The Unscrupulous Uncle by Allison Lane Page B

was even worse than she had imagined and lent credence to Henry’s claim about the work that was needed. The staff consisted of an elderly woman, a fifteen-year-old maid, and an even younger groom who doubled as a footman. The woman sent the groom to fetch the steward, then gave Catherine a brief tour of the manor.
    It was obvious who had last lived there. Structural maintenance had been ignored in favor of garish decorating. The intended style was indecipherable, for the rooms contained a little of everything, as cluttered as her aunt’s gowns. But the deplorable state of the house was not the worst news. Catherine had gone to her room to change for dinner, her spirits sagging after an interview with an openly antagonistic steward. When she tried to go downstairs, she discovered that her door was locked with no sign of a key.
    “His lordship thinks you need a little holiday,” reported one of the outriders when she rattled the handle. His unpleasant laughter echoed along the hallway.
    Dear Lord! That explained the steward’s attitude. Uncle Henry must have ordered that she be incarcerated. But why?
    Panic set in.
    She checked the window. At any other time, the view would have been spectacular – forested mountains cradling a narrow valley through which a river tumbled in wild abandon. But today she saw only the thirty-foot drop to the ground. There was not even a ledge to offer the chance of reaching an unlocked room.
    She whirled as the door opened, but hope died in an instant. Her two burly jailers blocked the entrance, watching in stone-faced silence as the timid maid set a full coal scuttle by the fire and placed a dinner tray on the table. At least she would neither freeze nor starve. But how was she to keep madness at bay with no occupation?
     By morning she had cried herself dry but still had no explanation for her predicament. Somehow she must escape and get word to Damon. He could discover what was going on. With that in mind, she began to cultivate the maid, requesting assistance with her hair and dress so the guards would allow the girl to stay.
     

Chapter Six
     
    “What a devil of a coil,” murmured Damon as he turned down New Bond Street. His frown made him conspicuous, other gentlemen’s expressions conveying either weary boredom or hearty cheer.
    It was a warm day, and a remarkably clear one. A brisk breeze had pushed the usual haze of smoke and coal soot to the east, leaving the sky a brilliant blue. Bond Street was crowded with colorfully dressed ladies and equally colorful dandies. A flower cart filled the air with a heady scent, footmen raced by on errands, and two girls exclaimed over hats displayed in a window. Acquaintances chattered as though they had been separated for weeks rather than hours, exchanging scandalous on-dits and enthusing about the day’s social calendar. Hawkers pushed their wares, shouting above the noise. Horses and carriages rattled over the cobblestones, the confusion made worse when a horseman cantered past.
    But Damon was oblivious. Only the tiniest corner of his mind knew where he was. Shock deadened the rest.
    “How could he do it?” he asked rhetorically, deaf to greetings from Mr. Caristoke and Lady Wormsley as his feet automatically threaded the crowd. “How can he sleep?”
    Approaching Bruton Street, which would lead him home, he sidestepped two ladies exiting a modiste’s shop and blindly turned the corner, unaware that he had just cut Lady Hermione in front of at least fifty members of the ton .
    “What can I do?” The question that had kept him awake much of the night still plagued him. And there were no easy answers. His life was suddenly in chaos. Every time he reached a decision, guilt raised new doubts that thrust him back into uncertainty.
    Bruton Street emptied into Berkeley Square. He crossed the central garden, pausing a moment under the plane trees as his face twisted in pain. His plans lay in ruins. Even worse, his life was a mockery. He had