by Jo Beverley
“Lord Dauntry!”
He snapped to attention to see a florid Mrs. Motely approaching, her eldest daughter in tow. She was his sister Justina’s sister-in-law and keen to increase the family connection.
Despite the nip in the air, the two Motelys were willing to linger. At the earliest opportunity he mentioned his wife. That led to exclamations of surprise and smiling good wishes, but also to their abrupt lack of interest. His marriage was serving that purpose, at least.
It wouldn’t have been hard to find a wife, but as he’d always known, a conventional wooing would have required more time and promises he hadn’t felt able to make.
And it would have been a shame, because then he’d not be married to Kit Kat.
Damn her.
Chapter 31
Kitty lingered at the lunch table, fretting over Braydon’s attitude and depressed by thoughts of the Abbey; but dwelling on either could only make matters worse. The Abbey was her destiny, and Braydon wasn’t like Marcus. His jealousy wouldn’t turn violent.
She abandoned her cold tea to investigate Diane Dauntry in Braydon’s library. The information could be useful. The dowager might be a forlorn hope, but Isabella might come around. Having news of her mother could help.
Sillikin accompanied her, but after a brief investigation flopped down in front of the fire.
“A pity you can’t read. You could make yourself useful.”
The Hartley family of Chipping Ongar. If the family had a peerage, they’d be in Mr. Debrett’s useful book. As soon as she opened it, however, she realized that unless the peerage title was also Hartley, she had no means of finding them there.
She found nothing under Hartley.
Next she checked a gazetteer, and there, under Chipping Ongar, she found Sir Allenby Hartley, baronet, of Keys Court. The mention was brief, however, and mostly about the house, which seemed ordinary enough. Probably not a wealthy family, and pleased for their daughter to become “my lady.” Had the fifth viscount married for love, against his mother’s wishes? That could have been the seed for endless discord.
The library was well organized, which was hardly surprising, and all the reference works were in one section. She hunted for something else and found that Mr. Debrett also had a book about baronets. There she found the detail she needed. Sir Allenby was married to Catherine Forbes, daughter of Sir Charles Forbes of Cheshunt. He had issue, a son, Allenby Forbes Hartley, a daughter Susanna Maria, who was married to Henry Filstowe, Esquire, of Tonbridge, Kent, and a daughter Diane Alice, married to Viscount Dauntry of Beauchamp Abbey, Gloucestershire.
Kitty checked the date of publication. Only five years ago, but the entry had been technically correct. Diane had still been married to the fifth viscount at that time. It was no business of Mr. Debrett’s if a couple chose to live apart.
She made a note of all the details.
Sillikin stood, stretched, and came over with a look that strongly suggested a walk.
“In a moment. Should I write or should I visit?”
The dog whined.
“If you’re in a hurry, it will have to be without me.” Kitty opened the door and called for Edward. Sillikin greeted the footman like a relieving army and went with him without hesitation.
Putting aside grievance over that, Kitty returned to her problem. She was tempted to order a coach and rush out to Chipping Ongar. But on a short winter day it could be dark by the time she arrived, and the Hartleys might be elsewhere.
She’d do the sensible thing and write. It was a delicate letter to compose, but she tried for a sympathetic tone and asked if they knew about Diane’s whereabouts, as she wanted to give the information to her daughter, who had lost so many of her family.
Her signature presented an unexpected dilemma. She knew she must use her title as her last name, but should it be Kitty or Kathryn? Lady Cateril had given her a deep dislike of being Kathryn, but Kathryn Dauntry seemed more dignified.
She realized she was still troubled by Dauntry’s reaction to the officers and Kit Kat. To Hades with that! Kitty she was, and Kitty she would always be. She signed Kitty Dauntry, then folded and sealed the letter. She put the letter in the foyer for Edward to take to the post office.
Next, she summoned her courage and invaded the servants’ quarters. Henry had told her that the ruler of the kitchen was a Mr. Kingdom, who was surly and easily angered, though he’d melted for Sillikin. Kitty hoped that would count in her favor, but she must confront him. She was now mistress of this establishment.
The cook did seem surly, but he was also short, fat, and had a patch over one eye. “Yuz, milady?” he growled in a heavy accent, perhaps from Worcestershire. “Y’ave a complaint?”
Kitty resisted a desire to back out of the small room. “Not at all, Kingdom. Everything’s been excellent. I merely wondered if you had all that you need.”
“Yuz, milady.” She could almost hear him thinking, Except the space you’re taking up.
A pot simmered on a very compact stove. The wooden table was spread with vegetables. Did the servants eat in here? With the addition of Henry, it would be crowded. Perhaps the cook was surly because of that.
Kitty still wanted to retreat, but she held her ground. “The stove is quite small. I assume you buy baked meats.”
“Yuz, milady.”
“And bread and cakes.”
“I sometimes make his lordship’s favorites, milady.” Reluctantly, he added, “Is there aught you’d like, milady? While you’re here.”
Kitty was very tempted to reprimand him for that, but if Braydon kept such a servant, he must value him.
“Stewed oysters,” she said. “Thank you. Carry on.” She left, blowing out a breath. What an odd creature. She soon found Henry and asked about Kingdom.
“He was a ship’s cook,” Henry said, “so he’ll be used to a confined kitchen. I understand many of the sets of rooms here don’t have one at all—only a hob on a fire where a pot can be boiled. He’s more bark than bite. I think he’s nervous around women, and aware he’s not the prettiest sight.”
“He might have feared I’d try to get him turned off? Poor man. Though he did make it clear he expects me to soon be gone.”
“That might be my fault, dear. To keep the peace, I told him we didn’t expect to be here for long. I think he was imagining us a fixture.”
“Are families permitted here? I know in some sets of gentlemen’s rooms they aren’t.”
“Permitted but not encouraged. And even such elegant rooms aren’t suitable, are they?”
“No.” Kitty thought wistfully of the house, but there’d be no reason to open that up for a week or less, and she must soon return to her duties.
She hoped the Hartleys replied soon. Discovering Diane Dauntry’s whereabouts might be the only truly useful thing she could do while in London. In the meantime, she must consider what to wear to this dinner—her first social engagement as Viscountess Dauntry.
And after?
The night.
Her husband would have no excuse to be out till all hours tonight.
* * *
After an afternoon with little achieved, Braydon arrived home to find his wife secluded in the second bedroom, preparing for dinner. He washed and changed for the evening, troubled by that. Was she intending to sleep there tonight?
Because of their falling-out about her admirers?
When he entered the drawing room he found her ready, but with a challenging look in her eye. Devil take it, why had she chosen to wear the pagan red gown and the cashmere shawl? With the addition of a very fetching red and gold turban, she’d stop men dead in the street.
He made sure to smile. “You look magnificent, my dear.”
“Too magnificent for a dinner?”
She’d caught his misgivings anyway. “Of course not.”
She
was his, and tonight he intended to wipe all thought of other men from her mind. As he put her cloak around her shoulders he murmured, “Tonight, you sleep in my bed.”
Her look was startled but not resentful. Heat flickered behind her green and gold eyes, and her full lips softened, perhaps on the edge of a smile.
Damned witch.
Damned dinner. Braydon arrived at Beaumont’s, house wishing the event already over.
They were warmly greeted by Beaumont’s wife. She performed under her former name, Blanche Hardcastle, and was famous for her prematurely white hair and her habit of dressing only in white, on- and offstage. She was clearly keeping to that even in this time of mourning.
He’d been delighted by her on the stage, but it was pleasant to find that she was as charming and beautiful from only a yard away. She wore the lightest powder and paint, which showed that her looks were all her own, and it seemed her nature was genuine as well.
Even as Braydon greeted her, an uncomfortable scrap of information popped into his head. She’d been known—might still be known—as the White Dove of Drury Lane. Again, a reference to her coloring, but with a slight implication of a disreputable past, as loose women were sometimes called spoiled doves. It wouldn’t be entirely surprising, for actresses were not always pattern cards of virtue, and Beaumont was unlikely to be ignorant of her past.
Especially as—another inconvenient fact—she’d been the mistress of the Marquess of Arden for a number of years, and Arden and Beaumont were old friends. It wouldn’t be the first time friends had shared or passed on a mistress, but for one to marry the lady was unusual. How fortunate that he was able to keep a smooth demeanor while digesting alarming facts.
There was nothing alarming about the Balls. Sir Stephen was certainly not a military type, having a more intellectual appearance. Dark-haired Lady Ball was an elegant charmer.
The other two guests were a fresh-faced young Canadian lawyer, Grantford Torlie, and Miss Feathers, a snub-nosed, bright-eyed actress from Drury Lane. Torlie was introduced as the son of a man Beaumont had known in Canada, and the young man was clearly very happy that Miss Feathers had been invited to balance the numbers.
Despite Braydon’s wish that the event be soon over, he had to admit that the food was excellent and the conversation interesting and frequently amusing. Kitty played her part with ease.
Miss Feathers was young and lively, but she was no fool. When Torlie paid her a compliment that was a little too warm, she dropped into the conversation that she lived with her mother, who was, sadly, strict. “But,” she added, “you would be most welcome to call and make her acquaintance, sir. She was once an actress herself.”
“And an excellent one,” Blanche Beaumont said. “Harriet could still be on the stage in older parts if an infection hadn’t damaged her voice.”
Beaumont said, “It’s time we conquered infection,” and discussion turned in that direction, touching on folk remedies, including maggots. Miss Feathers pulled a face, and Torlie declared he’d not have maggots eating his flesh.
“You’d be a fool not to have them eating an infection that would otherwise kill you,” Beaumont said. He hadn’t said “that could cost you a limb,” because that would cause distress, but it had to have been what he’d thought. Battle-damaged limbs were frequently amputated to remove any danger of infection, but with time and care they might have been saved.
Laura Ball deftly turned the talk toward charities for wounded soldiers and the need for employment for them. That moved them all to the economy and the signs of improvement. It was more substantial talk than would be approved at most dinner tables, but skillfully avoided disagreements or jarring debate.
When the ladies left, none of the men raised difficult subjects, except when Braydon asked Torlie what brought him to London.
“To hone my legal training, sir. I wanted Boston, but my father insisted on London.”
“Canada is ruled by British law,” Ball said.
“But not forever, Sir Stephen. It’s inevitable that we join the American states in time.”
Braydon raised his brows with the others.
“That could be seen as treason,” Ball pointed out.
Torlie colored, but he stood his ground. “Canada must at the least become self-governing, sir. We’re thousands of miles from St. James and Westminster. If we then choose to become a republic and join with America, I hope no one will attempt to prevent it.”
“I wouldn’t stake my life on that,” Braydon said, passing the port but considering a new twist. Would Canadians who wished to join the Americans seek to create dynastic chaos in Britain? Sufficient disorder, most especially a civil war, would make it easier for them to slip away. But, again, it would be a very long-term plan.
“Some are willing to die for freedom,” Torlie declared, threatening the harmony of the evening.
Braydon said, “Your skill in British law could be more useful than your blood, Torlie. Know thy enemy. There was a time in Spain when one of the men knowing local custom turned the tide.”
He told the story, and then Beaumont added another, and the moment passed. Soon after they all rose to join the ladies in the drawing room.
Beaumont took a moment with Braydon. “Apologies for young Torlie. I suspect his father shipped him over here to get him away from others of similar mind.”
“We all tend to crackbrain ideas when young.”
“It might not be entirely crackbrained.”
Braydon raised a hand. “I have enough on my plate without a North American mess. Three princes and a peerage.”
Beaumont chuckled. “How are you coping with becoming a viscount?”
“Much as one copes with a long march through enemy terrain in winter.”
“As bad as that? Your wife must be a help. A strong and sensible woman, and she deserves an easier march.”
“It was bad?” Braydon asked, wanting to know.
Beaumont grimaced. “Who knows the secrets of a marriage, and I visited there only a few times, years ago. But Marcus Cateril was fiery by nature, and that didn’t change except in being confined. A man can’t help resenting injuries at times.”
Did he refer to himself and his missing arm? If so, he didn’t dwell on it.
“His were severe,” Beaumont went on. “Walking pained him and he was ungainly, which might have pained him even more. He’d once been a fit, athletic type. It had to have made him difficult at times, but he loved his Kitty. No doubt of that.”
“And she him.”
“Of course.”
Unreasonable to let that sting. “Ball seems sound. I’ll bring him in if he’s willing. There are matters to discuss tomorrow. Perhaps here?”
“Of course.”
Chapter 32
Kitty enjoyed the dinner. She’d expected awkwardness, but their hosts put them at ease and the company was pleasant, even the wet-behind-the-ears Canadian. His enthusiasms made her smile. She remembered many young officers like him. And that many were no longer alive. Thank heavens for peace.
She felt she played her part well, and she enjoyed the drawing room conversation with the other ladies. It surprised her a little that the very elegant Lady Ball was on such easy terms with one actress and accepting of another, but so it seemed.
The Balls would soon be traveling to the country for Christmas, but the Beaumonts would spend the season in Town. As Kitty would like to do. Beneath all the social pleasantries, however, rippled her awareness of the coming night.
Thank heavens the party broke up at a reasonable time, so it was not yet half past ten when Kitty entered the hackney carriage with her husband. She was to sleep in his bed. Did that mean “stay there all night”? It must, when the alternative would be to slip back into bed with Henry.
“That was very pleasant,” she said, “Excellent company, though Torlie is a bit raw.�
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“But mostly minds his manners well enough.”
“Do you think Canada should join with the Americans?”
“I refuse to even consider the question. How delightful that a turban is no impediment to kissing.”
His lips brushed against hers playfully and she responded in kind, already warm with desire. They deepened it together until she broke the kiss, flushed and breathless. “I’m sorry. I can’t be moderate. It’s been so long.”
“Since the night before last,” he pointed out, tracing her sensitized lips with a gloved finger.
She shifted on the hard leather seat. “Before then, I mean. And I confess . . . I’ve always had an appetite.”
“Which I appreciate. But unless we want to disgrace ourselves, we’d best wait.”
He lowered his hand, and she wove her fingers with his. “How do people survive forever without?”
“Are you asking about my mistresses?”
“Of course not!” Her protest was instinctive and not entirely truthful. She slid a look at him. “I wouldn’t mind knowing how many there have been.”
His smile reached his eyes. “Very few, if we’re being precise. Most have been more temporary partners—”
She put fingers over his lips. “Don’t. It’s none of my business. Though I would like to know. . . .”
He pushed her fingers aside. “Yes?”
She asked the burning question. “Do you have a mistress now?”
“No. Why think that?”
“Your longing for Town. Ruth and Andrew assumed . . .”
He laughed. “Life as a clergyman must incline one to suspect the worst. Not that such an arrangement is the worst. But no, I don’t have a barque of frailty tucked away in a little house somewhere, awaiting my convenience.”
“I’m glad. It would be complicated.”
“I’m surprised you don’t feel more strongly than that.”
“I’d have no right, given our arrangement.”
“Not a trace of jealousy?”
“I didn’t speak of how I’d feel.” Kitty saw where he’d led her, the tricksy man. Sauce for the gander; sauce for the goose. “I was more aware of possible complications. She might have been a fashionable widow whom I’d meet at some event. A more beautiful and elegant woman than I. Heavens! I must have drunk too much.”