The Charity of a Viscount

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Luke Merriweather stood up from a chair near the fireplace and gave a quick bow as Analise grinned from the settee. “Father!” she said in greeting. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Marcus was about to ask what they had been doing while they had been waiting for him, but then he noticed Analise’s lady’s maid. She was sitting in a chair at the back of the parlor, busy sewing. He felt a bit of relief knowing they had a chaperone. “Apologies for my late return.”

  “How was the park?” Analise asked as she stood up and kissed him on the cheek. She stepped back and regarded him a moment, her eyes narrowing. Her father looked... different. His lips were a bit puffy. And he had a glow about him she hadn’t seen before.

  “We never got that far,” he admitted. “There was a... a runaway coach-and-four, and after I got it under control, Lady Wadsworth asked to be taken home.”

  Analise blinked. She was about to accuse him of having gone into Lady Wadsworth’s home with the countess and enjoying a different kind of ride, but she didn’t want to shock him with what she knew of consenting adults and bedchambers. “You...?”

  “Yes. I know it seems unlikely of me, but I saved Lady Pettigrew from certain injury. Death, even,” he said in an exaggerated manner. “Now... what have we here?”

  Analise blinked again, but it was Luke who spoke up. “Well done, old man,” he said with a nod. “If ever there was a woman you wanted to impress, Lady Pettigrew is the one. Never want to be on her bad side,” he added with a grin.

  Marcus sized up the viscount for a moment before turning his attention back to his daughter. “What have we here?” he asked again.

  Inhaling with the intention of replying, Analise didn’t have a chance when Luke said, “I would like to request your permission to court your daughter.”

  A punch in the gut wouldn’t have had the impact the younger viscount’s words had just then. Marcus stared at Luke for a long time before he gave his head a quick shake. “No,” he replied finally.

  “No?” Analise repeated. “But—”

  “Why ever not?” Luke asked, surprised by the outright denial. “You said you didn’t want Haddon courting her.”

  “I don’t want anyone courting her,” Marcus replied. “She’s too young to marry—”

  “He’s not proposing, Father,” Analise argued. “And you married Mother when she was only a year older than I am now.”

  “Two years,” Marcus countered.

  “My birthday is tomorrow,” she reminded him, her gaze going to the box he held under his arm.

  Marcus drew in a breath and finally let it out, as if in surrender. “So it is. But I still think you’re too young to... for courtship.”

  Analise sighed. “I promise, Father, that when I do decide to marry, I will do so with someone I love,” she assured him. “Not like Mother and you.”

  A hiss came from Luke before he could cover his mouth with a hand while Marcus furrowed a brow at his daughter. “Now, see here, young lady. I won’t have you saying such things about your mother,” Marcus said, a hint of warning coloring his words.

  “Oh, Father, you were never in love with mother. At least, not like that,” Analise replied with a shake of her head. She had to suppress the grin she nearly allowed at seeing her father’s expression of shock.

  “But... but I was,” he argued.

  “As a friend, yes. Her very best friend,” Analise agreed. “But you two were not in love. Not like I think you are with Lady Wadsworth.”

  Marcus darted a glance at Luke, hoping he might chime in with some useful words. He allowed a grimace when he saw the younger viscount’s expression, though. The Viscount Wessex was staring at Analise with eyes that could have belonged to a puppy dog. Luke would probably start drooling at any moment if Marcus didn’t redirect his attention. “And what say you, Wessex?”

  “She is right,” Luke replied. “You are truly, madly, deeply in love with the lady, and it would behoove you to do something about it.”

  Marcus was about to respond with a less than complimentary comeback, but he couldn’t help but notice how his daughter was gazing at Luke—with eyes that looked like they belonged to a puppy dog—and he blinked.

  “Oh!” he managed to get out. For just a moment, he understood how it was a woman could faint. For there was that dizzying sensation in his head at the same time he couldn’t seem to catch a breath, and stars were darting about in front of his eyes. “How long has this been going on?” he asked in dismay, one of his fingers waving in the air.

  “This?” Analise repeated.

  Marcus used a hand to form a circle in the space between her and Luke. “Yes. This,” he repeated. “You two.”

  Analise took on the persona of a demure young lady at the same moment Luke straightened and lifted his chin. “Since the night of the Attenborough ball, if you must know.”

  “The afternoon after it, actually,” Analise corrected him. “During the ride in the park.”

  “So says the woman who couldn’t afford me a dance the night before,” Luke chided her, although his expression still displayed his desire for her.

  “I would have danced with you if my card hadn’t already been full,” she assured him. “Darling.”

  Marcus rolled his eyes, about to ask if they were putting on some kind of show as a means of teasing him.

  But Luke had stepped forward and taken both of Analise’s hands in his. “My sweeting,” he murmured.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Marcus asked in alarm.

  “Saving you from having to purchase another Season of gowns for your daughter,” Luke replied, his attention never leaving Analise. “Or from sending her to a nunnery.” He managed to pull his gaze from Analise long enough to regard Marcus with a raised brow. “I do have your permission, do I not?”

  Marcus blinked again in an effort to clear the odd stars from his eyes. “Oh, dear,” he managed to get out, his hand going out to the back of a chair so that he might have something to fall against.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Luke said before he turned his attention back to Analise. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Analise dimpled and gave a slight bob before saying, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

  Luke pulled on her hands until she was standing as close as she could without touching his body. He leaned down and took her lips with his own in a brief kiss, as if to seal the deal.

  All the while Marcus slowly fell to the carpet in a dead faint.

  Chapter 35

  Aftermath

  Five minutes later

  “I’ve a mind to challenge you to a duel in Wimbledon Common,” Marcus murmured as he stared up at Luke. Although he had ended up in a sitting position, propped up against a chair after his head had begun to spin, he was well aware of just where he was and why he had suffered such a fate. “And I would if I wasn’t so damned hungry.”

  Analise stepped forward with a plate of walnuts. “Eat some, Father. You’ll feel better,” she said as she knelt down in front of him. “I apologize for not having said anything before today. I just wasn’t sure how to.”

  Marcus frowned. “A few words is all it would have taken,” he chided her.

  “I was going to say something at dinner the other night, but I didn’t think it appropriate with Lady Wadsworth in attendance,” she countered.

  His lips protruding in a pout, Marcus helped himself to a fistful of nuts and ate one. “Do tell me you weren’t trying to hide anything from me,” he said, an eyebrow arching up as if he were daring his daughter to lie.

  “We weren’t trying to hide anything from you,” she said, just before her lips pressed together. “At least, not intentionally.” When she saw his eyes widen, she added, “Every moment I have spent with Luke—”

  “Luke?”

  Analise allowed a prim smile. “He told me today I could call him Luke,” she argued. “And in the event you think we have been sneaking about, let me assure you that every moment I have s
pent with him has been done so in the company of others.”

  Marcus blinked, just then realizing he hadn’t spent much time in her company the past week. “Such as?” he prompted, a bit alarmed that he had somehow missed the blossoming relationship.

  Had he been so involved with thoughts of Charity that he had ignored his own daughter?

  “Lady Morganfield’s soirée, rides in the park, Lady Torrington’s musicale, and this afternoon’s call,” she recited for him. “We were hoping you might make the announcement at the next ball.”

  Marcus blinked again. “Oh, you were?” he countered, although he couldn’t seem to muster the kind of protest he probably should have.

  “Just after you announce your engagement to Lady Wadsworth,” Analise went on, ignoring his jibe.

  Marcus’s mouth dropped open. “Well, you’ve certainly given this a good deal of thought,” he accused.

  “Well, of course I have,” she replied. “Marriage is a serious undertaking. I refuse to marry just anyone, and I certainly didn’t want to end up with some old...” She was about to say ‘fart’ but thought better of it. “Old baron.”

  Furrowing a brow, Marcus asked, “Were you going to say ‘old fogey’?” He wondered if she wouldn’t have considered a wounded man simply because he was a cripple.

  “Of course not,” she replied with a quick shake of her head. “I haven’t even been introduced to any officers who were wounded in the war,” she argued. She dipped her head and offered him more walnuts. “Fart,” she whispered. At her father’s arched eyebrow, she added, “I was going to say ‘old fart’.”

  Unable to suppress a grin, Marcus gave his head a shake. “I wouldn’t have allowed you to marry an old fart,” he said on a sigh.

  “And you wouldn’t have allowed me to wed a man as young as Christopher Carlington, so that just left Wessex,” she reasoned. “A rather perfect choice, don’t you agree?”

  Marcus allowed a sigh and moved to get up. Analise straightened and offered him a hand, grabbing and jerking on his arm as he unfolded himself from the floor and stood up. “He isn’t a bad sort,” he hedged.

  “You count him as a friend,” she reminded him, depositing the plate of walnuts on a nearby table.

  “Not after this day,” Marcus argued. At her look of surprise, he added, “Not if he’s to be my son,” he said with a shake of his head. He glanced around the parlor, noting the lady’s maid had taken her leave as had Luke Merriweather. “Speaking of Wessex, what have you done with him?”

  Analise gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I thought it best he take his leave. I didn’t want you challenging him to a duel.”

  “Clever girl.”

  His attention went to the door, where Harrison stood with his hands behind his back. “Dinner is served, my lord, my lady.”

  “Thank the gods,” Marcus said as he offered his daughter an arm.

  Analise regarded his proffered arm a moment before lifting her head. “Did you really stop a runaway coach-and-four?” she asked, as if she just then remembered what he had said earlier.

  Marcus arched a brow at hearing the disbelief in her voice. “I did,” he replied. “Something I know better than to do ever again. I’ll tell you all about it over dinner.”

  Frowning, she murmured, “This sounds like your imagination might have gotten the best of you.”

  Blinking, Marcus shook his head. “Believe me when I say I could not have dreamed up what happened this afternoon. Even my imagination has its limits.”

  With that, Analise placed her arm on his and they made their way to the dining room.

  Chapter 36

  A Matchmaker Meets a Maid

  The following morning

  When the town coach pulled up to Charity’s townhouse at ten o’clock, she was about to tell the driver to take her to ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ when she remembered Mary Baker. Or rather, Mr. Weatherby.

  Thinking it likely that both servants would be in residence at their respective places of employment, she told her driver to take her to Viscount Wessex’s townhouse in South Audley Street.

  Although it wasn’t exactly proper for her to be paying a call on a bachelor’s townhouse, she figured the viscount would be at Parliament. With any luck, the valet would be there, and she could arrange for him to meet Mary Baker.

  Remembering Lancaster’s comment that the housemaid could have a day off for something as important as meeting with a potential husband, Charity decided to take him at his word. She amended her instructions to the driver. “Go to Stanton House first,” she ordered.

  Having passed the white stuccoed townhouse in Park Lane many a time, Charity realized she had never actually stopped and looked at the fashionable abode. The single door, painted a dark green, sported a brass knocker in the shape of a clam shell. Pairs of Palladian windows, trimmed with black gloss paint, were perfectly positioned on either side of the door, and above, the rows of rectangular windows continued for four stories. The number of chimney pots on top suggested there were at least twelve fireplaces inside.

  Remembering the comment about coal buckets, Charity cringed at the thought of having to carry them up even a single flight. And several times.

  She was pondering where the two servants might live should they end up married when Harrison opened the door as she was making her way up to the house.

  “Good day,” she said as the butler assessed her mode of dress and the equipage parked out front. “Mrs. Seward to see Miss Mary Baker,” she said, just then wondering if she should have gone to the back door. Charity was about to make her excuses when she noted how the butler was staring at her. She lifted a gloved hand to her face, thinking she must have a spot of dirt on her cheek.

  “Lady Wadsworth?” he countered. His gaze once again darted to the coach parked out front. The earldom’s seal, emblazoned in gold, clearly showed on the door.

  Charity sighed. “Yes,” she admitted. “Although I am here on behalf of ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’, so I am Mrs. Seward.”

  Harrison gave a nod as he stepped aside. “Of course. Do come in, my lady,” he said, leading her to the upstairs parlor when she declined to give up her pelisse.

  The sound of a small child’s giggle made its way down the steps from the floor above, and Charity paused to listen. The giggle sounded again, and she allowed a grin.

  Harrison paused a moment, turning to note how she had stopped to listen. “Master John takes great delight in vexing the nurse,” he said with a staid expression.

  Charity was about to chide the butler, but thought better of it. Perhaps the boy was simply entertained by something his nurse was doing. Oh, to hear such a sound again, she thought as she hurried to catch up to Harrison.

  “I will have Miss Baker join you momentarily. With tea,” he said before bowing and leaving the room.

  Her gaze taking in the rose and green decor of the parlor, Charity felt a stab of jealousy. Lady Lancaster had obviously had good taste, the furnishings perfectly suited to a parlor that had probably at one time been two rooms. A quick glance at the four windows facing Park Lane confirmed her suspicion, their placement suggesting a wall had at one time stood between them.

  She imagined Lady Lancaster entertaining callers in the parlor, and wondered what it must be like to enjoy the life in Mayfair. Then she remembered that Lady Lancaster hadn’t lived long at this house—perhaps not even a year before she died in the childbed.

  Perhaps it was the former Lady Lancaster who had seen to the decor. Who had ordered the portraits be painted. Charity gazed up at the one over the fireplace, realizing almost immediately that the family in the painting wasn’t Marcus Batey’s family, but rather his father’s. Two boys who barely looked as if they could be brothers stood with their expressionless mother and a stern-faced father, a hunting dog lying at their feet.

  Even when Marcus was at his most serious, he didn’t look as severe as the fifth Viscount Lancaster. A frisson passed through her when she remembered how Ma
rcus had looked at her the night of the Attenborough ball, mischief in his eyes. Their waltz had been exhilarating. The perfect means to forget her despair and remind her there might be a life for her in London.

  When she was sure she knew which boy in the painting was Marcus, Charity turned her attention to the other evidence of family in the room. She was studying a series of miniatures on the fireplace mantle when a maid appeared at the threshold, a tea tray held in front of her.

  Charity waved her in. “I can see to serving,” she said, watching as the timid young woman placed the tray on the low table in front of the settee. Instead of taking her leave, the maid stood nervously to one side and dipped a curtsy.

  “Harrison said you wished to have a word with me.”

  All at once, Charity realized the maid was Mary Baker. “Oh, forgive me. I didn’t realize you were Miss Baker,” she said as she stepped forward. “I am Mrs. Seward. From the charity, ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’.” She held out her hand, and Mary finally took it and gave it an uncertain shake.

  “Hello, my lady,” Mary replied, glancing back toward the hall. “Might you also be Lady Wadsworth? That’s the name Harrison said when he told me I had a caller.”

  Her cover completely blown, Charity angled her head to one side. “Indeed. I am Lady Wadsworth, but not when I am acting in my capacity as a matchmaker,” she said, noting how the maid’s eyes widened at hearing her profession. She indicated the maid should take a seat and then saw to pouring tea. Asking if Mary took sugar or milk, Charity wasn’t surprised by the maid’s response.

  “Both, if I may,” Mary replied, her eyes wide as she watched the countess prepare a cup of tea for her. “Are you acting in your capacity as a matchmaker now?” she asked, struggling with the words to be sure she repeated them correctly.

  “I am,” Charity replied. “I understand you are in need of a husband.”