The Viscount Needs a Wife (31 page)

K
itty saw it in a moment. Not a mistress, or, at least, not in this woman's mind. She thought herself married, and she'd not heard from her husband in months.

Lord above, what to do now?

“Your husband's name, ma'am?” Braydon asked. Kitty wondered how he could sound so calm.

“Braydon, of course. You didn't know that? I'm Mrs. Braydon. Dorothy Braydon. Please tell me where my husband is, or at least where you found this book!”

Kitty wanted to rush to her and hug her, but it would only alarm the woman more.

“My name is Dauntry, as I said, ma'am—it's Lord Dauntry. The book was found in my London house. I have reason to believe your husband left it there, but in order to be sure, do you have a picture of Mr. Braydon?”

Oh.
Kitty saw his reasoning. It was just possible that the fifth viscount had been taking care of some indigent relative and his family, and it was the indigent relative who'd disappeared.

“A picture? Yes, of course.” The woman hurried out of the room and returned in moments with a small oval portrait, no more than a foot high. The artist wasn't as skilled as the one who'd executed the portrait that hung at the Abbey, but it was clearly the fifth viscount. He still looked slightly anxious, but in a generally more optimistic way.

He'd been happy here, despite a bigamous marriage, but he'd left this woman in a terrible situation. Especially if . . .

“You have children, ma'am?” Kitty asked.

“What? Yes. Two. Please, where is my husband?”

Kitty went to her then, taking her hand. “I'm very sorry, ma'am. We have sad news for you.”

The woman looked into Kitty's eyes and clutched her hand. “He's dead.”

“Yes.”

The woman sat down. Kitty knelt beside, because the woman kept her grip on her.

“I've feared as much. He's frequently been away on business and sometimes for a month or more, but never so long.” She looked at Braydon. “Why has no one told me? And how? Where?”

Braydon replied in that cool tone that Kitty had encountered at first meeting. It was his defense, she saw, against high emotions.

“He died of a fever, ma'am. In Gloucestershire, at a place called Beauchamp Abbey. He never mentioned it?”

“No. Why was he there? Were they buying pewter?”

“Pewter?”

“That was his business. Trading in pewter. I never understood it, but it brought in enough money for us to live well. Did he die alone?”

“No,” Kitty said quickly. “He wasn't alone, and he had the best possible medical care, but it couldn't help him. A number of people died of the illness at the same time.”

“I don't understand why nobody told me!”

“Nobody knew, ma'am. About you, I mean.”

“But he must have had things on him. His business cards. Letters. Something.”

Kitty looked to Braydon, not knowing what best to say. She saw it in his eyes. Only the truth would do.

But at that moment, four young children burst into the room—two boys, two girls. “Mama! Look what. . . .”

They all went silent, and then one, a dark-haired lad, said, “I'm sorry, Mama. We didn't know you had guests.”

“Yes. Best you go away for now, dears.”

The children backed out, perhaps just abashed by their intrusion, but Kitty suspected they'd picked up the atmosphere of disaster.

This was disaster. Not only was this woman not a legal wife, but her children were bastards.

There was no doubt, however, who the boy's father was. The resemblance to the picture of the fifth viscount as a child was potent. One of the girls had a similar appearance, but the other two children were sandy and round-faced.

“Fine children, ma'am,” Kitty said.

“Heavens, they're not all mine! Johnie is—the one who had the grace to apologize—and the girl in blue. Alice. The other two are their friends. They'll have found something horrible. . . .”

She suddenly put her hands to her face and started to rock.

Kitty moved another chair close and took her into her arms, simply holding her, but she sent Braydon a desperate look. What were they to do next? Could this poor woman take the additional blow that she was not a widow? That she'd never been a wife?

Braydon rose and left. Had he decided this was woman's work and abandoned her?

“Please, ma'am, try not to worry about your future,” Kitty said. “I assure you we will take care of you and your children.”

The woman looked up at that. Her eyes were only slightly damp, but hollow with shock and grief. “Why would you do that?'

“Because our name is Braydon, too. Your Mr. Braydon was a distant relative of my husband's.”

“A lord? Alfred never mentioned that.”

“What did he say about his family?”

“Very little. His parents were dead, and he was an only child.”

Kitty knew that the bereaved generally needed to talk about their lost one.

“Where did you meet?”

“In Cirencester. One of those silly moments. I was returning from market with an overloaded basket, and a cabbage rolled out. He picked it up for me. He had such kind eyes.” She blinked and swallowed. “The cabbage wouldn't stay in the basket, so he offered to carry it for me. I normally wouldn't have encouraged such a thing, but he had such kind eyes. And he seemed anxious, as if he expected me to refuse.”

“That was kind of you, then.”

“It was for my own benefit as much as his. Not just the cabbage. I was so lonely at that time, with rarely anyone sensible to talk to. I was nursing my father, you see. My mother had died three years earlier, and I'd had to leave my job as a governess to look after my father. He'd slowly been losing touch with reality, but was still in good health, if you know what I mean.”

“Like the king,” Kitty said.

“Perhaps, though Father never raved. I do feel sympathy for the queen, except that she doesn't have the daily care of His Majesty. I understand she visits him only once a month. My father took all my time. When I had to leave him, he'd do odd things, sometimes dangerous things, so I had to pay a neighbor to sit with him. Sometimes he'd wander off.”

“That must have been very difficult.”

“It was. I didn't want Alfred to come in, but he insisted
on bringing the cabbage into the kitchen. Father was in one of his better days, insofar as he thought he was younger and that Alfred had come to visit him. Invited him to sit and take tea. So he did. Father spoke of his younger years, when he'd been in the militia. I remember Alfred mentioned the victory at Talavera—the news had just arrived—and Father didn't notice that it didn't fit with the wars of his youth. I sat sipping tea, feeling as if I'd fallen into a pleasant dream.”

“And Alfred returned,” Kitty guessed. “He wooed you.”

“He did. I tried to send him away. What use was I to anyone, burdened as I was? But he continued to visit, even though Father rarely remembered him and sometimes treated him as an intruder or enemy. Within two weeks, he asked me to marry him!”

“You protested again.”

“Of course, but he made the practicalities so appealing, and I was at the end of my tether.” She looked directly into Kitty's eyes. “I didn't love him. I feel I must say that. I was very fond of Alfred, and deeply grateful, but I never held a poetic passion for him. I felt bad about that, but such feelings can't be commanded, can they? And I gave him all possible kindness and tenderness. He was happy here with us. He often said so, and I know it was the truth.”

“I'm sure he was. May I call you Dorothy? I'm Kitty.”

“You're being very kind.”

Braydon returned then with a wide-eyed young maid bearing a tea tray. So that's where he'd gone. The tea was already made in the pot, so Kitty poured it and stirred in two lumps of sugar. She passed over the cup and saucer. “Drink this. It will help.”

The woman sipped. “Thank you.”

Kitty poured tea for herself and Braydon. “I told Dorothy that we'd take care of her and her family. I explained that you were distantly related to her husband.”

He took the tea and sat on the sofa. “Of course. Are you in need at the moment, ma'am?”

Dorothy's face was still marked by the news, but she seemed composed. She was a strong woman. She'd need to be.

“In need? No. Alfred arranged an annuity when we married. I didn't see the need, for his income was ample, but he insisted. It provides a monthly income, and I was told that will continue until I die. It's provided the necessities for us in his absence. There was also some arrangement to provide for the children's future. He was a good man.” She looked between them. “You are quite sure he's dead?”

“Quite sure,” Braydon said.

Dorothy sighed. “Where's his grave? I'll want to visit it.”

“In the grounds of Beauchamp Abbey.”

“Why there? Is it a ruin?”

“No, it's a house. My house, in fact. Ma'am, I'm sorry to say that we have some more bad news for you.”

“More? What could be worse than my husband's death?”

Kitty wished desperately she could fend off the coming blow.

“That your husband wasn't your husband, ma'am. He wasn't free to marry you.”

The cup and saucer tilted. Kitty caught them in time.

“I don't believe you! Alfred would never have done such a thing! We were married in Cirencester, in good order.”

“All the same, he was already married to a woman called Diane. She left him for another man, but he never divorced her. He was not free to marry.”

“I don't believe it,” the poor woman repeated, but she did. She'd aged in the minutes since hearing the news. “Oh, my poor, poor children! How am I to tell them this?”

“I suggest you don't, ma'am,” Braydon said. “There's no need to make this public in any way.”

Dorothy stared at him. “Not . . . I'm to live a
lie
?”

“For your children's sake and your own. There's no reason anyone should find out.”

He was being cool and logical—the marble box again—but Kitty wasn't surprised when Dorothy shot to her feet.

“You speak as if this is a matter of mere practicalities, my lord! My husband is
dead
, and now you tell me I'm a bigamous wife and my children are bastards, but I should put it all out of mind?”

Braydon had risen. “It's the only sensible thing to do.”

Kitty stood, too, shooting him an angry look. “It's all a terrible shock, Dorothy, but Dauntry's right. Of course you can't put it out of mind, but do nothing hastily. What purpose will be served by your telling the world? You and your children will suffer.”

Dorothy's hands gripped her apron. “But what if someone finds out? Can I be jailed for this?”

“No, I'm sure not. She can't, can she?”

Braydon said, “You're an innocent party, ma'am. If the truth does come out, we'll deal with that together. However, there is more.”

“More.” Dorothy wavered, and Kitty eased her back into her chair. “Perhaps we shouldn't . . .”

But Braydon continued, “Your husband was Alfred Braydon—”

“Well, thank God for that!”

“But he was also Viscount Dauntry. His travels were not on business, but to keep up his role as Lord Dauntry in Parliament and at his estate. I'm sure he didn't enjoy that part of his life and that you and your children were his joy, but he couldn't neglect his duties entirely.”

“Viscount Dauntry.” Kitty wondered if Dorothy would faint, but instead she gave a kind of laugh. “Poor Alfred. He must have hated that. Did he speak in Parliament?”

“I don't know,” Braydon said. “I never thought to check.”

“Probably not. He had a stutter, you see. It wasn't too bad at home, but it sometimes afflicted him when we were with others. It always seemed worse when he returned from his trips.”

“I'm not at all surprised,” Braydon said. “I must tell you that he also had two children by his wife. The boy, Alfred, died of the same fever, which is how I came to inherit the title, but the girl, Isabella, was spared. She's nearly seventeen.”

Kitty thought all this information might tip poor Dorothy's wits, but it seemed to help.

“Seventeen, and he never mentioned her.”

“How could he? I'm sure he felt a fatherly affection for her. One of his last acts was to make sure she was well provided for.”

“Will I be able to visit his grave?”

“I recommend that you don't. It would be bound to raise questions. I suggest that you commission a memorial for the church here. It will serve the purpose as well.”

Kitty wondered about that, but Dorothy said, “I suppose so. I've never felt attachment to my parents' mortal remains. He had my father moved here when we married. He wanted to be close to London for business purposes—or so he said.” She shook her head, still coming to terms with the reality. “So he bought this house for us. He moved my father here and hired an attendant so I needed only to supervise his care and was free to come and go. Like the queen, though at that time we didn't know the worst about the king, only that he was unwell . . .” Perhaps
she realized she was wandering, for she composed herself. “He was a good, kind man.”

“He loved you,” Kitty said. “And you made him happy.”

“I do hope that's true. It's so very odd to think he'll never return here. That we made no special farewells.” Dorothy straightened and looked at Braydon. “What should I do now?”

“Inform your children and your friends and neighbors of the death, as you would do if matters were regular. You can say that he died of a virulent fever and it was thought best to bury the body quickly. It's true. Then continue on that road. Can you do that?”