The Viscount Needs a Wife

by Jo Beverley

  “Forget?” she teased.

  “You’ve scrambled my wits.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll enjoy my first trip to the theater no matter what’s on stage.” She considered a plate of damson tarts, but decided she’d eaten enough. Braydon was staring into space. “Penny for your thoughts?” she asked.

  He blinked. “My apologies. Thoughts of theatricals. We’ve let our imaginations run wild because the affair of the three princes does feel like a farce, where no plot device is too wild.”

  “Which might be why I’m enjoying talking about it. I might be less gleeful about a true attempt at murder.”

  “As you should be. Someone intended something and took a great risk over it. The attempted murder of three princes would not be treated lightly by the courts, whether it was intended to work or not. The culprit could still hang.”

  “Then who took such a risk and why? What gain was worth the possible price?”

  “Precisely. I’ll visit Sidmouth this afternoon to see if anything new has come to light. What are your plans?”

  “A walk in the park for Sillikin, and another visit to the house. I want to take a more serious look at what needs to be done if we’re to use it in spring.” She couldn’t resist asking, “You’re not tempted by such delights?”

  “Extremely, but there is a serious matter beneath the farce, and I must attend to it.”

  That could be true, or it could be a polite excuse. She had no doubt he enjoyed her company in the night, but was less sure about during the daytime. Perhaps all Kit Kat’s adoring men only enjoyed her company in a group.

  Except for Edison. She hoped she’d seen the last of him.

  Chapter 38

  Complete with entourage, Kitty gave Sillikin exercise and then continued to the house on foot. She did intend a more thorough inspection, and would have some furniture unshrouded, but she had a purpose beyond that. If the house was as it had been when the fifth viscount died, it might tell her more about him.

  Consequently, when she arrived at the house, she set Henry to chatting to the housekeeper and getting as much gossip as possible, and Edward to inspecting the mundane parts of the house and the yard behind. Keeping her cloak and gloves on, she went directly to the bedrooms. If anything personal remained, it would be there.

  She entered Lady Dauntry’s bedroom first. No matter what the sleeping arrangements had been when Diane had been a dutiful wife, once she’d gone, her husband would surely have used this rather than his dressing room.

  Kitty opened the doors of the clothes press, but there were no clothes there. She took the cotton dust covers off the bed, night table, and washstand, revealing no secrets. But then, as she fully opened the small drawer in the night table, she found a slim brown book. The gold title on the spine said Town Follies. She opened it and found humorous and often salty poetry about society’s foibles.

  That fit with her assumption that the fifth viscount had not been a man for serious matters. But when she flipped through the pages, she found dried rose petals between tissue paper in one space. Did the petals belong to some other person, or had he been the romantic sort to treasure such mementoes?

  Of Diane, once?

  That verged on tragedy.

  She put the book in her pocket and went to the dressing room. She found no personal items there, either. Some damnably efficient person had cleared out everything.

  She went next to the library downstairs, where there were still books on the shelves. She unshrouded the desk, but all she found in the drawers were some stray ivory gaming counters and a few tradesmen’s cards. She studied them but could see nothing of importance.

  She walked along the shelves, wondering if there were any secrets to be found in the books. More dried flowers, or even love notes? A search would be exhausting, however, and she didn’t have the time.

  But then a slim, tall book caught her eye.

  It almost filled the height of the shelf and had been put beside one of the wooden dividers so that the brown spine seemed part of it. Placed there deliberately so as not to catch the eye? When she eased it out, she found it was a ledger quite similar to the ones at the Abbey. This one was used for accounts.

  Unlike Braydon’s neat records, the handwriting was messy and often wandered off the lines. She recognized it as the fifth viscount’s.

  To repair of leading on the front window.

  For new fire irons.

  To repair thatch on the north side.

  Not this house, then. There was no thatch here, and it was rare in London these days.

  She checked the flyleaf and found L Cottage, Edgware.

  Edgware!

  So the fifth viscount had taken an interest in a place there, but it had somehow slipped out of the rest of the viscountcy’s records.

  Or been hidden?

  Braydon would shake his head at that, but the way the book had been placed on the shelf was suggestive.

  She flipped through a few more pages, hoping for secrets, but all she found were entries for maintenance of the property and furnishings. There was nothing to do with food or drink, so he’d been maintaining it but not living in it. She’d thought before that the Edgware property could be something like the Beecham Dab almshouses—a forgotten charity. But why would that be secret? Had the dowager been so domineering that the poor man had even hidden his benevolence?

  When she looked at the last entry, she saw it had been made only a few weeks before his death, perhaps just before he’d returned to the Abbey for the last time.

  For the new rosebush by the back door.

  Would he care about such a thing for almshouses?

  Kitty returned to the front. The first entry had been in 1814, years after Diane had fled, but there could have been previous books.

  In a novel she’d find Diane at this house in Edgware, run mad and being cared for under her husband’s loving supervision. That would explain why he’d never sought to divorce her. Braydon would scoff at the very idea, but there was a mystery here and it needed to be solved. She’d find time to go to Edgware. It wasn’t many miles from Mayfair.

  The book was too large for her pocket so she put it in her muff. She didn’t have time for a longer search of the library, so she joined Henry and Mrs. Grant in the housekeeper’s parlor.

  There Kitty carefully posed one question. “There must have been an inventory when the fifth viscount died, Mrs. Grant.”

  “Oh yes, milady. And very thorough. Down to the last spoon.”

  “Where would that be?”

  “I think Mr. Palfrey has it, ma’am. His lordship’s solicitor. I hope you don’t think anything’s gone missing, ma’am.”

  Kitty made haste to reassure her. “I’m simply curious. I’ll obtain a copy and read it in due course. I disarranged some of the covers in order to get a better feel for the house. It’s pleasant, isn’t it?”

  “I think so, ma’am. Nothing fancy and a bit faded, but well-done.”

  “I’ll make arrangement for someone to come about the Rumford stove and the boiler. There will be some disorder as it’s fitted, and I may require some repainting as well. If you wish to move out for a little while, you must do so.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I’ll stay to make sure it’s all done right.”

  Kitty took tea, hoping for some scrap of gossip, but all she achieved was confirmation that the fifth viscount had spent little time in this house.

  Mrs. Grant turned sad. “When I think, milady, that he spent only two nights here before traveling to the Abbey, and was dead a week later. We never know, do we, when God will call us?”

  “No,” Kitty said. “We don’t.”

  She was weary of thoughts of death and turned her mind to the spring, when this house would come to life and she and Braydon would be here for months. They would entertain, and perhaps sh
e would be able to hold a weekly Kit Kat Club. Isabella would still be in mourning, but she could enjoy the quieter delights of Town.

  It was beginning to grow dark when Kitty left the house, and she was glad of Edward. He got them a hackney, but as there was time, Kitty had it take them to a gaslit street where she could browse the brightly lit windows. She saw ideas for her rooms at the Abbey, and some for the town house, but her main target was Hatchard’s Book Shop. She must fulfill Isabella’s request.

  Henry had never shopped after dark, and was as delighted as Kitty by the show. After buying a number of novels of the less-dramatic sort, they spent a pleasant hour wandering back past enticing shops and sometimes entering to make purchases. Kitty chose some items to be sent directly to the Abbey, but carried most of her purchases with her. Or, rather, with Edward, who was disappearing under a pile of packages. He got some relief when some of Kit Kat’s admirers took their share, but they were becoming a group likely to block the way.

  “Gentlemen! I must hurry home, for I’m to attend the theater tonight. Please, someone find me a hackney.”

  Major Porteous obliged, but by the time Kitty, Henry, Edward, and the packages were inside, they’d teased out of her what theater she was to attend. It had been impossible to refuse, but she hoped they wouldn’t be tiresome.

  Chapter 39

  Kitty found that her refurbished gown had arrived and was delighted by Janet’s work. The blue gown had been transformed by the gauze overlay and Vandyke lace. The black gauze should have made it dismal, but there was a silvery sheen to it that caught the candlelight. Janet had made a bandeau to match, and when Henry had arranged Kitty’s hair in a confection of rolls and curls, she put it in place. With the jet, Kitty knew she looked in the height of style.

  She was still keen to get Braydon’s opinion, but she saw it instantly in his eyes. He kissed her hand. “In that frame, you glow like a candle.”

  She admired him, too, in his formal evening wear. “I’ve never seen you in all black before.”

  “You approve?”

  “You shine like gold and ivory,” she said, “and I’ve always appreciated a well-dressed gentleman. It’s probably why I liked uniforms so much.”

  “London uniforms,” he said, as they went to the dining room. “There’s rarely anything elegant about them on campaign.” He seated her and went to his own chair. “Tell me about your afternoon.”

  “I visited the house again. I’m not sure what makes one house pleasing and another of the same design not, but it’s pleasing. I’ll enjoy spending time there. I remembered that there would have been an inventory when the fifth viscount died. Was there anything interesting in that?”

  “Three good beds, four good mattresses, five silver porringers. . . . I never read it.”

  “Tut-tut! You might have found explosives or bloody daggers.”

  “Novels,” he said again as he served her with soup.

  “Some are very sober and improving.”

  “Then I go odds you’ve never read them.”

  “Are you saying I’m unimproved, sir?” she asked, dipping her spoon into chicken soup.

  “Unimprovable, perhaps,” he said. A smile suggested a compliment, but it could be taken another way.

  She ate some soup, then said, “Do you remember Edgware?”

  She could almost see him rifle through mental records. “You found a letter from the fifth viscount—no, to him—about the lease of a house in Edgware.”

  “Do you remember the date?”

  “September 1808. Perhaps the twenty-eighth.”

  “You could be making that up. Oh, very well, but it’s uncanny.”

  “My burden to bear. What is significant about Edgware?”

  They’d finished their soup, so Kitty rang for the next course. “I found a record book concerning a place in Edgware. In the fifth viscount’s handwriting.”

  “Where?”

  Edward came in to take away the soup. Kitty decided it wasn’t a secret subject. “On a bookshelf, in a way that was partially concealed.”

  “I suppose you now want to search the town house from cellars to attics. Hoping for skeletons?”

  Her speculations about a madwoman were definitely not for the servant’s ears. She’d dismissed it at first, but had reconsidered over the past few hours. People did go mad, and family sometimes tried to conceal that fact.

  “No,” she said, “but I intend to make time to visit Edgware.” Before he could object, she said, “The records are all of repairs and replacements—I’ll show you later—so the repairs might have stopped, as with the almshouses in Beecham Dab.”

  “L Cottage sounds singular,” he pointed out.

  “Very well, not almshouses. Perhaps a place for an old servant. His nurse, even.”

  Edward had laid out sliced beef in a sauce and dishes of vegetables, and brought over some wine that had been waiting. He left and closed the door, and Braydon poured.

  “Possibly, but you’re being a curious cat again.”

  Kitty helped herself from the dishes. “I admit it, but it could be of some importance, and apart from buying things for the Abbey, I don’t have much to do.”

  She told him about some of her purchases as they ate, but though he was polite, she could tell he thought them trivialities.

  “Your visit to the Home Secretary?” she asked, sipping her wine.

  “Probably best not discussed here. Later.”

  Later, in bed, after much more interesting matters? “I suppose,” she said, “my priorities for later make me a shallow person.”

  “Impossible,” he responded with a smile, “for then I’d be shallow, too.”

  “We don’t squabble, do we?”

  “We don’t. Thus far we haven’t fought, either, which is probably as well. I suspect you’re a fiery warrior.”

  “I’m not meek. I doubt I could ever be.”

  “I have no complaint.”

  She rang for their final course. “Nor have I. I feel as if I won a lottery.”

  “We did both gamble,” he agreed, “but not so blindly. I knew you were a dear friend of Ruth Lulworth’s, and you must have known something of me from them.”

  Kitty waited until the sweet course was laid out, along with dried fruits and nuts.

  “Let’s see,” she said, taking some pear tart. “You were not objectionable—”

  “High praise!”

  “But unlikely to abandon your London ways.”

  “True.”

  “But you had Andrew Lulworth’s approval as a good man, and that was enough for me.”

  “We still could have been incompatible.”

  “Which was why I wanted to delay the wedding. I was expecting a week to learn about you, but you made haste back to Town.”

  “I was terrified of Isabella.”

  “Ha!”

  “Truly. I couldn’t discount the possibility of her sneaking into my bedroom one night, stripping naked, and then screaming for help. It seemed much wiser to be out of reach. I didn’t think of it from your point of view.”

  “We must get Isabella away from the dowager.”

  “Perhaps the Hartleys will be kind, warmhearted people with whom she’d like to live.”

  “A mere baronet?” Kitty asked. “The worst of her might come from the dowager, but she has a fine opinion of herself. A visit, perhaps, but not a home. She needs a grand marriage, and unless we can free her from the dowager, as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll not force her to it.”

  “Of course not. But if a duke proposes . . .”

  “As long as it’s not a royal one!”

  Kitty chuckled, and they spent the rest of the meal harmoniously discussing future plans. But Kitty wondered if he, like her, was thinking of the time between—the winter, when she woul
d be tussling with Beauchamp Abbey, and he would be mostly in Town, entangled in plots and mayhem.

  A bit more Shakespeare. Something about a winter of discontent. The countryside in winter. Stark trees against frosted fields, and chilly journeys to even the closest places. Despite the Dutch stove, her breath would frost in the Abbey as she went from room to room, and if the weather turned really bad, she could be trapped there for days or even weeks by snow and ice. She thought wistfully of the neat town house, which would be easy to keep warm and where shops and amusements would be only streets away.

  I have such pleasures for now, she reminded herself, and I will enjoy every moment.

  Braydon had hired a livery carriage to take them to the theater, so they didn’t have to take their chance on a hackney. It came provided with hot bricks, so that in her velvet cloak Kitty was comfortable all the way. Edward and Henry had gone ahead to ensure their box was ready for them, and they’d stay as personal attendants.

  The outside of the theater was lit by brilliant gaslight, and the same greeted them inside. Kitty wrinkled her nose at the smell, but it wasn’t too bad, and the brightness was magical. They had come for the play, but the pit and high gallery were already filled by people who’d come for the earlier parts of the program. Kitty wanted to put her hands over her ears. The intermission chatter approached cacophony.

  Nearly everyone was in sober colors, but most particularly in the rows of boxes. Kitty was thankful for the black gauze and velvet, for her unmodified blue might have seemed too bright, and her blue cloak would have been disastrous.

  Lady Ball was in a dark, steely gray, but Mrs. Beaumont was in white. It was a very simple design, however, and she wore a large and lovely black lace shawl over it and pearl and jet ornaments.

  “White was the color of mourning, you know,” she said as she took a seat in the box. “And people understand that the White Dove never wears colors, not even on the stage. You’re fortunate, Lady Dauntry. Dark colors frame you. White would never suit.”

  “What’s it like to be on the stage, looking out at so many people,” Kitty asked, “all expecting wonders from you?”