The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Mary nearly choked on the sip of tea she had just managed to take. “I am?” She blinked and then seemed to slump into the rose and green upholstered chair. “Oh, yes. I suppose I am,” she agreed with a sigh.

  Frowning, Charity wondered at the girl’s reaction. “I have a client who is a valet to a viscount. He is interested in taking a wife, and I thought of you.”

  Mary’s eyes widened into saucers. “How can that be, seeing as how I’ve never met you before?” she asked in alarm.

  Charity took a breath and held it for a moment before saying, “Your reputation precedes you, Miss Baker. In this case, it does you credit, however, as you may be exactly the sort of wife Mr. Weatherby is looking for.”

  Blinking several times, Mary took another sip of tea and angled her head. “Are you saying he wants a wife who...” She paused, and a bright pink blush colored her face.

  “Who is willing when it comes to the marriage bed, yes,” Charity stated, deciding it best to simply say it. “Is your hair long?” She couldn’t tell given the maid wore a mob cap that covered most of her hair.

  “Down to my waist,” Mary replied, one hand moving to her side to reinforce her words. She frowned. “This Mr. Weatherby. I suppose he’s some high and mighty valet who thinks he’s too good for those of us in service?” Her words were tinged with scorn, and Charity immediately wondered if Marcus Batey’s valet behaved that way in this house.

  “Mr. Weatherby is a former soldier who was wounded in one of the wars. He walks with a limp and does not strike me as a particularly proud man,” Charity explained.

  “Then why does he need a matchmaker?” Mary asked, her posture defensive.

  Charity regarded the maid for a moment before she gave a slight shrug. “He wishes to marry. He doesn’t know many women of marriageable age, and he trusts me to help him find a suitable wife,” she explained, daring the housemaid to counter the statement.

  “You said he’s wounded. How so?”

  Lifting her chin a bit, Charity said, “He walks with a limp. Uses a cane. Other than that, he’s perfectly fit. And rather handsome.”

  This last had Mary’s interest, both her hands holding onto her teacup as she was about to take another drink. “More handsome than the footmen who work here?”

  Having only seen the one ginger-haired Stanton House footman, Charity couldn’t be sure. “You’ll have to be the judge of that, Miss Baker,” she replied. “Are you interested in meeting Mr. Weatherby?”

  Mary seemed to think on the offer for a moment before finally nodding. “It depends, I suppose. When?”

  When, indeed? Charity considered schedules and realized she couldn’t answer for the valet. “Your employer has assured me I can take you from your duties if necessary.” This comment had the maid’s eyes widening once again, as if she just then realized her reputation in the household was known even by the viscount.

  For a moment, Charity wondered if the maid was on the verge of tears. “I shall pay a call on Mr. Weatherby and determine an appropriate place and time for the two of you to meet. With a chaperone, of course.” Charity wondered about the following day. “Tomorrow is Sunday. Perhaps in the afternoon?”

  Her face finally relaxing into an expression of acceptance, Mary gave a nod. “I’ll wear my very best gown,” she replied with a nod.

  “I’ll send word once I’ve had a chance to speak with Mr. Weatherby,” Charity said. She stood up. “And I will be sure Lord Lancaster knows should I have to take you from your duties.”

  Mary leaned forward. “Could you inform Mrs. Barstow instead? She’s the housekeeper here and will be vexed if I’m not where I’m supposed to be.”

  “Mrs. Barstow,” Charity repeated, pulling a pencil from her reticule and making a note on a pad of small paper. She regarded the young woman a moment before furrowing a brow. “You do wish to marry, do you not?” she asked.

  The maid gave a slight shrug. “I know I should,” she started to say.

  “But you don’t really wish to?” Charity guessed.

  Mary sighed. “Truth be told, I... I really enjoy being tupped,” she whispered.

  Charity blinked. “Well, there’s... there’s really nothing wrong with liking it,” she whispered in reply, daring a glance at the parlor door to be sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. “Which is why you might find Mr. Weatherby an agreeable husband.”

  Although Mary didn’t appear convinced, she at least nodded. “I’m willing to meet the man,” she said. “But... I ain’t agreeing to anything ’afore... Well, that is to say—”

  “He’s had a chance to prove himself in the marriage bed?” Charity guessed. As a widow, she just then realized she could demand the same sort of proof of performance from a potential husband. She wasn’t a virgin, after all. No one expected a widow to remain chaste.

  “Exactly!” Mary replied with a curt nod. Then her face screwed into a grimace. “Makes me sound fast, don’t it?”

  Charity shook her head and said, “There is something to be said for knowing what you want.” Her eyes widened when she realized the words applied to her, too. I want a daughter, she thought as she inhaled sharply. A legitimate daughter. The only way she could have what she wanted was if she remarried. “And then going after it,” she murmured, more to herself than to the young woman who sat across from her.

  Shaking herself from her reverie, Charity glanced at Mary’s empty teacup. “Would you like more?” she asked as she lifted the teapot.

  “May I?” Mary asked, her eyes once again wide in surprise.

  “There’s enough in here for several more cups,” Charity countered, a teasing grin lighting her face.

  “Then, yes, please,” Mary said as she held out her cup.

  Charity poured milk and dropped a couple of lumps of sugar into the maid’s cup before refilling it and her own cup.

  “I do know what I want,” Mary said then.

  “Oh?” Charity responded, afraid the maid might say she didn’t wish to be married.

  “I want a husband who will treat me good.”

  “All right.”

  “Not beat me.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Tup me when I’ve a mind to be tupped.”

  Charity inhaled slowly. “Which is usually... when?”

  Mary angled her head. “In the morning. ’Afore the sun has come up. When it’s still a bit dark outside. Or...” She paused and seemed to give her answer a good deal of thought. “Maybe at night. ’Afore bed. But long after dinner, though, so my stomach’s not too full.”

  Charity nodded, thinking the young woman was describing her own desires. “I believe Mr. Weatherby could accommodate your... needs.” She inhaled again before draining her teacup, wondering just how she was going to make Miss Baker’s demands known to the valet. “Is there anything else, Miss Baker?”

  The maid shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Tell me, then. Should you end up married to Mr. Weatherby, can you put voice to some assurance you won’t continue to tup the footmen here at Stanton House? I am quite sure Mr. Weatherby wants a wife that will be faithful.”

  Mary straightened in her chair. “Well, that all depends now, doesn’t it?”

  Charity blinked. “On what?”

  “Will Mr. Weatherby put voice to some assurance that he will be faithful to me?”

  Jerking in shock at hearing the query, Charity once again realized the maid had a good point. Should she ever agree to marry again, she could demand fidelity of her husband. Never again would she abide someone spending his nights with a mistress or with prostitutes in a brothel.

  “That will be between you and Mr. Weatherby, of course,” Charity replied. “So I suggest you bring it up with him should the two of you decide to consider matrimony.”

  Her face screwing into a grimace, Mary asked, “Will you tell Mr. Weatherby? What I said, I mean?”

  Charity blinked. “Do you want me to tell him your terms?”

 
The maid nodded. “Oh, would you? I fear I’ll be all tongue-tied wif’ him and forget everything I told you,” she claimed.

  Dipping her head, Charity finally allowed a nod. She tried to imagine just what her conversation with Mr. Weatherby was going to entail when an older woman appeared on the threshold.

  “There you are!”

  Mary stood up and curtsied to Charity. “I have to get back to work,” she whispered.

  Before Charity could give a reply, the maid hurried out of the parlor, the prune-faced woman watching her quick retreat with a frown. When the woman turned that expression on her, Charity said, “Mrs. Barstow, I presume?”

  The housekeeper froze and stared at her for a moment before finally dipping a curtsy. “Pardon me, my lady,” she said, obviously at a loss for words. “I didn’t realize... that is to say—”

  “You are pardoned. But only because Miss Baker and I have completed our business.” With that, Charity stood up and walked past the incredulous housekeeper, her only thought that she would probably replace the woman should she ever become the mistress of Stanton House.

  Charity was in the town coach and on the way to Lord Wessex’s home before she even realized just what she had imagined.

  Her, as mistress of Stanton House.

  She grinned and rolled her eyes when she murmured, “With Miss Baker as my lady’s maid.”

  She was still grinning when the coach pulled up to the front of Lord Wessex’s townhouse.

  Chapter 37

  A Valet is Cautious

  Luke Merriweather’s townhouse

  Staring up at the townhouse that loomed before her, Charity checked the address against the note she had made for herself to confirm that the numbers matched. The street name—South Audley—was correct. She was rather surprised Lord Wessex had such a posh address, as well as a townhouse that might have been home to an earl.

  Then she remembered he would one day be an earl. He was the heir-apparent to the Middleton earldom. Perhaps this was an entailed property.

  When the groom opened the door to the coach, Charity eyed the front door and then turned her attention on the young man. “Could you request that Mr. Weatherby join me here in the coach? I hardly think I should pay a call on him in there.” She gave him a calling card.

  The groom nodded. “I’ll see to it, my lady.”

  She watched as the groom made his way to the front door and gave the brass door knocker a rap. After a wait of several seconds, the door opened to reveal Mr. Weatherby. Perhaps he was butler as well as valet to the viscount, Charity considered as she watched the young man take the proffered card and then give a glance in the direction of the coach.

  Half-expecting him to give a shake of his head and send the groom back with news that he couldn’t meet with her just then, Charity was surprised when the valet followed the groom, a slight limp apparent, and then stepped into the coach.

  “My lady,” he said as he managed a slight bow. He took the seat opposite, leaning his cane against the bench. “This is... a surprise.”

  And not the only one you’ll have today, Charity almost said in reply. “Mr. Weatherby,” she acknowledged. “I thought it best we meet in here.”

  “Of course. I suppose you have come with... news for me?”

  “I have just come from Stanton House,” she said.

  The valet regarded her a moment. “Viscount Lancaster’s home?”

  “Indeed,” Charity replied. “There is a maid there who is... well, she is everything you described wanting in a wife.”

  The young man’s eyes widened. “Everything?” he repeated.

  “She has dark hair down to her waist,” she said with a nod. “And she is comely and willing,” she added, remembering the maid’s large brown eyes and flawless complexion. Charity paused before she added, “She has conditions, however.”

  Mr. Weatherby allowed a shrug. “I expect she does.”

  “You do?” Charity replied in surprise. She gave her head a quick shake. “Of course. Forgive my... my next comments, but I am merely relaying Miss Baker’s... her requirements for a husband.”

  When Weatherby appeared to wait to hear said requirements, Charity struggled not to blush too terribly much. “If she is expected to be faithful in the marriage, then she requires fidelity on the part of her husband.”

  “Agreed,” Weatherby stated.

  Charity blinked. “Oh. Well, then. As for marital relations, she... well, first, she is not a virgin—”

  “I wouldn’t expect her to be,” Weatherby stated. “Otherwise, how would she know to make conditions?”

  Resisting the urge to blink again, Charity allowed a nod. “Quite right. She wants them in the mornings. Before it’s too light. Or at night. But not too soon after dinner.”

  “Agreed. Perhaps other times might be negotiable?” he half-asked.

  This time, Charity did blink. “She seems ever so reasonable, so I suppose so.”

  “When can I meet her?”

  Well. This wasn’t so hard. Why, she probably wasn’t even blushing too badly. “What about tomorrow afternoon? A walk...” She took a quick glance at the cane. “Or a ride in the park?”

  “I am capable of walking,” he replied. “Although I will be limping.”

  “She’s aware of your limp,” Charity put in, hoping she wasn’t offending the man. “I can introduce the two of you—”

  “I’ll pay a call at Stanton House on the morrow. At three o’clock,” he stated.

  “Three o’clock,” Charity repeated, briefly wondering if she could arrange for Miss Baker to be available. Lord Lancaster had said he could see to it she had time off to court. “Very well.” Before she could say anything else, the valet retrieved his cane, gave a slight bow, and stepped out of the coach.

  “Good day, Mrs. Seward. Or should I call you Lady Wadsworth?”

  Charity dipped her head. “I will answer to either.

  Weatherby nodded. “Very good, my lady. And thank you.”

  With that, the coach door closed and Charity Seward Wadsworth settled herself into the velvet squabs with a single thought on her mind.

  She really needed to make these sorts of calls in an unmarked town coach.

  A few minutes earlier...

  Atop his phaeton, Marcus directed his horse to head onto South Audley Street. He was on his way to Park Lane from Bond Street, where he had paid a call on his daughter’s modiste. Barely paying any mind to the traffic he passed, he did a double-take when he recognized the crest on the door of a town coach parked in front of Lord Wessex’s townhouse.

  Wadsworth?

  He halted the horse pulling his phaeton, annoying the beast as well as the driver of the dray cart directly behind him. His gaze went to the gold-painted crest of the Wadsworth coach, and then to the townhouse.

  A rock seemed to drop into his stomach, and breathing was suddenly difficult.

  Charity?

  With Luke Merriweather?

  A shout from the man behind him had Marcus putting his horse in motion. An attempt at simply pulling over was quickly thwarted when another coach came from the other direction. “Dammit,” he murmured, realizing his only option was to continue to the end of the street and take the turn into Curzon Street.

  With one last glance at the Wadsworth coach, Marcus fought his own growing despair with seething anger—anger directed at the man who had just proposed to his daughter.

  How could he? How could Wessex court his daughter and claim to love her whilst carrying on an affaire with Charity Wadsworth?

  He remembered the night of the Attenborough ball. Remembered how he had been referring to his daughter when he spoke of a gorgeous lady. Luke’s gaze wasn’t on Analise at the time, though, but on Charity.

  How did I miss the obvious? Marcus wondered, his despair so consuming, he was nearly in tears.

  A pain in his chest had him clutching it with a gloved hand. Charity had tried to put him off. Had put him off. Over and over. And yet, like a fool
, he pursued her, sure he could change her mind. Convince her to marry him.

  No wonder she wasn’t in the market for a husband.

  She had a younger man as a lover.

  Chapter 38

  Anger and Accusations

  A few minutes later

  Marcus stormed into Stanton House, his hurt having turned once again to anger.

  “My lord?” Harrison breathed, his eyes wide. He had never before seen his master display such an expression of angst.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  Harrison blinked. “The parlor, sir.”

  Marcus took the stairs two at a time, mentally preparing himself for what was about to come.

  There would be wailing, he was sure. He would be doing some of it—how could he not, given how he felt about Charity?—but he thought Analise would also shed tears. Perhaps they could cry on each others’ shoulders.

  There would be gnashing of teeth. He had already been doing some of that, in between curses and hoarse whispers of hate directed at his best friend of late. Once Analise learned the truth, she would no doubt join him, their shared dislike of Luke Merriweather, Viscount Wessex, giving them the energy they would require to get through the next few weeks of despair.

  There would be questions. Some without answers. Like, how the hell had this happened? How had he missed all the obvious signs? The obvious cues?

  Love is blind, he reminded himself. And deaf and dumb.

  There would be despair. Endless nights spent alone, wishing things could be different. Analise would find another, better suitor, of course. She was young. Well-liked. Made friends easily. And there was that gorgeous Simpson boy.

  But there would be no other woman for him. Charity had always been that woman. The one he had wanted his whole life, it seemed. Without her, he may as well resign himself to nights at his club. Nights spent alone in his study. Reading tomes on domestic farming techniques or how to master chess without a playing partner.

  By the time Marcus walked into the parlor, his anger had been replaced by a dull ache that had filled his chest and left him nearly breathless.