“I was going to tell you on the piste this afternoon, but I couldn’t decide just how,” Teddy said apologetically, his comment aimed at George.
“If I had learned it from someone else, you might have found yourself skewered,” the viscount accused, although he did so with a wide grin. “At least I know how you’ll be spending your evenings.”
All three of the men regarded George with interest. “Oh?” It was Marcus who responded, but Teddy leaned forward in his chair.
“Do tell,” the future father insisted.
“Foot rubs, of course,” George replied with a shrug, as if they all should have known the answer. “And they can be done one-handed,” he added with a nod to Teddy. The man might have been missing most of his right arm, but that wouldn’t preclude him from seeing to his wife’s swollen feet for the rest of her pregnancy.
Luke and Marcus exchanged glances. “I knew that,” Marcus said in his own defense.
“And now I suppose I know, too, although I rather doubt I’ll have use of the information any time soon,” Luke said with a shrug. “Maybe mention it to my brother by marriage.” His younger sister, Eleanor, was married to Charles, Earl of Wakefield, and she was expecting a child next spring.
The word of a certain young woman’s come-out at the next ball had Luke’s interest piqued, though. He may not be in the market for a wife just yet, but he could certainly window shop.
When the glasses were empty, the four gentlemen took their leave one by one until only Marcus was left. He might have gone at the same time as Lord Wessex, but he was lost in thought, and the younger viscount decided to simply leave him to ruminate.
The comment about foot rubs had Marcus thinking of his younger son, the two-year-old probably asleep in the nursery at Stanton House. A twinge seemed to grip his heart just then at the thought that he wouldn’t have another opportunity to perform such a simple task for a wife.
Unless he did find a new wife.
And got a child on her.
When Marcus Batey considered taking his leave of White’s, he knew exactly who he wanted to fill that role, even if he hadn’t given a thought to her feet.
Now that’s all he could think about.
Spotting Lord Attenborough among those who were playing whist, he decided he would wait until the gentleman had completed his game and have a word with him. Mention that a certain widow had recently returned to London. Suggest she might have been left off the guest list. Ensure an invitation was sent.
Then he would see to it she danced with him—at least one waltz.
And he would do his very best to see to it he didn’t step on either one of her feet.
Chapter 2
A Position is Once Again Open
The following afternoon, at Bostwick House, Mayfair
Ever the attentive husband, George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, knew something was amiss when his wife returned from an afternoon spent at her charity’s office. Elizabeth usually shot through the vestibule and hurried up the steps to the nursery, anxious to greet their young son, David, and daughter, Christina. After a few minutes in their company, she would seek him out and bestow a kiss on his cheek and perhaps his lips if he managed to keep her in his company longer than a few seconds.
On this day, she made her way to his study and leaned against the door jamb in a manner suggesting she needed the solid wood to remain upright. The expression on her face made it apparent tears were imminent.
“Whatever has happened?” George asked as he stood and rushed to pull her into his arms. She smelled of jasmine and wet wool, and her small stylish hat was dotted with drops of water as was her hair. That was the moment he realized it was raining. At least outdoors.
Her tears hadn’t yet started falling.
“Mrs. Burton has given her notice,” she replied on a sigh. “Her last day is Friday.” Elizabeth’s eyes brightened even more.
“Did she give a reason?”
Elizabeth nodded. “Because she’s marrying on Saturday.” A tear escaped the corner of her eye and left a wet trail down the side of her cheek before George could reach up with a thumb to gently brush it way.
“Isn’t she already married?”
Elizabeth gave him a quelling glance. “Widowed.” She sighed again. “This is the fourth matchmaker to leave my employ since I started ‘Finding Wives’,” she complained, her shoulders slumping beneath his hold.
“But is she marrying one of your clients?” George asked gently.
“Well, yes,” she acknowledged with a nod. “There is that.”
George closed his eyes, not exactly surprised another of a long line of matchmakers had quit his wife’s charity, ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded.’ The three before Mrs. Burton had all ended up married to old fogies for whom they had been contracted to find suitable wives.
He often wondered if they took the position for the sole purpose of finding a suitable husband for themselves. Being a matchmaker allowed them to discover nearly everything there was to know about a man, after all. Class and economic status, close relatives, maladies. “So, your charity is a success. You cannot be too disappointed.”
“If I wasn’t feeling so very tired, I might actually feel gladness for Mrs. Burton,” Elizabeth murmured.
George took that opportunity to kiss his wife, capturing her lips with his own to see to it her mind might move to more pleasant thoughts, such as why she was feeling so tired. He knew why—the first two babes who had managed to exhaust his perpetually active wife were upstairs in the nursery. Since she hadn’t shared news of another babe on the way, George wondered if he would have to be the one to tell her she was expecting their third child.
Better he do so when she wasn’t quite so melancholy.
“Would you like me to place an advertisement for a matchmaker in The Times?” he asked gently, when he finally pulled away.
“Advertisement?” she repeated, her eyes glazed over as if all thoughts of her charity had left her head.
George grinned. “I’ll see to it straight away. In the meantime, perhaps you’ll want to pay a call on the nursery,” he suggested. A grin split his face just then, happy to know his kiss seemed to have cleared up any sadness she was feeling. “Maybe tell those two hellions there is another devil on the way?”
Elizabeth blinked twice, her head seeming to waver a bit before he reached out a hand to her cheek to steady her. “On the way from where?” she asked in confusion.
Chuckling, George placed the flat of the same hand against her belly and then leaned down to nibble on an earlobe. “From the same heavenly place from whence they came,” he whispered.
Her eyes widening in understanding, Elizabeth stared at her husband. “How did I not know?”
George allowed a shrug. “And here I thought you were keeping secrets from me,” he replied as he arched a brow.
Shaking her head from side to side, Elizabeth finally allowed a grin. “How long have you known?”
Angling his head first left and then right, George wondered if he should tell her the truth. And if so, what timeline he should mention. It had been at least a month. Maybe two.
He didn’t have to say anything, though, when Elizabeth’s eyes widened even more. “That long?” she cried out. She frowned before she blinked a few more times. “Does father know?”
“Oh, he knows,” George said with a nod, remembering how David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, regarded his daughter when she nearly fell asleep during the soup course the last time they had been to Carlington House for dinner.
“And mother?” Elizabeth whispered in dismay.
George frowned. “Not sure about her,” he replied with a shake of his head. “But I doubt it. She was too excited about your brother’s return to London the last time we had dinner there,” he added.
Indeed, Adeline, Marchioness of Morganfield, could barely contain her excitement at learning Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon and heir to the Morganfield marquessate, would be back in
London after having finished his studies at university. The missive containing the news had been delivered mere moments before dinner commenced that evening.
Which meant there would be another young buck in attendance at the next ton ball.
“Do you think my brother knows?” Elizabeth asked, allowing George to keep her propped up.
“I rather doubt it.” He reached down and captured the back of her knees against one arm and lifted as he leaned her shoulders against the other arm.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her arms quickly wrapping around his neck.
“Taking you to the nursery. I think it’s time you took a nap, and who better to take it with than your children?”
Elizabeth sighed. “A nap sounds perfect,” she agreed.
She was asleep even before he reached the top of the stairs.
Back in his study a few minutes later, George pulled a sheet of parchment from his desk and put pen to paper.
Position for the perfect matchmaker. Busy office seeks a woman to match eligible bachelors with women seeking husbands. Experience preferred, but not required. Hours negotiable. Apply at 30 Oxford Street.
George wondered if he should include a mention that the eligible bachelors were still unmarried because they had been wounded in the wars and weren’t of a mind to attempt courting of their own accord. He thought better of it, though, before addressing and folding the advertisement. A good matchmaker would know to make a man think it was his choice to court a woman. To make him believe he was doing the chasing until the woman caught him.
Or perhaps it was the woman who was doing the chasing and the man who caught her.
George blinked, deciding he would leave thoughts like that to a matchmaker. And for whomever she made matches.
Dripping melted wax and then pressing his seal into the dark red puddle, he regarded the advertisement a moment before calling for a footman to deliver it to the newspaper offices.
With any luck, it would run in the following day’s paper. With even more luck, a matchmaker of some skill would see it and appear at the charity’s office in a day or two.
Although he had some experience in matchmaking—George had seen to it his best friend ended up with a duke’s daughter as his wife—George didn’t want the responsibility for anyone else.
He knew first-hand matchmaking was hard work.
But then again, if circumstances required it, he might be available for just one more match.
Chapter 3
News Over Breakfast in Bed
The following morning, Wadsworth Hall, Westminster
“Do you think you’ll ever wear this again?” Thompkins asked as she held a black bombazine dinner gown over her arms. Decorated with tiny jet beads at the edge of the high neckline and around the deep cuffs of the long sleeves, the gown’s style was still current with respect to fashion.
Charity, Dowager Countess of Wadsworth, looked up from the latest issue of La Belle Assemblée and regarded her lady’s maid before her attention went to the gown in question. She shuddered. “Never,” she replied. “Put it with the others,” she instructed, furrowing a brow when she noticed how large the pile of widow’s weeds at the end of the bed had grown.
Why she hadn’t seen to cleaning out her dressing room the Season before when her year-long mourning period had ended—or before she had made the move from Suffolk to London last June—Charity wasn’t sure. But now that her aunt was newly widowed and had discovered her funds were limited—Uncle Robert had apparently been a poor gambler—Charity thought it the perfect time to do so.
Thompkins added the gown to the black fabric mountain at the end of the bed. “Would you like to dress now, my lady? There are a few gowns left in your wardrobe.”
Although she had finished a cup of chocolate, Charity hadn’t yet made a move to get out of bed. As diverting as she expected London to be after all those years in Suffolk, she had no place to go and no plans to pay calls on anyone that day. “I think not. In fact, I believe I shall take my breakfast in bed,” she said, setting aside the journal. “Give us a chance to finish clearing out every bit of black and see to it the trunk is packed and delivered to Aunt Lydia before this day is done.”
Thompkins allowed a nod. “I’ll see to it right away, my lady,” she said as she made her way to the bedchamber door.
“Oh, and have The Times brought up when it arrives,” Charity ordered, “And any posts that might have come this morning.”
Blinking at her mistress’s unusual request, Thompkins dipped a curtsy and hurried out of the bedchamber.
Left alone for at least fifteen minutes, Charity settled back into the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed.
She could just imagine what the few servants of Wadsworth Hall might be saying about her. After nearly two years of living the quiet, predictable life of a widow of the aristocracy, Charity had decided it was time she do something unpredictable.
Breakfast in bed.
What other activity could she pursue that would have their tongues wagging? A ride in the park perhaps—on a horse rather than in her barouche? A glance at the issue of La Belle Assemblée had her cringing when she remembered her riding habit was probably five years of out of date.
Perhaps she could host a card party. Invite the ladies who paid calls on her back before her husband’s death. Except she really didn’t enjoy whist all that much, and card parties tended to result in disparate conversations and whispered gossip that didn’t always favor the hostess.
The fingers of one hand absently traced the outline of a collarbone and she winced. Although her son was doing his best to seeing to the expenses of Wadsworth Hall, keeping the pantry stocked was becoming a challenge. She had been opting to forego formal dinners in favor of simpler fare so that there would be enough food for the servants, and breakfasts had been reduced to toast and an occasional egg.
She was considering a trip to the British Museum when Thompkins returned to her bedchamber with a breakfast tray, the newspaper, and three posts.
“A footman just delivered this one, my lady,” Thompkins said as she held out what appeared to be an invitation. “Wore the Attenborough livery, he did,” she added, an eyebrow arching in approval.
Impressed Thompkins would even know the colors of the Attenborough livery, Charity realized her lady’s maid was probably seeing one of the Attenborough footmen on her day off. “Should I open it first, do you suppose?” she asked as she glanced at the other posts.
In the middle of folding one of the black gowns, Thompkins paused. “It’s an invitation to their ball.”
Charity blinked and then realized the footman must have mentioned the nature of what he delivered. She broke the wax seal and read the engraved card, wondering how the Attenboroughs had even known she had returned to the capital. “Rather thoughtful of them,” she murmured, noting the date was just a few days away.
The Attenboroughs had obviously just learned of her return.
“Will you go?”
“I will,” Charity replied, hoping one of her ballgowns wasn’t too terribly out of fashion. She opened the other posts, pleased to discover the Attenboroughs weren’t the only ones who knew she had returned to London.
She, of course, would write to accept the invitations to Lord Attenborough’s ball and Lady Morganfield’s soirée in honor of her son’s return from university, but she decided to decline the opportunity to ride in the park with a viscount.
This last invitation had her experiencing a brief moment of feeling flattered, but then she noted the name at the bottom and felt only confusion.
Viscount Lancaster?
She wasn’t even sure if she knew the current ‘Viscount Lancaster’. He was probably some randy, ne’er-do-well young buck who had no idea she was...
Charity blinked and glanced up from the invitation to ride.
There wasn’t a randy, ne’er-do-well young buck in the family because Charles Batey, Viscount Lancaster, had never fathered an heir. His do
wager viscountess, Elise, had been left in London whilst Charles spent his days and nights at his hunting lodge with a string of mistresses.
Or, at least, that’s what The Tattler implied with its frequent articles on the matter.
Poor Elise.
Or not. She was a Burroughs, after all. Even if Elise had never remarried, her brother, James, Duke of Ariley, would have seen to her protection. He adored his youngest sister.
Charity gave her head a shake, finally remembering that Charles Batey, the former viscount, had died the year before. His younger brother had inherited the viscountcy.
She struggled a moment before finally pulling the brother’s name from memory.
Marcus.
Well, at least Marcus wasn’t a randy, ne’er-do-well buck, either. He was married. Father to two sons as well as a daughter who was probably on the verge of her come-out.
Charity blinked.
Why would a married father of three invite me to go for a ride in Hyde Park?
There was that moment of confusion followed by realization, then alarm, and finally disbelief.
He intends to offer carte blanche!
Charity seethed with anger, incensed anyone would expect her to warm their bed now that she was a widow and done with her mourning.
How dare he!
Was this Lord Lancaster like his older brother? Having affaires with other widows? Carrying on with a string of mistresses?
There was one way to find out. The gossip rags kept track of such information.
Thinking she might be in possession of the latest copy of The Tattler, Charity reached over to the nightstand and rifled through the precariously-stacked journals. While searching several of the weekly news sheets for any mention of a Lancaster, she found an article confirming Elise, widow of Charles Batey, had married Godfrey Thorncastle, Viscount Thorncastle. Everyone in the ton knew Godfrey had held a candle for Elise Burroughs Batey almost his entire life, so this was good news.
The Charity of a Viscount Page 2