The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  The news that Benedict had done what she insisted wasn’t so much a surprise as Marguerite’s other words.

  Although I love my mother, if I had to choose another, it would be you.

  Who would have ever thought a husband’s illegitimate daughter could leave her happier than she had felt since returning to London? Charity was considering this and more when a footman appeared at her desk and confirmed her identify. He gave a deep bow and handed her a note.

  “Who is this from?” she asked before the servant could step away from her desk. Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer.

  She recognized the handwriting.

  “Lord Lancaster, my lady.”

  “You’re not going to wait for a reply?”

  The footman’s eyes darted to one side. “No, my lady. I was just instructed to make the delivery.” With that, he bowed again and took his leave of the charity’s office.

  As she had no clients waiting in line at that moment, Charity popped the wax seal and unfolded the long note.

  Dear Lady Wadsworth,

  Having arranged for the afternoon to be sunny, may I request the honor of your presence in my curricle so that we might take a ride in the park?

  Charity straightened as she allowed a sound of disbelief. Apparently Lord Lancaster thought he had some sort of arrangement with the weather gods!

  There is no need for you to send a reply as I shall collect you from your office at four o’clock this afternoon. I have already received permission from your employer to do so with the understanding you are to be returned to said office sometime tomorrow.

  Her mouth dropped open at this particular bit of news, and Charity gave a huff. How dare he? Why he implied she would be spending the rest of the afternoon—indeed the entire night—in his company!

  I, of course, can provide transportation for your return to the office directly after our ride in the park (if that is your preference) as I do not believe Lord Bostwick conveyed Lady Bostwick’s words quite right. (You must think me the very worst libertine if you read the viscount’s words the way I heard them, which is how I wrote them.)(Which I now realize was the most very wrong thing to do—can you forgive me?)

  Lifting her head and glancing about the office, as if she thought she was being watched by everyone else there, Charity allowed a sigh of relief at finding Mr. Barnaby and Mr. Overby engrossed in the papers on their desks. She was sure her face was bright red, for she had thought exactly as Lancaster claimed in the missive.

  And just what did Viscount Bostwick have to do with this? Lancaster’s words made it sound as if the younger viscount was merely the messenger.

  Although I would like nothing more than to spend an entire afternoon and night and morning in your company, I rather doubt I shall have that opportunity.

  Well. He had that right!

  At least, not yet.

  Charity rolled her eyes. She crumpled the note in one hand without reading the rest, well aware someone else had moved to stand next to her desk.

  “Would it really be so awful to take a ride with him? Lady Bostwick fears you may be spending too much time in your new avocation.”

  Inhaling sharply, Charity looked up to find George Bennett-Jones regarding her with an expression of sadness.

  “Lord Bostwick,” she said as she moved to stand up. He held out a hand though, indicating she should remain seated. He settled into the chair next to her desk as she regarded him with a look of confusion. “I... no, it would not be awful to take a ride with him, I suppose,” she agreed. “The weather is fine, and it’s really rather kind of him to offer. Again.”

  George was about to allow an expression of relief, until he heard this last bit. “Again?” he repeated. A brow furrowed. “How many times has he asked?”

  Charity lifted a shoulder. “This is the third invitation since Lord Attenborough’s ball,” she replied as she held up the crumpled paper. “We danced the one time, but I cannot sort just why he wishes to spend more time in my company. He even paid a call here at the office the afternoon following the ball.”

  She decided not to mention the ride to Berkeley Square or the dinner at Stanton House, or the ride back to her house once dinner was finished, all because of what her son had done.

  Her eyelids heavy from having eaten a larger than usual dinner, Marcus had seen to returning Charity to Wadsworth Hall the night before last. Making his apologies to Lord Wessex, he asked that the younger viscount join Analise in the parlor until such time as he returned and they could imbibe in a glass of port.

  His request was gladly received by Wessex, but then, why would it not? The younger viscount seemed happy to spend time in Analise’s company. And she in his.

  Charity had to allow a grin at remembering just how the atmosphere in the dining room fairly sizzled with their mutual attraction. One that seemed to go completely unnoticed by Marcus.

  “Ah,” George responded to her accounting of Lord Lancaster’s attempts to spend time in her company, his head nodding. “In the hope persistence would pay off, no doubt. Well, is there anything I might do to help?”

  About to give her head a shake, Charity suddenly straightened. “Perhaps,” she hedged. “It seems Lord Lancaster knows much about me while I have absolutely no knowledge of his interests—”

  “Archaeology,” the viscount interrupted. At her look of astonishment, he added, “If he hadn’t inherited the viscountcy, he would probably be off collecting artifacts in the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, or in Greece, or...” He allowed a shrug. “Egypt or Timbuktu, for that matter.”

  Charity considered this bit of news. She never would have guessed the man with whom she had spent an evening in the Attenborough’s garden—in his imagination—would be caught digging in the dirt. “I see,” she replied in a quiet voice, remembering there were a few ancient artifacts on display in the Stanton House parlor.

  She thought of the number of times she had visited the British Museum, her preference to spend time among the ancient statuary and pottery. She wondered briefly if the viscount might have contributed any relics to the collections on display. “Any other interests? Closer to home, perhaps?”

  Emboldened by the query, George leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “His children, of course, but I have the distinct impression he would like more of them.” He said this last as a brow arched, as if he were confiding a secret. “Now that his oldest boy is off at school and his daughter might marry in the next year, he’ll only have his young son at Stanton House,” he explained. “I think he was hoping for a larger family.”

  Dipping her head slightly, Charity considered how unusual such a sentiment seemed for a gentleman of the ton. Most were satisfied with an heir and a spare—daughters be damned—for any additional children were simply a drain on the coffers. “I met your children last week,” she murmured. “Your daughter is... is an angel.”

  George heard the longing in her voice, but couldn’t help saying what first came to mind. “I am so relieved she gives that impression to callers, for her mother is of the opinion she will be a hoyden.” He was about to say ‘hellion,’ but thought better of it. It wouldn’t be proper to say such a thing to the widowed countess. “You’re welcome to visit the nursery whenever you wish,” he offered.

  Charity allowed an impish grin. “Be careful, Lord Bostwick, or you may find I have taken up permanent residence in your nursery.” She inhaled and then sighed, her gaze going to the crumpled note she still held in her hand. “I shall go on this ride with Lancaster this afternoon.”

  Allowing a grin to lighten his face, George gave a nod. “I am very glad to hear it,” he replied. “If you’d like, I can escort you to his curricle.”

  Blinking, Charity turned her attention to the front of the office, but she couldn’t see the street beyond the front door. “Is he... is he already here?”

  George nodded. “He is.” He glanced at his chronometer. “A bit early,” he commented, not about to tell her it was only half-p
ast three. “But better early than late.”

  Charity glanced at the papers on her desk and allowed a shrug. “I suppose I can leave early today,” she said, rather glad no one had come in seeking her services this afternoon.

  George helped her into her pelisse, and she wrapped the cord of her reticule around a wrist.

  “Tell me, Lord Bostwick, was it really Lady Bostwick’s opinion that I should take a ride in the park with Lord Lancaster?”

  Offering an arm, George nodded. “Of course,” he replied as he settled his beaver on his head and led her out of the office. The Lancaster curricle was parked at the curb.

  Marcus Batey sat holding the reins of a matched pair of blacks, but he stood up at her appearance and offered a bow. “So good of you to join me, my lady,” he said with a nervous smile.

  Charity dipped a curtsy and accepted George’s offer of a hand as she climbed into the conveyance. Her reticule ended up on the seat between her and Marcus, its contents providing a suitable barrier betwixt their bodies. Turning to the other viscount, she gave George a nod. “Good day to you, Bostwick. And please give my regards to Lady Bostwick, won’t you?”

  George tipped his hat. “I shall,” he called out as Marcus put the horses in motion.

  “How are you on this fine day?” Marcus asked, once he had the equipage merged into the traffic in Oxford Street.

  Charity regarded him a moment. “You are persistent,” she accused.

  His pleasant expression faltering, Marcus dared a glance in her direction. “Had I learned you needed only one more invitation, and I had stopped at two, I never would have forgiven myself,” he replied.

  Considering his words a moment, Charity finally settled into the squabs. “I am doing rather well on this fine day,” she said then, deciding she should at least try to get along with the viscount. “And you?”

  “Capital,” he said with a grin. “Mostly because of what I suspect you did.”

  “Oh?”

  “Miss Fulton paid a call at Stanton House this morning. Wadsworth has seen to honoring the terms of his father’s will, so she and her mother are no longer in danger of being thrown out on the street.”

  Charity dipped her head. “I rather doubt it would have come to that.”

  “Was there an entailed property they could have moved into instead?” he asked.

  Shaking her head, Charity said, “My son has already let it to a baron for the year. If he hadn’t agreed, or if he didn’t have the funds necessary to extend the lease on their townhouse, I might have had them move into Wadsworth Hall.” She took a deep breath. “I expect you’ve already guessed this isn’t all my late husband’s fault,” she said.

  “Mismanagement on the part of his man of business, perhaps?” Marcus asked.

  “More like embezzlement.” Before this week, she hadn’t even known the meaning of the word.

  “Then Wadsworth needs to sue the man responsible. Recover what he can of whatever’s been stolen.” If he was still a full-time solicitor, he would have gladly taken the case.

  Knowing her son would need to decide for himself what action to take, she said, “Marguerite paid a call on me, as well.”

  When she didn’t say more, Marcus dared a glance in her direction. “Did you... receive her?”

  “I did. She’s a fine young woman. She’ll make a great match some day.”

  “Perhaps with your help?” he half-asked.

  “She’ll probably end up married to a rich merchant or a banker,” Charity replied with a grin. “Maybe even a baron.”

  Marcus inhaled and said, “On the subject of young women, I find I am in a bit of a quandary with respect to reticules.”

  Charity dared a glance at her own misshapen reticule, wincing at the thought of how much she had stuffed into it over the course of the past week. The seams very nearly strained at their task of keeping everything inside. “Does my reticule bother you?”

  Marcus blinked, his gaze going to the velvet purse decorated with beads and embroidery. “Oh, not at all,” he replied. “I have been told a reticule would make a good gift for my daughter. She will be eighteen years of age on the morrow, and I was considering where I might shop for one.”

  “Ah,” Charity responded with a nod. “And you’ve no idea where to start such a search.”

  “I thought of New Bond Street.”

  Giving him a look of approval, Charity allowed an impish grin. “And yet, if you remain on this very street, you will come upon a small shop full of fripperies. Just on that corner up there,” she remarked, indicating a stuccoed building with mullioned windows. Behind the windows was a riot of color, although from this distance, the items contributing to the colorful interior couldn’t be discerned.

  “Forsham’s Fripperies,” he murmured. “Would you mind very much if we stop? Perhaps you can... assist me in the search? I fear there will be much to dig through to find the perfect purse.”

  Charity regarded him a moment. “Of course, but you needn’t make it sound like an archaeological expedition,” she teased.

  Marcus jerked his head in her direction, wondering if she knew of his interest in ancient artifacts. “I suppose not.”

  “Unless it makes it easier to abide,” she countered. “The searching, I mean.”

  He sighed as he parked the blacks at the curb. A young boy ran up, and he tossed him a coin to hold the reins while they shopped. “It puts it in a context I am better prepared to face,” he agreed, just before he stepped down from the equipage. He hurried around the back of curricle and then helped her down from the other side.

  “Archaeology, you mean?” she replied, placing her arm on the one he offered. “I understand it’s your avocation.”

  Marcus nodded, realizing Viscount Bostwick must have said something. “It was, before my brother died and I inherited the viscountcy,” he replied. “I am a solicitor, but I used to take the family to the Greek islands in the winter, so I might dig up bits of antiquities,” he explained, his expression wistful. He sobered and then sighed. “Can’t do that anymore, what with Parliament and all.”

  When he opened the door to the shop, Charity stepped in and waited until he rejoined her. “Greek islands,” she murmured. “It sounds so exotic.” She had never been outside of England. The wars with France had prevented travel to the Continent for half her adult life, and during he early years of her marriage, her husband had preferred to stay in Suffolk when he wasn’t expected in the capital.

  Marcus watched as Charity’s expression changed with her words. He loved seeing her eyes light up, the color come into her cheeks. He was about to imagine what it might be like to take her to the park, to park the curricle and find a secluded spot in which they might kiss one another.

  He was precluded from doing so when Charity pointed to a display of reticules. “Now, does Miss Analise need something for the day, or something more formal for the evening?” she asked as she reached for a tasteful fabric bag with a simple drawstring closure.

  Perusing the various styles, Marcus gave a shake of his head. “Day, I should think.” He frowned as he studied a beaded reticule. “Unless, she would consider this special?” he asked as he pulled it from the shelf. The entire bag seemed to be made up of colored beads intricately woven into a floral design. As a result, it was heavier than expected, and he nearly dropped it.

  Charity regarded the one he held and gave a shake of her head. “She might use it once or twice. For the theatre or a soirée,” she commented.

  “She could use it as a weapon,” he remarked, hefting it in his hands as if to determine what kind of damage it might do if thrown at a man’s face.

  “It would have a more profound effect if she swung it by the handle,” Charity remarked. “Then she would still have possession of it after it did its damage.” She dimpled when she noted his look of surprise at hearing this. Perhaps he was considering her own stuffed reticule and what she might do to him with it should he annoy her overmuch.

  “I
take your warning and thank you for it.” He reached up and fingered several bags that were displayed in a long line. “This one looks as if it’s made of shells,” he murmured, holding another small bag so he could examine it more closely. “I wonder from what beach these shells might have come?” He redirected his gaze onto Charity. “There are some excellent examples of ancient shells down by Lyme Regis.”

  Charity recognized the name of the town in which Mary Anning lived. The young woman was famous for her discovery of fossils, including that of a dinosaur. Selling shells and fossils was how Miss Anning made her meager living. Some of her finds were even featured in the British Museum. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you come to be interested in archaeology?”

  Marcus regarded her with appreciation. No one had ever asked him such a question before. “Oh, I don’t mind at all. It was my mother, if you can believe it.” He gave a short guffaw. “And her reticule, of all things.”

  Pausing in her attempt to pull a reticule from a higher shelf, Charity regarded the viscount in surprise. “Her reticule?” she repeated. But from Marcus’s slack jaw and the fact that his gaze wasn’t focused on anything in particular, she realized he was lost in thought.

  “What do you think you’re doing, young man?”

  Marcus’s head jerked up, but his tiny fingers didn’t let go of their grip on his mother’s reticule, nor did he offer an answer to her question. The elaborately embroidered bag was obviously full of something—its shape suggested it contained a number of oddly shaped items—and it was heavy.

  The viscountess allowed a smirk to appear, but before she could tell him to put down the reticule, her husband entered the parlor.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, young man,” the baritone voice of the Viscount Lancaster intoned. Although his manner seemed most serious, his own lips formed a quirk. “Once you get started, it will be like an archeological expedition. You’ll find layers upon layers of history, all manner of artifacts going back to the dawn of ...”