For a long moment, she kept her gaze on her interlaced fingers, then, when no comment came, she glanced up through the shadows.
Martin shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. That’s all history.’
Slowly, his mother nodded. ‘I did consider sending for you, but, from everything I’d heard, it seemed you were enjoying yourself hugely and, very likely, wouldn’t have heeded the summons anyway.’
A bark of laughter answered her. ‘Very true.’ Martin reached for his glass.
The Dowager caught the flash of the flames on the cut crystal and decided she would do well to make a long story short. ‘Ever since you’ve returned and rejoined society, I’ve heard tell of you, from my friends’ letters. What worried me was that, despite the fact he’s been on the town for close to four years, I’ve never heard anything of Damian. That led me to ask some questions of my closest acquaintances. The answers were hardly conducive to a mother’s peace of mind.’ She paused to stare through the shadows at Martin. ‘Is it true Damian is one of the louts who frequent such places as Tothill Fields, drinking gin and getting up to all manner of disgraceful exploits?’
There was a long pause before Martin answered. ‘As far as I know, that’s true.’
Catherine Willesden looked down at her hands and sighed. ‘I suppose that explains some of what’s happened. I just couldn’t credit it that a son of mine could have behaved as he has, but clearly he’s been off the tracks for some time.’
‘In my esteemed brother’s defence, I feel compelled to point out that he’s had precious little guidance from any source. But what’s he done now?’
The question flustered the Dowager. In her lap, her stiff fingers laced and unlaced awkwardly. ‘I’m very much afraid that something I said put the whole business into his mind. You mustn’t blame him entirely.’
Slowly, Martin sat up. ‘Blame him for what?’
The Dowager winced at his tone. But she stuck to her guns, determined to present the matter in the most accurate way. If Martin wished to disown them all after hearing it, so be it. ‘As you know,’ she began, ‘Damian was always my favourite—more than anything else because he was the last of you and so much younger. Also,’ she added, determined to be truthful, ‘because he was more ingratiating than the rest of you. You, certainly.’
‘I know all this.’
‘Yes, well what you may not know is that Damian has long imagined that he would eventually succeed to the title. If not to George, then to you. The catalogue of your past exploits reads like a deathwish. Furthermore, you’d shown not the smallest desire to wed. Naturally, Damian thought that, in time, the Hermitage would be his.’ The Dowager paused to assemble her thoughts, then hurried on. ‘However, more importantly, Damian has been in the habit of coming to see me on flying visits, and when he has done anything he feels is particularly clever he tells me about it.’
‘Boasts about it, I suppose.’
The Dowager nodded. ‘Yes. I must confess that, when I was making plans for you, before you arrived, I mentioned them to Damian.’ She paused, then looked up. ‘I dare say you recall what those plans were?’
‘Marrying me to some dull frump, as I recall.’
‘Yes. And forcing you to it with the threat of disinheritance.’
Martin nodded. ‘So?’
The Dowager drew breath. ‘So, when Damian saw you getting too close to Helen Walford, he repeated my threat against you to her. He didn’t know it wasn’t the truth.’ She glanced up and swallowed. Martin was no longer lounging in his chair. The shadowy figure was tense and intent.
‘Are you telling me that Damian led Helen to believe that if she married me I’d lose all my supposed wealth?’
The suppressed energy vibrating beneath the slowly enunciated words all but paralysed the Dowager. Feeling very like prey in the presence of an enraged predator, she nodded.
‘Aaaaaagh!’ Martin sprang from his chair and strode about the room, all feeling of indolence vanquished. Halfway down the room, he abruptly turned and came back to stand in front of his mother. ‘Was Damian the agent who spread the tale of Helen’s spending the afternoon at Merton House?’
The Dowager looked up into eyes like flint. All inclination to defend her wretched fourth son evaporated. She nodded. ‘Yes, he admitted that, too. However, it seems as if he believed he was doing you a favour at the time.’
Martin paused in his pacing to throw an incredulous glance her way. ‘Favour?’
‘I gather he was certain you’d broken off with Lady Walford. He thought to protect you from any claim made by her ladyship by ensuring that her reputation was already destroyed.’
When Martin simply stared at her, Catherine Willesden nodded. ‘I know. He’s not really very clever at all. He doesn’t seem to understand how people should behave.’
Martin groaned. ‘Where is he?’
‘At the Bascombes’, near Dunster. He said he’d be back in a few days.’
Martin nodded. ‘I’ll deal with him later.’
For five minutes, he paced the room, his brow furrowed as he pieced together the tangled web of his proposals and Helen’s refusals. The damn woman had put him through hell, believing she was saving him from financial ruin. With an inward groan, he recalled his comment of not caring for his fortune, only for her. He had tripped himself up with his passionate avowal. But he had it all clear at last. Damian, of course, would have to be licked into shape, but first he had to extricate Helen from the mess her penchant for self-sacrifice had landed her in. Now he understood her steadfast refusals. She had decided to save him and nothing he had been able to say had swayed her. Gratifying, that, even if it had proved frustrating.