The Viscount Needs a Wife (5 page)

V
iscount Dauntry, who'd been known most of his life simply as Braydon, trotted Ivor down the lane, trying not to let his annoyance travel to the unsettled horse. It would be pleasant to think the woman with the dog had been some servant, but her gown, though dismal, had been well made and her voice well-bred.

She had to have been the Honorable Mrs. Cateril, his prospective bride. He was astonished that Ruth Lulworth had been so duplicitous. That woman could never be a calming influence at Beauchamp Abbey or anywhere else. On top of riotous behavior, there had been riotous red hair escaping from her cap. He distrusted red hair.

He let Ivor canter to work out the fidgets, but that brought him back to Beauchamp Abbey all the sooner. He slowed to a walk as soon as it came into view. Was he the only new peer in Britain to so bitterly curse his fate?

Only weeks ago he'd been a happy man. He'd been plain Mr. Braydon, with ample funds, minimal responsibilities, and a comfortable suite of rooms in the most fashionable part of London. Now he was stuck here.

True, he'd become restless with an idle life, but he'd recently found occupation that suited him. A chance encounter with an army acquaintance had led him to an unofficial department of the Home Office that worked to prevent riot and revolution. It was headed by Sir George
Hawkinville, under whom he'd served at times during the war, and it provided interesting, challenging work.

The nation seethed with unrest because of the hardships brought about by the expense of the long war with France. That had been worsened last year by the bleak weather caused by the explosion of a volcano in the Far East. Some had dubbed it the year without a summer. That hadn't quite been true here in Britain, but crops had been damaged and prices of food had risen even higher.

The suffering was genuine, and Dauntry sympathized with the poor and with the honest reformers who were trying to bring about change. He had no sympathy with those who were exploiting distress to foment violence and revolution.

Hawkinville worked under the sponsorship, protection even, of one of the king's sons, Prince Augustus, Duke of Sussex. Sussex was sympathetic to reform and wanted to find and deal with the revolutionaries without oppressing the honest poor or the honest reformers. He was a useful counterweight to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth, who would prefer to crush all dissent, but all in all, Hawkinville's task was as delicate as picking thorns out of a lion's paw.

Now the death of Princess Charlotte and the consequent succession crisis had added chaos to the brew. Britain needed a cool head in command. Instead, the Regent was hiding in Brighton, surrendering to grief over his daughter's death, and the government seemed paralyzed by his absence.

The situation could explode at any moment, and Braydon needed to be on hand in London, but damned duty tied him here. It was months since his predecessor died, and things had slid awry. Some of the paperwork was in disarray, possibly in order to obscure errors and even theft. Money was certainly unaccounted for. In addition, he had
to handle the fifth viscount's mother, the dowager Lady Dauntry, and his difficult daughter, Isabella.

He was learning his new trade and beginning to put things straight, but accounts, documents, and land management were one thing; difficult females were another. It was only natural that the dowager Lady Dauntry was in deep grief over the loss of her son and grandson, and Isabella mourned the loss of her father and brother. He understood why they both resented the stranger who'd taken over their home and could throw them out on a whim. Facts were facts, however. They were all stuck in this mess and nothing could change it. He'd pinned his hopes of sanity on a quick marriage to a sensible widow—a woman like the excellent Ruth Lulworth. Clearly opposites attracted. Had he somehow offended the gods that they thwarted him at every turn?

Pale Beauchamp Abbey was his ball and chain, but it was a handsome house. It had been well designed and well built nearly two hundred years ago, in a simple style that had probably been based on the Queen's House in Greenwich, which was a notable work by Inigo Jones.

The gardens in front had a similar old-fashioned formality, and there, walking three small white dogs along a white gravel path, was Isabella, in deepest black. She was still in her mourning period, but she and her grandmother dripped with black and jet as a blatant reproach to cruel fate—that is, him.

He carried on to the stables and put Ivor in the hands of Baker, his groom. Nearly all the servants here were from the fifth viscount's time, so he appreciated the few of his own.

“Any problems?” he asked quietly. He'd been away for only six hours, but anything was possible.

“Nothing to speak of, milord. A Lord Nunseath paid a
call. Happened to be passing by, he said. From fifteen miles away.”

A remarkable number of gentry and aristocracy did that, and Dauntry was glad to have missed one. They properly welcomed him to his new elevation, but they all bore invitations from their ladies, and most mentioned available daughters with handsome dowries, charming accomplishments, or both. He should have sought a bride from among those, but such a lady would not have welcomed a hasty wooing, nor her husband's intention to leave her in command here and live mostly in Town. In addition, she would have brought entanglements.

The visiting gentlemen all sounded out his politics, trying to discover what side he'd be on in national and especially local matters. Some had requested financial support for this good cause and that. Braydon would pour out guineas to be rid of them, but he'd detected local politics behind some causes, and a few seemed like outright fraud. It wasn't in his nature to ignore that. A wife without local connections had seemed to be a good idea.

He entered the house by the back door that lay close to his office, first entering the room used by his secretary. Worseley rose to hand him a message from the parsonage. As feared, it told him that Mrs. Cateril had arrived.

“Anything else of importance?”

“No, sir.”

Braydon put the letter in his pocket as he progressed to the front hall, considering what to do about the widow. He could write to say she would not suit. She'd know why. But that brought problems of its own.

As he crossed the hall toward the staircase, Isabella entered by the front door. The little white dogs yapped the alarm as if he were a sneak thief, perhaps taking their cue down the leashes. This had to stop.

“Take the dogs to the dowager Lady Dauntry,” Dauntry told an impassive footman. “Isabella, a word with you.”

He indicated the library.

She gave him an icy glare, but she went into the room. He'd seen wariness beneath the glare, so he spoke gently.

“Isabella, I understand that you are upset by all that's happened, but perhaps it hasn't been made clear to you that I am not the worst result.”

She stared at a bookcase, the perfect image of a rude child. She was nearly seventeen. She was a pretty girl with dark curls, a clear complexion, and vivid coloring, and would have no difficulty in finding a husband, especially with her large dowry. One of the complicating factors to his inheritance was that on his deathbed, the fifth viscount had put all the unentailed property and funds into Isabella's already generous portion. It was an understandable action from a father whose son had died, leaving only a daughter, but it made the viscountcy much poorer than it should be. Braydon wished Isabella well, however, and would do what he could to steer her into a happy life.

He kept his tone moderate. “If I didn't exist, the title and entailed property, including this house, would have already reverted to the Crown, and you would have had to leave.”

She swiveled her head to look at him. “That's not true. The Regent would have promised to grant my husband the title.”

“Highly unlikely.”

“Grandmama is a friend of the queen.”

That was putting it too strong, but the dowager had been a lady-in-waiting for many years, and Queen Charlotte had sent a personal letter of sympathy.

So this had been the hope lurking here between the fifth viscount's death and the confirmation of his own
inheritance. He should have confronted Isabella sooner. The detail changed nothing, but now he could deal with the issue.

“Such a matter would be complex,” he said, “and it's more likely that the title would have been restored, if at all, for your oldest son when he was of age. In the intervening decades, you and the dowager would have to live elsewhere.”

He saw a flicker of uncertainty, but she shrugged.

“Now I'm in place,” he said, “all such matters are moot.”

“That's why you are going to marry me.”

He'd suspected this plan and was glad to be able to scotch it. “No, I'm not.”

“You'll have to,” she said with a smug smile, “or you'll be dreadfully penny pinched. I have most of the money.”

He could tell her that he had a fortune of his own, but he saw a better way. “Then I'll be obliged to sell off most of the extravagant bits and pieces the dowager has wasted money on over the decades.”

The girl's chin dropped.

Report that back to your grandmother, and I hope it chokes her.

The dowager was the enemy here, however, and Isabella merely a foot soldier. If Isabella had been a French spy—and some had been as young and pretty—he'd know how to handle her, but nothing in his army experience or since had prepared him for Beauchamp Abbey and its female combatants. He'd put his faith in sensible Mrs. Cateril, damn her.

He attempted reason. “I can't imagine that you want to marry me, Isabella.”

“This is my home,” she declared, “and our family blood must continue here. It is
right
that it continue here.”

“I have the Braydon blood,” he pointed out. “You're talking of the Godyson blood, and that only came here
with your grandmother. You will carry that to some other grand estate.”

She had been well indoctrinated “You'll break Grandmama's heart!” she cried. “She made Beauchamp Abbey what it is.” Here came the tears, which she seemed able to summon at will. “You're a monstrous usurper!”

“Then you certainly don't want to marry me.”

She let out a wail that could probably be heard throughout the house, and ran away.

Dauntry sighed. Damn Mrs. Cateril for not being the woman he'd been promised. He'd have to find another bride, and speedily, for recently Isabella had been taking direct action. She'd sought his company a time or two and come too close to him for propriety. Once she'd tripped and fallen into his arms. It had been so clearly staged that he'd been tempted to drop her.

She was a child and his ward, but he was sure the dowager Lady Dauntry believed that all was fair in love and war, and she was waging war. He wasn't even sure the dowager loved Isabella. Whatever the truth of that, she was allowing her passion for Beauchamp Abbey and her precious Godyson bloodline to rule.

The Godyson family was one of the few aristocratic families that could trace its line back to before the Conquest, and the dowager was the sole remainder. When she'd married, she'd insisted on including the name, and the family had become Godyson-Braydon. She'd built the power and prestige of the family, and made the Abbey suitable for its glory. Braydon wouldn't be surprised if she'd had some plan to drop the Braydon name, and have her son become Alfred Godyson, Viscount Dauntry.

If so, any such plans were shattered, but she had not yet given up the fight. Thus he still needed a wife who was up to the task.

He'd go to Town and ask friends for recommendations.
There must be any number of worthy war widows who'd benefit from the arrangement, and some had followed the drum. They'd make short work of the dowager and Isabella. Before that, however, he'd have to deal with Mrs. Cateril. He could respond to the letter to say he'd changed his mind, but his friendship with Lulworth and his wife had helped preserve his sanity here, and Mrs. Cateril and Mrs. Lulworth were old and devoted friends.

Another delicate quandary, but with planning he should be able to manage it. He returned to his office to write that he would visit the parsonage at ten the next morning. He dispatched it, then sat back to plan how to get Mrs. Cateril to beat the retreat, saving him from any hint of having jilted her.

K
itty tried to pluck up the courage to tell Ruth what a mess she'd made of everything. Instead, she clung to hope of a miracle. She thought she managed to appear normal through the evening, for Ruth and her husband must expect her to be anxious.

Andrew had arrived home accompanied by two large honey-gold dogs, which Kitty gathered served as gun dogs at times, retrieving rabbits and pigeons for the parsonage pot. Stocky, brown-haired, and cheerful, Andrew was made to be a country parson. Kitty could easily imagine him out in the fields, helping to bring in the harvest.

Why couldn't Viscount Dauntry be more like him?

His dogs were as amiable as he and tolerated Sillikin's excited greeting. The three soon ended up curled together in front of the fire, with the two cats nearby. Lady Cateril would have been appalled, but for Kitty that scene was a symbol of all she'd thrown away.

Over dinner Andrew spoke of the viscount, obviously assuming Kitty would be interested. How Dauntry was distantly connected to a duke, had been stylish even as a schoolboy, and had been mentioned in dispatches once in the war. Kitty assumed it was all intended to make him even more appealing to her, but it added to her blue devils. He most certainly wouldn't want a hoyden as his wife.

She went early to bed to avoid more talk of what she couldn't have and suffered a restless night of longings and fears. In the darkest hours of the night, she found a thread of hope. Lord Dauntry was clearly desperate enough to grab at any available bride, so perhaps his desperation would make him forgiving.

Dark-hour thoughts were never positive, however.

Why is he so desperate?

Has his cold harshness turned off all the women he's courted?

She tried to tell herself that he, too, had presented an unfortunate first impression. That he was easygoing beneath the ice. Or that she could cope with his coldness because he'd mostly be absent. She'd coped with a great deal worse from Marcus, after all.

None of it helped.

She awoke to a cold morning with the fire not yet lit, and huddled under the covers. What was she going to do when the ax dropped? She couldn't bear to return to Cateril Manor. She simply couldn't. But she couldn't stay here as a guest forever.

She'd have to find some kind of employment, but as what?

She realized that Sillikin was by the door, wanting to go out. At Cateril Manor Kitty would have simply opened the door, for the dog knew the way to the kitchen there and the servants would let her out. Here, she couldn't depend on that.

Ruth had only five servants—her cook, the manservant, the lad, a young nursery nurse, and the general maid. Clattering footsteps suggested that Sukey, the general maid, was dashing here and there. She shouldn't be asked to care for a dog.

Kitty wrapped up warmly and then, praying she wouldn't encounter Andrew, took Sillikin downstairs
to the kitchen. The cook looked up, startled, and then frowned at the dog.

“She needs to go out,” Kitty said. Yet again, she wasn't impressing the servants, and servants gossiped. “I didn't want to trouble Sukey.”

The maid dashed in then. “That's kind of you, ma'am, but I wouldn't have minded.”

“Bob,” the cook said to the lad, who was topping up a copper of water, “take out the dog for Mrs. Cateril.”

The boy leapt to the task with eagerness. Kitty thanked the cook, who had a twinkle in her eye. “He's my sister's son, ma'am, and a good worker. You must ask for him if your dog needs attention.”

“You'll be wanting your washing water, ma'am,” Sukey said. “I'll be right up with it!”

Kitty almost offered to carry it up herself, but she was conscious of the remote possibility that she might become Viscountess Dauntry, so she thanked the maid and returned to her room.

In her experience, servants didn't admire nobility who did for themselves. She'd heard such people referred to as not knowing what was due to their station, as if they were disturbing the order of the universe. The exception was men with their dogs, horses, and guns. They were allowed to muck around.

Good for the gander, good for the goose,
Kitty thought. The makings of the fire were at hand, so she knelt down, cleaned out the ashes, and laid the kindling and wood. She was working the tinderbox when Sukey came in with the jug of steaming water.

“Don't you be doing that, ma'am!” she exclaimed, as if Kitty were a child likely to set the house on fire.

She put down the jug and claimed the tinderbox. Kitty retreated as Sukey fiddled with the arrangement, as if
Kitty had done it wrong. Only then did she strike a flame, ignite a wax taper, and light the fire.

“There,” Sukey said, as if she'd snatched victory from disaster. “Now, ma'am, do you need me to help you dress?”

“I will,” Kitty said. “But come back in a little while. I need to wash first.”

And decide what to wear,
she thought as the maid left. She doubted that Lord Dauntry would keep the appointment, but if he did, she'd do her best. That included a suitable appearance.

As she washed, she wished she could wear the gray so as not to be seen to be trying to hide the truth, but that wasn't even possible. The gown had been so smeared with dirt, some of it stinking, that it had been put to soak in the laundry tub overnight. It might never be wearable again, and she couldn't regret that.

So, the fawn with simple black braid, or the russet with military trimming? She longed to be out of mourning, even if unfashionably, so she chose the russet. Perhaps its being out-of-date would count in her favor. Sukey returned and helped her on with the stays and gown. Kitty released her then and sat to brush her hair.

She was still working at it when Ruth knocked and came in. “I'd forgotten how magnificent it is.”

“I've often thought of cutting it,” Kitty said, working the brush through the long, springy thickness, “but Marcus liked it. Unfortunately, he often said so. When I mentioned cutting off a foot or so, Lady Cateril protested that I no longer cared a jot for him.”

“That woman has taken mourning to extremes,” Ruth said, taking the brush. “You'll be better off away from her. Do you remember how we used to do this for each other? I always envied you the length and thickness of your hair.”

“And I envied you your blond.”

“Yours is a richer color.”

“Red and restless. That's what Marcus said.”

“He knew you well, but it's darker than most red hair, so perhaps not so wild. Marriage must have settled you.”

“Of course, but . . .” The habit of keeping secrets was hard to break, but she wanted to tell Ruth a bit of it. “It was probably a complaint. Marcus's injuries meant there were many things he couldn't do. Travel far, walk far, sit in a theater for hours. Dance. Sometimes I was restless for new experiences.”

Ruth rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment. “How shall I dress it?”

“Plait it tightly and pin it up. It doesn't show under the cap.”

“You're not wearing a cap today.”

“I'm a widow.”

“You're almost a bride. I'll arrange something.”

Kitty almost surrendered, but said, “No.” She met her friend's eyes in the mirror. “There's no point, Ruth. When I chased Sillikin yesterday, I encountered a rider. I'm sure it was Lord Dauntry, so he saw me at my worst. He must have guessed who I was. He'll probably not even come.”

Ruth did look dismayed, but she said, “He's written to say he'll be here at ten.” Seeing the expression on Kitty's face, she asked, “Why don't you look relieved?”

“I'm wondering why.”

“You know why. He needs a wife. You're a completely different picture now. And only think of the prize.”

The hope in Ruth's eyes stifled further protests. Meanwhile, Ruth had been deftly forming smaller plaits. Soon a confection of them was pinned in place at the back of Kitty's head.

“You don't look a day older than when you left school,” Ruth said.

Kitty laughed. “That would be an odd thing after six years a wife and nearly two a widow. I won't try to pretend to be anything other.”

“It wouldn't be pretense. Oh, very well. I know that face.”

“And I know that one. You think you know best.”

“Because I probably do.” Suddenly they were both smiling, carried back into the past. “We were so keen to leave school, but we had good times, didn't we?”

“We did,” Kitty admitted, “and we didn't realize how leaving would separate us.”

“But now we can be together again.”

Kitty turned to face her. “Ruth, don't hope too much. Please. Oh, now we're both crying.” She took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “I won't have it. We'll enjoy the time we have.”

“And you'll go without a cap?”

“It won't matter. I'm sure I ruined my chances yesterday. Oh, isn't it time? I want this done!”

At that moment, the clock in the hall began to strike ten. A moment later, Kitty heard the jangle of the bell that hung outside the front door. The precision of the timing struck her with sudden panic. It seemed unnatural.

He'd come, but had he come only to berate her for not being the lady he'd been told she was?

She didn't like anger, but if faced with it, she might fire back. It had probably been the best approach with Marcus, who could be shouted into reason. If she fell into an argument with Lord Dauntry, however, Ruth and her husband might have to take sides. She could cause discord that could last for years.

“Don't look so apprehensive,” Ruth begged.

Kitty forced a smile. “I'm just a knot of nerves, but I need a cap for courage. I've not gone without one for so long, my head feels naked.” She picked up the white one
she'd worn yesterday and settled it on her head, tying the ribbons beneath her chin. “There, see? It doesn't make me a complete antidote.”

“Nothing could,” Ruth said, but adjusted it backward so it released more of the curls around Kitty's face. “Ready?”

Kitty stood. “Ready.”

As she went with Ruth, Kitty prepared herself. No matter what she faced, she must not fight back. She would be meek, calm, and dignified, beginning to end.