by Jo Beverley
And how can it matter? Kitty thought, but she returned to the box.
The next paper was a letter dated September 25, 1810, from a Charles Day to the fifth viscount about a house in Edgware. The Edgware Road ran north from London close to Moor Street, where she’d lived, but she didn’t know how far away it was. She wrote the essentials, then asked, “Is there a box for a house in Edgware?”
“No.” He came toward her to take the paper, but the coffee arrived then, the aroma very welcome. Kitty was pleased to see a plate of tiny cakes came with it. She’d only nibbled at the wedding breakfast. She put the letter on the desk and rose.
The footman placed the slender coffeepot and tiny cups on a small table beside one of the armchairs and set the cakes alongside, together with a jug, plates, and serviettes. He left, and Kitty sat in the other chair, curious.
Sillikin, always aware of food, came to her knee. “No,” she said. With a reproachful look, the dog lay down again, head on paws, half over Kitty’s feet. “You wouldn’t like it,” Kitty said, then bit her lip. She was going to stop doing that.
“She wouldn’t,” Braydon said as he sat, “unless she’s a very unusual dog.” He poured coffee for them both and passed her a cup. “I requested cream in case you’d like it.”
“I assume it’s not normally used?”
“No.”
She sipped, and felt her eyes open wide. It was very strong and very sweet. And very delicious. “I don’t think I want cream.”
A smile in his eyes might even be true approval. “Try one of the cakes.”
They were tiny squares, and when she picked one up she could tell it was dense. She nibbled. “Marzipan? But not quite.”
“It’s halva, made of ground sesame seeds and sugar.”
“The kitchen here makes these?”
“Hardly. I recently purchased a new supply from a Turkish bakery in London. Do you like it?”
“The taste is a little odd, but I think . . . Yes. I do enjoy new things.” She sipped more of the coffee, which went well with the little cake. “You’ve visited Turkey?”
“In 1809, and occasionally at other times.”
“You were a diplomat?”
“It was on army business.”
That intriguing army business again. “Did you visit a harem?” she asked.
“And lived to tell the tale?”
“Perhaps you wore a disguise to slip in and rescue an English slave.”
“Perhaps you read too many novels.”
She smiled. “Perhaps I do. But I don’t take them as a textbook for my life.” She twitched her toe under Sillikin. “In a novel,” she said to the dog, “he’d have a mad wife locked away, or a chamber of bloody mementoes.”
Without opening her eyes, Sillikin snuffled.
“Not a great conversationalist, is she?” Braydon remarked. “I can merely offer a deranged dowager and an ice palace. How long have you had her?”
“Eight years. She was a gift. Marcus didn’t mind.”
“A gift from a gentleman?”
“Why ask that?”
“Why else would your husband mind?”
“Having a dog in a small place. The mess when she was a puppy.”
“I see.”
“As it happens, it was a gentleman. Captain Edison. His mother breeds them.” She smiled at the memory. “She was such an adorable bundle of fluff.”
“And made you happy.” He was watching her from beneath lowered lids in a way that unsettled her.
“Yes. Yes, she did. And does.”
“I must set myself to make you even happier.”
He meant it. Lord above, please let him not be plagued by jealousy.
To cover the moment, she sipped a little more coffee, but he said, “Don’t drink too deep. There’ll be a thick layer at the bottom. Would you like more?”
She put down the cup. “Not at the moment, thank you. It seems a little like ratafia or some other sweet alcoholic drink—deceptively treacherous.”
“You won’t become drunk on it.”
“It feels potent enough. I think I heard that the dowager has dogs. Will they be friendly?”
“It shouldn’t matter. They’re rarely outside her rooms.”
“That can’t be healthy.”
“For either of them. A footman walks the creatures twice a day around the gardens. Sometimes Isabella does that.”
“It can’t be good for her to be cooped up here.”
“No, but she resists change.”
She picked up another piece of cake. “What was Isabella’s life like before her father and brother died?”
“She receives some letters from friends, but none have visited since the deaths. She had a governess, but Mrs. Riverton was dismissed when Isabella turned sixteen and decided she no longer needed lessons.”
“Indulged, then.”
“Assuredly.”
“Which must mean she had the life she wanted.”
“I’ve known people who had all the choices in the world and yet managed to make themselves miserable.”
“That could include Napoleon.”
“Cursed with an appetite for conquest that could never be satisfied,” he agreed. “If he’d taken Russia, where next? That’s the worst curse the gods can place upon us—insatiable ambition.”
“Like Tantalus, chained, thirsty, in water that never quite reached his lips.”
“Indeed. The old gods knew their tortures.”
“You are free of ambition?”
“Yes, thank God.”
The pleasure of sweet coffee, halva, and the fire’s warmth led Kitty to ask, “There’s nothing you want?” She watched for his reaction.
He sipped coffee, taking his time. “To not die with regrets. What of you?”
“Nothing significant at the moment. I wanted to escape Cateril Manor, and you provided the key. I wanted to escape tedium, and you’ve provided purpose. When I discover a new want, I’ll seek a way to satisfy it.”
“Do you want children?”
The question startled her. Because it felt too personal, she realized, and that was ridiculous.
“In truth, I don’t know. I’ve become accustomed to not having them, and to it being unlikely. What of you? You said you’re not concerned about an heir, but do you want to be a father?”
If he was taken aback, it served him right.
“I’ve had little to do with children,” he said. “I doubt I’d be good at it. I’m not like Andrew Lulworth.”
Impossible to imagine him romping with a child as Andrew romped with Arthur, but he was relaxing here with her. In this modest room, in comfortable chairs by the fireside, with a plain mantel clock slowly ticking time, Kitty could forget the grand house above and around them and all the problems it contained. Perhaps the fifth viscount had done just that. If so, she didn’t blame him.
“I’m enjoying this,” she said. “The coffee and the cake, but mostly the conversation. It’s so long since I’ve enjoyed a long and sensible one.”
“Your dog doesn’t oblige?”
As if aware she’d been mentioned, Sillikin raised her head.
Kitty chuckled. “She employs the supportive silence.”
“Which can be extremely effective.”
Sillikin got up, stretched, and went to the door in a meaningful way.
“And sometimes she’s direct.” Regretfully, Kitty rose. “I need to take her out, and she should have a walk. You’d be welcome to accompany us, but I suspect you have tasks awaiting you, having been away.”
He rose, too. “What an understanding bride you are. Are you truly so composed, or is this a brave front?”
The question surprised her. “I am as I am, Braydon. If you want something other, I’ll try to oblige, but I fear I’m no
hand at acting a part.”
“No. Be yourself,” he said. But he didn’t sound easy about it.
She prayed she soon understood him better. Attempting to interpret every little thing would be exhausting, and she must make this work.
Chapter 17
He opened the door for her, inclining his head slightly as she passed. That seemed too formal between husband and wife. But as she walked down the short corridor, she acknowledged that she knew nothing of how it should be between a viscount and viscountess. Perhaps the nobility were different in all ways.
Kitty opened the door to the outside so Sillikin could relieve herself. The air was still cold, so she’d need cloak and gloves to go far.
“Come, Sillikin.”
The dog drooped like a disappointed child.
Kitty scooped her up. “Unlike you, milady, I don’t have a fur coat on. Once I’m warmly dressed we’ll have some fun.”
She’d entered the front hall speaking, and only just suppressed a curse at the thought that people could hear. Their hearing a curse echoing through the house would be even worse. She’d said she couldn’t act a part, but could she ever be herself here?
Henry dressed her in cloak and gloves and would have handed her a bonnet, but Kitty declined.
“I can walk in the garden without,” she said, “even if the garden is acres large.” She found Sillikin’s leather ball and they headed out, using that convenient back door.
Braydon’s door, straight ahead, was closed.
They crossed a small courtyard to emerge into formal gardens. Beyond lay the grass cropped by deer. The animals were in the distance, and she hoped they stayed there. They looked delicate and gentle, but they were wild animals and the males had large antlers.
Sillikin was looking at her expectantly.
“Yes, I remembered,” Kitty said, taking the leather ball out of her pocket. She threw it over the garden onto the grass, and Sillikin raced to follow. A movement made Kitty aware of someone watching. Over to her right she saw a gardener peering over a bush. She wanted to wave, but what should Lady Dauntry do in such a situation? What would the servant think of Lady Dauntry romping with her dog? Never mind. That was exactly what Kitty intended to do.
She followed Sillikin, meeting her halfway and engaging in the obligatory tussle for possession of the ball. When Sillikin surrendered it, Kitty threw again, but parallel with the house. She’d like to venture farther, but not with those untrustworthy animals around, some of them watching her.
The estate was probably called a park, but it was unlike any park she’d known before. Hyde Park was large and untamed in places, but it pushed up against a million people, and they could be heard, even if only as a kind of hum. Here, in winter, her surroundings were almost silent, and in the distance she saw only trees. The rolling grass was dotted with specimen trees, statues, and deer. It seemed a great waste of space. Cateril Manor had only modest gardens because most of the land was put usefully to agriculture. She remembered that here beyond the dense woodland, the estate was walled. She couldn’t see the high wall, but it was there, keeping the world out, and perhaps keeping things in. The deer, she reminded herself. The people are free to come and go.
Who knew what lived in those woods? She didn’t think there were wolves in England anymore, but were there still wild boar? What of wildcats? Even a fox could attack Sillikin, who’d never had to fight anything. Kitty resolved to stay close to the house until she knew it was safe to wander—for her dog and herself. She was sure it was ridiculous to worry about actual danger, but she felt a creeping worry. She looked back at the house and caught movement at a window in the upper floor.
A face. The dowager or Isabella, looking down with a sneer at the romping, hatless interloper who dared claim to be Viscountess Dauntry.
Then she’d romp! She wouldn’t be intimidated by shadows. Kitty ran with the ball, Sillikin running alongside delighting in the chase.
* * *
Braydon watched his wife playing with her dog. He’d never owned a dog and never regretted it. Some officers in the army had kept one or two, or even a small pack of hounds to indulge in the occasional hunt. He had no objection to dogs, but he’d never felt the need for one. Would he benefit from a canine companion? Not if he came to talk to it.
“My lord?”
Braydon turned to Worseley. “Yes?”
“I have those documents prepared, if you have a moment.”
Dauntry read and signed the papers, then asked, “What do we know about the fifth viscount’s wife since she left?”
“Nothing so far, sir.”
“Her family home must be in the records, for I’m told two portraits of her were returned there. Find out. If she’s in distant parts, she might not know she’s a widow.”
Worseley left, but Dauntry realized the secretary’s window faced the same way as his. What did Worseley think of the Viscountess Dauntry romping hatless with her pet? What would anyone else think?
Of Kit Kat.
He now knew that’s how his wife was known to a host of enthusiastic officers. After his offer of marriage had been accepted, he’d traveled to Town, mostly to avoid Isabella. Her efforts to tempt him had been merely annoying, but word of his intent to marry might have pushed her and the dowager into drastic action. Her visit to Kitty had been a weak ploy, but it showed he’d been right.
The prospect of Town had delighted his valet, Johns, who would probably abandon him if obliged to spend much more time in the country. That would be an inconvenience. He was a fashionable valet of the highest sort, and tempting him from his previous employer had almost led to a duel.
He’d traveled post chaise rather than in the curricle, which had pleased his groom, Baker. Baker liked the countryside and had set up a flirtation with a farmer’s daughter, who seemed very willing to flirt back, so he’d been happy to be left behind.
Such a natural business, billing and cooing, but one that came no more naturally to him than a jovial night of drinking at a local tavern. He could flirt, but as sophisticated play with a certain sort of woman. He could even protest devotion as long as he knew the woman in question was playing the same game.
He would never have married any of the women he played with, and they’d had no more desire for commitment than he. Thank heavens Kitty Cateril showed no sign of wanting spurious emotions and declarations. That was probably what had decided him a week ago—that and her fighting spirit. By God, she had a fighting spirit.
In London he’d visited his military club and out of curiosity mentioned meeting Marcus Cateril’s widow. There’d been universal approval, which should have pleased him, but he’d seen interest as well when they’d realized that Kit Kat was free to wed. Most men had lamented that they were in no position to marry anyone and probably hadn’t been serious in the first place, but there’d been a few others. He’d lied to one, a Captain Edison, about where she was. He hadn’t wanted an old admirer racing in to snatch his bride. His instinct had been right. Edison had given her the dog and might have been a serious admirer all along.
He’d left the club unsettled by the men’s reactions, but it hadn’t dented his determination to marry the woman. She met his requirements, and once she was established at the Abbey he’d be free to leave. Now, however, he was discovering a new Kitty every minute. He shouldn’t be surprised. Women could be as changeable as the English weather. He’d seen hard-bitten whores become sighing fools over a man no better than any other. Usually one much worse, which only proved the female brain was chaotic. He’d seen coolheaded ladies gibber and coo over a baby—but, then, he’d seen men do the same if it was their own.
Children.
Odd to think he might have a bunch of them.
Unlikely, she’d said. That answered one question. She wasn’t a virgin, so he needn’t consider that in the coming night.
The coming ni
ght. His body stirred at the thought of it. When she’d relaxed in the upholstered chair, firelight playing on her russet hair and bold features, he’d felt her sensual power. A sliding, quizzical glance had caught his breath, and he’d been suddenly aware that though her strong nose and chin could be somewhat mannish, her full lips were anything but, especially when parted. . . .
He’d have to guard against that or he’d end up ensnared like all the rest. Kit Kat. Apparently her husband’s London rooms had been known as the Kit Kat Club.
He dragged his mind back to the practical.
Eight years married and no child, so in all probability she was barren. That was probably a blessing. He had no idea how he might react to a child of his own, but he was sure having a wife die in childbirth would be the deepest sort of hell.
* * *
Kitty played her way around the house, encountering the occasional groundsman. If she passed close by she said, “Good afternoon” which seemed to startle them. Was it extraordinary that any of the family acknowledge their existence?
When she’d completed the circuit of the house she was feeling better for fresh air and exercise, but reluctant to return. That wouldn’t do. She couldn’t retreat, so she must advance. And if she were advancing, it would be with a strategy and as great a force as she could muster.
Perhaps worrying about how to conquer the dowager and Isabella was the wrong approach. The servants might be a better target. Rather than attack the fortress, undermine it.
A first step would be a celebration of the viscount’s marriage. She was sure that was normal. The villagers had received coins and free ale. The servants here should do as well or better.
She’d consult Braydon.
No, Henry. Henry will know.
The outdoor servants must be included. What of the tenants, laborers, and local tradesmen outside of Beecham Dab? There was the hamlet called Stuckle, and there might be other places.
Lord Pately’s heir had married during her time living at Cateril Manor. The Caterils hadn’t attended because of mourning, but they’d heard all about the celebrations. There’d been the usual coins and free ale, but there’d also been a servants’ ball a few days after the event and invitations to the most prosperous local farmers and tradesmen.