The Viscount Needs a Wife (27 page)

A
s they breakfasted the next morning, Kitty wondered if the servants could recognize the momentous change. She felt that it radiated out of her and showed in every look and smile they shared. Perhaps this was love. They were behaving much as lovers do, with sudden smiles and lingering looks.

Though her husband had the same cool elegance on the outside, the marble box had melted away to reveal warmth and passion. He'd been tender in ways she'd never known and forceful in others. They'd talked in the intimate dark, but often lain in each other's arms in comfortable silence. They had been physically comfortable, but she felt sure that he, like she, had been aware of how few nights they would have together.

She'd resolved to enjoy what they had, however, even such simple pleasures as breakfast.

Then, with the door closed, he shared his secrets. He told her his reason for coming to Town and invited her comments. She'd have done her best to help him anyway, but now it was a gift.

“An attempt to blow up three middle-aged princes to prevent their marrying seems deranged,” she said.

“There are all too many deranged people active at the moment, and some capable of doing damage. Only
months ago, a woman attempted to blow up Westminster, hoping to trigger a revolution similar to the one in France.”

“Madness! How?”

“Using a gasometer.”

“At least that's a novel idea,” Kitty said, buttering another slice of toast. “In contrast, this seems clumsy, and very old-fashioned. A barrel of gunpowder in the basement? All too like Guy Fawkes.”

“The Gunpowder Plot could easily have worked,” he pointed out. “If there'd been no warning back in 1605, Catesby and Fawkes could have blown up king and Parliament and changed the course of history.”

Kitty nibbled her toast, as delighted by this discussion as she'd been by their lovemaking in the night. Almost. “If it was so easy to get the barrel of gunpowder into the house, why not deliver it later? Then they could have overwhelmed the footman, set it to explode, and escaped with the task completed.”

“I hope you never put your mind to mayhem,” he said drily. “But a daylight delivery would be normal, whereas an evening one wouldn't.”

“True. And they'd be busier then, so might refuse the delivery.” She sipped some chocolate. Again he was drinking ordinary coffee. He'd said that he kept the Turkish for special moments. She'd teased him about this not being special. . . .

“Interesting thoughts?” he asked.

“Not on the current matter.” He reflected her smile, but she dragged her mind back to the problem. “Let's return to the beginning. You said that even if the plot had succeeded, there'd be no immediate benefit to anyone beyond alarm and distress. Could there be some unsuspected benefit to anyone?”

He leaned back in his seat. “It wasn't to do with the
succession at all? A direct plot against one of the princes, disguised by the presence of the others?”

“I'd not even imagined that. It would be vile—to kill three to get one. How many people could think like that? And what could drive them to it?”

“People kill over remarkably petty matters—a grudge, a slight, a few shillings of debt—and often they don't consider the effects on others, but I agree. It would be astonishing to feel that way about royalty, and be willing to make the attempt.”

Kitty considered matters. “The most dramatic event in recent times was Princess Charlotte's death. Could the plot arise from that?”

“The succession,” he said.

“Put that aside. There's sympathy for the Regent's loss, but anger about the treatment Charlotte received. Many think the queen should have been in attendance, and some hold her and the Regent responsible for the choice of doctors.”

“But the plot was aimed at neither.”

“Perhaps our crackbrain realized he couldn't strike at the main players and went after the Regent's brothers instead. You don't believe that?”

“I don't believe any of it, but there's one large problem. The meeting of the princes was a quickly arranged plan known to very few. How did our crackbrained would-be Guy Fawkes find out?”

Kitty pulled a face at him.

“And,” he added, “the queen is not that strongly guarded in Bath. She'd have been an easy target.”

“Perhaps the crackbrain didn't care to strike against an old, sick woman?”

“Illogical.”

“Crackbrained,” she shot back. “In any case, the death of three sons would be a great blow to her. Dead sons and
grieving mothers,” she said. “That seems to be a running thread for us. We're getting nowhere, aren't we?”

“We've indulged in flights of fancy, which is always amusing, but often the simplest solution is the true one. Most evildoers are not clever enough to be complex.”

“How many are willing to wait decades for any benefit of their plan?”

“A point. Perhaps our plotter is a country man. There's a plantation of trees at the Abbey begun by the fourth viscount that will be felled for timber round about the time the last of the king's children might die.”

Kitty rolled her eyes. “I'm sure there's some deep philosophical point in that, but if the plotter is of that mind, you have a difficult time ahead.”

“Unless they intend to pick off the royal family one by one.”

“Doesn't that make your situation more difficult rather than less?”

“If there are repeated attempts,” he said, “the hand will eventually become clear.”

“If there are repeated attempts, the country will be thrown into ferment. The purpose?”

“Possibly. Which is why we must put a stop to it now.” He'd drunk the last of his coffee and came to kiss her lingeringly, a hand cradling her face. She knew his pull back to the bedroom was as powerful as hers, but he straightened. “What are your plans for the day?”

A honeymoon,
she thought. But that wasn't possible.

“A dressmaker. She's also a friend, so that's a pleasure jaunt.”

“Your comments have been useful, Kitty. Thank you.”

He went to the door, but Kitty suddenly had another thought. “Speaking of mothers, what about the Princess of Wales? Caroline of Brunswick might be blaming the royal family for her daughter's death.”

“Oh, dear God. And she is crackbrained enough for anything. I'm not sure whether to thank you or curse you for putting that notion on the list.”

Kitty wasted a few moments smiling at the closed door, and then had to bite her lips on tears. Why was everything always bittersweet? She could try harder to persuade him of the delights of rural life, but how, when she didn't see them herself? With his work here being so important, it was hopeless.

She could probably arrange matters so she could spend more time in London, but that wasn't what she wanted. Greedily, she wanted to be with her husband every day and every night. She wanted the passion, but she also wanted his company and the sort of discussion they'd just enjoyed. She wanted to share her life with him.

“Oh, I'll fall into a fit of the blue devils this way,” she said, startling Sillikin awake. “Time to visit Janet Saunders.”

With some difficulty, she left Edward behind.

“I'm going to a very simple place, Edward. People will stare if I arrive with an entourage.”

“The simpler the place, ma'am, the more I should be with you.”

“For heaven's sake, I lived in Moor Street for eight years with never a scrap of trouble. I have friends there.”

“All the same, ma'am, his lordship would wish me to accompany you.”

“Then you must tell him I bullied you unmercifully, which I will do if you don't do as I say.”

With a sigh and rolled eyes, he went to summon a hackney for her and allowed her to ride away with only Henry and Sillikin to defend her from the barbarian hordes.

J
anet Saunders was a sturdy Scots widow who'd set up as dressmaker in a house close to Kitty's former home. She did simple work at economical prices, and Kitty had used her services. In time they'd become friends, and also become more adventurous. After all, Kitty was an honorable, and she played hostess to many gentlemen of high birth.

Janet had taken to walking around Mayfair, observing the fine ladies. She'd then draw similar designs, but adapted for Kitty's slender purse. Soon her other clients, mostly wives of professional men and local tradesmen, wanted finer garments, and Janet could employ more workers.

She was clever at making do. She visited warehouses, haggling over the ends of bolts and slightly damaged cloth and trimming. She hunted through cast-off finery for trimmings that could be salvaged. Kitty had always paid Janet as much as she could afford, but she'd known she was worth more.

Janet beamed to see Kitty and Sillikin, and when told the news almost had palpitations. “A viscountess! Havers! You've come to make my fortune!”

She was teasing, but Kitty realized it could be true. “I have, Janet. My gowns are excellent, aren't they, Henry?”

Henry smiled and agreed, but with provisos. “In a middling sort of way. No offense to you, Mrs. Saunders, for you've had to make do, but now you'll be able to afford the finest materials and trimming. Your talents will shine, and when ladies beg for the name of Lady Dauntry's mantua maker, my mistress can reluctantly be persuaded to share the secret.”

Janet's eyes were sparkling at the idea, but she said, “They'll never want to come here to Moor Street.”

“You'll be surprised, Mrs. Saunders. Ladies who hear of a secret treasure will hunt it down like pigs hunt truffles.”

They laughed at that, but then Kitty said, “I do want you to make me new gowns for spring, Janet, but today I'm hoping for an instant miracle. I've brought the sapphire blue gown you made for me two years ago. Can you make it more stylish before this evening? I'm to go to the theater.”

She expected dismay, but Janet sparkled. “I love a challenge, as you know, Kitty. Is it all right if I still call you Kitty?”

“I'll be cross if you do otherwise.”

“Come with me.”

She led them to her inner fitting room. “Let's see the gown.” Henry passed it over and helped unpeel the muslin.

“In good condition,” Janet said, inspecting seams and hem. “Does it still fit?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Chenille is quite out,” Janet said, brushing dismissively over the decoration on the bodice, “and floss. Both will have to come off. Vandyke lace is all the thing and I have some to hand, dyed black. Always black, black, black, these days! I'll put black gauze over the skirt and bodice.”

“Gauze?” Kitty asked.

“To darken it. I'm doing that for many of my clients, muting brighter clothing to provide somber wear without them purchasing new.”

“I heard that mourning was affecting trade. Is it very bad?”

Janet shrugged. “People around here need new clothes in much the same way, for they wear things out, but there's few who are buying fancy stuff. Who wants more black and dull? I'll retrim this and have it to you by the evening.”

“You're an angel. I wish you could magically provide a warm black cloak. My mantle will be too bright.”

“I've nothing ready-made, and it would be heavy wear in any case. You might find something fancy in the West End.” Janet smiled at the Russian mantle Kitty had put off in the warm room. “I remember making this. Such a bold idea, you had, but we made it cheap as could be. I have one myself and I've made a few others. Most think they'll look too grand. That never bothered you.”

“I never saw why it should. Prepare some designs for me, Janet. In spring I intend to blossom, no matter what the world says. Now, can we beg a cup of tea so you can tell me all the local gossip?”

Janet must have sent word to some neighbors, for a number of women just happened to drop by and were thrilled to tears to hear that Kitty had done so well for herself. It turned into a lively tea party, and Kitty found herself promising to come back to Moor Street as often as she could. But then she had to say that she would mostly be living in the country.

“In a grand house,” said Sally Sand dreamily. “With an estate all around, I'm sure.”

“And deer,” Kitty said, because they were enjoying this so much. “And a lake with a temple on it.”

“A perfect heaven,” Rachel Pollard declared. “And no one could deserve it more.”

Even here, however, the women spoke of the succession, grumbling over the lack of royal grandchildren and the irresponsibility of the princes who hadn't married.

“Even the ones who marry can't get it right,” Janet complained. “Look at the Duke of Cumberland. Married, fair enough, and to a German princess, but to one near forty! No wonder there are no children.”

“Then it must have been for love,” Kitty said.

“The royal family has no business being foolish over love,” Janet said. “They have their duty.”

Kitty remembered such discussions in the past. Some of the newspapers provided royal gossip, and broadsheets sold on the street spread even more, some of it scandalous, and people drank it up. In the past, such talk had seemed merely amusing, but now, with danger hovering, she was uncomfortable.

“The Duke of York married just as he ought,” Amy Lassiter said. “It seems most unjust that he has no children from that after more than twenty years.”

“Just as he ought, perhaps,” said Janet, “but they soon found they didn't suit, and no one gets children when living apart. It's as if they go out of their way to make things difficult!”

“I've heard,” said Sally in a low voice, “that the Hanoverian royals are
cursed.
For stealing the throne.”

“Only think of Princess Charlotte!” Rachel exclaimed. “And the king's madness.”

Kitty quickly intervened. “They were invited, I believe, so the nation should be cursed, not them. And we were victorious over Napoleon.”

“And that's another thing,” Sally said. “Now we could end up with a Bonaparte on the throne!”

“
What
?” Kitty wasn't the only one exclaiming.

“It was in the
Chronicle
—a list of the Protestant succession. One of Napoleon's brothers married a German princess with a right to the throne, and they had a son.”

“I don't believe it,” Kitty said.

“That's what it said!”

“Yes, yes, but sometimes they invent nonsense to alarm. And even if it were true,” Kitty said, “the Bonaparte must be far down the family tree. One or more of the royal dukes will soon marry and we'll have a proper British heir.”

Kitty took her leave soon after that. When they were on the street, she said, “Such nonsense. A Bonaparte on the British throne!”

“It could well be true,” Henry said. “Napoleon liked to marry his brothers and sisters into royal families around Europe.”

“All the more reason for the royal dukes who are free to marry to get on with it. At least one of them has to be able to sire a child.” Kitty pointed right to one of the simple two-story terraced houses. “That was our house. How small it looks. We had only the ground-floor rooms, of course. But there were good times.”

“People don't need much to be happy,” Henry said.

“That's not what many think.”

“And having plenty doesn't make people happy.”

“Such as the dowager. In my experience, having plenty only makes life more complicated! Come along. We can get a hackney nearby.” But then Sillikin pulled against the leash and Kitty saw why. “There's Captain Edison.” Immediately Kitty wished she could avoid a meeting, but he'd seen them and was crossing the road to greet the dog and then her.

Kitty greeted him with a smile. “I'm surprised to find you here, Captain Edison.”

“Why? It's familiar enough territory. You've been visiting your old home?”

“No, my old dressmaker. Or, rather, my current one. We must make haste. I have another commitment.” Kitty walked on, annoyed with herself for feeling uncomfortable.

He kept pace with her. “I'll escort you.”

Kitty saw Henry sending her a question. Either of them could get rid of him, but only with unpleasantness.

“No coach?” he asked.

“I'm not so fancy as that. I came by hackney. I'll get one on the Edgware Road.”

“Your husband is neglectful.”

“Nonsense.”

Kitty quickened her pace, glad of Henry close behind. She wasn't afraid of Edison, but she didn't want any embarrassments.

“Why did you marry him?” he demanded.

“That is a most impertinent question.”

“You must have known how I've always longed to make you mine.”

“Then you should have acted sooner.” Immediately, she knew it was the wrong thing to say. She stopped to retract it. “I—”

“So you
would
have married me! Damn fate that had me far away!”

“Away?”

“My regiment was posted to Corfu. I returned only three weeks ago, and then visited my family, but I intended to seek you out. If only I'd made haste.”

Kitty always preferred honesty, but for his sake she must lie. “I'm sorry, Captain Edison, but we were already committed.”

“He didn't act that way a short while ago, mentioning you in a club as if he hardly knew you.”

Damnation.
Braydon had told her that. “I shall have to take him to task for that,” she said lightly, turning into the Edgware Road and seeing the line of hackney carriages not far away. “And no cattle clogging up the street. They bring them this way to the cow yard,” she said to Henry behind, “and then on to the butchers. That's why this area is cheap when it's quite close to Mayfair.”

“Kitty . . .” Edison said.

“Ah, here we are!” She gave her address to the driver of the first hackney.

Edison opened the door for her but said, “I can't give up hope.”

“Of what?” she demanded. “My husband's death? Have an end to this, sir. I have only ever regarded you as a friend. We would not have suited.”

“You're wrong.”

“Good day to you.”

She picked up Sillikin and climbed in. Henry followed and soon they were on their way.

“Devil take it,” Kitty murmured. “Oh, I'm sorry.”

“I don't mind, dear. You'd no idea he felt so strongly?”

“None.”

“Would you have married him?”

Kitty thought about it. “If he'd presented himself at Cateril Manor a few months ago? Quite possibly, but it would have been out of desperation. Truly, he's had a lucky escape. He would have been jealous of other men, and I would have lost my temper with him.”

Which had almost happened with Braydon.

“Oh, enough. That should be the end of it.” Then she exclaimed, “Edgware!”

No wonder Henry looked bewildered, and perhaps worried that Kitty had lost her wits.

“The Edgware Road,” Kitty said. “It must go from
here to there, and I don't think it's very far. I wonder how large a place Edgware is.”

“Why?”

“The viscountcy seems to own a property there, but no one knows exactly what it is. I wouldn't mind looking into that.”

“What a one you are for curiosities. Remember what curiosity did for the cat.”

“And satisfaction brought it back. One thing's sure—there'll be no danger from anything to do with the fifth viscount.”