The Viscount Needs a Wife (25 page)

T
wo of her coterie knew him, and they all congratulated him on his title and his marriage. He was amiable, but Kitty wasn't surprised when the others took their leave. Perhaps she shouldn't have encouraged such a cluster in public, but she hoped he wasn't going to be tiresome.

“Are you here for a walk?” she said. “I think Sillikin and I are ready for home.”

Indeed, the dog was lying down, panting.

“I was headed there myself when I spotted her.” He offered his arm, and she took it.

Very well. As long as he wasn't going to express jealousy, she'd ignore his coolness. She was probably imagining it anyway, fearing that he'd be like Marcus. She mustn't do that. “I went to the house,” she told him as they walked toward the edge of the park. “It seems well maintained, but apparently the fifth viscount rarely used it. He preferred a club.”

“Some do.”

“It seems wasteful. I'm not being penny-pinching, but why?”

“If he used the house, people would call and then he'd be expected to entertain, and thus he'd need a full staff. So it could be seen as economical.”

“In a very odd way. Better to have rented it out for the season. If I had a house, I'd not choose a hotel or club.” Or rooms, for that matter. His rooms were spacious and excellent, but as she'd gone through the house, she'd realized that she liked the feeling of it all being hers, with no strangers above or below. “I wonder if he had something against the place,” she said.

“Memories of his wife? He married in London, so they might have lived there together for a while, in happier times.”

“A grand love and tragedy,” Kitty said, but then she pulled a face. “That doesn't match his portrait, does it?”

“No. Why are you fascinated by him?”

“It's not so much him as the situation. It's odd.” She looked at him. “You're going to think I'm being Gothic, but is it possible that the dowager did away with Diane?”

His brows went up. “And buried her in the shrubbery?”

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but it seems she simply disappeared. How is that possible?”

“If she had any sense, she'd have wanted to disappear. If she'd set up house in England, her husband would have had the legal right to seize her. He might have challenged her lover to a duel.”

“The man in the portrait?”

“Placid men can be pushed into drama if sufficiently embarrassed. At the least he could have sued her paramour for damages, which can be set at ruinous amounts.”

“So she went abroad.”

“Possibly her lover was from abroad. It might have been his foreignness that gave her the courage. And once in Greece, Italy, or some more remote spot, they could pretend to be married and live in peace.”

“Then I hope she's happy.”

“You're very forgiving of unfaithfulness.”

Kitty chose to ignore the edge to that. “Would she really not let anyone know? Not even her own family?”

“Perhaps they were estranged.”

“I wish I knew how to contact them.”

“The name is Hartley,” he said, “and they reside near Chipping Ongar in Essex.”

“I didn't know that!”

“I didn't know you were curious. Worseley gave me that information shortly before we left.”

“I could write to them. Or visit. Essex is close by.”

“Do you not have enough to do?”

Without gathering gentlemen in the park.
Kitty was tempted to pull the simmering issue to the front and let it boil, but she made herself be sensible. “I'll not neglect my duties,” she said, “but the puzzle intrigues me, and Isabella might like to know.”

“How much does a six-year-old remember? She's probably been raised to hate her.”

“You have a bleak view of the world, sir.”

“Long experience, but am I unreasonable to have a bleak view of the dowager?”

“Thus she might be capable of murder to rid her son of a troublesome wife.”

They turned into his street. “If that were true, you'd want her to hang?” he asked.

“No, but the threat will make her do as we wish.”

“Gads, you terrify me.”

She gave him a look. “I very much doubt that.” When he didn't respond, she lost patience. “Do you object to my being with some officers in the park?”

“It was disconcerting,” he admitted, his tone unreadable.

“I won't turn away old friends.”

“And they will gather. How could they not? What if
you find Diane is alive and happy in Herzegovina or China?”

How could they not?

Had that been praise or accusation?

Kitty sensed it would be unwise to pursue the issue. She hated her own reluctance, but she had no wish to test her husband's limits as yet.

“I'll rejoice and inform her she's a widow,” she said. “She might be conventional enough to want to marry her lover. She might have children.”

“I'd not considered that.”

“Who knows what drove her to flight?” Kitty demanded. “It might have been the dowager's cruelty or her husband's. But it could have been the irresistible pull of love. That is a wild force.”

“Only in novels and plays.”

“Your view of the world is excessively mundane, sir!”

“If only it were.”

She remembered why they were in Town and welcomed a new subject. “Your business doesn't go well?”

“It hardly goes at all, but we have a diversion. We're invited to dinner tonight, if you've made no other arrangements.”

“An assignation with my host of admirers? We hadn't had time to come around to that.”
Damnation.
She'd been determined to let that issue rest.

“If it was a host,” he said, “I might not object.”

“I assure you, Braydon, there will never be assignations with an individual.”

“Very well.”

It could be acceptance, but she felt his simmering suspicion, and that triggered her next words. “If we move to the town house, I might like to hold an open house for officers once a week. There is a need. I know they have their clubs, but sometimes they want something else.”

“Someone.”

“It's
not
about me.”

“I think it is, but if it came to that, I wouldn't object. I assume I would not be excluded.”

“Of course not. And I'd welcome other ladies, especially wives. And widows. There must be too many military widows.”

“You'll set up a matchmaking agency?”

She couldn't read his tone, so chose to take his words at face value. “Why not? Alas that so many military men can't afford to marry, especially on half pay.”

“And any number might prefer the single life.”

Like you?
With your comfortable, female-free rooms.
“All the more need for a gathering place,” she said, “without gaming and hard drinking.”

“A benevolent cause,” he agreed. “But the Abbey can't be ignored.”

Kitty managed not to curse. For a moment she'd enjoyed that vision of the future, with the Kit Kat Club revived, but in the spacious town house with the funds to be generous. However, at best she'd spend a couple of months in Town, and that would be during the season when there'd be less need for a gathering place.

As they entered his building he said, “Our box is available for tomorrow at Covent Garden. I gather the theaters are never full these days.”

“Mourning has gone beyond reason. I've even had narrow looks because of my blue cloak. Perhaps some think I should dye Sillikin black!”

“Do you have half mourning to wear to the theater?”

“It's necessary? Then it's good that I brought some. What about tonight?”

“I doubt anyone there will care. The invitation was from Major Hal Beaumont. You might know him.”

Did she detect an edge to that? “There were a great many men, and I don't have your memory.”

“He's without an arm now.”

“Ah! Such wounds are more memorable, though too common by far.” They climbed the stairs. “He served in Canada, yes? A very pleasant gentleman. Didn't he marry an actress?”

“He did. Will you object to dining at their house?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not,” he echoed, but he didn't seem displeased.

They entered his rooms in a sort of harmony, but Kitty was aware of discord beneath. He would simply have to learn to trust her. They took lunch together, talking about a safe subject: the house.

“Mrs. Grant would like a water boiler and a Rumford stove in the kitchen,” she told him.

“By all means. We can see if it's possible to install the hot-water piping to the bathroom.”

“There isn't one. Only tubs to be set up in bedrooms and no space to create one, either. But it needs a general refurbishment. I need not count the expense, need I?”

“Short of silver-plating the walls, no.”

“Would anyone?”

“Nothing is beyond the foibles of the insane rich.”

Which touched on the question of how rich they were. As she poured more tea, Kitty said, “I gather that much of the viscountcy's money went to Isabella.”

“The investments and such, but the viscountcy produces a decent income, and I have money of my own. You needn't count the pennies.”

“That will be pleasant.” The discussion itself was pleasant, but would he turn moody whenever he encountered her with her military friends?

As they finished their meal, Braydon said, “I've been considering what you said about the fifth viscount. He mostly stayed at his club?”

“That's what Mrs. Grant said.”

“I don't recall any expenses from a club. Some memberships, yes, but if he was living in one for months on end, there should be more.”

“Somewhere in the boxes of curiosity?”

“We've gone through most of the papers.”

“Does it matter?”

“If he wasn't living at the house or at a club, where was he?”

Kitty considered it, then exclaimed, “A mistress! Why didn't I think of that? One he'd set up in a house. He wouldn't want his servants to know, so he'd claim to be at a club.”

“Then there should be expenses relating to that.”

“Oh, I suppose so. You think he was up to something shady? From his portrait, it seems unlikely.”

“It does. When we unravel this, we'll discover something completely banal.”

“Should we pity him for that assessment?”

He gave a wry smile. “Probably envy him, but I don't think either of us is suited to a dull and tranquil life.”

“No.” She liked the way he linked them. She remembered thinking that Braydon's longing for London was because of a mistress, but now she doubted it. He was simply enjoying being in Town and whatever work he was involved in. They were both suited to London and its challenges, but the Abbey and estates hung around their necks like . . . like slave collars.

She remembered another scrap of Shakespeare. Something about things gone wrong, and someone cursed to have been born to set it right. Flies to wanton gods indeed.

“Is something the matter?” he asked.

She put on a cheerful face. “Only the thought of a dull and tranquil life.” She raised her teacup. “Lord save us from that!”

*   *   *

Braydon left to return to Peel Street. He could have remained at home, for there was nothing pressing to do, but he didn't trust himself. He couldn't rid himself of the image of Kitty in a circle of admiring military men, glowing with enjoyment.

Had she ever glowed like that for him?

Reason shouted that they'd known each other for only a couple of days, but that underlined that she'd known some of those men for far longer.
Known . . .

Their wedding night had wiped away any notion of her having many lovers. She'd seemed to come to bed with an assumption of one, clear way of going about it. That didn't mean she hadn't loved. Had she wished one of her established admirers had made her an offer so she'd not had to accept one from a stranger out of desperation?

One of the military cluster had been Edison. He was the one who'd given her Sillikin, but also the one Braydon had lied to about her whereabouts. No wonder Edison had sent him a coldly furious look, but that proved a depth of attachment.

He'd returned the look with interest.
She's mine now. Abandon hope.

The last thing he should do was to show his jealousy, which was why he'd left, but perhaps if he returned, he could do better. . . .

“Lord Dauntry!”

He snapped to attention to see a florid Mrs. Motely approaching, her eldest daughter in tow. She was his sister Justina's sister-in-law and keen to increase the family connection.

Despite the nip in the air, the two Motelys were willing
to linger. At the earliest opportunity he mentioned his wife. That led to exclamations of surprise and smiling good wishes, but also to their abrupt lack of interest. His marriage was serving that purpose, at least.

It wouldn't have been hard to find a wife, but as he'd always known, a conventional wooing would have required more time and promises he hadn't felt able to make.

And it would have been a shame, because then he'd not be married to Kit Kat.

Damn her.

K
itty lingered at the lunch table, fretting over Braydon's attitude and depressed by thoughts of the Abbey; but dwelling on either could only make matters worse. The Abbey was her destiny, and Braydon wasn't like Marcus. His jealousy wouldn't turn violent.

She abandoned her cold tea to investigate Diane Dauntry in Braydon's library. The information could be useful. The dowager might be a forlorn hope, but Isabella might come around. Having news of her mother could help.

Sillikin accompanied her, but after a brief investigation flopped down in front of the fire.

“A pity you can't read. You could make yourself useful.”

The Hartley family of Chipping Ongar.
If the family had a peerage, they'd be in Mr. Debrett's useful book. As soon as she opened it, however, she realized that unless the peerage title was also Hartley, she had no means of finding them there.

She found nothing under Hartley.

Next she checked a gazetteer, and there, under Chipping Ongar, she found Sir Allenby Hartley, baronet, of Keys Court. The mention was brief, however, and mostly about the house, which seemed ordinary enough. Probably not a wealthy family, and pleased for their daughter to become “my lady.” Had the fifth viscount married for
love, against his mother's wishes? That could have been the seed for endless discord.

The library was well organized, which was hardly surprising, and all the reference works were in one section. She hunted for something else and found that Mr. Debrett also had a book about baronets. There she found the detail she needed. Sir Allenby was married to Catherine Forbes, daughter of Sir Charles Forbes of Cheshunt. He had issue, a son, Allenby Forbes Hartley, a daughter Susanna Maria, who was married to Henry Filstowe, Esquire, of Tonbridge, Kent, and a daughter Diane Alice, married to Viscount Dauntry of Beauchamp Abbey, Gloucestershire.

Kitty checked the date of publication. Only five years ago, but the entry had been technically correct. Diane had still been married to the fifth viscount at that time. It was no business of Mr. Debrett's if a couple chose to live apart.

She made a note of all the details.

Sillikin stood, stretched, and came over with a look that strongly suggested a walk.

“In a moment. Should I write or should I visit?”

The dog whined.

“If you're in a hurry, it will have to be without me.” Kitty opened the door and called for Edward. Sillikin greeted the footman like a relieving army and went with him without hesitation.

Putting aside grievance over that, Kitty returned to her problem. She was tempted to order a coach and rush out to Chipping Ongar. But on a short winter day it could be dark by the time she arrived, and the Hartleys might be elsewhere.

She'd do the sensible thing and write. It was a delicate letter to compose, but she tried for a sympathetic tone and asked if they knew about Diane's whereabouts, as
she wanted to give the information to her daughter, who had lost so many of her family.

Her signature presented an unexpected dilemma. She knew she must use her title as her last name, but should it be Kitty or Kathryn? Lady Cateril had given her a deep dislike of being Kathryn, but Kathryn Dauntry seemed more dignified.

She realized she was still troubled by Dauntry's reaction to the officers and Kit Kat.
To Hades with that!
Kitty she was, and Kitty she would always be. She signed Kitty Dauntry, then folded and sealed the letter. She put the letter in the foyer for Edward to take to the post office.

Next, she summoned her courage and invaded the servants' quarters. Henry had told her that the ruler of the kitchen was a Mr. Kingdom, who was surly and easily angered, though he'd melted for Sillikin. Kitty hoped that would count in her favor, but she must confront him. She was now mistress of this establishment.

The cook did seem surly, but he was also short, fat, and had a patch over one eye. “Yuz, milady?” he growled in a heavy accent, perhaps from Worcestershire. “Y'ave a complaint?”

Kitty resisted a desire to back out of the small room. “Not at all, Kingdom. Everything's been excellent. I merely wondered if you had all that you need.”

“Yuz, milady.” She could almost hear him thinking,
Except the space you're taking up.

A pot simmered on a very compact stove. The wooden table was spread with vegetables. Did the servants eat in here? With the addition of Henry, it would be crowded. Perhaps the cook was surly because of that.

Kitty still wanted to retreat, but she held her ground. “The stove is quite small. I assume you buy baked meats.”

“Yuz, milady.”

“And bread and cakes.”

“I sometimes make his lordship's favorites, milady.” Reluctantly, he added, “Is there aught you'd like, milady? While you're here.”

Kitty was very tempted to reprimand him for that, but if Braydon kept such a servant, he must value him.

“Stewed oysters,” she said. “Thank you. Carry on.” She left, blowing out a breath.
What an odd creature.
She soon found Henry and asked about Kingdom.

“He was a ship's cook,” Henry said, “so he'll be used to a confined kitchen. I understand many of the sets of rooms here don't have one at all—only a hob on a fire where a pot can be boiled. He's more bark than bite. I think he's nervous around women, and aware he's not the prettiest sight.”

“He might have feared I'd try to get him turned off? Poor man. Though he did make it clear he expects me to soon be gone.”

“That might be my fault, dear. To keep the peace, I told him we didn't expect to be here for long. I think he was imagining us a fixture.”

“Are families permitted here? I know in some sets of gentlemen's rooms they aren't.”

“Permitted but not encouraged. And even such elegant rooms aren't suitable, are they?”

“No.” Kitty thought wistfully of the house, but there'd be no reason to open that up for a week or less, and she must soon return to her duties.

She hoped the Hartleys replied soon. Discovering Diane Dauntry's whereabouts might be the only truly useful thing she could do while in London. In the meantime, she must consider what to wear to this dinner—her first social engagement as Viscountess Dauntry.

And after?

The night.

Her husband would have no excuse to be out till all hours tonight.

*   *   *

After an afternoon with little achieved, Braydon arrived home to find his wife secluded in the second bedroom, preparing for dinner. He washed and changed for the evening, troubled by that. Was she intending to sleep there tonight?

Because of their falling-out about her admirers?

When he entered the drawing room he found her ready, but with a challenging look in her eye. Devil take it, why had she chosen to wear the pagan red gown and the cashmere shawl? With the addition of a very fetching red and gold turban, she'd stop men dead in the street.

He made sure to smile. “You look magnificent, my dear.”

“Too magnificent for a dinner?”

She'd caught his misgivings anyway. “Of course not.”

She was his, and tonight he intended to wipe all thought of other men from her mind. As he put her cloak around her shoulders he murmured, “Tonight, you sleep in my bed.”

Her look was startled but not resentful. Heat flickered behind her green and gold eyes, and her full lips softened, perhaps on the edge of a smile.

Damned witch.

Damned dinner.
Braydon arrived at Beaumont's, house wishing the event already over.

They were warmly greeted by Beaumont's wife. She performed under her former name, Blanche Hardcastle, and was famous for her prematurely white hair and her habit of dressing only in white, on- and offstage. She was clearly keeping to that even in this time of mourning.

He'd been delighted by her on the stage, but it was
pleasant to find that she was as charming and beautiful from only a yard away. She wore the lightest powder and paint, which showed that her looks were all her own, and it seemed her nature was genuine as well.

Even as Braydon greeted her, an uncomfortable scrap of information popped into his head. She'd been known—might still be known—as the White Dove of Drury Lane. Again, a reference to her coloring, but with a slight implication of a disreputable past, as loose women were sometimes called spoiled doves. It wouldn't be entirely surprising, for actresses were not always pattern cards of virtue, and Beaumont was unlikely to be ignorant of her past.

Especially as—another inconvenient fact—she'd been the mistress of the Marquess of Arden for a number of years, and Arden and Beaumont were old friends. It wouldn't be the first time friends had shared or passed on a mistress, but for one to marry the lady was unusual. How fortunate that he was able to keep a smooth demeanor while digesting alarming facts.

There was nothing alarming about the Balls. Sir Stephen was certainly not a military type, having a more intellectual appearance. Dark-haired Lady Ball was an elegant charmer.

The other two guests were a fresh-faced young Canadian lawyer, Grantford Torlie, and Miss Feathers, a snub-nosed, bright-eyed actress from Drury Lane. Torlie was introduced as the son of a man Beaumont had known in Canada, and the young man was clearly very happy that Miss Feathers had been invited to balance the numbers.

Despite Braydon's wish that the event be soon over, he had to admit that the food was excellent and the conversation interesting and frequently amusing. Kitty played her part with ease.

Miss Feathers was young and lively, but she was no fool. When Torlie paid her a compliment that was a little too warm, she dropped into the conversation that she lived with her mother, who was, sadly, strict. “But,” she added, “you would be most welcome to call and make her acquaintance, sir. She was once an actress herself.”

“And an excellent one,” Blanche Beaumont said. “Harriet could still be on the stage in older parts if an infection hadn't damaged her voice.”

Beaumont said, “It's time we conquered infection,” and discussion turned in that direction, touching on folk remedies, including maggots. Miss Feathers pulled a face, and Torlie declared he'd not have maggots eating his flesh.

“You'd be a fool not to have them eating an infection that would otherwise kill you,” Beaumont said. He hadn't said “that could cost you a limb,” because that would cause distress, but it had to have been what he'd thought. Battle-damaged limbs were frequently amputated to remove any danger of infection, but with time and care they might have been saved.

Laura Ball deftly turned the talk toward charities for wounded soldiers and the need for employment for them. That moved them all to the economy and the signs of improvement. It was more substantial talk than would be approved at most dinner tables, but skillfully avoided disagreements or jarring debate.

When the ladies left, none of the men raised difficult subjects, except when Braydon asked Torlie what brought him to London.

“To hone my legal training, sir. I wanted Boston, but my father insisted on London.”

“Canada is ruled by British law,” Ball said.

“But not forever, Sir Stephen. It's inevitable that we join the American states in time.”

Braydon raised his brows with the others.

“That could be seen as treason,” Ball pointed out.

Torlie colored, but he stood his ground. “Canada must at the least become self-governing, sir. We're thousands of miles from St. James and Westminster. If we then choose to become a republic and join with America, I hope no one will attempt to prevent it.”

“I wouldn't stake my life on that,” Braydon said, passing the port but considering a new twist.
Would Canadians who wished to join the Americans seek to create dynastic chaos in Britain?
Sufficient disorder, most especially a civil war, would make it easier for them to slip away. But, again, it would be a very long-term plan.

“Some are willing to die for freedom,” Torlie declared, threatening the harmony of the evening.

Braydon said, “Your skill in British law could be more useful than your blood, Torlie. Know thy enemy. There was a time in Spain when one of the men knowing local custom turned the tide.”

He told the story, and then Beaumont added another, and the moment passed. Soon after they all rose to join the ladies in the drawing room.

Beaumont took a moment with Braydon. “Apologies for young Torlie. I suspect his father shipped him over here to get him away from others of similar mind.”

“We all tend to crackbrain ideas when young.”

“It might not be entirely crackbrained.”

Braydon raised a hand. “I have enough on my plate without a North American mess. Three princes and a peerage.”

Beaumont chuckled. “How are you coping with becoming a viscount?”

“Much as one copes with a long march through enemy terrain in winter.”

“As bad as that? Your wife must be a help. A strong and sensible woman, and she deserves an easier march.”

“It was bad?” Braydon asked, wanting to know.

Beaumont grimaced. “Who knows the secrets of a marriage, and I visited there only a few times, years ago. But Marcus Cateril was fiery by nature, and that didn't change except in being confined. A man can't help resenting injuries at times.”

Did he refer to himself and his missing arm? If so, he didn't dwell on it.

“His were severe,” Beaumont went on. “Walking pained him and he was ungainly, which might have pained him even more. He'd once been a fit, athletic type. It had to have made him difficult at times, but he loved his Kitty. No doubt of that.”

“And she him.”

“Of course.”

Unreasonable to let that sting. “Ball seems sound. I'll bring him in if he's willing. There are matters to discuss tomorrow. Perhaps here?”

“Of course.”