,” added Louisa. “You’ve nothing to fret about.”

“Very well.” Catherine bowed to their superior knowledge.

It was another hour before the gowns fit to Celeste’s satisfaction. Relieved that daytime wear was more demure, Cat admitted exhaustion and suggested they go home.

Louisa was outraged. “What of gloves?” she demanded. “And hats? And slippers! You cannot appear in bare feet with your hands and head uncovered. Nor can you be mismatched.” She waved a wad of fabric swatches, one for each gown they had just ordered.

“Of course not,” agreed Catherine gamely.

And so began a round of other shops. Catherine was quickly disabused of her suggestion that white or black went with everything. The
ton
knew Damon was wealthy. Did she wish them to believe he was also miserly? Each gown must have its own accessories. Gloves, stockings, slippers, shawls, parasols, bonnets, and a host of other trinkets piled in their carriage. The footman packed the boot full, then started on the interior. Catherine entertained a vision of herself and Louisa perched on the roof, fighting to clutch still more packages. She was numb with exhaustion by the time she exited the last shop.

“What are you doing in town?” demanded a male voice.

She nearly tripped. “Hello, Sidney.” It had been a year since he had last visited Ridgway House, and the time had not been well spent. His face was sallow, with lines of dissipation already showing around his mouth and eyes, though he was barely three-and-twenty.

“Has Papa decided to come up to London at last?” he asked almost fearfully.

“Of course not. I am here with my husband.”

Shock removed the last vestige of pink from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow that clashed with his elaborate clothing – an extravagant cravat, hugely padded sky blue jacket, and tight silver pantaloons hugging legs improved by false calves. Or so she assumed. Sidney had never been anything but skinny.

“Married?” he choked, then recovered his usual sneer. “To whom? The gardener’s son?”

“To an old friend recently returned from the army,” she responded, loath to reveal Damon’s identity. Sidney would discover it in the morning, but she could more easily deflect his unpleasantness when she was not so tired.