The Viscount Needs a Wife (33 page)

B
raydon had previously seen the Duke of Sussex only at a distance. He knew Sussex suffered from asthma, but there was no sign of the ailment as the prince greeted him. His frailty as a youth had prevented him from taking up a military career, which might have left him free to develop reformist and even egalitarian ideas. It was said the king had favored the military for his sons to remove them from idleness and indulgence.

That hadn't been a great success.

Sussex had the family tendency to run to fat, but he seemed in reasonably good health. Of course, he was only in his forties, whereas the Regent was approaching sixty.

Braydon gave Sussex credit for being true to his principles, for he was invited to sit down, gentleman to gentleman. Such a shame those principles had led to his making an illegal marriage, so that his children were technically bastards. He'd married in Italy in a wild passion, or so it was said. The relationship hadn't survived the subsequent storms. Did he now regret it, thinking that he might have married with approval and produced legitimate heirs? Or had that ecstasy of love been worth it?

Ecstasy of love . . .

“Dauntry?”

Braydon grappled together his distracted thoughts.
There'd been no hint of guilt or fear in the prince's manner, so what was the purpose here?

He was in a chair placed across a table that held a chessboard. He hoped he wasn't going to be obliged to play. He didn't care for the game, and he certainly didn't care for the delicate diplomacy of playing with princes. Sussex was reputedly cleverer than his brothers, so it might not be too hard to lose.

“I understand that you are enquiring into the recent event at Mrs. Courtenay's house,” Sussex said.

“I am, sir. At the request of the Home Secretary. As you were there, sir, perhaps you can shed some light on the matter.”

“I know no more than anyone else of the event.”

“Someone knows a great deal.” Braydon watched Sussex as he added, “The person who planned the explosion, sir, and the person or persons who attempted to put it into action.”

Sussex put a finger on a chess piece, as if contemplating a move. “You think them two different parties?”

“It's no light matter to plan the assassination of three princes. The person capable of that is unlikely to choose to trundle beer through a backyard and into a cellar.”

Sussex chuckled. “True, true.”

Interesting.
That was knowing humor. Either Sussex was amused at the thought of delivering the barrel himself, or because it was equally ridiculous about a known other. The tone implied the latter.

Who?

Braydon also realized there was something indulgent in the prince's manner. Sussex didn't believe the plan had ever been murderous.

“We have considered,” he said, “that the plan went forward exactly as intended, sir. That there was never any intention of an explosion.”

“Ah.” Sussex attempted surprise, but however clever he might be, he was a poor actor. “What would be the point of that?” he asked, brows high, eyes wide.

“To alarm one of the supposed victims.”

“To what end?”

“That, sir, would be the key to the puzzle.”

Sussex leaned forward and considered the chessboard, and then he moved a white knight. He gave no indication that he expected Braydon to take part.

“Have you considered,” the prince asked, “what you might do when you detect the culprit? It is the Regent's wish that the incident be kept as quiet as possible. He fears the mob, you know, especially after his carriage was attacked earlier in the year. In his darker moments, he fears the guillotine. He worries that the mere idea of murdering princes might be infectious.”

“Not entirely without reason, sir.”

When the Red Band plotters had been destroyed in the summer, parts of a guillotine had been found in a warehouse near the docks. Quite likely the Regent had been told, which might not have been wise. The revolutionaries would never have succeeded, but they'd been serious in their intent, and there were others of similar mind.

“Not entirely without reason,” Sussex agreed, looking up from the board. “It's a delicate business, reform, Dauntry. As you know, I work for it. We will have it—we must have it—but every step opens cracks that can be exploited by those of evil mind. Evil must be stopped, but freedom must be preserved. I do not like Sidmouth, but I'm not opposed to the work that Hawkinville does.”

“I was given to understand that you assisted in the establishment of his unit, sir.”

“Sometimes my position gives me useful authority. Mostly, you know, I find it a damned bore.”

He meant it, but Braydon suspected that if the prince
was suddenly made a commoner, he'd be miserable. That contrasted whimsically with himself. He'd thank God if he could be restored to that state.

Sussex moved a white castle. If he'd been playing both sides of a chess game, it should have been black's turn. Braydon focused on the board. Both kings were safe, but the black queen was now in a very difficult situation, boxed in by the castle and surrounded by three knights: two white, one black.

Mothers and sons; sons and mothers.

Sussex straightened. “As one of the interested parties, I would be pleased if the matter were quietly put to rest. Kent and Clarence feel the same. No purpose will be served by pursuing it, and we're sure you and Hawkinville have more important matters to attend to. The unpleasant elements are skulking at the moment, but they will creep out in time.”

Braydon considered the board again and then looked up. “Yes, sir. You're undoubtedly correct.”

“Good, good.” Sussex rose. “I thank you for coming. May I hope you'll take a stance for reform in Parliament, Dauntry? It's the only way.”

Braydon rose. “I agree, sir. But orderly reform.”

Sussex surprised him by disagreeing. “Radical change can't help but disrupt order. Many see reform as infringing on their ancient rights and privileges, and they're right. The Crown had to shed powers under Magna Carta, and then in the Civil War and Restoration. In the coming years, many entrenched powers must be undermined. There will be howls and some will fight, but I have faith change will be achieved without bloodshed. With your help?”

“I will do my best, sir.”

Sussex put out his hand, and Braydon shook it. “I know you'll do the right thing, Dauntry, and I thank you.”

He wasn't talking about reform.

*   *   *

Braydon left Kensington Palace, considering what to do next. Nothing, of course, other than call off the hawks. It was over.

As for the other matter . . .

He spent the walk home exploring his new, not entirely pleasant, state of mind.
No, not mind, heart.
Weren't lovers supposed to dance and sing and scatter flowers toward the sun? The sun lurked behind clouds and he felt naked, even raw.

Vulnerable.

There were no flower sellers at this time of year, but then he passed a girl hawking posies of silk violets. He bought one, and then felt damned stupid carrying it through the streets. With a wry smile, he wondered if an aspiring dandy would see Beau Braydon with a posy and decide it was the latest fashion.

He entered his rooms, hoping Kitty was home. She was in the drawing room with a great many parcels piled on chairs and floor. Her dog was snuffling about them, stub tail wagging.

“I had the larger items sent directly to the Abbey,” she said, delightfully unapologetic. “But I had the smaller ones sent here, and we brought some with us as well. I seem to have acquired rather more than I thought. Oh, what a pretty posy.”

Is she, too, wondering if it is the latest manly fashion?

“For you,” he said. When had he ever offered a gift so gauchely?

She didn't seem to notice, but smiled brilliantly. “Thank you!”

She raised the bouquet to her nose, so he said, “They're silk. Not real.”

“But with some perfume. Smell.” She came to him and raised the flowers. A hint of violet did rise from them.

“Clever,” he said, wanting to kiss her, but oddly uncertain. As if something might break.

She turned to look at her purchases. “How will I transport them?”

“Wagon. Or if you need more speed, an extra carriage.”

“For my purchases?”

“Why not?” He needed to get her into a private room. “Would you like coffee?”

Her eyes lit, but, then, they had lit at sight of him. He thought. He hoped.

As soon as they were in the library, door shut, alone except for her dog, he took her into his arms. At last. He wanted to declare his love, but the words stuck. From fear that she did not love him? He wouldn't wish to embarrass her with unwanted devotion.

“You've enjoyed your morning,” he said.

She kissed him lightly—too lightly—before answering. “I have. I found a delightful needlework table with a musical box included.”

“Are you a needlewoman? I've not seen you stitching as yet.”

She chuckled. “It might encourage me to be one. I can mend quite well, but I've never had the patience for ornamental work.” She turned serious. “How did it go with Sussex?”

Sussex, princes, and plots all seemed irrelevant, but he said, “Amazingly.”

“In a delightful way, it seems,”

He realized he was smiling. How could he not?
This is the heart of love,
he realized.
The essential element. To be with the beloved. Always.
“The delight is from other matters. Let's sit and I'll tell you all.”

They sat, but he kept hold of her hand—how could he
not?—as he related the interview in detail. Of course she understood.

“The
queen
?” she said at last. “But why?”

“
Pour l'encouragement des autres
, as Voltaire wrote about Admiral Byng.”

“Why?”

“Byng was shot for not doing his utmost to relieve a British garrison on Menorca during the War of Spanish Succession. He didn't have the ships for the task, but his execution warned the other admirals to not be so sensible.”

“What has that to do with blowing up three princes?”

“
Not
blowing them up, remember? The queen's not so strict a mother as that.” He raised her hand and kissed it. How could he not? “Dr. Johnson is reported to have said that knowing he is to hang focuses a man's mind wonderfully. I assume she thought awareness of mortality would focus her sons' minds more urgently on the important task.”

“Marriage and children. It might well. Whatever sort of mother she is, she's a strong queen.”

“She's rarely intervened in significant matters—as best we know. However, she might feel that procreation is a family matter.”

“So, there's no danger to you. Unless you pursue the investigation.”

“I see no reason to.”

Smiling, she squeezed his hand, and then, perhaps hesitantly, kissed it in turn.

He was about to draw her onto his lap when a knock on the door brought Edward. The footman put down the tray and left. It would be a shame to waste the coffee, and he'd enjoy her uninhibited enjoyment of it.

He poured for them both and then toasted Kitty with
his cup. “To our completed investigation. You were the one who first raised the possibility of it being a sham.”

“But with no notion of who and why.” She sipped and smiled, lids lowering slightly with sensuous pleasure.

His heart thumped, but he thought he managed to speak normally. “That's often the way. We gather bits and pieces with little idea of how they matter, and then one day they come together, especially with a meeting of minds.”

“And with someone remembering all the bits. You did this sort of work in the army, didn't you?”

He realized he hadn't drunk any of the coffee and took a sip. It was delicious as always, but seemed bland compared to the woman looking at him with warm interest in her eyes. Only interest? Was there anything more on her side?

“At times,” he said. “It sometimes helps that I retain details that seem unimportant at the time, though that's played no particular part here.” He picked up a plate of small cakes and offered it. “Try one.”

“What are they this time?”

“Revani. Honey and almonds.”

She chose a piece. “Sticky again.” Her smile invited licking and more, but, oddly, his new awareness made the merely physical irrelevant at the moment. Love, he realized, was so much more.

“Delicious,” she said, and the way she licked her fingers could change his mind.

He realized she was beautiful. Unconventionally so, but with noble features and a glorious vitality. If only fashion allowed for her to walk the world with her hair down and in vividly colored gowns that hugged all her curves. Men would tremble and fall to their knees.

Men already tumble into love with her. . . .

“What are you thinking?” she asked, head cocked. “You see difficulties after all?”

“About the princes? No.”

“Then is there any reason you can't return to the Abbey with me?”

The reminder of reality was like a shower of icy water. “Damn the Abbey. Stay here.”

No wonder she frowned. “It can't be abandoned, by me or you.”

“In a just world, a man would be allowed to refuse a title. It's enslavement.” She chuckled, but he said, “I'm serious. In what other respect does an Englishman have no choice about his destiny?”

“Most would welcome the burden. You, sir, are too fortunate for your own good.”

“True. I have you.”

Her sudden blush entranced him, as did the way she looked down, perhaps bashfully.
Kit Kat, all aflutter?
She looked up again, as serious as he'd ever seen her. “And I have you. But are you saying you love me?”