The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  “We do,” he said, as the carriage halted outside their rooms.

  Chapter 41

  Kitty woke early the next morning, and lay, in low spirits, close to her husband’s warm body. She’d woken in the middle of the night, at that time when darker thoughts seem able to invade.

  She must soon return to the Abbey, and putting it off wouldn’t help. Rural Gloucestershire wasn’t the Slough of Despond, but her dark-hours mind hadn’t been able to escape that image. The chilly house with the even chillier people, and the wintry countryside where little was alive.

  Unfair, unfair. It could be lovely in the summer.

  Yet even those who enjoyed their rural estates in balmier seasons didn’t live there in winter, if they could help it. They visited at Christmastide and then hurried back to Town.

  Christmas at Beauchamp Abbey.

  She’d have to attempt some celebrations, because not to do so would be to knuckle down to the dowager. But how could she arrange matters without starting a war? And whom should she invite? And would they attend?

  She’d always enjoyed the Christmas season in London and resented leaving it for Cateril Manor. Now, in early December, the streets were already bright with gaslight and the shops full of delicacies and delights. The theaters would be at their best at Christmastime, even with the lingering mourning. There’d be pantomimes, which she’d heard were great fun. Now there was no reason she couldn’t go to one, except for the damned Abbey.

  She put aside the dismals and did her best to raise her spirits before Braydon awoke. She managed well enough to be able to put on a smile for him at breakfast.

  “What are your plans for the day?” she asked.

  “To continue with my investigations. I’ve had some thoughts on the matter.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sidmouth seemed as annoyed by the situation as I am, so it’s probable that he told the truth and the Regent gave the command. The most likely reasons for that are that the Regent was himself responsible, or he knows who was and doesn’t want it known.”

  “The Princess of Wales?” Kitty suggested.

  “Definitely not. The Regent would want to blast that news everywhere.”

  “One of the three princes, then.”

  “That seems most likely.”

  Kitty sipped her chocolate. Braydon was drinking ordinary coffee and, as usual, eating a sandwich. “If that’s so,” she said, “it’s over, isn’t it? The culprit will never dare try again.”

  “That does depend on the why. For example, if Kent has his eye on the throne, getting rid of Clarence would move him one step closer.”

  “But why wait for a gathering of three?”

  “Because he needed to coax Kent back to England from Brussels.”

  Kitty considered that. “But assuming he slipped away before the explosion, his brother Sussex would die.”

  “A sacrifice in the cause.”

  “Is he truly so callous?”

  “I’ve met Kent only twice and can’t claim to know him at all, but in the army he had the reputation as a strict disciplinarian. When he was in Nova Scotia, a group of soldiers tried to seize and murder him.”

  “Good heavens. Last night you suggested the whole thing might be a farce. This isn’t farcical.”

  “It isn’t, is it? If it was a pretend plot, we’re back to the puzzle of whose purpose that serves.”

  “And who might have already gained by it. I’m glad you’re not going to cease investigations.”

  “Sidmouth can’t think he can call off the hawks so easily, and it’s best if the Regent doesn’t, either. Beaumont will be leaving for Brussels today, as planned.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  “The matter is urgent enough. Charrington returns to Somerset tomorrow.”

  “Which church should we attend?”

  “Saint George’s.”

  “But I assume you won’t have a day of rest?”

  She expected agreement, but he said, “Why not? There’s little useful to do, and the weather looks fair. We could drive out somewhere. To Richmond, perhaps.”

  “If we’re going so far, we could drive to Edgware.”

  “Edgware?” But then he remembered. “Curious cat.”

  “More interesting than an idle drive. We should see what house the fifth viscount was maintaining there, and make sure that the care is continuing.”

  “Very reasonable,” he said, “but it’s curiosity, pure and simple.”

  “And what’s wrong with that, sir?”

  Perhaps he remembered something from the night, for he smiled as he said, “Nothing. Nothing at all, my dear.”

  * * *

  After attending the Sunday service, Braydon hired a carriage from the nearby livery, and instructed that it be warmed by hot bricks. In her mantle and muff, Kitty was perfectly comfortable as they left London along the Edgware Road. She’d decided to leave Sillikin behind. The dog wasn’t fond of carriage rides and had the servants enslaved.

  When they passed close to Moor Street, she pointed that out and shared memories of some of the familiar places nearby. The road was unusually straight, but that was because it followed an old Roman road called Watling Street.

  “I’ve always liked the Roman way,” she said. “Go directly to the target without dithering around for valleys and hills.”

  The Edgware Road ran along the west edge of London, with streets to their right but few buildings to their left. Once they passed through the tollbooth at Paddington village, they had countryside to their right as well. There wasn’t a great deal of traffic, it being a Sunday and Edgware not being a popular pleasure jaunt, especially in winter.

  When they arrived at their destination, Kitty was somewhat surprised. Because it had a road named for it, she’d expected a town, but it was merely a straggling collection of houses along the street, with a few more significant ones nearby.

  They climbed out of the carriage at the White Hart, which had no pretensions of grandeur. On such a significant road she’d expected a large coaching inn, but perhaps Edgware was too close to London to be a popular place to change horses or seek refreshment. Hostlers took charge of the two horses, and Braydon gave the postilion his freedom for an hour or so. The innkeeper, thin and keen, asked what other service he could offer.

  “L Cottage, sir? All I can think of is Laurel Cottage, just off this street. If you walk five houses down, you’ll see the lane, sir. Fox Lane.”

  As they followed the directions, Kitty said, “What do we expect to find? My money’s on the fifth viscount’s nurse. Where do you place your bet?”

  “You’ve stolen the most likely explanation. It’s a little out of the way for a mistress, so I’ll plump for an old friend, down on his luck, housed out of charity. After all, it would seem he kept these expenditures secret. Why would he do that for his old nurse?”

  “A good point. I know—the dowager took against Nurse and dismissed her. He was afraid to let his mother know that he was taking care of her.”

  “Overly dramatic, but in this case all too likely. What a milksop he was.”

  They turned the corner and were soon assessing Laurel Cottage.

  “Rather a grand cottage,” Kitty said, for the building was two full stories beneath its thatch. “Large for Nurse. You’re probably correct about the friend, especially if the friend has a family.”

  “Or he was supporting more than one unfairly dismissed servant. There’s only one way to find out.”

  As they walked up a short path to the door, Kitty heard children shouting in play from behind the house. “I fear you’ll win. An old friend with a family. Perhaps a wounded soldier.”

  Braydon knocked at the door.

  It was opened by a woman who certainly wasn’t an old nurse but didn’t look like a servant, either, despite the apron over her b
rown gown, and a mobcap over mousy brown hair. Wife of a wounded officer?

  “Yes?” she asked, clearly surprised—and why not?—to find unexpected visitors on the doorstep on a Sunday afternoon? “May I help you?”

  Braydon said, “We hope so. My name is Dauntry, and my wife and I are taking the opportunity to satisfy mere curiosity. An imposition, I know, but may we come in?”

  Kitty saw no flicker of reaction to the name Dauntry. How to explain that?

  After a brief hesitation, the woman stepped back. “Of course, sir.”

  They entered a narrow corridor, but were taken into a fair-sized parlor to the left, which was warmed by a large fire. No sign of penny-pinching. The woman invited them to sit. All the furniture was of good quality, but nowhere near new. No sign of extravagance, either.

  Kitty and Braydon sat on a slightly battered sofa, and the woman sat on a straight chair. She wasn’t offering her name, which perhaps wasn’t surprising with such unexpected guests, but Kitty wondered if there was wariness in her expression. A mistress, after all? She didn’t seem the type, being so soberly dressed and with a face that was more sturdy than beguiling.

  Braydon had brought the account book. “This is our curiosity, ma’am. It records expenses for the maintenance of a property. On the flyleaf you’ll see it says, L Cottage, Edgware.”

  He passed it to the woman, open at the flyleaf. She took it without any sign of recognizing the book, but when she looked at the words, she frowned. She turned some pages and then looked up, alert and perhaps alarmed. “How did you come by this, sir?”

  “On a shelf,” Braydon said. “You recognize it?”

  “I recognize the writing. It’s my husband’s.” Then she asked, quite desperately, “Do you know where he is?”

  Chapter 42

  Kitty saw it in a moment. Not a mistress, or, at least, not in this woman’s mind. She thought herself married, and she’d not heard from her husband in months.

  Lord above, what to do now?

  “Your husband’s name, ma’am?” Braydon asked. Kitty wondered how he could sound so calm.

  “Braydon, of course. You didn’t know that? I’m Mrs. Braydon. Dorothy Braydon. Please tell me where my husband is, or at least where you found this book!”

  Kitty wanted to rush to her and hug her, but it would only alarm the woman more.

  “My name is Dauntry, as I said, ma’am—it’s Lord Dauntry. The book was found in my London house. I have reason to believe your husband left it there, but in order to be sure, do you have a picture of Mr. Braydon?”

  Oh. Kitty saw his reasoning. It was just possible that the fifth viscount had been taking care of some indigent relative and his family, and it was the indigent relative who’d disappeared.

  “A picture? Yes, of course.” The woman hurried out of the room and returned in moments with a small oval portrait, no more than a foot high. The artist wasn’t as skilled as the one who’d executed the portrait that hung at the Abbey, but it was clearly the fifth viscount. He still looked slightly anxious, but in a generally more optimistic way.

  He’d been happy here, despite a bigamous marriage, but he’d left this woman in a terrible situation. Especially if . . .

  “You have children, ma’am?” Kitty asked.

  “What? Yes. Two. Please, where is my husband?”

  Kitty went to her then, taking her hand. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. We have sad news for you.”

  The woman looked into Kitty’s eyes and clutched her hand. “He’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  The woman sat down. Kitty knelt beside, because the woman kept her grip on her.

  “I’ve feared as much. He’s frequently been away on business and sometimes for a month or more, but never so long.” She looked at Braydon. “Why has no one told me? And how? Where?”

  Braydon replied in that cool tone that Kitty had encountered at first meeting. It was his defense, she saw, against high emotions.

  “He died of a fever, ma’am. In Gloucestershire, at a place called Beauchamp Abbey. He never mentioned it?”

  “No. Why was he there? Were they buying pewter?”

  “Pewter?”

  “That was his business. Trading in pewter. I never understood it, but it brought in enough money for us to live well. Did he die alone?”

  “No,” Kitty said quickly. “He wasn’t alone, and he had the best possible medical care, but it couldn’t help him. A number of people died of the illness at the same time.”

  “I don’t understand why nobody told me!”

  “Nobody knew, ma’am. About you, I mean.”

  “But he must have had things on him. His business cards. Letters. Something.”

  Kitty looked to Braydon, not knowing what best to say. She saw it in his eyes. Only the truth would do.

  But at that moment, four young children burst into the room—two boys, two girls. “Mama! Look what. . . .”

  They all went silent, and then one, a dark-haired lad, said, “I’m sorry, Mama. We didn’t know you had guests.”

  “Yes. Best you go away for now, dears.”

  The children backed out, perhaps just abashed by their intrusion, but Kitty suspected they’d picked up the atmosphere of disaster.

  This was disaster. Not only was this woman not a legal wife, but her children were bastards.

  There was no doubt, however, who the boy’s father was. The resemblance to the picture of the fifth viscount as a child was potent. One of the girls had a similar appearance, but the other two children were sandy and round-faced.

  “Fine children, ma’am,” Kitty said.

  “Heavens, they’re not all mine! Johnie is—the one who had the grace to apologize—and the girl in blue. Alice. The other two are their friends. They’ll have found something horrible. . . .”

  She suddenly put her hands to her face and started to rock.

  Kitty moved another chair close and took her into her arms, simply holding her, but she sent Braydon a desperate look. What were they to do next? Could this poor woman take the additional blow that she was not a widow? That she’d never been a wife?

  Braydon rose and left. Had he decided this was woman’s work and abandoned her?

  “Please, ma’am, try not to worry about your future,” Kitty said. “I assure you we will take care of you and your children.”

  The woman looked up at that. Her eyes were only slightly damp, but hollow with shock and grief. “Why would you do that?’

  “Because our name is Braydon, too. Your Mr. Braydon was a distant relative of my husband’s.”

  “A lord? Alfred never mentioned that.”

  “What did he say about his family?”

  “Very little. His parents were dead, and he was an only child.”

  Kitty knew that the bereaved generally needed to talk about their lost one.

  “Where did you meet?”

  “In Cirencester. One of those silly moments. I was returning from market with an overloaded basket, and a cabbage rolled out. He picked it up for me. He had such kind eyes.” She blinked and swallowed. “The cabbage wouldn’t stay in the basket, so he offered to carry it for me. I normally wouldn’t have encouraged such a thing, but he had such kind eyes. And he seemed anxious, as if he expected me to refuse.”

  “That was kind of you, then.”

  “It was for my own benefit as much as his. Not just the cabbage. I was so lonely at that time, with rarely anyone sensible to talk to. I was nursing my father, you see. My mother had died three years earlier, and I’d had to leave my job as a governess to look after my father. He’d slowly been losing touch with reality, but was still in good health, if you know what I mean.”

  “Like the king,” Kitty said.

  “Perhaps, though Father never raved. I do feel sympathy for the queen, except that she doesn’t hav
e the daily care of His Majesty. I understand she visits him only once a month. My father took all my time. When I had to leave him, he’d do odd things, sometimes dangerous things, so I had to pay a neighbor to sit with him. Sometimes he’d wander off.”

  “That must have been very difficult.”

  “It was. I didn’t want Alfred to come in, but he insisted on bringing the cabbage into the kitchen. Father was in one of his better days, insofar as he thought he was younger and that Alfred had come to visit him. Invited him to sit and take tea. So he did. Father spoke of his younger years, when he’d been in the militia. I remember Alfred mentioned the victory at Talavera—the news had just arrived—and Father didn’t notice that it didn’t fit with the wars of his youth. I sat sipping tea, feeling as if I’d fallen into a pleasant dream.”

  “And Alfred returned,” Kitty guessed. “He wooed you.”

  “He did. I tried to send him away. What use was I to anyone, burdened as I was? But he continued to visit, even though Father rarely remembered him and sometimes treated him as an intruder or enemy. Within two weeks, he asked me to marry him!”

  “You protested again.”

  “Of course, but he made the practicalities so appealing, and I was at the end of my tether.” She looked directly into Kitty’s eyes. “I didn’t love him. I feel I must say that. I was very fond of Alfred, and deeply grateful, but I never held a poetic passion for him. I felt bad about that, but such feelings can’t be commanded, can they? And I gave him all possible kindness and tenderness. He was happy here with us. He often said so, and I know it was the truth.”

  “I’m sure he was. May I call you Dorothy? I’m Kitty.”

  “You’re being very kind.”

  Braydon returned then with a wide-eyed young maid bearing a tea tray. So that’s where he’d gone. The tea was already made in the pot, so Kitty poured it and stirred in two lumps of sugar. She passed over the cup and saucer. “Drink this. It will help.”

  The woman sipped. “Thank you.”

  Kitty poured tea for herself and Braydon. “I told Dorothy that we’d take care of her and her family. I explained that you were distantly related to her husband.”