The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  Not long after that, Charrington had been swept into the army as an aide to Wellington with particular duties to smooth away temperamental crises among the great. Braydon had no need of a sophisticated linguist, but a smoother of crises might well prove useful—especially if the chaotic Princess of Wales was, in fact, involved.

  “Are you likely to be here long?” Braydon asked him.

  “I planned on only a few days.” There was a humorous, resigned tone to that, and Braydon smiled.

  “I’ll try not to delay you, but you might be the very person to interrogate the Duke of Sussex.”

  Charrington’s brows rose at the word “interrogate.” “About whether he staged a plot to blow up his brothers? He could have slipped away at the crucial moment.”

  It was a joke, but Braydon considered it. “Any one of them could have planned to dispose of the other two, and it’s not the most harmonious of families.”

  “Jockeying for positions in line for the throne?” Ball asked. “That should rule out Sussex. He’s currently sixth in line.”

  “Are you seriously considering prosecuting one royal duke for the attempted murder of two others?” Charrington asked.

  They looked at one another in silence. Nothing good could come out of that, for the nation or themselves.

  “We simply find the truth,” Braydon said. “Then we decide what to do with it. I’ll toss in another alarm. My wife wondered if the Princess of Wales might be involved, striking at the royal family for neglect of her daughter.”

  “Jupiter!” Charrington exclaimed. “A grieving mother could be capable of that, especially an unstable one. But she’s in Italy.”

  “Which could explain why she’s not acted until now,” Ball said. “I understand that the Regent didn’t even write to inform her of her daughter’s death. She heard of it by accident. Not surprising if she immediately dispatched someone to do harm.”

  “I am not,” Charrington said, “traveling to Italy to interrogate the Princess of Wales on a matter of murder.”

  Ball said, “How fortunate, then, that her apartments at Kensington Palace are being prepared in anticipation of her arrival.”

  Braydon looked to see if he was joking, but clearly not. “I’ll talk to Sidmouth,” he said. “Not about our speculations, but because the government will have people keeping an eye on her, if only to find the evidence the Regent needs for divorce.”

  “And if she is the culprit?” Charrington asked. “And coming here with yet more vengeance on her mind?”

  Beaumont broke the silence. “I don’t believe it. There’s a cunning to the plan, and if Caroline of Brunswick had been capable of cunning, she’d have fared much better in her marriage.”

  They all nodded.

  Ball said, “We need to focus on the princes and find out what each has to say about the arrangement of the evening, and, if possible, about who might hold a personal grudge against any of them. Though Charrington has the social address, I have a reasonably good relationship with Sussex because of his interest in reform. I’ll take him.”

  “A thousand thank-yous,” Charrington said. “That frees me to approach Clarence. I have no relationship there, but Bath isn’t far from Temple Knollis, so my speedy return there becomes a noble duty.”

  Until recently, Braydon would have thought such desire to return to family odd, but no longer. He was aware of being slightly distracted all morning by thoughts of Kitty. He might even forget some parts of this discussion. Charrington’s willingness to return to live most of the year in the country was less easy to understand, especially in a man who’d lived in some of the greatest cities in the world.

  “Which leaves a trip to Brussels,” Beaumont said with resignation. “As Dauntry needs to play spider in the middle of this web, I assume I take on that mission.”

  “Thank you. Also, Kent might deal better with a military man and, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it, a maimed one.”

  “Good that it serve some purpose.”

  “If you take a couple of pigeons, you could wing important news back. That’s probably not necessary with Bath, Charrington, but take some if you wish.” Braydon went over everything in his mind. “I believe we’ve completed our business for today. I thank you—”

  “One moment,” Charrington said. “I’m intrigued by your wife’s question about immediate benefit. Could anyone have already gained by this?”

  “No,” Beaumont said, “because it failed.”

  “Not quite what I asked.”

  After a moment, Braydon said, “Benefitted by the failed attempt?”

  “I merely pose the question.”

  “But hardly anyone knows,” Beaumont objected. “So how could it serve someone’s aim?”

  “The three princes know,” Braydon said, “and probably their immediate households. The Regent knows, and he was going to discuss it with the Privy Council. Possibly people in Sidmouth’s office know. Mrs. Courtenay and her household do, plus anyone they gossiped to.”

  “The queen,” Ball added. “Clarence might have told her when he returned to Bath. Was it directed at her as suggested?”

  “A warning shot only?” Braydon asked. “Dashed odd. Let’s return to the excellent question—what, if anything, has already been achieved?”

  “Other than disturbing our lives?” Ball asked drily.

  “Other than that.”

  They all considered it.

  “The princes are now accepting increased protection,” Beaumont said at last.

  “Then perhaps,” Charrington murmured, “Sidmouth or some other person in the government did the deed.”

  “Devil take it,” Braydon said. “Do I now have the task of interrogating the Home Secretary about his role in the plot?”

  “Unfair that you escape scot-free.”

  “This would be a simpler matter if the gunpowder had exploded and taken them all to kingdom come! As it stands, it’s beginning to resemble a farce.” Braydon remembered something. “Perhaps it’s appropriate that I’m attending the theater this evening. You would all be welcome to join us in our box at Covent Garden if you’re free. And Lady Ball as well, of course. Mrs. Beaumont, too, if she’s not engaged at Drury Lane.”

  “She’s not,” Beaumont said, “and will enjoy scrutinizing rivals.”

  Braydon thanked the other men for their assistance and Beaumont for his hospitality and set off home, hoping Kitty had returned from her dressmaker.

  But then he took a detour, pleased at the thought of purchasing more gifts for his wife.

  Chapter 37

  When Braydon returned home, he shed his outerwear, put his boxed gift on his bed, and went in search of his wife.

  He found her in the library, writing a letter, curls of her burnished hair escaping around her nape. She was as perfect a part of the room as his carefully chosen furniture. When she returned to the Abbey, these rooms would feel hollow, especially without the warm smile she turned on him.

  Her dog came over, tail wagging, which was strangely pleasant.

  “Have you had an enjoyable outing?” he asked, fondling Sillikin.

  “I have,” Kitty said. “I’ve begun the process of obtaining new gowns for the spring. Brightly colored gowns.”

  “You’re weary of mourning, but you must wear sober colors this evening.”

  “I know, and Janet is bringing an old gown up to the mark.”

  In mere hours? he wondered, but he didn’t say it. He wondered if the new gowns Kitty had ordered would be fine enough for the spring season in the beau monde, but that was a difficulty for another day.

  “I have something to assist you,” he said. “In the bedroom.”

  The look she gave him was decidedly saucy and possibly hopeful. God save him.

  She saw the box and went quickly to open it, as eager as a child.


  “A new gown?” she asked, untying the ribbons. “After all Janet’s work . . .” She drew back the muslin. “Black velvet?” She stroked it, but he saw she was still reluctant.

  “It’s not a gown.”

  She glanced at him and pulled it out. “A cloak! Oh, it’s beautiful.” She swirled it on and hurried to the mirror. “So wonderful. The way it hangs. The figured design down the front. Janet suggested I might find a black cloak in the West End, but Henry and I visited three places and nothing. Even if we had, I’m sure I’d never have found anything as elegant as this.” She pulled up the hood and turned to him, her face and hair glowing in the dark frame. “Thank you.”

  She stole his breath. Her strong features and coloring made a perfect whole that was simply Kitty. No wonder Kit Kat had enchanted so many men.

  But she was his now. His, and coming to him to offer glowing thanks. He gathered her into his arms, the embodiment of passion wrapped in slithery silk velvet. . . .

  But the door was open and it was the middle of the day. He’d not previously been aware of the limitations of his rooms, where little could be truly private.

  “If you don’t let me go,” he said, “I won’t be able to give you my other present.”

  “More?” she asked. He delighted in her frank acceptance of pleasures—of all kinds. A night in black velvet . . .

  He picked up the jeweler’s box and gave it to her. “You already have some jet, but I saw this and wanted it for you.”

  She opened it and smiled again. “Thank you. It’s lovely. Forgive me, I must show Henry!”

  Greedy of him to have wanted yet more enthusiastic thanks, and foolish, too, for his control wasn’t absolute. In her absence, after a while, he was able to sit to make notes of the earlier meeting. He’d definitely need them.

  There was always the night. As long as Kitty was in London, there would be wonderful nights.

  Perhaps he could come to appreciate rural life.

  Kitty went into the other bedroom, where Henry was doing mending. “See!”

  “A perfect cloak for the theater.”

  Kitty turned to swirl it. “Isn’t it? And he’s given me this as well. Look. Every bead is carved into a rosebud, and the central pendant is a filigree heart. There are earrings to match.”

  Henry touched the heart. “Exquisite work. Why are you crying?”

  Kitty sniffed. “Aren’t women supposed to cry when they’re happy?”

  Kitty had heard that, but it had never been the case with her. She was crying because she’d instantly seen the jet as a sign of love, then instantly known he wouldn’t have meant it that way. He was simply concerned with appearances.

  Then she’d thought that perhaps in time he might love her, and then realized how foolish she was.

  She’d soon be back at Beauchamp Abbey, and he wouldn’t care a jot. It was their arrangement. She must do as she’d promised to do. But she couldn’t help hoping he would mind their being apart at least half as much as she would.

  She gave jet and cloak into Henry’s care and returned to the library. She found Braydon had taken her place at the desk and was writing.

  “Do I disturb you?” she asked. “I’m ready to eat lunch, if you’d care to join me.”

  He rose and smiled. “Of course. Hungry work, tussling with knotty problems.”

  “You’re no further forward?”

  “Not greatly.”

  “I heard something odd today. Is a Bonaparte truly in the line of succession?”

  “Yes, but half the noble families of Europe would have to die out before he got a sniff of it.”

  “Still, it’s extraordinary. I’m surprised the papers mention it at all.”

  “They’re probing the succession as much as anyone, and his presence can’t be denied. He’s merely a three-year-old child.”

  “All the same, his lurking on the list of heirs should inspire the royal dukes to greater enthusiasm for marriage.”

  “So it should. What of your mysteries?”

  As they settled at the table, she told him about the Hartleys.

  “They may not reply,” he said. “We don’t know what drove Diane Dauntry to flee. If she was treated cruelly, she might have written to her parents about it.”

  “And they will shun anything Braydon? I find it hard to believe that her husband was cruel.”

  “Some weak men turn vicious when affronted. And then there’s his mother.”

  “Yes, indeed. The dowager is capable of tyranny. She might even have thought it her duty to check a wild spirit.”

  Edward brought in the dishes and tea service, then left, closing the door.

  “Is there any progress in your investigation?” Kitty asked as she made the tea.

  “We’ve decided to find out what we can about the three princes and the way the meeting was arranged, but other than that, no.”

  “What of the Princess of Wales?”

  “A possibility, but in that case, we’d need to find her agent. Damnation! Your pardon.”

  Kitty smiled and waved away any concern about strong language. “What?”

  “I should have realized that makes nonsense of it. Even if she sent someone from Italy to do what harm he could, the chance of that person happening to find out about the hastily arranged meeting defies belief. It has to arise out of the princes’ households.”

  As they ate their soup, Kitty considered the situation. “What did the princes do when the alarm was raised?”

  “Fled to the safety of Carlton House. Why?”

  “Only that random questions might help. What, precisely, was the purpose of the meeting?”

  “According to Sidmouth, to spur the Regent into taking up his duties. The plot did bring him racing up to London. Result achieved? Danger over? Your random questions are effective.”

  She smiled at the compliment and helped herself to stewed oysters. At least Kingdom was prompt to please. “Whom else do you have to discuss this with? Major Beaumont and Sir Stephen?”

  “And another, the Earl of Charrington.”

  “Such high circles I’m brushing against!”

  He gave her a look. “I’m sure some of the men who attended the Kit Kat Club were of high rank.”

  “Ah, so you heard that term. It wasn’t at all political.”

  “I never imagined it was.”

  “It wasn’t all frivolity, either. The talk was often of weighty matters, especially to do with the war. As for high rank, the noblemen were nearly all younger sons.” She took some bread and buttered it. “Is the Earl of Charrington a friend?”

  “An acquaintance only, but a friend of Beaumont and Ball. He came up to Town to deal with some business and probably wishes he hadn’t. You’ll meet him tonight. I invited him to join us at the theater, along with the others.”

  Kitty was pouring herself more tea, and paused. “And wives, I hope.”

  “You worry about being in only male company?”

  “Not worry, precisely, but in public I’d rather present a more commonplace appearance.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Perfectly possible! I don’t want . . .”

  “To remind anyone of the Kit Kat Club? Did you mind your husband’s hospitality? Being adored by a horde of young men?”

  Kitty wanted to protest that word again, but he needed an answer. She took time to complete the pouring of her tea and topped up his cup. “I didn’t mind the hospitality. Marcus would have hated lack of company. He didn’t like reading or any handicraft, and so had no occupation when alone.”

  “He had you.”

  “And we enjoyed some pleasant times, but he needed the company of men.”

  “You might have enjoyed the company of women.”

  “Heavens, are you imagining me in confinement? I went around the area to
the shops and such, and took Sillikin for walks, often meeting other women and enjoying some gossip. Janet Saunders, my seamstress, is a friend. I enjoyed my visit there today.”

  He stirred sugar into his tea. “And at the Abbey you have only Ruth Lulworth.”

  “Ruth is enough,” Kitty said, though inside she knew it wasn’t quite true. She was like Marcus in enjoying a merry group. How hard to please she was. “Let’s return to your business. Have you considered that the dukes of Clarence, Kent, and Sussex might have gathered to concoct a deep, dark plot to usurp the throne?”

  “I must confiscate your novels.”

  “I haven’t had time to read one for ages. I know history, however, and brothers have united to remove an unjust or inadequate ruler.”

  “True, but you imply a plot against the Regent. Wallowing in grief is not so heinous a sin.”

  “I’m sure the queen would like to slap the Regent’s fat bottom for it. I’ve heard she has a stern way with her children.”

  “Which is proof only that a stern way with children doesn’t achieve desirable results.”

  Kitty sipped her tea, eyeing him. “Were your parents stern?”

  “Not particularly. School was another matter. Yours?”

  “Not at all, and not at school, either.”

  “Which probably explains everything.”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. He smiled, but a topic lurked, unacknowledged. “So, if we have children,” she said, “we will be indulgent?”

  “No. But not unkind, I hope.”

  “Never unkind. I’d insist on that. But it is unlikely,” she reminded him.

  “And as promised, you’ll hear no recriminations from me.”

  But will you mind?

  She was beginning to think she might. Being childless with Marcus hadn’t bothered her. She’d never thought deeply about it, but must have known it would create an impossible situation. Now, with three homes and ample money . . . There was no benefit to dwelling on that, and truly it was a hazardous business for women.

  “What will we see at the theater tonight?” she asked.

  “Guy Mannering. It’s the first time it’s been staged, so an unknown quantity. And a farce. I forget what.”