The Unscrupulous Uncle by Allison Lane

estate had always been productive. Peter’s father had been a devotee of Coke’s agricultural experiments, hiring an innovative steward and working with him to increase yields. Peter had a generous allowance, and plans had already been underway for Cat’s come-out in London. Peter had heard of no reverses. Lord Braxton had frequently scorned those who let greed tempt them into disastrous investments, stating that he was satisfied with the limited but guaranteed returns he received from Consols. He had never been a man to take risks, so why was his fortune suddenly gone? Surely his successor had not recklessly gamed it away!
    The excruciating music finally ended and Lady Braxton suggested they adjourn to the conservatory to admire a rare tropical plant that had bloomed just that morning. Hortense grabbed his proffered arm, but Drucilla could not take the other. She had to listen to her mother praise her mutilation of a Bach prelude. The two women fell into step just behind him.
    “Over here, my lord,” urged Hortense when they reached the end of the hall. She pulled him into the room, her enthusiasm setting off alarms in his head. Lady Braxton’s voice ceased as the door clicked shut. Hortense turned a predatory smile on him and reached up to caress his face.
    “Harlot!” he hissed, knocking her hand into a thorn-encrusted branch. “You know not what you are asking.”
    “I will take my rightful place in society at last,” she gloated.
    “What a stupid wench!” he returned, shoving her bodily into the thorn tree when she tried to throw her arms around him. “I wouldn’t allow you near society’s servants let alone its members. If you persist in this farce, you will spend the rest of your days locked in a tower without even a maid for company.”
    “There you are, my lord,” exclaimed Wiggins, interrupting Hortense’s gasps as he stepped out from behind a potted palm. “A messenger just arrived from Devlin requesting your immediate return.”
    “Thank you, Wiggins,” replied Damon, heart still pounding from his narrow escape. “Will you summon my curricle?”
    “It is already waiting.”
    “You will give my regrets to your parents,” Damon said to Hortense, who was glaring at both of them. “I fear my wife will not be visiting you after all,” he added for her ears only. “I cannot allow her to associate with vulgar trollops.” She looked ready to explode, her fingers already curving into talons.
    Striding away just ahead of Wiggins, he noted without surprise that Lady Braxton and Drucilla were nowhere in sight, but Lord Braxton was headed for the conservatory. After a brief farewell, Damon followed Wiggins to the door.
    “If there are repercussions, come to Devlin,” he murmured to his old protector. “I will leave word with Wendell to look after you until we can arrange something.”
    He was still furious when dawn crept through his window. Another sleepless night provided him more than enough time to ponder the very fishy smell emanating from Ridgway House. If Braxton had been engaged in deception for eight years, there must be a tremendous amount at stake. And Catherine was caught in the middle.
    Burt had gleaned more information from his cousin Ned. Cat had assumed the duties of housekeeper shortly after Peter’s death and had accepted responsibility for more and more chores in the years since, becoming little more than a slave. No one knew why, but she had been abruptly packed off to Braxton Manor at noon. He did not like the timing, particularly since the official reason – inspecting the caretaker staff at the baron’s ancestral estate – did not jibe with her hasty departure. The first anyone had heard of her impending journey was shortly after Lord and Lady Braxton had met in the library. Even more disturbing was the news that she was expected back within the month. Was Braxton’s plot reaching a critical point?
    He shivered, his face assuming the forbidding expression that his