The Viscount Needs a Wife (22 page)

T
hey left before sunset, but traveled mostly in the dark, grateful for moonlight and hardly slackening speed along the good toll roads. Abbey horses had taken the traveling carriage to Chipping Norton, but from there they used four post-horses with frequent changes. One of the postilions sounded his horn as they approached every toll, so the gate was already opening for them when they reached it. Only rarely did they leave the coach at a change, for necessary relief.

Kitty had never before traveled at such unremitting speed and could only attempt not to show her exhaustion.

There was little conversation. Whatever the cause of this race to Town, it was not to be spoken of in front of Henry and Johns, and there was no need to speak of anything else. Sillikin seemed to pick up the mood and mostly slept on the floor, though she opened an eye now and then, as if to check that her humans were still all right.

The coach drew to a stop, and they could finally climb out into the biting night air. Kitty was bone-weary and her breath was misting, but the fashionable street was warm with gaslight, and the sounds of London were all around. She couldn't help a smile as she recognized its fast, familiar pulse.

They hadn't stopped in front of a typical Town house
that had been divided into two or three sets of rooms. This building stretched on either side of her with only one central door. Johns used the brass door knocker, and the door was opened by a sturdy, broad-shouldered manservant in greatcoat and gloves.

“Welcome 'ome, m'lord,” he growled.

A retired prizefighter to guard the door?

Dauntry gave his arm to Kitty and they went forward. “Thank you, Clark. Lady Dauntry will be with me for a while.”

The entrance hall was narrow but the staircase wide and gracious, and the whole was of fine, polished wood. Braydon escorted her up the stairs for one flight, and then they turned left, where he used a key to enter his rooms.

Kitty remembered once thinking, for the merest moment, that his rooms might be similar to the four rooms she'd lived in with Marcus. She'd known they'd be grander, but she'd had no idea.

His private entrance hall was small, but again the wood was fine and polished, and two paintings hung on the walls. They were small and probably Dutch, judging from the interior scene and the costumes. A mahogany wall clock ticked the seconds above a small table that held a Grecian vase, a silver tray, and a candle lamp. The candle wasn't lit, but a fire in a room ahead spilled warmth, and a manservant was already lighting branches of candles there.

He turned to bow. “My lord! We weren't expecting you.”

Yet he'd been preparing before we entered. A bell from the porter below to alert the household?

“I wasn't expecting myself,” Braydon said. “My dear, this is Edward. You'll find he's a useful, knowledgeable young man.” Again he said, “Lady Dauntry will be here for a little while.”

Was he making sure the servants knew she wasn't his light-o'-love? Or was the emphasis on the temporary nature of her stay? She knew some gentlemen's rooms were bachelor only.

The candles illuminated a sitting room of modest size, but elegant enough to be called a drawing room. She almost felt she should apologize for putting her travel-worn half boots onto the thick carpet, and there were more objets d'art and pictures on the cream-colored walls. She saw two glossy mahogany doors to the left and right. Five rooms? Only one more than she'd had in Moor Street—but no. There must be a servants' area somewhere, and as he had a cook, a kitchen. Her small kitchen had been one of the four.

“My apologies, my dear,” Braydon said to Kitty. “I must go out immediately. The servants will take good care of you.”

And then he was gone.

Kitty, Henry, Johns, and the footman stood in silent uncertainty. It was Sillikin trotting to the footman with friendship in mind that alerted Kitty to the fact that she was in charge here.

“Tea,” she said. “And something decent to eat, please, Edward. Johns, kindly show me what accommodation we have.”

Braydon's rooms contained all one might find in the smaller sort of fashionable town house, but with the usual three or four floors laid out on one level. In addition to the parlor, she was shown a dining room where at least ten could dine and a small library with walls entirely of books. There were two good bedrooms, and off one, a dressing room with bath. That was clearly Braydon's room.

She didn't inspect the servants' quarters, but she suspected that all the servants here were male. For tonight,
at least, Henry must sleep with her in the second bedroom.

What struck Kitty was the quality. In its way, Braydon's home was as fine as Beauchamp Abbey, but infinitely more welcoming. All the principal rooms were decorated with gleaming wood, papered walls, and beautiful objects that seemed chosen one by one rather than acquired for show.

She paused to admire a small bronze of a horse and rider.

She'd thought once that his rooms would tell her much about him. They did, but again it was daunting.

The unwelcoming atmosphere at Beauchamp Abbey had given them common ground, like people of very different backgrounds and natures thrown together in a wintry storm. These rooms made their differences plain. As she'd once acknowledged, Braydon had been accustomed to graciousness and wealth since the day he'd been born, and she had not.

Fires were being hastily lit in all the rooms, but the air wasn't frigid, so Kitty shed her cloak, bonnet, and gloves and washed her hands before going to the dining room. As Braydon wouldn't command that food be ready for him at any time, it must have been rushed from a nearby inn or tavern, but everything was served on fine china and silver chafing dishes.

Kitty would have liked to have Henry's company at the meal, but she couldn't see how to invite her maid without inviting Johns. She assumed they would eat in the kitchen. Perhaps they'd be more comfortable there. As she finished, the clock in the hall tinkled ten, and distantly she heard other clocks sounding the hour.

Oranges and lemons

Say the bells of Saint Clement's.

You owe me five farthings,

Say the bells of St. Martin's.

When will you pay me?

Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich,

Say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be?

Say the bells of Stepney.

I do not know,

Says the great bell of Bow.

Most of those old bells were in the City of London, but she'd heard some of them at times in Moor Street, marking the passing of the day or night.

She shook herself. She was falling asleep where she sat. Foolish to even think of staying up for Braydon. She drank the last of her tea, realizing she was clinging to hope of more marital adventures.

In her weariness, doubts crept in. Perhaps he was pleased to be free of such duties. Perhaps that was why he'd seized on whatever summons had brought him here. Perhaps he had some other woman's bed to go to when his business was done.

*   *   *

Braydon had gone to the Home Secretary's home.

“Avoided by the merest chance,” Lord Sidmouth said, pacing his office. He was a spare, bony man with thinning hair and deep-set eyes, plagued more by an anxious nature than ill health. “If a servant hadn't moved a barrel out of his way . . . three princes gone!”

Sidmouth lived in fear of insurrection. There was true danger—it had happened in America and France, after all—but that meant a steady head was even more important. Braydon believed he had a steady head, and he was willing to serve. He hoped to steer a good course,
but also to turn aside the more draconian acts of suppression.

“May I have the full story, sir?” In violation of etiquette he sat, which led, as he'd hoped, to Sidmouth also sitting down.

Perhaps it hadn't been outrageous. He realized that he now outranked the Home Secretary in the peerage. They were both viscounts, but Sidmouth's was a new creation, whereas Braydon was the sixth of his title. The thought amused.

“Kent, Clarence, and Sussex gathered together last night to discuss the current problems,” Sidmouth said, “and find a way to get the Regent to take control.”

There were seven surviving sons of the king. One was the Regent and the rest were royal dukes—York, Clarence, Kent, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge.

“I thought Kent resided in Brussels for the health of his purse,” Braydon said. Being royal didn't mean being wealthy.

“He does, but he sometimes returns, supposedly incognito. Clarence is in regular attendance on the queen in Bath, but he came to Town for the meeting. Sussex, of course, resides in Kensington Palace.”

“But they gathered in a private house?”

“In Holles Street. Someone learned of the gathering and put gunpowder in the basement in the guise of barrels of beer. The plot was prevented only by chance! A servant moved a barrel out of his way and thought it didn't contain liquid. Suspecting a fraud on the part of the beer merchant, he summoned the butler, who tapped it.”

“And black powder dribbled out. How was it to be set off?”

“Someone would have had to slip into the basement, but that wouldn't have been difficult. There's a hatch through which the beer barrels and other heavy goods are
put in. We set a watch, but no one turned up. The servants have been kept quiet as much as possible, but word is bound to escape. There could be panic!”

“The story can be denied,” Braydon said soothingly. “The world is awash with rumors. Whose house was it?”

“The Honorable Mrs. Courtenay. In the past she was part of the queen's household and was trusted by the princes.”

“Is she under suspicion?”

“She seems an honest enough old lady, but who knows where evil lurks these days?”

It's your job to know,
Braydon thought with asperity. For Sidmouth, every protestor was a potential revolutionary, every orator a potential Robespierre, and every servant a potential traitorous spy. Braydon sometimes wondered if Sidmouth truly trusted anyone.

“You said in the letter that Hawkinville is unavailable?” he asked. Sir George Hawkinville ran an unofficial antirevolutionary department for which Braydon worked from time to time.

“In Paris. Ostensibly a pleasure jaunt with his family, but there are some issues there. You will handle this?”

It should have been a command, but came out with an anxious question mark at the end.

Braydon considered claiming his very new marriage as reason to decline, but that would be vile. This was a dangerous incident and could be smoke from deeper fires.

“Of course.”

“Good, good. Find the spy in that house. He or she will be the one intended to set off the bomb.”

“You said that access was possible from outside,” Braydon reminded him. “Moreover, if we find such a person, we'll have a mere minion. We need to know who is behind the plot.”

“Find the minion and we'll get the truth.”

By any means?
Braydon hoped he was correct in believing torture chambers a horror of the past. “Even the rack wouldn't overcome ignorance,” he said, “and such means are, of course, unthinkable. If I were devising such a plot, the lowest wouldn't know me, and the links from layer to layer would be very hard to follow.”

“Damnation.
Damnation!
We could still hang the vermin. Hang, draw, and quarter 'em for an attempt on three royal lives. That should deter any future attempts.”

Braydon prayed no jury would condemn anyone to death for such a nonevent, but in these times who could be sure? Most juries looked kindly on protestors, but in the current mania over Princess Charlotte's death, a jury might turn vicious with anyone threatening the royal family.

“People fired up by a purpose are rarely rational,” he said. “What measures have been taken to prevent future attacks?”

“Their royal highnesses have instructions not to cluster. Kent is en route back to Brussels, and Clarence should be in Bath by now. Both are under extra guard. Sussex is a damned irregular, but he should be sensible in this situation.”

Braydon thought the Duke of Sussex admirably freethinking, but it was a shame that his rebellious streak had led him to marry in contravention to the Royal Marriages Act. He had children, but the Act made any royal marriage null if it didn't have the approval of Parliament, so his were technically bastards. If matters were otherwise, there'd be no succession crisis. Prince Augustus and Princess Ellen would stand ready to ascend to the throne if needed.

“But who was behind it?” Sidmouth demanded, thumping the arm of his chair with a clenched fist.
“Who?”

“Rather, ask why,” Braydon said.
“Qui bono?”

“Someone who wishes to disrupt the kingdom!” Sidmouth declared. “The death by explosion of three princes. Alarm. Shock. Fear.”

Certainly in you.

“There could be a more practical purpose,” Braydon said. He left a polite pause, but when Sidmouth didn't take up the subject, he did. “The explosion would have removed three of the four princes who are free to marry and provide an heir.”

“By Lucifer!
Jacobites?
” Perhaps Sidmouth's hair really did rise on end.

“Any Jacobite claim would be feeble, but there are plenty of German Protestants with a line of descent.”

The Jacobite fragments were Papist, which was why Parliament had made a law to say all future monarchs must be Protestant. That was how George of Hanover, a rather distant branch on the royal family tree, had become King George the first in 1714. If the Hanoverian line failed, a number of other Protestant German principalities had people with claims.

Sidmouth shot to his feet to pace. “I can't believe it of any of them. It's the French. It has to be the French. Create mayhem. Weaken us. Open the way . . .” A knock at the door ended the tirade. “Come!”