The Viscount Needs a Wife (23 page)

A footman entered with a letter on a silver tray. Braydon heard him murmur, “From Carlton House, my lord.” The Regent's London residence.

An explosion there, too? Thank God the Regent wasn't in residence.

Sidmouth waved the man out and broke the seal. “Good God.”

Braydon waited, aware of his heartbeats.

“He's here,” Sidmouth said. “The Regent. Demanding my immediate presence.”

Not a new disaster.

“You'd better come, too.”

“I'm still rough from travel,” Braydon pointed out.

“So must he be if he's hurtled here from Brighton. Come.”

Sidmouth hurried out, and with a moment's wistful thought of his wife and his marriage bed, Braydon followed.

B
raydon was pleased to see that Carlton House was adequately guarded, though it was possible the number of soldiers had been increased today. They were challenged at the railings that barred the forecourt, and scrutinized as they left the coach beneath the massive portico and climbed the steps to go inside. In the hall Braydon saw only liveried footmen, but there could be other guards concealed by the elaborate architecture.

He'd attended levees here and one banquet, but never been admitted beyond the public rooms. Now he accompanied the Home Secretary through the famous octagon room into the back of the house and the more private areas. The decoration did not become simpler. The anteroom was hung with remarkable paintings. The furnishings were sparse but opulent, most probably obtained from the spoils of the French Revolution. Perhaps their former owners would be pleased to see them in a royal setting.

Bourbon visitors might also like the fleur-de-lis carpet, which continued into a salon, and at last, into the Regent's presence. He was seated in a large chair with upholstered arms and seat, but it bore no resemblance to a throne. This room was smaller than the previous one, but just as fine—if one favored blue panels and hangings amid gilded walls, doors, and cornices. Thankfully, the grand chandelier was unlit, and the room was illuminated only by candelabra,
but a great many of them. They and the large fire made the air unpleasantly hot.

No wonder the Regent was half-undressed and swathed in a silk banyan of blue embroidered with gold.
Someone so very large should avoid strong colors.

“Sidmouth! At last. Who's this?”

The Home Secretary introduced Braydon, with explanation.

“Hawkinville's away?” the Regent said. “I like Hawkinville, even though he can be damned impudent. Wellington trusts him.”

Braydon was tempted to point out that Wellington trusted him, too, but silence seemed wiser. In private, people sometimes poked fun at the Regent for his extravagance, size, and folly over women, but he was the ruler, with a ruler's powers.

As he and Sidmouth made their bows, Braydon assessed the man. There'd been optimistic reports in the papers that the Regent was recovering his spirits in Brighton and was seen out riding, but if they'd been true, he'd suffered a setback. His complexion was blotchy and his eyes almost haunted. A foot raised on a stool suggested gout, but even so, he had a decanter of port at his elbow and was drinking from a glass.

“Very well, very well. Tell me this tale.”

Sidmouth related the attempted assassination.

“Courtenay,” the Regent said. “Remember her. Always giving me sorrowful looks. Was she in on it?”

“I very much doubt it, sir.”

“Then who?”

Sidmouth went through their arguments. Braydon's mind drifted. He could be much more pleasantly engaged. But, then, the journey had been taxing, and Kitty was probably fast asleep by now. Would she sleep in his bed and be there when he finally managed to get home? A
delightful prospect, but she'd probably prefer a bed of her own. She'd returned to her own bed last night.

“Balderdash!” The Regent's exclamation snapped him back to the moment. “The succession?” the Regent continued. “Even if the plot had succeeded, there'd be no benefit from it for decades!”

He was right. Despite the Regent's bulk and ill health, he was showing a sharp mind.

“M'father's living a long life,” he continued, and Braydon thought he heard resentment. “And there's no reason we shouldn't all do so. Go odds some of my sisters'll live to ninety. Could end up with a succession of doddery old virgin queens! Queen Augusta, Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen Mary the Second, Queen Sophia . . .”

He laughed and swigged more port, but the laugh was bitter. None of his brothers and sisters could reign until he died. Perhaps he spent sleepless nights fretting that his father might outlive him, stealing his chance of coronation and kingship. From all reports, the mad king was in better physical health than his heir.

“It's one of those damned revolutionaries,” the Regent said. “Arrest 'em all!” Braydon must have moved, for the Regent's eyes turned on him. “You think that unwise?”

Now, there is a tricky question.
“Not in principle, sir,” Braydon said carefully, “but the recent tragic event has reminded everyone of their devotion to the royal family and particularly to yourself, and strengthened their desire for peace and good order. Anyone speaking treason now is chastised by those around. To arrest people without explanation would disturb that situation, but would it be wise to explain? Might it not be best to keep the event from public knowledge?”

“Don't want to create new fear and uncertainty, eh?” The Regent pouted, but didn't repeat his command. “Leave it in your hands, gentlemen. Find the culprit and ensure
there's no repetition. I hold court tomorrow. Excuse for coming, don't you know, in order to keep this quiet.” It was the Regent's way to make good decisions his own. He'd even been known to claim a part in the victory at Waterloo.

They were dismissed, and Braydon was glad to escape. He and Sidmouth left in silence, aware of listening ears, but Braydon was rearranging the pieces.

They'd ignored the princesses. They were probably all past childbearing age, and only two were married, but if their brothers all died, they would ascend the throne, one after the other. The royal dukes might not make old bones, but some of the princesses might. Even if there were no new legitimate grandchildren for the king, it could be forty years or more before the Hanoverian line was exhausted.

So what would have been the point of killing Kent, Clarence, and Sussex?

Once in the coach and on their way, Sidmouth said, “Insurrectionists after all. I thought so. Hawkinville's staff is still in place in his house. Use them.”

Does Sidmouth not trust his own Home Office or the military in this matter? Paranoia or reason?
“If you'll let me down at Mrs. Courtenay's house I'll begin my enquiries.”

“This late?”

“Carelessness with gunpowder deserves some inconvenience.”

Sidmouth shrugged, and soon Braydon was ruthlessly knocking until a sleepy servant opened to him. He learned that the lady had fled to the country.
Or fled the country?
That could be discovered.

Her absence gave Braydon free rein to tour the house and ask questions, though she seemed an unlikely conspirator. The Regent had confirmed her royal service,
and her servants described an elderly widow of a sober, religious disposition.

There was nothing informative about the three-story house. Its elegance was rather faded, but it spoke of conventional tastes and deep propriety. The hatch into the basement was as described, accessed from a small backyard that had a gate into a delivery lane. The hatch was near the kitchen, and two servants slept nearby. Could anyone trundle a beer barrel into the basement unheard?

“Oh no, milord,” the butler said. “It was delivered, regular, in a manner of speaking. That is, the usual people, but we weren't expecting it.”

“Yet you took delivery.”

“Danny, the footman did. We were in such a flurry of preparation for the royal dinner, so Danny said no one had time to stow it properly. When the delivery men offered to do that instead of carrying it back to their cart, he agreed.”

“The usual delivery men, you said?”

“I didn't see them, milord, but different men come every time. Waller Brothers supply half the town.”

Braydon nodded, but he'd be astonished if Waller Brothers had anything to do with it. “When did you learn that the royal dukes were coming to dine?”

“That morning, my lord. Which is why we were at sixes and sevens.”

“Have members of the royal family gathered here before?”

“No, my lord. That is, the princesses Mary and Sophia have visited a time or two, without ceremony, for Mrs. Courtenay was in the royal household when they were younger. But not recently.”

“Have you hired new servants within the last year, or even sooner?”

“The footman, milord. Danny.”

“Send him to me. And prepare a list of all your servants and when they were hired.”

It was possible that in a few hours, one of the servants had passed on word of the opportunity, but Braydon found it hard to believe. That would imply that a potential spy had been conveniently in place in an old lady's house. He'd known luck to settle more momentous events than this, but it ranked unlikely.

He spoke to the nervous young footman and crossed him off the list. Danny Onslow was nineteen and had worked in the house for only three months. He'd been new in London then, up from Essex, where he'd worked for a Sir Dillerby Vernon from the age of fourteen.

Braydon would check all the details, but it seemed more likely that the informant was in one of the princes' households. One or more treasonous factions might have infiltrated servants there, but that would be hard to investigate. One household was in Brussels, and at the moment Clarence lived as part of the queen's household in Bath. Sussex had apartments in Kensington Palace, but even his liberal principles wouldn't make him happy about being questioned.

Braydon left the house, thinking that even if he found the source of the information, the culprit could merely be a gossip, as had been the case with a government leak earlier in the year. It might provide a salutary lesson to hang, draw, and quarter a few gossips!

Clocks struck eleven disjointedly. Unreasonable to wish that the London clocks were adjusted to strike in synchrony. He could return to his rooms, where bed beckoned, even without a wife in it. However, he dutifully detoured to visit a place where he might encounter unruly gossip.

The smoke-filled Castle Inn was raucous, and many
there were well on their way to being under the table, but that tended to loosen lips. Braydon mingled, hearing the latest scurrilous jokes and incendiary remarks, which might prove useful later, but mostly picking up the atmosphere.

Men of all ranks gathered there, but it wasn't a fashionable venue, so he got some looks and even comments. But on the whole he was known and accepted there. Not everyone was a revolutionary, but it was a haunt of radicals. Among the drunken jocularity were groups deep in fierce political and philosophical debates. Some were frankly for a republic, but not the sort that guillotined the royal family. A few would cheer each falling head, but had more sense than to say so at the moment.

Could the French Revolution have been turned aside by the tragic death of Queen Marie Antoinette in childbirth? Unlikely.

He joined a group of men who were looking to the Regent to lead the cry for better justice and fair wages. Braydon had little faith that the Regent would go so far, but he put in a word. “He might. He led the campaign to bar French silk, demanding that everyone wear English silk products.”

“Aye,” said a few. But “Silk!” said another, and spat on the floor.

“Even silk weavers deserve jobs and fair wages,” Braydon pointed out.

No one argued with that, but the spitting man said, “What wage is fair with bread the price it is because of the bloody Corn Laws?”

That set them off in another direction.

Braydon moved on, listening in particular for any mention of the royal dukes. All he heard was a joke about the middle-aged princes probably scrambling for wives of childbearing age in order to provide an heir.

“You know what brothers are like,” an old man said, showing long teeth and few of them. “All out to show up the others.”

“My money's on Clarence,” another said. “A hearty sailor, and look at the family he had with Mrs. Jordan!”

The Duke of Clarence had lived openly with the actress Mrs. Jordan for decades and sired ten children with her, all known as FitzClarence. There was another bunch of potential monarchs if only they were legitimate.

The Royal Marriages Act had created problems, but a prince's marriage to an actress was exactly the sort of thing it had been designed to block. Clarence and Mrs. Jordan had parted six years ago, and she'd died last year. Even if Clarence had considered himself committed to her, he was free to marry now. In moments, a betting book was out and wagers were being made on which of the princes would sire the first son.

Braydon had learned what he could for now, so he found a hackney and traveled home. He let himself into his rooms, but Johns was waiting up for him.

“Lady Dauntry?” he asked quietly.

“Is sleeping in the second bedroom with Miss Oldswick, sir.”

Braydon nodded, disappointed. Strange, when he'd always preferred to sleep alone.

“Any problems?” he asked as he undressed.

“No, sir. Do you require food or drink, sir?”

“Only hot water, and then get to bed.”

Once Braydon was washed and ready for bed, he sat to make brief notes. His memory was such that he didn't need them, but he sometimes found it useful to lay out key points in search for connections. Something dangerous was afoot, and he must put a stop to it.

K
itty woke, and for a moment thought the body in the bed beside her was her husband's, but, alas, it was Henry's. Some daylight came in around the curtains, but she sensed it was early. She realized that she must have been woken by Sillikin's mind power, for the dog was standing by the bed, staring the message that she needed to go out.

“At least I should be able to trust the servants here,” Kitty muttered.

She climbed out of bed, shivering in the chilly air, and put on her robe. As soon as she opened the door, Sillikin went straight through and toward the back.

Kitty heard a man say, “You need to go out, little one? Very well.”

Clearly, Sillikin had the matter in hand. Kitty left the door open a crack so the dog could return, and rubbed her hands to get some warmth into them.

Was Braydon home? The thought of him being out all night stirred her worries about a mistress, but by day and rested, she couldn't believe that. He'd come here on important business. In addition, she might not know him perfectly, but she felt sure he wouldn't go to a mistress the day after his wedding night. It would simply be . . . unsmooth.

Henry stirred. “What time is it?”

“I'm not sure. We need the fire started and washing water.”

“I'll get it.”

Kitty almost protested, but Henry was the servant here. “It's odd being in a bachelor household, isn't it?” she said.

“It is, dear. There's a house, I understand.”

Kitty heard the hint. “So there is, and left empty for quite some time. I should at least inspect it. And if we're to stay in London for any length of time, it could be opened. But would Dauntry want to leave here?”

“That's something you'll have to discuss with him, milady. But marriage brings changes.”

Secure in robe and cap, Henry left. Kitty considered getting back in the warm bed, but instead she put on her fur mantle over her dressing gown and went to the window.

She drew back the curtains a little and saw that it was raining. It was only a soft, almost misty rain, but servants were hurrying about their duties with their hoods up, and a gentleman strode along beneath an umbrella. The fashionable world still slept.

The street wasn't much wider than Moor Street, where she'd lived, but it was grander. She'd been too weary to follow their direction yesterday, but she suspected they were in the heart of Mayfair. All the houses were in fine condition, and each had a railed entry at the front with steps down to the basement area. The front of her house had met the pavement, the house had only had two stories, and there'd always been wear and tear. Of course, this building was not a terrace but a solid block. Were there servants' quarters in the basement, or did each set of rooms have its own servants' quarters?

A coal cart clattered by, and here came a cow and goat, each with a bell around its neck, led along to provide milk. A maid hurried out of a house with a jug to
be filled. Seeing the milk drawn from the animal was proof against adulteration, but it would be thinner stuff than Kitty had enjoyed recently. Animals needed good pasture to provide rich milk. Some London cows were kept in sheds.

Henry returned with hot water, and she was accompanied by the footman in shirtsleeves and apron with a bucket of coal. He soon had a fire burning in the small gate.

Carefully looking at the wall he asked, “May I know what you'd like for your breakfast, milady?”

Kitty was tempted to ask for the Turkish coffee, but that felt presumptuous. “Chocolate, bread, and butter, please. Henry?”

“Tea and bread and butter. Thank you, Edward.”

There wasn't anywhere to eat in the bedroom, so Kitty added, “We'll eat in the dining room, Edward. And my dog will need water and meat.”

As if summoned, Sillikin bustled in, ready for the next adventure.

Kitty realized only when the footman had left that she'd implied she'd be eating with her maid. So be it. She enjoyed Henry's company and her advice.

Kitty went behind the screen to wash. Once she was in her shift, she came out to be corseted. She had to help Henry with her corset and gown, and then Henry helped her into the brown.

Henry said, “While we're in London, you could order some new gowns.” Another hint, and one Kitty was happy to take. Her seamstress here was a friend and it would be an excuse to visit Moor Street and meet many friends and acquaintances there.

They went to the dining room. Their breakfast came promptly, beautifully served, with jewel-like jams as well as rich butter that must have come up from the country. On the floor, Sillikin had a china bowl of water and a dish
of what looked like chopped steak. Her stubby tail was vigorously approving.

“Still-warm bread,” Henry said, cutting open a roll. “An excellent kitchen.”

“It will be from a local bakery,” Kitty said. “I'm surprised Dauntry keeps a cook here. It can't be only for his coffee.” Then she had to explain about the coffee.

“I don't like coffee in any form,” Henry said, “so I'll decline that treat. But I think you'll find he enjoys a range of foods not readily available from the local chophouse or tavern.” Henry could be a deep well of information about Braydon, but the door was open, so Kitty wouldn't indulge in curiosity yet.

She was enjoying her second cup of chocolate when Braydon entered the room, already perfectly shaved and in faultless Town elegance similar to his clothing for their wedding. If he'd come home late and slept little, it didn't show.

“Good morning,” he said to Kitty as he sat. “I hope you've found everything to your satisfaction.”

Henry rose, curtsied, and left. Kitty almost protested, for Henry felt like a friend, but she did want to speak privately with Braydon.

Edward brought an ordinary coffeepot, bread, and cold meats.

“Close the door as you leave, Edward.” Once they were alone, Braydon said, “I'm sure you have questions.”

He was perfectly polite, but that was the problem. They'd come to do better than this in Gloucestershire. Was he cool because she'd insisted on coming here with him?

“Not if you don't want to provide answers,” Kitty said, in as no-nonsense a way as she could. “I understand that matters might be confidential.”

He took his first sip of coffee. “Thank you.” He buttered some bread, put ham between two slices, and took a bite. He saw her watching him. “You disapprove?”

“No, but I'm surprised.”

“That I like a sandwich for breakfast? I found in the army that they're an efficient form of food. If I was interrupted, I could put what was left in a pocket and have rations later.”

“That can't have been good for your clothes.”

“I couldn't always afford to be particular.”

Again, she was curious about his army career, but the current mood made personal questions impossible.

Two days,
she reminded herself. It had been merely two days since their wedding, and they'd had only one night together. Alas . . . She watched as he poured himself more coffee and then added milk, admiring his long, strong fingers.

He put down the milk jug. “I'm in the same dilemma as before, Kitty.”

She pulled her wits together. “About what?”

“I don't know you. I don't know if you can be trusted. Not,” he said with a raised hand, “in the deepest sense, but might you let information slip? To a friend, for example.”

“My only close friend is Ruth.”

“You may meet old friends here. Male as well as female.”

“Ah.” She sipped more chocolate. She'd looked forward to meeting Moor Street friends, but he was thinking of military men. “I don't think I'd carelessly let anything slip, but if it would create problems or danger, then it's better not to tell me.”

“What an excellent woman you are.”

It was more statement of fact than high praise, but Kitty couldn't help but smile. “Thank you.”

He ate another bite of his sandwich, then said, “What I'm doing isn't life-and-death, but you have no need to know, except that I'm going to be very much engaged.”

“I'd enjoy your company, but you needn't be concerned. London is very familiar to me.”

“But not, perhaps, fashionable London? Remember your changed station. I had a momentary awareness of that myself last night when I remembered that I'm not Mr. Braydon anymore but the sixth Viscount Dauntry, and thus took precedence over the Home Secretary.”

Kitty noted that tidbit of information. Nothing would slip out accidentally, so he was letting her know that he'd come to Town at the request of the Home Secretary. Lord Sidmouth was the man principally responsible for the safety of the nation. That told her little, but it was more than nothing.

“When you go out,” he continued, “take Henry and Edward.”

“Go about with an entourage?”

“It's appropriate, but Edward might prove useful.”

“As protection?” she asked, startled.

She'd surprised him in turn. “I don't expect any unusual danger to you, Kitty, but London has dangers enough. In addition, Edward is familiar with this part of London, skilled at finding hackneys in the trickier locations, and can advise you—on the best shoemakers, for example, and furnishing warehouses.”

Kitty took a moment to appreciate his clever mind. Most men would have said something like “shoemakers and milliners,” assuming a woman would have no interest beyond clothes. He'd remembered that she had rooms to redecorate.

“That touches on a subject,” she said. “I have very little money to hand.”

A blink revealed surprise. “My apologies! Your pin
money is theoretical at the moment, isn't it? I'll provide some money immediately and make proper arrangements. If you purchase anything for the house or estate, have the bill sent to me.”

Kitty buttered another piece of bread. “Which touches on a second subject. Have you any objection to my visiting the town house?”

“I'm sure it's your duty to do so. There's only a small staff, however, and everything's under Holland covers.”

“We will want to use it at some time, and it must be ready. Which brings us to a third subject. How long are we likely to be here?”

“That I don't know. At least a week. Are you uncomfortable? We could remove to a hotel.”

“I doubt that would be any more comfortable.”

“Clearly you haven't visited the finest hotels.”

“If some are more luxurious than here, you tempt me!” Kitty sipped her chocolate, considering whether to speak her thoughts. She saw no reason not to. “I don't suppose there's any way I can assist you with your duties, Braydon, but I hope you know I will if I can.”

“I do, and I thank you.” He'd eaten and drunk efficiently and was finished. “A moment.” He left and returned with some banknotes, coins, and a key. “To the house. You shouldn't have any difficulty in gaining entry, but take a key in case. I suggest sending a note to alert the servants there. Mrs. Grant is the housekeeper, and she has two housemaids and a manservant to help care for the place. As best I can tell, she's excellent, but it's better not to surprise.”

“Some would say it's better to surprise.”

“Only if expecting problems. You remind me that the viscountcy has theater boxes, which are rented out by the night when not needed. I'll see if any are vacant while we're here.”

“That would be delightful! I've never been to a London theater.”

“Never?” Again, she'd surprised him. He had no conception of her London life.

She wouldn't be ashamed of it. “We couldn't afford a box,” she said, “and Marcus couldn't have sat for hours in the pit.”

“Then we will certainly go to the theater.” He came around the table, raised her hand, and kissed it. He didn't press his lips, but they touched and perhaps lingered. “Please forgive a neglectful husband, Kitty. I hope to do better.”

Did she imagine a silent “tonight”?

He left before she could properly respond, so she stroked the place he'd kissed and imagined. What a lustful jade she was. . . .

Enough of that. There were at least twelve hours between then and now, and she had things to do. She did need to order new clothes more suited to her station, and she should visit the viscountcy's town house. She hoped it wasn't another ice palace.