The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  The groom hesitated but finally gave a nod. “Very good, my lord.” He returned to the Wadsworth town coach. After another minute, the coach pulled away and headed south.

  “Can you eat any more?” Marcus asked, returning his attention to Charity. He wished she wasn’t wearing a hat. He wanted desperately to rest his cheek on her head.

  She stirred and took the spoon from him, finishing off the rest of what was in her dish. Marcus set it aside and then offered her what was left of his. “Eat this one, too,” he ordered.

  Charity did as she was told, and after a few minutes, she straightened in the squabs. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me,” she whispered. The waiter had returned to take the dishes, giving a bow before he returned to the shop.

  “Hunger, my sweet,” Marcus said as he got the horses into motion. After a moment, he asked, “How many houses does the Wadsworth earldom own here in London?”

  Charity regarded him with a furrowed brow. “Three, I think. We used to live in a small one over in Bruton Street before Wadsworth—before Edmund—inherited. That’s when we moved to Wadsworth Hall,” she explained. “And the dowager countess moved to Suffolk.”

  “And the one your son lives in now?”

  She gave a shrug. “A small terrace close to Parliament. Wadsworth used to stay there on occasion. I think one of his mistresses might have lived there back in the day,” she added in disgust.

  “Marguerite and her mother need a place to live,” he stated.

  She allowed a sigh, understanding now why he had brought up the topic of houses. Her brain was fuzzy, as if she had drunk too much champagne, and despite being warned not to eat the ice too quickly, she had done so. Now a sudden headache had her grimacing. “I’ll speak with Benedict,” Charity said. “Find out if the house in Bruton Street is available or if he can simply renew the lease on the house they are in.” She glanced back and then looked around in alarm. “Where’s my coach?”

  Marcus gave a start, sure she had been conscious enough to know he had sent it to her home. “On the way back to Wadsworth Hall.”

  “What? Why? Where are you taking me?”

  “To Stanton House,” he replied. “So you can have a decent meal.”

  “You’re kidnapping me?” she half-accused.

  For some reason, Marcus was tempted to reply in the affirmative, just because the idea was so ludicrous. But he shook his head. “As much as I want to, I am not,” he said.

  “I’m not dressed appropriately for a dinner,” she argued.

  Suppressing the urge to chuckle, Marcus regarded her for as long a he could before he had to return his attention to the road ahead. “My sweet, it wouldn’t matter what you wore to dinner. You always look resplendent.”

  Charity was about to argue, but decided she didn’t have the energy. She did want the last word, however. “Bounder,” she replied.

  Marcus allowed a grin and hurried the horses into a faster pace.

  Charity slumped into the squabs and decided to simply enjoy the ride.

  Chapter 26

  A Countess Pays a Call on Her Son

  The following day

  Benedict, Earl of Wadsworth, girded his loins when he spotted the Wadsworth town coach pulling up in front of his bachelor’s quarters. His mother’s cryptic note had piqued his curiosity, although not enough to have him too concerned.

  He hadn’t done anything of note, other than seeing to the business of the earldom—when he wasn’t suffering from extreme boredom in Parliament. If one could die of boredom, he was quite sure his younger brother would have inherited the earldom by now.

  He rather wished the two of them could exchange places, if for no other reason than he could go back to university and continue his studies. If it weren’t for the business side of the earldom, which he found interesting, he might put a gun to his head.

  Watching Charity make her way to the front door of his townhouse, Benedict frowned. She appeared far too thin. Frail, almost. But she had a look of determination about her that had him a bit cowed.

  He thought he might have a moment or two to compose a proper welcome, but Charity didn’t allow his butler to take her pelisse. She simply breezed in and stood regarding him.

  “Mother,” he said with a bow. He captured her hand in his and was about to kiss the back of it when she pulled it away and simply wrapped an arm around his middle and hugged him.

  “Oh, Benedict, what have you done?” she whispered.

  Startled by her hold on him, Benedict did the only thing he knew to do. He returned the hug, alarmed by the evidence of the bones of her shoulders and ribs beneath his arms. He lessened his hold lest he crush her before he finally pulled away.

  “When was the last time you ate a decent meal, Mother?” he asked in a whisper.

  Charity furrowed a brow, remembering the words from the afternoon before. Spoken by the man with whom she had dined. The meal at Stanton House reminded her of what life in London had been like back when Benedict was younger. Before he had left for Eton. Before his younger brother, Benjamin, had started school. At least seven courses every night. More food than she could possibly eat.

  There had been good company at Stanton House, given Lancaster’s daughter was in attendance, as was his friend and fellow viscount, Lord Wessex.

  She could have sworn there was something going on between the daughter and Wessex—the air seemed to crackle with their attraction to one another—but nothing had been said about a possible match.

  Perhaps her presence precluded an announcement or a query by Wessex. If so, Lancaster seemed completely unaware anything was afoot.

  “I had dinner last night, at Stanton House,” she replied, lifting her chin.

  Benedict frowned. “Lancaster’s townhouse?” he guessed as he turned and led her up the flight of stairs to the first floor parlor.

  “Indeed,” she replied, and then realized she could mention a good excuse for being there. “One of his maids is in need of a husband, and I have a number of men who are looking for wives,” she explained, just before she settled onto the settee. Although the parlor was small, it was warm and cozy.

  Benedict’s butler carried in a tea tray, setting it before her and giving a bow before he hurried out.

  “Will you do the honors, Mother?” Benedict asked, just before he leaned over to snag a Dutch biscuit. “And tell me what I’ve done to vex you? Your note was rather cryptic.”

  Charity allowed a sigh and prepared two cups of tea. “It’s about Marguerite. And her mother,” she replied, handing over a cup and saucer to him.

  Benedict stiffened. “I did what I had to. I cannot afford—”

  “You will honor the terms of your father’s will,” she stated.

  Giving a start, as if she had slapped him across the face, Benedict frowned. “I... I cannot—”

  “You must, or you will be sued,” she countered.

  His frown deepening, Benedict regarded her in alarm. “What do you know?”

  Charity sighed before she took a sip of tea. Why was it tea always seemed to make things seem better? Even if they weren’t? “I know that Marguerite and her mother are owed their livings at the sum of five-hundred pounds per year. I know you approached Marguerite whilst she was at school and told her she was no longer your sister and that you weren’t going to honor the terms of the will,” she went on.

  “She told you about that?” he asked, his anger becoming apparent.

  Her eyes narrowing, Charity shook her head. “She did not. I learned of it from a solicitor acting on her behalf,” she replied, hoping her look of annoyance would force him to rein in his anger.

  The words did the trick.

  “I didn’t know what to do,” he said with a shake of his head.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  A grimace crossed his face. “I saw you. Saw how you were starving, and how Wadsworth Hall was leaking like a sieve, and I couldn’t abide it—”

  “Did you hear one word
of complaint from me?” Charity asked in a hoarse whisper.

  Benedict looked as if he’d been slapped. “Never, in fact. But I wasn’t about to allow you to live as father would have you living.”

  “And yet you would have your sister living like that?” she countered, her voice rising in defiance. “She and her mother have no place to go, Benedict. No money. No means of making any money.” Before he would have a chance to mention the former mistress’s profession, she added, “She’s too old to attract another protector. And now that you’ve seen to it Marguerite can no longer attend school, it’s doubtful she can attract a suitable match in the marriage mart.”

  Benedict slumped in his chair. “You would have me use funds that should go to you, go to her instead?” he questioned.

  Charity inhaled and then sighed. “Yes, of course. I have a position now. I earn enough pin money at ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ to cover some of the expenses. You only need cover the servants’ wages and the repairs of Wadsworth Hall when necessary,” she explained.

  “Mother,” he said on a sigh.

  “She’s your sister,” Charity implored.

  Benedict furrowed a brow. “I thought you would hate her,” he whispered. “I thought you would want me to give her the cut direct. To absolve our family of any connection to her and her mother.”

  “You cannot absolve the family of what your father did,” she argued. “Especially when he saw to making provisions for them,” she added. “In writing.”

  “I thought you would hate her,” he whispered again.

  Charity dipped her head. “It’s true I hated the idea of her,” she admitted. “But only because I wished she had been my daughter.”

  Her son’s eyes rounded at her words. “I wasn’t aware you wanted a daughter,” he murmured. He finally allowed a nod. “Because you insist, I will see to it the lease is renewed on their townhouse,” he said then.

  “Or you can have them move into one of the earldom’s townhouses,” she suggested. “Isn’t there another here in capital?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve let it to a baron for the year. I needed the rent monies.”

  Charity sighed. Well, at least he was making something from the entailed property. “Then see to it the lease is renewed on their home.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Can you also see to giving them fifty pounds as soon as possible?”

  He nodded, his reluctance apparent. “I can. I will do so on the morrow.”

  “You will do so today,” Charity ordered. “And it would be good of you to offer an apology. If not to her mother, at least to Marguerite.”

  Taken aback by his mother’s tone of voice, he relented and said, “Very well.” His conflicted thoughts had his face displaying a variety of emotions before he finally admitted, “She is my sister.”

  “The only one you’ll ever have,” Charity said in a quiet voice. She took a sip of tea and finally allowed a watery smile. “Now. Tell me how things are with you,” she said. “Is there a countess in your future?”

  Benedict rolled his eyes. “If there is, she is far in the future, or I’ve not met her yet,” he replied. “Besides, until I can ensure the earldom is once again flush with funds, I can’t exactly afford a wife.”

  Finishing her tea, Charity leaned forward and said in a quiet voice. “Well, when you’re ready, I might know of a matchmaker who can assist in introducing you to a—”

  “Mother,” he warned, just before he allowed a chuckle. “Perhaps you should be using those skills to find another husband? So that you don’t starve to death.”

  Charity stared at the bottom of her teacup, as if she thought there might be answers in the few leaves that rested there. “Point taken,” she whispered.

  Chapter 27

  An Earl’s Letter to His Sister

  Later that day

  Marguerite opened the missive even before the door closed on the footman who had delivered it. She didn’t recognize the handwriting, but she certainly recognized the seal embossed in the dark red wax on the back.

  “Who is it from?” her mother asked. The older woman joined her in the small vestibule, her hands clutching her skirts as if she thought someone might attempt to take them from her.

  “Benedict,” Marguerite murmured, once she had the parchment completely unfolded. A small paper fluttered on its way to the floor and nearly made it there before she managed to snag it between a thumb and forefinger.

  “What is it?”

  Marguerite stared at the bank draft. “Fifty pounds,” she murmured. Her gaze darted over to the letter, and she scanned the script. She realized almost immediately she would have to read it in its entirety—she couldn’t determine the message from the few words she could make out. “Come. Let’s sit down for this,” she encouraged, making her way into the ground floor parlor that faced Curzon Street.

  Once the two were settled, she angled the paper so the light from the front window made it easier to see.

  Dear Miss Fulton,

  After careful consideration regarding my call on you last spring at Warwick’s, I have come to understand my actions were rash. They were made in haste and were a result of my disbelief of the facts—that I do indeed have a sister, and that you are she.

  Can you ever forgive me?

  I have read—in its entirety—a copy of my father’s will. In deference to his wishes, I am compelled to abide by the conditions he has set forth for your welfare. That is to say, a living for your mother, Miss Fulton, and a living for you in the amount of five-hundred pounds per year, as well as a dowry in the amount of five-thousand pounds for you, payable to your betrothed at the time of your marriage.

  You need not vacate your home. The lease on the townhouse has been renewed for another year.

  Although not all of the funds are available at this time (I will not share with you the frustration I have experienced in trying to sort my our late father’s accounts), I have been successful in seeing to some of this year’s living. The funds have been set aside in an account at Barings Bank, accessible by an agent representing either you or your mother.

  In the meantime, there is a bank draft included here so that you may gain immediate funds. It is my sincere hope that the monies for the dowry will be available in that same account sometime next year.

  I do expect to have some say in who you marry, if for no other reason than you are my sister, and I do not wish you to end up wed to a scoundrel or a fortune hunter.

  Marguerite lifted her head and turned to stare at her mother. “I can barely believe it,” she whispered.

  Maria dipped her head. “It seems Wadsworth did raise a fine boy,” she murmured.

  Her daughter shook her head. “I rather doubt my father had as much to do with it as her ladyship,” she replied, remembering Lord Lancaster’s comment about Lady Wadsworth. Apparently the woman had been appalled when she learned what Benedict had done, even though it meant acknowledging the existence of her late husband’s by-blow. “And I do hope Benedict is able to afford his mother’s living.”

  Her brows furrowing at hearing this comment, Maria asked, “What are you saying?”

  Marguerite realized she had said too much. “It seems Benedict paid a call on his mother when she moved to Westminster a few months ago—a welcome call, if you will—and discovered she was starving. Or, at least, that is what he thought. Wadsworth Hall was in poor condition. The roof was leaking. There were very few servants because she could not afford them—”

  “Because she lived beyond her means in Suffolk?” Maria challenged.

  “Oh, no, Mother. Because father did not see to treating her as well as he treated us,” she replied, a bit too forcibly. “While he gifted you jewels, he gave her paste.”

  She remembered how shocked she had felt at meeting the woman. Charity Wadsworth seemed far too thin—frail, almost—and despite the fichu she wore, her collar bones were in evidence. “She has even taken a position as a matchmaker to earn a livi
ng.”

  Suitably chastised, Maria dipped her head. “I did not know. Your father spoke only of his sons,” she said on a sigh.

  “He did not speak poorly of her,” Marguerite reminded her mother.

  “He did not speak of her at all,” Maria corrected her. She regarded her daughter for a moment before her attention went back to the letter she held. “What else did he write?”

  Marguerite gave a start, her gaze going back to the long parchment. When she found where she had left off, she continued reciting Benedict’s words.

  “Should you wonder what has occurred to change my mind on the matter, you have my mother to thank. She reminded me that family must come first in all considerations, and you, Marguerite, and my brother, and my mother, are my family.

  Yours in service,

  Benedict, Earl of Wadsworth

  Marguerite lifted her head and gave a watery grin as her eyes blurred with tears. “Oh, dear. I do believe I must forgive him,” she whispered.

  Her mother nodded in agreement. “Perhaps you will write a letter then? To let him know?”

  Fishing a hanky from a pocket, she dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I will,” Marguerite agreed. “But first I wish to pay a call on Miss Analise. To let her know, and to thank her father for what he had done on our behalf.”

  “And Lady Wadsworth, too?” Maria reminded her.

  Marguerite nodded. “And her, too.”

  Chapter 28

  Of Purses and Propriety

  The following afternoon

  With the unusually fine weather in the late afternoons came the larger contingent of aristocrats parading down Rotten Row. The better weather—and the brief visit that morning by Marguerite Fulton—also had Charity pining for a chance to be out in it.