The Kiss of a Viscount (The Daughters of the Aristocracy) (6 page)

Josephine shrugged. “He must. He is the sole heir to the Chichester dukedom,” she replied in a manner that said she fully expected the new duke to survive. “And since Lady Charlotte was betrothed to the Earl of Grinstead, and since he, the older brother, perished in the fire as did the duke, it seems she will become a duchess upon her marriage to Joshua.” She paused a moment before adding, “A far better fit for Lady Charlotte than John the younger was, to be sure.”

David couldn’t argue there. John Wainwright II was a rake of the worst kind. He wouldn’t be missed by anyone but those whose clubs and brothels he frequented when he was in town. The marquess realized then his attention had been deliberately misled by the woman who sat across from him. “But the Wainwrights’ deaths aren’t the reason you wore black today,” he stated finally, realizing there was more to Josephine’s visit than news he could get from
The Times
.

“Indeed. I had word from the Continent that my sister died.” She said the words without the least bit of sadness to her voice.

David blinked and then furrowed his brows. “I take it you two were not close,” he ventured. He wondered if he should extend sympathies but thought better of it when Josephine shook her head.

Josephine had to breathe very carefully in order to stave off the warring emotions she was experiencing. Relief, at hearing her sister had finally died of the French pox she’d contracted while a mistress to a French army general, and hatred that her sister had been a traitor to the Crown. “At one time, we were. Before she broke one of the cardinal rules of being a mistress,” Josephine remarked, wondering if she could now tell David Carlington the true identify of the woman who had sold his pillow talk to the French and nearly forced him to give up his marquessate and his seat in Parliament.

“There are
rules
?” he teased, trying to lighten the mood in the study. He thought of asking if he might light another cheroot. Even if it was still morning, this type of conversation warranted a smoke. Or perhaps a brandy. “I wasn’t aware.”

There were rules, of course, and Josephine knew the man was aware of at least a few of them. Or perhaps he wasn’t, and that’s why he had been so unguarded back then.

Shame on him
.

Josephine regarded David Carlington for a long minute, deciding she should tell him what she knew. “My mother taught my sister and me that we were to take only one client at a time,” she commented lightly, as if she were reciting a rule of business. “You see, if a mistress takes money to warm a man’s bed, then she cannot in good conscious take money from another in exchange for the knowledge she has gained at the expense of the first.” She sat very still for a moment, wondering if the marquess would make the connection. Apparently, he did not. At least, not right away.

It had been ten years, after all.

The marquess stiffened, his gaze on her suddenly wary. “Does this have anything to do with the note you sent me about my mistress sharing information with the enemy?” he wondered, remembering the day he received the damning parchment. The beautifully written but startling missive described how everything he had shared with his mistress was being passed onto the French. He hadn’t known Josephine back then, so the signature on the note meant nothing. And he chose to ignore the warning, thinking a jealous peer was trying to stir up trouble. He was sure that Genevieve could be trusted. “How did you ...
know
?” he asked, his face suddenly hardening.

Back then, when they had finally met in person, he didn’t ask Josephine how she
knew
about Genevieve and her arrangement; his only query regarding the note, asked of her during one of their late morning meetings, had to do with
why
she would send a note to a man she had not yet met telling him his mistress was selling his secrets to the enemy. And she was quick to explain that she was loyal to Crown and country, having already gained an appreciation for politics from her second protector.

Josephine realized from David’s face that he was making the connection. “Genevieve’s real name was Jennifer Wentworth. She was my sister.”

The marquess held very still for a long time, his expression not giving away the tumultuous feelings he was experiencing at that moment. There was relief, to be sure, in finally knowing the true identity of the woman who had betrayed him, but the addition of grief and anger made for a heady mix. He shook himself from his reverie. “I am sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, realizing he meant what he said. Despite her traitorous turn, the woman was Josephine’s sister. A woman he at one time had happily bedded and perhaps even loved. A woman he had shared far too much with and been forced to pay dearly for the mistake.

“Thank you,” Josephine replied, knowing the sentiment only applied to her and not to the dead relative.

“A drink?” he asked, reaching for the brandy decanter on the counter behind his desk. He was tempted to offer her a cheroot just to discover if she would accept.

“It’s not even half past ten, Morganfield,” she countered, although the sound of her voice indicated she would welcome the drink. Even before she finished her comment, the marquess had poured a finger’s worth into a small snifter. He held it out to her. She took it with a black kid-gloved hand and waited as he poured one for himself.

“And isn’t it a bit early for
you
to be making calls?” he countered as he leaned back in his seat behind the burnished mahogany desk. Mistresses were usually abed until after noon. By asking the question, the marquess was reminding her that he was aware it was still her profession.

Josephine smiled at that. “I haven’t kept late hours in a very long time,” she answered lightly, deciding the few moments she had mourned Jenny were quite enough for the time being. “One has to be up early to read an entire copy of
The Times
and half the
Observer
before noon.”

Remembering what Alfred had said was the reason for her call, David regarded Josephine for a moment. Their rather odd association had begun many years ago, quite by accident and because of the man to whom Josephine was contracted at the time. With Genevieve’s betrayal of him to the French came scandal, loss of power and a stain on his political career. At home, the fallout from the scandal caused his world to collapse. His wife, Adeline, barely acknowledged him, but was able to continue her movement in Society by immersing herself in charity work. Josephine’s protector, an earl, mentioned Josephine’s political acumen over a game of cards. During the course of several months, the earl relayed her recommendations to David – recommendations based on her analysis of news from around the world as well as political happenings in England – as a means of helping the marquess restore his name and good standing in Parliament. Besides being instrumental in restoring his credibility in the House of Lords following the scandal – she knew how to steer reporters to her cause and knew how to start and stop gossip – she continued to be a valuable resource when she would warn him of impending power plays, describe the maneuverings of political opponents, and recommend society events to attend for political gain.

And her loyalty to him was unquestioned.

When he had asked many years ago why she would provide him with such information, apparently with no strings attached and for no recompense, she responded with a shrug. “I merely wish to see our government act in the best interest of the country,” she had said. “And one day, I expect I shall be married to a man of industry. Anything I can do now to make it possible for his business to thrive in the future makes it worth the effort.”

Odd, he thought, that a mistress would expect to be married to a cit.
Unless she was already betrothed.

“I appreciate your keeping up on current events, Josie,” he finally acknowledged as he leaned forward, his elbows resting against the front of the desk. “What have you discovered since our last meeting?”

The mistress took a sip from her brandy and leaned back in her chair. She should not have been surprised that he would serve her his best, so she held the liquid in her mouth and savored the smoky flavor before swallowing. “Although he did not make an appearance in chambers before the summer, the new Earl of Trenton will do so when the sessions begin in the fall,” she stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “You will find his attitude a bit ... uncouth. He is young, rather brash, quite rich and ...” She held her breath for effect. “Very spoiled.” Josephine paused again, remembering the letter she’d received from Staffordshire a few months ago. How fortuitous that her friend Anna had been the one to service the newly minted earl whilst he spent an evening at the Spread Eagle. “The earl’s views are diametrically opposed to yours. He will attempt to embarrass you if you appear to hold fast to old ideals. He is hungry for power. He will be very determined to make his mark. Every debutante in the
ton
will want him as a husband.

“And he is looking to marry.” This last comment was delivered with an arched eyebrow, suggesting she knew just the debutante that might appeal to the new earl. Then she said something so incongruent, it actually surprised David Carlington.

“Lord Bostwick is also looking to marry.”

The marquess swallowed the rest of his brandy in a single gulp and regarded Josephine, trying to figure out for himself how the young upstart earl might upset the House of Lords. If the man was as young and brash as she suggested, he wouldn’t be taken seriously by his peers.
And what did it matter that both an earl and a viscount were in the market for a wife?
“So, what am to do about this new Earl of Trenton?”

Josephine placed her snifter on the small table next to her chair and sighed. “Oh, Morganfield.” She took a deep breath. “I know, despite what you have done in the past, you have
said
you do not wish to influence your daughter as to whom she will marry. But the Earl of Trenton will probably ask for her hand. He knows that once his views become apparent to the peers, and that your views are opposite, a marriage to Lady Elizabeth will be seen as an embarrassment of sorts. He’ll be
family
. How can you be seen opposing your own son-in-law?”

David Carlington’s face displayed a look of shock. “And how can
he
be seen opposing
me
?” he countered defensively, his ire suddenly up.

Josephine leaned forward. “He is young and brash. Eton and Cambridge educated. You will not wish to get into a sparring match with words with an upstart earl. Especially now that John Wainwright won’t be there to help you.”

Reeling at the comment, David sat back in his chair.
So, that’s why she brought up the Wainwrights
, he suddenly realized. Shaking his head, the marquess regarded Josephine for a long minute. There was a hint of anger in his eyes – that last bit had stung – but he finally forced it under control. After this many years, he knew not to kill the messenger. Especially not this messenger. “So, what do you suggest I do?” he wondered, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk.

A smile widening on her face, Josephine paused a moment before answering. “Consider George Bennett-Jones, Viscount Bostwick, as a son-in-law.” She watched with a great deal of satisfaction as David Carlington sat back in his chair and seemed to give her suggestion its due. Then she saw his brow furrow and his head shake from side to side. “Why ever not?” she asked then, a bit exasperated and trying desperately to keep a calm façade. She clasped her hands together in her lap in an effort to keep them from drumming against her lap.

She’d thought this out quite thoroughly. It was a good plan. It made good political sense. Lady Elizabeth was determined to be married before Christmas. And George needed a wife. The sooner Josephine got him married off, the sooner she could make plans for her own marriage – for her own future.

“Elizabeth would never give George any consideration as a possible husband,” the marquess finally answered with another shake of his head.

“Why ever not?”

David sighed, and his shoulders actually sagged a bit. “While I am not opposed to her marrying beneath her station, I doubt Elizabeth will consider anyone less than an earl. And I rather doubt her mother would agree to such a match,” he added quickly. “She wants to see Elizabeth suitably settled, preferably as a duchess,” – he said this last with a hint of humor, as if there was no chance his daughter could marry a duke – it wasn’t as if there were a number of them needing wives just then – “But she’ll accept her as a countess. Probably not as a viscountess.” Despite the reasons he’d just given for his daughter and wife to oppose the marriage, Josephine could tell from his expression that David Carlington at least found merit in the suggestion that Lord Bostwick would make a suitable match.

And more importantly, he wasn’t
opposed
to the suggestion.

“I see,” she said with a slight nod, pretending that she was giving up on the idea. “I have taken too much of your time already, my lord. Please let Lady Morganfield know that I was here in the event a neighbor asks about the widow who paid a visit, won’t you?” she said as she stood. She gave an elegant curtsy to David’s perfunctory bow.

“I will be sure to do so,” he acknowledged, always impressed with how Josephine was able to keep secret her visits to his home. “And, thank you, Josie. You always bring me such interesting information,” he added with a quirked lip.

George Bennett-Jones’ mistress left the study and hurried to the vestibule, pausing to hand the butler a small note, on which were the words
ostrich feather
written in a perfect script. “See to it her ladyship gets this, won’t you, Alfred?” she asked. “They’re all the rage in fashion now,” she added, hoping her comment would deflect the butler from guessing the real reason for the note. “Oh,” she said as she held up a finger and fished a charcoal pencil from her reticule. “Let me add something on the back.” She took the card from the butler and wrote in the same perfect script,
Do not discount a viscount
on the back. Handing the card back to Alfred, Josephine gave him a nod. She then hurried to her waiting coach, remembering at the last moment before leaving the house to pull down the somber veil of her hat to cover her face.

Having staunched her feelings about her sister’s death for far too long, Josephine was suddenly overcome by grief. She spent the entire ride back to her townhouse quietly crying.