The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  “I truly do have business to attend to, my dear. Until later.”

  It was an excuse, but also a promise, one that left Kitty unable to settle to household duties. She collected Sillikin and went to Braydon’s office, simply because it was so very much his, with his essence all around. She opened a book on the desk. It was all to do with yields of different crops. Riffling through the neat piles of papers seemed intrusive, so she decided to work on the loose papers in the cabinet as an excuse to stay there. She took down a box.

  She found the simple task soothing. Take a paper from the box, read it, write the brief description and decide where to put it. She could easily denote some as ONI—of no interest—but as that wasn’t an option, they went under NOI.

  Scribbled names of horses, perhaps from a race meeting.

  Bills for all kinds of small items—a cravat pin; garters; soap, in this case almond and rose. Rose soap wasn’t usually a gentleman’s choice. For the dowager or Isabella?

  Trite letters from acquaintances acknowledging a favor or offering one, or informing him of a meeting in Town. He seemed to be a member of a number of worthy organizations, but that was probably a requirement of the peerage. She came across nothing to suggest active involvement.

  There was a bill for the repair of the leading on a window. It should go in the box for the appropriate property, but there was nothing to indicate which house. The tradesman’s address was in Edgware, so it must be connected to the document she’d found before. Where had that letter been filed?

  She made the note in the ledger, then put the bill on top of one of Braydon’s piles of paper to catch his attention. It seemed the viscountcy owned some property in Edgware. It might be a similar case to the Beecham Dab almshouses, in danger of neglect.

  Then she came across a letter from the dowager to her son, dated three years earlier. Kitty smoothed it, surprised that it had been carelessly stuffed somewhere.

  The handwriting was ornate. The dowager wrote of estate matters and urged her son to return to the Abbey soon to deal with a rental issue. It was hard to detect any emotion. She mentioned the good health and educational progress of his two children, but without any sense of doting. She probably would think doting for her dotage.

  Kitty went into the secretary’s room. “Is there a special place for family correspondence, Worseley?”

  “Yes, my lady. In the cabinet.” He went with her and took out a box from the bottom shelf. “This is for recent correspondence. Older letters are stored in the muniment room.”

  “How long a period does this box cover?”

  “Three years, ma’am.”

  He returned to his office. Kitty considered the scant contents of the box, sorely tempted to read the letters. That would be rudely intrusive, however, so she put the letter with the rest and noted the location in the ledger.

  She put some more wood on the fire and returned to the muddle of paper, enjoying the simple room and the placid routine of the task. The bits and pieces built up a picture. The fifth viscount had been fussy about his boots and shoes but haphazard about his clothing. He’d certainly been no dandy. In fact, his concern over his footwear was all for comfort. Had he had bad feet?

  Chapter 24

  “There’s no need for you to be doing that.”

  Sillikin leapt up and went over to Braydon, tail wagging. That was a great improvement, and Braydon hunkered down to stroke her, but he had a small wooden chest under one arm. More papers?

  He had that glow that comes from fresh air and exercise, and she wanted to eat him.

  “I needed a routine task,” she said as he rose, smoothly and easily. “Just as you, I suspect, needed exercise and open air.”

  “Astute as always. Have you found hidden treasure?”

  “Not unless you count the fifth viscount being very concerned about his feet and his thinning hair. I’ve come across bills for three different hair tonics.”

  “I seem to remember others. I, on the other hand, have found treasure for you.” He put the chest on the desk. “I decided the dowager must still have the family jewels, so I faced the dragon and wrested them from her.”

  “And lived to tell the tale!”

  “She has an impressive safe and suggested she was the best custodian. There’s a safe here as well, however. Remind me to show it to you.” He unlocked the chest and opened it. “I can’t be sure this is all of it.”

  Kitty didn’t try to hide her excitement. She took out boxes and pouches and began to open them, finding jewelry of all sorts in all stones, and a beautiful necklace of large pearls. She cradled it in her hands, but when she looked up she saw amusement.

  “Who wouldn’t be excited to explore a treasure chest?” she protested. “If I have to face the world as a viscountess, I’ll have the chance of glittering as I ought.”

  He picked up an emerald necklace and studied it. “Good stones, but ugly setting. We’ll have it reset.” He picked up a diamond pin. “This needs cleaning. Probably most of it does. All the same . . .” He came round the desk and slid it into her hair. “Ice and fire.”

  His look was admiring and his touch flowed heat down her spine, making her sway. She put a hand on his chest, hoping he felt as she did. That they could—

  “Coffee,” he said.

  “Coffee?”

  But it was a warning. He must have already ordered it, for it arrived then, again with little cakes, but these were golden and glossy. Kitty sat, reminding herself that the night was not so very far away.

  He poured and passed a cup to her. “Have you questions for me?”

  He meant about the house, but she chose to take it another way.

  “Tell me about your life before you became Lord Dauntry.”

  He was surprised. “Including the army?”

  She’d be interested, for it didn’t seem his career had been commonplace, but it might be a difficult subject. “No, after you sold out. Was that soon after Waterloo?”

  He relaxed back and sipped. “Late in 1815. I didn’t intend to. I liked the life, all in all, and considered it my career, but as it became clear Napoleon was truly done for, the work became less appealing.”

  “You enjoyed the fighting?”

  “Does that offend?”

  “No. I can’t quite understand it, but I know it’s common enough.”

  “If I’d wanted armed combat, there are postings around the world where it’s available, but I didn’t fancy a life in Canada or India, and there are even worse places. The West Indies, for example, and the penal colonies of Australia. I’d no mind to be a jailor.”

  “I’ve listened to men discuss the same options,” she said, enjoying her own coffee, feeling as relaxed as Sillikin, who was dozing by the fire. “In the same manner. After Waterloo, something seeped away—and left a swamp.”

  “A good way of putting it. Most military officers need their profession, but I didn’t. I had a modest inheritance from my father, and then an uncle left me a larger one. When another regiment was sent to keep the peace in Yorkshire, enforcing the Riot Act against desperate Englishmen, I sold out before I was entangled in a similar mess.” He poured himself more coffee. “I couldn’t mend that situation by staying.”

  “Of course not. And your concerns were justified. The dragoons were ordered to charge the gathering at Spa Fields last year. People could have been killed. It was outrageous.”

  She expected him to share her disapproval, but he said, “You didn’t read the handbills distributed before the meeting. I quote: ‘The whole country awaits the signal from London to fly to arms! Haste, haste to break open gunsmiths and other likely places to find arms! Run through all constables who touch a man of us. No rise of bread! No Regent! No Castlereagh! Off with their heads!’”

  “Heavens! You know it by heart?”

  “My very retentive memory.”
/>   “It’s horrible that people preached such violence. But the hardships are great.”

  “It would be pleasant if life was black or white, but it rarely is. Try some baklava. It’s sticky, but you’re allowed to lick your fingers.”

  She took a tiny square and nibbled. Crisp layers of thin pastry with honey, spices, and some sort of nut. “Have you introduced the dowager to this?”

  “No.”

  Clearly he saw it as sweetmeats before swine.

  Kitty took another nibble and drank some coffee. They went together perfectly. “I’ll end up fat.”

  “Not if you eat only small pieces.” He’d finished his and sucked honey off his fingers and thumb.

  Kitty realized that she’d licked her lips only when she saw the way he was watching her. She ate another nibble of cake; then she put down the remainder and moved her hand up to lick off the honey.

  He leaned forward and captured her wrist. Watching her, he brought her hand to his mouth and sucked at one finger, his tongue swirling to clean off every trace of honey.

  It wasn’t night, but her body didn’t seem to care. He moved on to the next finger, watching her, a smile deepening in his eyes. He knew what he was doing to her, and he, too, didn’t care that it was still light outside. He drew her to her feet, still sucking at her finger, then drew it deeper and out. Kitty felt as if she were melting, deep, deep inside.

  Here?

  Why not? The floor was carpeted. . . .

  At the sound of voices he moved apart.

  After the briefest knock, Worseley came in. “A message, sir. Courier.”

  Outwardly cool again, Braydon took the letter, broke the heavy seal, and read. “How very inconvenient,” he said. “I apologize, my dear, but I have to leave for London immediately.”

  Kitty could have wailed a protest, but she could see the issue was serious. “Of course. Is something terribly the matter?”

  “Nothing that need concern you.” She thought he’d leave on that curt sentence, but he came over and kissed her hand. “It’s a comfort that I can leave Beauchamp Abbey in your excellent care.”

  With that, he was gone.

  Kitty took out the diamond pin, feeling tragically noble. This was why he’d married her, but they’d been married for only a day, and she ached with desire. She put away the jewels and locked the box, but she didn’t know where the safe was. She put it in Worseley’s charge.

  Should she supervise her husband’s packing? She’d packed for Marcus before their annual visit to Cateril Manor, but Braydon and his valet could manage such things. She was fighting tears, which was ridiculous, but then suddenly it wasn’t.

  She hurried upstairs and found him in his bedroom, instructing his valet about what to pack in one small trunk.

  “A word with you, my lord.”

  His look was impatient, but he came with her into her bedroom and closed the door.

  “I need to come with you.”

  His lips tightened. “I dislike being blunt, Kitty, but your being here to take care of the Abbey was a key point of our negotiations, was it not?”

  Kitty almost apologized and left, but she couldn’t. “Yes, and I’ll keep my part of the bargain, but not now. Consider—we’ve spent one night together. One! If you leave now, what will people think?”

  “That I have urgent business?” But he grimaced in exasperation. “You’re right, of course. Some will see disappointment or rejection. I’ll be traveling without consideration for comfort.”

  “I’ll survive. I’ll have to ask Henry whether she wants to come.”

  He nodded and returned to his room. Kitty tugged the bell. By the time Henry arrived, Kitty had already laid shifts, drawers, and stockings on the bed, despite Sillikin running around, trying to understand what was happening. Perhaps the dog hoped they were returning to the parsonage.

  She quickly explained to Henry. “What should I take for a few days in Town?”

  “Something for all eventualities,” Henry said. “I’ll make the selection.”

  “Will you come?”

  Kitty had meant to phrase it more generally, giving the older woman more option to refuse, but she wanted Henry with her. London she knew. Town was foreign territory and probably hostile.

  “Of course, dear. I’m no delicate flower, and you’ll need me.”

  While Henry packed, Kitty invaded the dowager’s parlor again. She found Isabella there, seated at a distance from the roaring fire, looking resentful. When Kitty informed the dowager that she and Braydon were going up to Town for a few days, the girl’s sulky lips tightened. Kitty truly meant to do something for Isabella, and for a moment thought of taking her with them, but heaven knew what the summons involved. It would be folly.

  “How will Beauchamp survive without you both?” the dowager asked with a smirk.

  Kitty kept her composure. “The servants seem well trained, and I’m sure you will advise them as necessary, ma’am. I don’t expect to be gone long.” That pinched her face. Kitty added, “We will certainly return by Christmas. There will be festive traditions to follow.”

  “Yokels,” said the dowager.

  “I don’t know that one, ma’am. We must have the wassailers up to the house, however, and mummers if there are any hereabouts. A yule log and greenery about the place.”

  Kitty saw a glint in Isabella’s eyes, and though it pleased her, she knew she was taunting for the joy of it.

  “Now I must make haste, ma’am. If there are any items you would like from Town, please send me a note before we leave.”

  No note came from the dowager, but Kitty did receive one from Isabella, asking for some new novels. Perhaps a slight breach in the citadel.

  Chapter 25

  They left before sunset, but traveled mostly in the dark, grateful for moonlight and hardly slackening speed along the good toll roads. Abbey horses had taken the traveling carriage to Chipping Norton, but from there they used four post-horses with frequent changes. One of the postilions sounded his horn as they approached every toll, so the gate was already opening for them when they reached it. Only rarely did they leave the coach at a change, for necessary relief.

  Kitty had never before traveled at such unremitting speed and could only attempt not to show her exhaustion.

  There was little conversation. Whatever the cause of this race to Town, it was not to be spoken of in front of Henry and Johns, and there was no need to speak of anything else. Sillikin seemed to pick up the mood and mostly slept on the floor, though she opened an eye now and then, as if to check that her humans were still all right.

  The coach drew to a stop, and they could finally climb out into the biting night air. Kitty was bone-weary and her breath was misting, but the fashionable street was warm with gaslight, and the sounds of London were all around. She couldn’t help a smile as she recognized its fast, familiar pulse.

  They hadn’t stopped in front of a typical Town house that had been divided into two or three sets of rooms. This building stretched on either side of her with only one central door. Johns used the brass door knocker, and the door was opened by a sturdy, broad-shouldered manservant in greatcoat and gloves.

  “Welcome ’ome, m’lord,” he growled.

  A retired prizefighter to guard the door?

  Dauntry gave his arm to Kitty and they went forward. “Thank you, Clark. Lady Dauntry will be with me for a while.”

  The entrance hall was narrow but the staircase wide and gracious, and the whole was of fine, polished wood. Braydon escorted her up the stairs for one flight, and then they turned left, where he used a key to enter his rooms.

  Kitty remembered once thinking, for the merest moment, that his rooms might be similar to the four rooms she’d lived in with Marcus. She’d known they’d be grander, but she’d had no idea.

  His private entrance hall was sma
ll, but again the wood was fine and polished, and two paintings hung on the walls. They were small and probably Dutch, judging from the interior scene and the costumes. A mahogany wall clock ticked the seconds above a small table that held a Grecian vase, a silver tray, and a candle lamp. The candle wasn’t lit, but a fire in a room ahead spilled warmth, and a manservant was already lighting branches of candles there.

  He turned to bow. “My lord! We weren’t expecting you.”

  Yet he’d been preparing before we entered. A bell from the porter below to alert the household?

  “I wasn’t expecting myself,” Braydon said. “My dear, this is Edward. You’ll find he’s a useful, knowledgeable young man.” Again he said, “Lady Dauntry will be here for a little while.”

  Was he making sure the servants knew she wasn’t his light-o’-love? Or was the emphasis on the temporary nature of her stay? She knew some gentlemen’s rooms were bachelor only.

  The candles illuminated a sitting room of modest size, but elegant enough to be called a drawing room. She almost felt she should apologize for putting her travel-worn half boots onto the thick carpet, and there were more objets d’art and pictures on the cream-colored walls. She saw two glossy mahogany doors to the left and right. Five rooms? Only one more than she’d had in Moor Street—but no. There must be a servants’ area somewhere, and as he had a cook, a kitchen. Her small kitchen had been one of the four.

  “My apologies, my dear,” Braydon said to Kitty. “I must go out immediately. The servants will take good care of you.”

  And then he was gone.

  Kitty, Henry, Johns, and the footman stood in silent uncertainty. It was Sillikin trotting to the footman with friendship in mind that alerted Kitty to the fact that she was in charge here.

  “Tea,” she said. “And something decent to eat, please, Edward. Johns, kindly show me what accommodation we have.”

  Braydon’s rooms contained all one might find in the smaller sort of fashionable town house, but with the usual three or four floors laid out on one level. In addition to the parlor, she was shown a dining room where at least ten could dine and a small library with walls entirely of books. There were two good bedrooms, and off one, a dressing room with bath. That was clearly Braydon’s room.