The Charity of a Viscount
Linda Rae Sande
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book.
The Charity of a Viscount
All Rights Reserved.
Copyright © 2019 Linda Rae Sande
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Cover photograph © PeriodImages.com
Cover art by Fiona Jayde Media
All rights reserved - used with permission.
Edited by Katrina Teele-Fair
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ISBN: 978-1-946271-18-1
Contents
Prologue
1. An Evening at White’s Proves Enlightening
2. A Position is Once Again Open
3. News Over Breakfast in Bed
4. A Father Boggles
5. A New Matchmaker Makes Her Debut
6. Meeting an Employer
7. Meddling
8. A Ball Spent with Charity
9. A Conversation in the Gardens
10. Back in the Ballroom
11. Contemplating a Viscount
12. An Applicant in Need of More
13. In Pursuit of a Wife
14. A Visit to a Charity to See Charity
15. An Invitation to Ride Proves Difficult to Write
16. A Daughter Knows Best
17. A Ride in the Park
18. A Charity Doubting Her Charity
19. A Viscount Imagines Much
20. A Note of Apology
21. Matchmaking As a Means of Maintaining
22. An Invitation to Ride in the Park Proves Diverting
23. A Viscount Makes His Move
24. Tea for Three and a Will
25. A Viscount and Countess Discuss an Earl’s Motives
26. A Countess Pays a Call on Her Son
27. An Earl’s Letter to His Sister
28. Of Purses and Propriety
29. A Heroic Act Costs a Viscount
30. A Matchmaker is Undone
31. A Viscount Makes a Mistake
32. Failure on All Accounts
33. A Last-Minute Plea for Clemency
34. A Daughter Knows Best
35. Aftermath
36. A Matchmaker Meets a Maid
37. A Valet is Cautious
38. Anger and Accusations
39. A Viscount and a Valet Plot
40. A Match Made in Bed
41. At Last, an Understanding
42. A Change of Plans
43. Waiting for an Arrival or Two
Afterword
Also by Linda Rae Sande
About the Author
Prologue
Early November, 1818, Stanton House, Mayfair
“I’m not a bad person. Really, I’m not,” Mary Baker said as giant tears streamed down her face.
“Of course you’re not. No one is saying you are,” Mrs. Barstow said in hushed tones, rather dismayed the housemaid was weeping. “But you cannot keep doing this. If I catch you again, I will have to let you go,” she added, attempting to be as stern as possible with the petite housemaid. In all her years as housekeeper of Stanton House, she had never had to dismiss a maid for being caught in flagrante delicto.
Mary’s eyes widened in fear. “Oh, please no. I’ll be very good, I promise,” she wailed.
Mrs. Barstow rolled her eyes. “It’s that being ‘very good’ that has you in this mess to begin with,” she countered, not exactly sure if that was really the case. But the enthusiasm the girl exuded as the household’s tallest footman tupped her in one of the guest bedchambers suggested she was quite experienced in carnal matters. “I know you are not the one to blame, but you also know as well as I do that you will be the one let go before Harrison dismisses any of the footmen,” she warned, referring to the butler.
How could he? The footmen of Stanton House were the envy of every other house in Park Lane. The late Mrs. Batey had seen to that before dying in the childbed after having given birth to her third babe. Since she never expected to be a viscountess—and she never was—she had thought to at least have something about which to be proud.
Handsome footmen filled the bill.
Her head dipping, Mary sighed and then sniffled. “It’s not fair,” she whispered. All the footmen in Stanton House were tall and handsome. Virile. Friendly, too, and ever so willing to oblige her when she needed assistance. “I just needed help with the coal buckets.”
The housekeeper blinked. “Coal buckets?” she repeated. “Whatever do coal buckets have to do with this?”
“Well, everything,” Mary replied as one of her hands swept the air. “They’re the reason I’ve been having to service the footmen.”
Mrs. Barstow closed her eyes and silently prayed for guidance. “I am going regret asking this, I am quite sure, but can you please explain yourself?”
Mary sighed. “When they’re full, the coal buckets are too heavy for me to lift and carry up the stairs,” she explained.
“You can take them up half-full and merely return for more,” the housekeeper argued.
“Oh, I used to do that,” Mary replied with a nod. “But then one of the other maids accused me of taking too much time in transporting the coal buckets up the stairs, seeing as how I had to make two trips instead of just the one, and then Rodney—he’s one of the footmen—”
“Yes, I’m well aware of Rodney,” Mrs. Barstow murmured with a roll of her eyes. The very tall footman was far too handsome, what with his ginger-colored hair and bright blue eyes, and he knew it.
So did every other female under the roof.
And in Park Lane.
“—He saw me struggling with the full bucket, and he offered to carry it up for me.”
Frowning, Mrs. Barstow was about to comment on how considerate it was he would make such an offer, but then she soon realized what was about to come.
The bargain.
“In exchange for something, no doubt,” the housekeeper said on a sigh.
“How did you know?” Mary asked in awe.
Mrs. Barstow gave her a quelling glance. “Because I’m old, and because I see what these footmen get away with just because they’re too good looking for their own good,” she replied in disgust. “So... just the one tumble then?” she asked, attempting to clarify whatever arrangement the two servants might have made with one another.
“One for every day he—or whichever footman—helps me. It’s the least I can do,” Mary replied with a shrug. “I don’t mind a bit, especially since it seems to make them happy. And me, as well.”
“You do realize you’re... prostituting yourself?” Mrs. Barstow asked in shock.
Mary shook her head. “Oh, no. Haven’t done that since my days as a harlot over at Mrs. Gibbons’ brothel in Covent Garden,” she replied, just before her eyes rounded. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that. It was my first position. Well, not that one, but as a housemaid,” she went on, despite how Mrs. Barstow’s hands had lifted to her ears and covered them while her face took on an expression of pain.<
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Mary sighed again as her shoulders slumped. When the housekeeper dropped her hands, she added, “I’m not taking any blunt from the footmen,” she whispered. “I’m just thanking them for their help, is all.”
“They’re helping because they have an expectation of recompense!” Mrs. Barstow countered. Fighting to keep her patience, she asked, “What happens when you find yourself with child?”
The housemaid’s lips formed an ‘o’ as she shook her head. “I wouldn’t let that happen. I saw to it the footmen all have French letters,” she argued.
Thinking she should feign a fainting spell, Mrs. Barstow decided instead to learn how this was possible. Rumor had it French letters were expensive. Illegal. And rare. “I rather doubt that,” she challenged.
“I had some from the brothel. The girls there don’t like gettin’ diseases, and neither do the men, so they make the customers wear—”
“Yes, well, that’s to be commended,” the housekeeper interrupted, deciding this conversation had gone on long enough. She had menus to plan and arrangements to make on behalf of her employer, Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster.
“Please don’t dismiss me.”
Allowing a rather long sigh, Mrs. Barstow realized a discussion with Harrison, the butler, would be required. “Then don’t do it again,” she warned. “Why, when Mr. Harrison learns of this, he might require you to marry the man.”
Mary frowned, wondering why the housekeeper made that option sound so bad. Well, depending on just which footman she would be required to marry, she supposed. She wouldn’t mind being married. Then she could engage in sexual congress as often as her husband was willing.
“I won’t say anything to his lordship,” the housekeeper continued, “but if it happens again, I will have to.”
Mary Baker lowered her eyes and allowed a nod. “Thank you, Mrs. Barstow.” The housemaid finally stood and gave a curtsy before taking her leave of the housekeeper’s small office, her shoulders slumped and her eyes once again filled with tears.
“Did she fire ya?”
Mary lifted her head to find Rodney looming over her. The Irish-born footman had probably been standing outside the housekeeper’s office the entire time she was with Mrs. Barstow. How much had he overheard?
Mary shook her head, which had the collected tears streaming down her cheeks. “Not this time, but she will if she catches us again,” she whispered, deciding not to mention that she was in danger of being caught with any one of the four footmen under employ at Stanton House. She had engaged all of them in sexual congress in exchange for their help on any number of occasions.
And not just for carrying buckets of coal.
Rodney dared a glance at the housekeeper’s office door and pulled Mary down the hall a ways before saying, “I am sorry,” he murmured. “Not sorry about what we was doin’, but sorry about gettin’ caught, I mean,” he whispered.
“From now on, I have to carry my own coal buckets,” Mary said, just before she sniffled, ignoring his apology.
Screwing up his face in disgust, the footman shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
“If you do it for me, you’ll have to do it for all the other housemaids,” she countered, the back of a hand wiping away tears. “Without expectation of recompense,” she added, careful with how she pronounced the words, especially since she wasn’t completely sure what they meant. “Mrs. Barstow said she was going to speak with Harrison. He’ll be watching you.” He would be watching the other footmen, as well, which meant she couldn’t carry on as she had been with any of them.
Rodney considered her comment. “Or the four of us can carry all of your buckets every day,” he offered.
Mary’s eyes rounded, her suspicion evident. “They’ll be expecting something in return,” she replied with a shake of her head. “And the other maids aren’t like me.”
“Fast, you mean?” Rodney teased.
Mary gave him a quelling glance. “See if I ever let you tup me again,” she said on a huff. “Pity, too, because I rather like your tumbles,” she added.
“Me, too,” Rodney replied. Disappointed, he gave a shrug and left her pressed against the hall wall.
Mary watched him go before she allowed her tears to flow freely. “Bastard,” she whispered.
Chapter 1
An Evening at White’s Proves Enlightening
Later that night
Three viscounts and a bank clerk sat regarding their glasses of brandy, each one deep in thought.
“I believe I would like to take another wife,” Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster, said just before he drained his rummer. “I miss being married.”
The bank clerk nodded his agreement. “Until a few months ago, I didn’t realize how much I needed a wife,” Theodore Streater said. “I adore my new wife. In fact, I am wondering why it is I am here instead of at home with her.”
The man to his left boggled. “Because you agreed to join me for a drink,” George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, replied with a hint of offense. “I, too, adore my wife, but I thought I should remind the others here at White’s that I am still a member and make an appearance for propriety’s sake.” He paused and then furrowed a brow. “And you’ve been a member for several months. ’Bout time you made another appearance.”
The youngest viscount regarded the other gentlemen and gave a shake of his head. “I am not married. I have no desire to be married. And I am not missing anyone on this fine evening,” Luke Merriweather, Viscount Wessex, announced proudly. He regarded his brandy with a frown, though, and set it on the nearest side table.
The other three gazed at him in disbelief. “You have no idea what you’re missing,” George replied, his head shaking in disbelief.
“No idea,” the bank clerk chimed in.
“I miss my wife,” Marcus agreed. “So much so, I have decided this is the year I shall find a new bride.”
The other three regarded him with raised eyebrows, wondering if the man realized that ‘this year’ was just about over.
“Spoken as if you might already have one in mind,” Luke accused.
Marcus angled his head first to one side and then the other. “Perhaps,” he teased. “I have held a particular woman in high esteem for... for a very long time,” he admitted on a sigh.
Too long, in fact. He would have taken her to wife twenty years ago if she hadn’t already been betrothed to another. Betrothed to a man who only wanted her because Marcus wanted her first. Well, that spiteful earl was dead now, and his widow was surely done with mourning.
“A particular woman?” George repeated. “Do you wish to share her name so that we might help you in this endeavor?” He knew Viscount Lancaster had been a widower for two years, his wife having died in the childbed. At least his spare heir had been born alive and was nearly two years of age. A nurse was seeing to the tyke’s welfare as Lancaster’s heir attended university. His daughter, Analise, had completed two years of finishing school and was old enough to make her come-out. She would do so at Lord Attenborough’s ball later this week.
“I do not, as I do not yet know if she is even here in the capital,” Marcus replied, his words a bit of a white lie. Actually, he knew she was in London, but he didn’t want these other gentlemen to know the target of his secret admiration.
At least, not yet.
George regarded him with a dubious expression. “Spoken as if you really do know her whereabouts,” he murmured, loud enough for only the older viscount to hear.
Marcus dipped his head and angled it in George’s direction. “Perhaps,” he hedged.
“Then let us hope she has an invitation to the Attenborough’s ball,” George replied.
Furrowing a brow, Marcus gave a visible shudder. “The very ball where Analise will be making her come-out,” he said on a sigh.
This bit of information seemed to interest Viscount Wessex. “I shall be sure to ask her to dance,” Luke offered. “That is, if her dance card isn’t already full.”
George was about to laugh at the older viscount, but thought better of it. He had a daughter that would one day make her come-out, too. Sixteen years was a long time into the future at least. He hoped he still might possess enough skills with a sword to defend her honor should it become necessary. “If she’s like most young ladies, she won’t accept a marriage proposal her first Season out,” he said, hoping to assuage Marcus’s fears.
“There’s that,” Marcus agreed, relaxing for the first time in several minutes. He noted the stricken expression on Teddy Streater’s face and straightened. “You look as if you...” He was about to say “might faint,” but thought better of it. “Are you feeling poorly?”
Teddy shook his head. “All this talk of daughters has me hoping it’s a boy.”
Three pairs of eyes blinked at the bank clerk.
Then George’s eyes widened, as did those of the other two viscounts. “It?” George repeated in alarm.
Nodding, Teddy lifted his brandy and drained it. “Daisy is with child,” he announced. Saying the words aloud had his shoulders rising, as if a giant weight had been lifted from them.
A chorus of “huzzah” replied to the announcement, drawing the attention of several nearby card players.
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