The Viscount Needs a Wife (30 page)

T
he play was an adaptation of the successful novel
Guy Mannering
, with the addition of songs. Kitty had read the novel and knew the plot, but that didn't affect her enjoyment. Indeed, she thrilled to see it come to life, with lost children, smugglers, and wild Meg Merrilies.

She had to stifle a protest when the curtain came down for the next intermission. Everyone left the box to stretch their legs and meet others. Kitty strolled with Braydon, talking about the performance when not being introduced again and again. She'd not expected this to be her first night amid the ton.

Again and again they were congratulated on their marriage, but twice a gentleman said, “Kitty!” before recollecting himself. At least no one called her Kit Kat, but Major Corcoran put his hand to his heart and enacted a tragedy over her being snatched before he had a chance.

“Don't be foolish, Major. You know we would not suit.”

“Ah, but the not suiting would have been magnificent for a while. Your pardon, Dauntry, but a man can't help but envy you.”

“And I can hardly object to such fulsome praise of my wife, sir.” There was a steely edge to it, however. Corcoran waggled his gingery eyebrows at Kitty and went away, leaving her annoyed.

“Please don't bristle at such foolishness,” Kitty said, “or you'll be bristling morning, noon, and night. I can handle such matters for myself.”

Before he could respond, three officers were coming toward them, including Edison.

“You look splendid,” he said to her, as if he had a particular right.

Kitty smiled at all three. “I'm delighting in the play. I've never attended one before. It's so
thoughtful
of Dauntry to arrange this treat so soon.” She made sure to give him a besotted smile.

“I invited you to the theater once,” Edison said.

Kitty wanted to hit him, and had to admit it might be useful for Braydon to freeze Edison away, but she'd claimed to be able to handle such matters herself. “What a shame it wasn't convenient, sir. Are you soon to be posted abroad again?”

At her tone, he colored. “I must go where I'm sent.”

“And I wish you all success, Captain Edison.” She turned to one of the other men. “What prospects for you, Hallward?”

He'd caught her interaction with Edison, but he answered amiably. “I'm kicking my heels, but if that keeps me in Town while you're here, Lady Dauntry, I don't feel too hard done to.”

She appreciated his deliberate use of her title, which Edison had avoided, and settled to a light discussion of military prospects. She was glad when Edison stalked off. Surely that had been strong enough to stop his folly.

The next act was announced, and the other two men took their leave. Kitty prepared for something scathing from Braydon, but a thin, middle-aged gentleman approached.

Braydon greeted him with a bow. “Sidmouth. My dear, I present Lord Sidmouth, our Home Secretary.”

Kitty dipped a curtsy, wondering if some new drama had unfolded, for Lord Sidmouth looked odd.

“A word with you, Dauntry.”

Braydon escorted Kitty to their box door. “You'll excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.”

She watched him return to the Home Secretary and observed the brief exchange of words. It looked to come close to an argument, but she couldn't hover there. She went in and took her seat just as the curtain rose. Even as the play captured her again, she was aware of Braydon entering behind her, and wished she could ask what had occurred. Later, unless his jealousy put him in a sour mood.

However, at the next intermission people came into their box and private discussion was impossible.

When the play came to an end, with all the villains dealt with and the virtuous rewarded, Kitty was keen to return home and learn what Sidmouth had said. However, she learned that they were to host a supper at the nearby Bedford Hotel.

As they walked there with their guests, she said, “You didn't mention this.”

“Did I not? A theater party must be fed.”

“It could be seen as a wife's duty.”

“Then be pleased I spared you it.”

His terseness could only be because he was still simmering over the scene with Edison. Surely he couldn't fault her for that?

Sir Francis Burdett and his wife were of their party, and the German gentleman Herr Grassmyer. They had been invited during the evening, and she wished she'd known and invited a few of her own acquaintances. In particular, her most ardent admirers!

The arrangements were perfect, however, largely
because the Bedford Hotel was expert at such events. Their private room was elegantly furnished and the supper delicious. There had been no difficulty over the extra guests, and it seemed the hotel expected that. Two extra tables stood against the wall, and one was easily added to the end, and covered and set in a moment.

Braydon had probably arranged such suppers a hundred times and she hadn't, but she couldn't rid herself of grievance. She made sure it didn't show, however, as she played hostess, and gradually her pique faded as she watched him play the charming host.

He was so comfortable in this setting and so well liked by this variety of people. At first impression she'd judged him aloof, but she should have remembered then that he'd quickly become friends with Ruth and Andrew.

It couldn't be easy for him to have men clustering around his wife, and Edison had been outrageous. And yet, once she'd objected, he hadn't interfered. Perhaps he wouldn't have criticized her if he'd had a chance. It was doubtless Sidmouth who'd put him on edge earlier.

She relaxed into good food, fine wine, and excellent company that was sufficiently varied to be interesting. They mostly even avoided politics. Sir Francis did once mention the Regent's visit to London, saying he wished he'd lingered to attend to business, but no more than that. His wife, a very gracious lady, complimented Kitty on her gown—and then asked the name of her mantua maker.

Kitty was delighted to be able to say, “A Mrs. Saunders of Moor Street, ma'am. A simple establishment, but Mrs. Saunders is very talented.”

“So I see. I will visit her.”

Kitty had to suppress a grin at the excitement likely to land on Moor Street in the near future, but she was delighted for Janet. And this would be only the beginning. No matter what happened about the Abbey, she'd
return in spring for the season and wear wonderful gowns, and Janet's fortune would be made.

As they returned home in their carriage, Kitty told Braydon.

“More exciting than you realize. Lady Burdett is the daughter of Coutts, the banker, and not short of money to spend. Nor are her well-married sisters or her wide acquaintance.”

“How lovely. But what of Lord Sidmouth? More drama?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She thought perhaps he wouldn't tell her what had been discussed, but then he said, “He ordered me to cease investigations.”

“About the attempted assassinations? Why? They've found the culprit?”

“He said it was the Regent's wish. That the Regent wished to avoid any alarm.”

She read his tone. “That makes no sense. Those who know, know, and any enquiries won't make matters worse.”

“So why?”

It was a serious question. Despite a glass of wine too many, Kitty applied her mind to it. “They don't have the culprit, or he would have said so. The Regent is the culprit? No, that's incredible.” She looked at him. “The Regent is afraid of what you might discover?”

“Clever lady. Seems the most likely, doesn't it? Or Sidmouth is afraid of what I might discover. I have no proof it's the Regent's wish.”

“Heavens! But if Sidmouth devised the plot, why bring you in to investigate? He could have kept it in the Home Office and muddled it away to nothing.”

“An excellent point. You could be an investigator.”

“If I weren't a woman,” she said, remembering the conversation in the theater box, “with a feeble woman's brain.”

“Have I ever accused you of that?”

“No.”

“And I never will, unless justified.”

“Am I allowed to challenge you for feeblemindedness?” She pulled a face at him. “I can't imagine it.”

“I have many flaws, and I invite you to correct me as necessary. As for investigations, there are many situations where a woman can poke around better than a man, and some where she might have unique insights.”

She studied him. “You're serious. But what of the Abbey?”

“Oh, damn the Abbey!” He took her hand. “Can we consign it and all it involves to the devil?”

He'd opened a door to an exciting possibility, but she had to say a regretful, “No.”

“No,” he agreed.

“Perhaps one day. But as matters stand, I should return soon. I dread to think what the dowager's been up to.”

“Nothing significant. I get a daily report from Worseley.”

She pulled her hand free. “And not a word to me, sir?”

“There's been nothing to say. I apologize! Again.” He captured her hand and kissed it. “We have been joined in wedlock for only a very few days, my dear Kitty. Neither of us can transform in a moment.”

“No.” She studied him. “Am I? Your dear?”

“Begging for compliments?”

“More than a compliment.”

“You are very dear to me,” he said. “A part of my life I would miss if you were gone.”

That was not quite love, but it was precious. “As, alas, I must be.”

“But not yet. Nothing is awry at the Abbey. Linger. There are more plays to see and more shops to plunder.”

“And always will be.” But he wanted her to stay, and would miss her when she left. “You know I have to return, and that you must stay here until this matter is untangled. You can't allow Sidmouth or the Regent to turn you from the path.”

“Is that a command?”

“Does it go against your inclinations?”

He kissed her hand again. “No.”

She tightened her fingers on his. “I have to say this, Braydon, even though it can't change anything. I don't want to part, and I wish we could live most of the year in London. Together.”

“It would be delightful.”

“Even though I'll continue to attract my old acquaintances?”

He grimaced, but said, “Even so. As long as they hold the line.”

She was glad to reach the point. “Edison. I think that shot will have warned him off.”

“He's dangerously besotted.”

“I never realized before. He has to see now that it's hopeless.”

“He might wish for my early demise.”

“He'd never try to
kill
you,” she protested.

“He might try to kill you. No, don't dismiss it too easily. It's a madness that takes men at times—that if they can't possess a woman, no one should.”

“I can't believe it. I won't believe it. But before you ask, I will continue to take my entourage when I go out.”

“Thank you.”

She leaned comfortably against him and indulged in dreams. “If I was able to live mostly in London, we'd need to use the house. Would you mind? I like it, and it's as if it's dozing, hoping someone will live happily in it.”

“A sentient building? Do we dare speculate what the Abbey is thinking and feeling?”

“Miserable thoughts. Oh, dear—now I want to rescue it. How? Even if we evict the dowager, if we have our way, it will stand empty. I don't suppose we can lease it?”

“It would cause a lot of talk, but if we reach that point, it might be the only solution.” She caught the smile in his voice as he added, “You want to rescue the world, don't you?”

“No, that's you. I restrict myself to my immediate sphere. I'll do what I can for the town house. New paint and paper. Some additional furniture. Piped hot water to your dressing room, so it could serve as a bathing room.”

“A large bath,” he said, “so we can bathe together.”

“Why?” But then she envisioned it. “You're making me blush.”

“I love to make you blush. I've read of projects to use steam to heat a whole house.”

“That would be delightful. We'll be a winter haven for gatherings of whatever sorts of people we each like.” She shifted so she could see him when she added, “Including a weekly Kit Kat Club.”

She saw no reaction. “If there's not enough space,” he said, “we could take one of the houses to either side.”

“Have two houses?”

“Knock them together.”

“I never imagined that.”

“Expand your mind,” he said, and they both smiled at memory of their first encounter.

“Anything is possible?” she said, but then she pulled a face. “Not everything. Or not for some time. And if I were to live mostly in London, I'd miss Ruth. Having only just moved close to her, I'd be far away again. So the Abbey isn't so terrible after all.”

“Except that we won't be there together.”

He'd put it into words. She responded as calmly as she could. “Sometimes perfection isn't possible, and we have more, much more, than we expected, my dear Braydon.”

“We do,” he said, as the carriage halted outside their rooms.

K
itty woke early the next morning, and lay, in low spirits, close to her husband's warm body. She'd woken in the middle of the night, at that time when darker thoughts seem able to invade.

She must soon return to the Abbey, and putting it off wouldn't help. Rural Gloucestershire wasn't the Slough of Despond, but her dark-hours mind hadn't been able to escape that image. The chilly house with the even chillier people, and the wintry countryside where little was alive.

Unfair, unfair. It could be lovely in the summer.

Yet even those who enjoyed their rural estates in balmier seasons didn't live there in winter, if they could help it. They visited at Christmastide and then hurried back to Town.

Christmas at Beauchamp Abbey.

She'd have to attempt some celebrations, because not to do so would be to knuckle down to the dowager. But how could she arrange matters without starting a war? And whom should she invite? And would they attend?

She'd always enjoyed the Christmas season in London and resented leaving it for Cateril Manor. Now, in early December, the streets were already bright with gaslight and the shops full of delicacies and delights. The theaters would be at their best at Christmastime, even with the lingering mourning. There'd be pantomimes, which she'd
heard were great fun. Now there was no reason she couldn't go to one, except for the damned Abbey.

She put aside the dismals and did her best to raise her spirits before Braydon awoke. She managed well enough to be able to put on a smile for him at breakfast.

“What are your plans for the day?” she asked.

“To continue with my investigations. I've had some thoughts on the matter.”

“Yes?”

“Sidmouth seemed as annoyed by the situation as I am, so it's probable that he told the truth and the Regent gave the command. The most likely reasons for that are that the Regent was himself responsible, or he knows who was and doesn't want it known.”

“The Princess of Wales?” Kitty suggested.

“Definitely not. The Regent would want to blast that news everywhere.”

“One of the three princes, then.”

“That seems most likely.”

Kitty sipped her chocolate. Braydon was drinking ordinary coffee and, as usual, eating a sandwich. “If that's so,” she said, “it's over, isn't it? The culprit will never dare try again.”

“That does depend on the why. For example, if Kent has his eye on the throne, getting rid of Clarence would move him one step closer.”

“But why wait for a gathering of three?”

“Because he needed to coax Kent back to England from Brussels.”

Kitty considered that. “But assuming he slipped away before the explosion, his brother Sussex would die.”

“A sacrifice in the cause.”

“Is he truly so callous?”

“I've met Kent only twice and can't claim to know him at all, but in the army he had the reputation as a strict
disciplinarian. When he was in Nova Scotia, a group of soldiers tried to seize and murder him.”

“Good heavens. Last night you suggested the whole thing might be a farce. This isn't farcical.”

“It isn't, is it? If it was a pretend plot, we're back to the puzzle of whose purpose that serves.”

“And who might have already gained by it. I'm glad you're not going to cease investigations.”

“Sidmouth can't think he can call off the hawks so easily, and it's best if the Regent doesn't, either. Beaumont will be leaving for Brussels today, as planned.”

“On a Sunday?”

“The matter is urgent enough. Charrington returns to Somerset tomorrow.”

“Which church should we attend?”

“Saint George's.”

“But I assume you won't have a day of rest?”

She expected agreement, but he said, “Why not? There's little useful to do, and the weather looks fair. We could drive out somewhere. To Richmond, perhaps.”

“If we're going so far, we could drive to Edgware.”

“Edgware?” But then he remembered. “Curious cat.”

“More interesting than an idle drive. We should see what house the fifth viscount was maintaining there, and make sure that the care is continuing.”

“Very reasonable,” he said, “but it's curiosity, pure and simple.”

“And what's wrong with that, sir?”

Perhaps he remembered something from the night, for he smiled as he said, “Nothing. Nothing at all, my dear.”

*   *   *

After attending the Sunday service, Braydon hired a carriage from the nearby livery, and instructed that it be warmed by hot bricks. In her mantle and muff, Kitty was perfectly comfortable as they left London along the
Edgware Road. She'd decided to leave Sillikin behind. The dog wasn't fond of carriage rides and had the servants enslaved.

When they passed close to Moor Street, she pointed that out and shared memories of some of the familiar places nearby. The road was unusually straight, but that was because it followed an old Roman road called Watling Street.

“I've always liked the Roman way,” she said. “Go directly to the target without dithering around for valleys and hills.”

The Edgware Road ran along the west edge of London, with streets to their right but few buildings to their left. Once they passed through the tollbooth at Paddington village, they had countryside to their right as well. There wasn't a great deal of traffic, it being a Sunday and Edgware not being a popular pleasure jaunt, especially in winter.

When they arrived at their destination, Kitty was somewhat surprised. Because it had a road named for it, she'd expected a town, but it was merely a straggling collection of houses along the street, with a few more significant ones nearby.

They climbed out of the carriage at the White Hart, which had no pretensions of grandeur. On such a significant road she'd expected a large coaching inn, but perhaps Edgware was too close to London to be a popular place to change horses or seek refreshment. Hostlers took charge of the two horses, and Braydon gave the postilion his freedom for an hour or so. The innkeeper, thin and keen, asked what other service he could offer.

“L Cottage, sir? All I can think of is Laurel Cottage, just off this street. If you walk five houses down, you'll see the lane, sir. Fox Lane.”

As they followed the directions, Kitty said, “What do
we expect to find? My money's on the fifth viscount's nurse. Where do you place your bet?”

“You've stolen the most likely explanation. It's a little out of the way for a mistress, so I'll plump for an old friend, down on his luck, housed out of charity. After all, it would seem he kept these expenditures secret. Why would he do that for his old nurse?”

“A good point. I know—the dowager took against Nurse and dismissed her. He was afraid to let his mother know that he was taking care of her.”

“Overly dramatic, but in this case all too likely. What a milksop he was.”

They turned the corner and were soon assessing Laurel Cottage.

“Rather a grand cottage,” Kitty said, for the building was two full stories beneath its thatch. “Large for Nurse. You're probably correct about the friend, especially if the friend has a family.”

“Or he was supporting more than one unfairly dismissed servant. There's only one way to find out.”

As they walked up a short path to the door, Kitty heard children shouting in play from behind the house. “I fear you'll win. An old friend with a family. Perhaps a wounded soldier.”

Braydon knocked at the door.

It was opened by a woman who certainly wasn't an old nurse but didn't look like a servant, either, despite the apron over her brown gown, and a mobcap over mousy brown hair.
Wife of a wounded officer?

“Yes?” she asked, clearly surprised—and why not?—to find unexpected visitors on the doorstep on a Sunday afternoon? “May I help you?”

Braydon said, “We hope so. My name is Dauntry, and my wife and I are taking the opportunity to satisfy mere curiosity. An imposition, I know, but may we come in?”

Kitty saw no flicker of reaction to the name Dauntry. How to explain that?

After a brief hesitation, the woman stepped back. “Of course, sir.”

They entered a narrow corridor, but were taken into a fair-sized parlor to the left, which was warmed by a large fire. No sign of penny-pinching. The woman invited them to sit. All the furniture was of good quality, but nowhere near new. No sign of extravagance, either.

Kitty and Braydon sat on a slightly battered sofa, and the woman sat on a straight chair. She wasn't offering her name, which perhaps wasn't surprising with such unexpected guests, but Kitty wondered if there was wariness in her expression.
A mistress, after all?
She didn't seem the type, being so soberly dressed and with a face that was more sturdy than beguiling.

Braydon had brought the account book. “This is our curiosity, ma'am. It records expenses for the maintenance of a property. On the flyleaf you'll see it says, L Cottage, Edgware.”

He passed it to the woman, open at the flyleaf. She took it without any sign of recognizing the book, but when she looked at the words, she frowned. She turned some pages and then looked up, alert and perhaps alarmed. “How did you come by this, sir?”

“On a shelf,” Braydon said. “You recognize it?”

“I recognize the writing. It's my husband's.” Then she asked, quite desperately, “Do you know where he is?”