“What can you have been thinking? You have no right….”
Ambrose Maury’s face began to show a tinge of red as he came to his own defense. “On the contrary. As your guardian it is my duty to speak for you. It’s a damn good match. Caldbeck is as rich as Croesus. He made a very advantageous offer. I accepted it. It’s that simple.”
Catherine, who knew her uncle well, stopped her pacing midway across the room and turned to look at him, eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Exactly what sort of offer?”
Maury fidgeted a bit, blotting perspiration from his bald pate with his handkerchief. “Now, Catherine, you must understand certain things.”
“What things? What sort of offer?”
“I’ve had a bit of bad luck investing in the Funds of late.”
“Ah. And Lord Caldbeck is offering a handsome settlement. I begin to understand. But you must understand that I will not marry—I can’t! I won’t! Within six months I come into control of my fortune, and I shall no longer be dependent on your hospitality. Can’t you wait until then to get me off your hands?”
“Catherine, I can’t wait six months—not even six days.”
“Are you run completely off your legs, then?”
“I don’t know why you insist on using these cant phrases, young lady, but yes. You could say that. In fact, I haven’t a feather to fly with. Caldbeck will settle all my debts, forgive my mortgages and give me enough to emigrate to America.”
“America! I have no more wish to live in America than to marry Lord Caldbeck. Surely, as my trustee, you can arrange for me to receive enough from my inheritance for me to set up a small establishment here for the next half year.”
Ambrose leaned back in his chair and folded his plump hands across his ample midsection. Just a hint of malice glinted in his eyes. “What you do not understand, Catherine, is that you no longer have an inheritance.”
Catherine stood for a moment dumbfounded. Then she spoke very carefully. “Do you mean to tell me that you have lost, not only your own fortune, but mine, gambling on the Funds?”
Her uncle nodded. “On the Funds and some other…er, unfortunate investments.”
“But…how…? You were supposed to hold that money for me—in trust—until I am five-and-twenty. How could you…?”
“Come now. Don’t be missish. You know I had the authority to invest it.”
“Yes, but not to gamble with it!”
“I used it better than you would—throwing it away on those damn brats at the foundling hospital.”
“You have bankrupted us both?”
“That’s the long and the short of it. You may make your own decision, of course, about what to do, but I strongly recommend that you accept Caldbeck.”
“You…you scoundrel! You have the nerve to sit there and tell me…I’ll have you before the magistrate!”
“Little good it will do you. If I could replace the money, I wouldn’t be emigrating to some backwater in America.”
Longing to slap the smug expression off her uncle’s face, Catherine fought for control. “You cannot make me do it!”
Scowling, Ambrose stood and stepped around the desk. “Now see here, young lady. Caldbeck has already bought up my mortgages and is prepared to pay my creditors. He will do so on the understanding that you will wed him.”
“You sold me!”
“Oh, have done with your dramatics! He is expecting that you will do as we agreed. It is going to be damned awkward for me if you don’t.”
“You should have thought of that before you created this situation.”
Maury lifted his hand in a threatening gesture, then let it fall to his side. “Let me make your situation abundantly clear. This house no longer belongs to me. As of today you have no home, no money and no source of income.”
Catherine stopped pacing and stood for a second as still as a statue. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m bloody serious. And let me tell you something else, Catherine Maury, I don’t give a damn what you do! Your aunt and I are both ready to wash our hands of you—and your bloody brats, and your temper, and your high-handed manner. Not marry indeed. You should have been wed and had a brace of children by now, but no! You must play savior to every sooty sweep’s boy, every street urchin and little thief who crosses your path. Much fortune you would have had soon, in any event, between your extravagance and your philanthropies. You may accept Caldbeck or go live on the street with your protégés. I don’t care, but you are not going with us!”
Catherine stared at him for the space of three breaths, then, grabbing her hat from the chair, turned with a great swish of skirts and marched out of the room.
Out of sight of her uncle, Catherine abandoned dignity and fled up the stairs to her bedchamber. Slamming the door, she turned the key in the lock, threw her hat at the bed and resumed her pacing, her thoughts boiling.
My God, this can’t be happening! Her uncle’s announcement refused to become reality in her mind. No home? This house had been a refuge for half her life—not a comfortable one, perhaps, but a home. No money? She had been counting heavily on quarter day, as she had already all but depleted her allowance for the current quarter. There had been the clothes for the boys in the new home and the new beds for the foundling hospital and the expense of the reception for the contributors.
And, of course, there had been the new hunter.
She brightened a bit. Her horses! The hunter alone would bring enough to lease a house for a year. She could sell her horses, but…what if Uncle Ambrose had already sold them? Or more probably, lost them? She had no doubt that many of his investments took place at the card table.
At that thought rage consumed her once again, and the kick she gave her train as she turned almost undid her. Her foot tangled in the fabric, and only sheerest luck stopped her from falling headlong onto the carpet. Too much! It really was too much.
She seized the edge of her jacket and yanked, all but pulling the buttons off. She struggled out of it and flung it at the wardrobe. Her boots followed, and she tore at the fastenings of the treacherous dress. It came to rest under the bed.
Thus liberated, Catherine resumed her prowling, trying to relieve her frustration. Greedy! A sofa cushion bounced off the wall. Grasping! The small footstool clattered as it fell on its side near the window. Stupid man! A book tumbled off the table she struck with her fist. Sucking her bruised knuckle, she looked about for something else on which to take out her fury.
She caught the barest glimpse of her maid’s head as Sally peeked around the dressing room door. The sight of her mistress stamping around her bedchamber in her shift evidently dismayed the abigail, for she quickly withdrew her head and closed the door. Catherine paused.
What would become of Sally? The question sobered her. Catherine suddenly realized that she was not the only victim of this disaster. All the servants would suffer. How could she prevent it? No home, no money, no income. Nothing with which to pay the loyal girl, no place for them to live. Fear began to replace anger. Her unseeing gaze fixed on the scene outside the glass, Catherine pulled the footstool to the window and sat down.
She must think. What was she to do? Income represented the greatest problem. Even if she could wrest her horses from Uncle Ambrose’s grasp, the money would not last long enough to give her the independence she’d so eagerly anticipated.
At least, whatever she decided, she would be free of her venal uncle and his lachrymose wife. What a relief that would be! They had never wanted her in their home. The control of her fortune was the only reason they had accepted the guardianship of a twelve-year-old girl at all. At least Papa had been shrewd enough to link the two in his will. But apparently