The Viscount Needs a Wife (24 page)

B
raydon was surprised to realize that he would rather have spent the day with Kitty, even if it involved inspecting the town house and visiting upholsterers and wallpaper manufacturers.

Unexpected, and peculiar.

As it was, he had a dangerous situation to investigate, and he needed allies. Hawkinville had a coterie of gentlemen with a variety of skills, but who would be in Town in December?

One he could count on. Major Hal Beaumont was married to a Drury Lane actress, and the theater was open. Braydon had known Beaumont in the army years ago, but met him again earlier in the year, during another dramatic episode. Despite losing an arm in Canada, he'd been cool and effective. He'd already sent a note asking Beaumont to meet him at Hawkinville's house in Peel Street.

It was a fine gentleman's residence, but three rooms were set apart for Hawkinville's secret administration, disrespectfully dubbed by some as the Hawk's Nest. Braydon found four ex-military men engaged in routine work, collecting and dealing with information from London and around the country, and sending out messages as necessary. There was a pigeon loft in the attics.

Braydon asked what news had leaked about the attempted assassination.

“Only rumors, my lord,” Bob Adams said. He was a stolid, middle-aged man who'd been an undistinguished corporal in the army, but Hawkinville had somehow spotted his cleverness. In fact, Hawkinville had said a clever man was wise to be undistinguished in war. Adams now ran these offices.

“One version,” Adams said with a wry smile, “has it happening in Carlton House.”

“Rather difficult to roll a barrel of gunpowder in there undetected.”

“Easier to roll it to the moon, sir.”

“What villains are active at the moment?”

“If you mean
active
active, sir, no one. There are people writing handbills, and some suspect private meetings, but it's as if rabble-rousing's gone into hibernation.”

“We'll hope it doesn't emerge till spring. Keep alert for anything that might have bearing on the princes' affair, and set a watch on the house where it happened. See if you can discreetly discover the whereabouts of Mrs. Courtenay, and find out if Waller Brothers delivered ale there on Wednesday. The answer is almost certainly no, so what we really need to know is if any of their carts could have been used, and, if so, how. As it happened, the footman never saw the cart, but the villains might have been thorough.”

“Right, sir.”

Beaumont arrived, and he and Braydon went into Hawkinville's office. Braydon told the story.

“Dashed odd,” Beaumont said. He was a handsome, dark-haired man with an easygoing manner that Braydon knew could be deceptive. His empty sleeve was pinned to his chest.

“I've been going over it,” Braydon said. “If not a Protestant German hoping to inherit in decades, what about the Jacobites?”

“After all these years? Are there any claimants left?”

“I believe the next in line is the King of Sardinia.”

“If I were him, I'd stick with a simpler situation and a much better climate.”

“Resist a bigger realm and greater wealth and power?”

“I'm not ambitious. Don't understand the disease.”

“Blessed soul. Very well. What about the French? They're always ready to set Britain at sixes and sevens, and another spurt of Jacobite action here would suit them.”

“There'd be nothing to it. Scotland's not going to rise again, and who else?”

“The Irish?” Braydon offered. “Supporting a Catholic claimant?”

“Any attempt to put a Catholic on the British throne would lead to civil war.”

“Which would suit France nicely.”

Beaumont grimaced. “Ah. It would indeed. It's a long plan, though.”

“It is. The Regent pointed out that working through the existing royal family could take us into the second half of the century.”

“You've discussed this with him?”

“For my sins. Sidmouth was summoned, and I had the misfortune to be with him at the time.”

“A large part of military survival is not being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Beaumont remarked. “The royal dukes aren't the healthiest lot, are they? I don't see old bones in any of them, but, as you say, the princesses, especially the spinster ones, are tougher.”

“Queen Charlotte, Queen Augusta, Queen Elizabeth—”

“Hold on,” Beaumont said. “Charlotte is the Queen of Württemberg! The King of Württemberg might well wish to add Britain to his domain, and he'd only have to knock off the males to get there.”

Braydon hadn't thought of that. “Damn you. How the devil do we investigate a foreign monarch?”

“More to the point, why have you dragged me into this?”

“Desperation.”

Beaumont smiled. “Fair enough. At least the solution's simple. All the princes who are free to marry must do so with all speed, and provide an abundance of legitimate British heirs.”

“But will they do it? They've been altar-shy all their lives.”

“Fault of the damned Marriage Act, but a brush with gunpowder might have toughened their nerves.”

“Death or marriage?” Braydon asked. “The would-be assassin might have done Britain a good turn.”

“As long as he or she doesn't succeed on another occasion.”

“I was wondering who else of Hawkinville's gentlemen are in at the moment. Lord Arden? Lord Amleigh? Mr. Delaney?”

“None of those, though Amleigh's in Sussex, thus close enough to summon. Sir Stephen Ball's in Town. M.P. and lawyer.”

“Isn't he a radical?”

“Say, rather, a reformer. Hawkinville often consults him.”

“Then I'll do so if needed,” Braydon said, but he had reservations. “He's not a military man.”

“Can't see that makes a difference, but I know some military men who are kicking their heels and could be useful.”

“No outsiders as yet. We're to avoid alarm, and I'm not yet clear about what useful action to take. Hawkinville's people here can undertake the routine investigations.”

Beaumont rose. “Then if I'm of no further use, I have another appointment.”

“I'm sure I'll find more uses for you,” Braydon said with a smile. “Thank you. At the least, I need someone to talk this mess over with. Your insights have been helpful.”

“Always willing. Are you free to dine tonight? Blanche isn't performing, and the Balls might be free.”

A cleverly presented opportunity to assess Sir Stephen.

“I'll have to consult my wife. You may not have heard that I'm married.”

“We'd be delighted to meet her.”

“Then unless she's managed to commit us elsewhere in the past few hours, it will be a pleasure.” Curious about the reaction, he said, “She was Mrs. Cateril.”

Beaumont's smile was warm. “Kit Kat! Lucky man. I've wondered what became of her since Cateril died. I'll be delighted to meet her again.”

He left, and Braydon wasted a few minutes probing that response like a tender tooth. Why the hell did it bother him that men lit up like beacons at mention of her? Would he rather have an unappealing wife?

No, but a treasure who'd been tucked away in the country, undiscovered, would be preferable.

He turned his mind to work. Neither he nor Sidmouth had considered that one of the royal family might be trying to do away with others. Even if Charlotte, Queen of Württemberg, wasn't coldhearted enough to try to kill three of her brothers, her husband might be. He was known to be a very unpleasant man.

If the explosion had killed Kent, Clarence, and Sussex, that would have left only the Regent, York, Cumberland, and Cambridge.

The Regent was still married to Caroline of Brunswick.

York had been married for twenty years without issue.

Cumberland had been married for only two years, but there were no children yet and his wife was in her late thirties. Why the devil couldn't he have married a younger woman?

Cambridge would be the only other good possibility for an heir. He lived mostly in Hanover and was effectively ruling it, but that might make him more vulnerable to attack from Württemberg.

He asked Adams if Hawkinville had people in place in the royal residences. Of course he had, so the one working in Kensington Palace was summoned. By good fortune—or perhaps good planning—he worked in Sussex's household.

In the meantime, Braydon paid a quick visit to Sidmouth, who scoffed at the suspicion of Württemberg. “It's radicals, I tell you.”

“We can't ignore the possibility,” Braydon said. “I recommend that Cambridge be urged to take care. Once the princes are gone, there's a string of sisters, yes, but Charlotte is the first. The stability of Britain will not be increased by a German taking the throne.”

“He'd be consort only,” Sidmouth objected. “We did away with joint rule after William and Mary.”

“He's known to be a bullying tyrant. He'd rule, and everyone would know it.”

“He and Princess Charlotte have no children. It'd be a dry twig.”

So many details slipped people's minds.

“He has four by his first wife,” Braydon pointed out, “and his first wife was the king's niece. Care to lay odds as to whether Württemberg would try to establish his eldest son's claim to rule after him?”

Sidmouth sat as if his knees had failed him.” I'll write
to Hanover,” he said. “For God's sake, Dauntry, find out the truth and deal with it.”

Braydon left wondering exactly how he was supposed to deal with Württemberg. He'd met the man once. It was rather like meeting a mountain. He was seven feet tall and was said to weigh more than thirty stone. In addition, he had a sharp, cunning mind and a very unpleasant nature. His first wife had fled for protection to Tsarina Catherine of Russia.

He focused on one question:
I
f Württemberg had been behind it, who had been his tool?
He needed to know more about that meeting.

When he arrived back at Peel Street, the Kensington Palace footman, John Goring, was waiting for him. Goring knew of no suspicious servants or unusual goings-on. Goring himself hadn't known of Sussex's plans for the night.

“His highness's man might have known, sir, but his highness doesn't stand much on ceremony.”

“Do you know where the Duke of Kent and the Duke of Clarence might have lodged in Town?” Braydon asked.

“No, sir.”

“There must have been messages and replies. Find out about them.”

That was a reminder to himself, so when Goring had left, he returned to Mrs. Courtenay's house.

“Messages, sir?” the butler said. “Only one that I know of, from the Duke of Sussex to my mistress, upon which she commanded the dinner.”

So Sussex had coordinated the event. Therefore he must be interviewed, and not by one of Hawkinville's staff.
Sidmouth? Hell, no.
It would have to be the highest-ranking man available, and that was himself.

As Braydon put on his greatcoat, he went over what he'd learned. But as he left the house, his mind turned
toward home. Or, to be precise, toward his wife. Would she be in his rooms or gallivanting around Town, shopping, as women seemed to like to do? She'd have to return home eventually.

Damn Beaumont's dinner.
But he couldn't drag his wife to bed as soon as it was dark.

What did dark have to do with it? He could drag her to bed as soon as he returned home—except that he wasn't that sort of man.

The dinner would end at a reasonable hour. Tonight his wife would sleep in his bed and learn ways of enjoyment that Kit Kat had never known.

K
itty inspected the town house, accompanied by Henry and Edward. She'd decided to leave Sillikin behind in the care of the cook, who had become the dog's devoted slave. The spaniel would need plenty of exercise or she'd become fat on the tidbits he fed her.

The Dauntry town house was a typical Mayfair one similar to the row opposite Braydon's building. The door was promptly opened by a short, plump woman in black bombazine, who seemed rather anxious as she bobbed a curtsy.

“We're all shrouded up, milady. I hope you don't mind. I didn't think you'd want everything uncovered, but we will if you prefer, milady.”

“Of course not,” Kitty reassured her. “I simply wish to get a sense of the house. Edward, you may wait below.”

She'd already asked the footman to assess the servants' area and the servants, such as they were. He might welcome that task, for it was probably warm down there. Up here Kitty was very glad of cloak and muff.

“Are you warm enough?” she asked Henry, and the maid confessed that she'd be happy to go belowstairs.

It was possible that Mrs. Grant was cold, but perhaps some of her roundness came from extra layers, and she wore a thick shawl and woolen fingerless gloves.

The ground floor held a small reception room, a reasonably large dining room, and a larger parlor that had enough book-filled shelves to perhaps be called a library. There were paintings on all the walls, but all were shrouded in dust cloths.

Narrow carpeted stairs led up to a drawing room that took up the front width of the house. Three windows gave good light, and Kitty thought it could be a pleasant room in a warmer season. In fact, she thought this could be a pleasant home.

She'd expected a viscount's house to be grand, but there was nothing overwhelming here. The rooms were a decent size, and what details she could see, such as papered walls were . . . unobjectionable. She smiled at that word. If the unobjectionable house turned out as well as the unobjectionable husband, she'd have no cause to complain.

At the back of the house she found two bedchambers and a smaller room, which the housekeeper described as “His lordship's dressing room, ma'am.”

It contained a narrow bed. Kitty had heard of this, that some fashionable people kept the fiction of a shared marriage bed, but that the gentleman had a separate room disguised as a dressing room. Perhaps it was simply that these town houses were quite small, so an additional bedroom would take up too much space. Perhaps it was so that the husband could come home late or not at all without disturbing his wife. All the same, the arrangement confirmed that it wasn't the usual thing for aristocratic couples to share a bed. She thought it a shame.

A higher floor contained another small bedroom and two even smaller rooms that were unfurnished.

The housekeeper said, “This could be a nursery area, milady.”

“Did the former viscount's children ever visit here?”

“Not as I know, ma'am, but I've worked here for only eight years.”

They had to use the servants' staircase, plainer and even narrower, to reach the attic rooms. The servants' accommodation seemed adequate.

As they returned downstairs, the housekeeper invited Kitty to take tea in her parlor. Perhaps she hoped to be refused, but Kitty accepted and asked Henry to join them.

The housekeeper had quarters just off the kitchen—a small parlor and an even smaller bedroom, but very cozy. Kitty shed her layers. The tea was good, as were the sweet buns.

As she poured, Mrs. Grant said, “Are you likely to be using the house soon, my lady? I hope it's not impertinent to ask, but it will be grand if so.”

“Not soon, Mrs. Grant—there is much to do at Beauchamp Abbey—but probably next year for the season.”

“Oh, that will be grand, my lady.”

Henry spoke then. “There's some as think that being in a closed house with no work to do is a treat, my lady, but most don't find it so. There's still plenty to do to keep up the place, and the servants reduced to almost nothing.”

“You have it exactly, Miss Oldswick,” Mrs. Grant said. “I find it hard to keep good servants, even on full pay, for there's no excitement, you see, and no vails.”

Ah. The gratuities guests would pay.

“Were you lively here earlier in the year?” Kitty asked.

“Lively, ma'am?”

“When the fifth viscount was in Town for Parliament.”

“We didn't see much of him, my lady. The house was kept in readiness, but he mostly stayed at his club.”

More ridiculous waste.

“I suppose it is large for a single man.” That wasn't quite the right term for an abandoned husband, but Kitty couldn't think of a better. She was trying to frame a question about the house in the time of Diane Dauntry when she realized Mrs. Grant wouldn't have been here then. “Who was housekeeper before you, Mrs. Grant?”

“Mrs. Hopgood, ma'am. She died.”

“Were any of the servants here then?”

“No, ma'am.”

It was as if Diane Dauntry had vanished beyond an impenetrable veil.
Because someone wanted it that way?
Kitty tried not to let Gothic novels influence her, but there was something odd in the Braydon family story.

She accepted another cup of tea. “Is there any matter that needs attention, Mrs. Grant, or any improvements you'd suggest?”

“There's no problems with the upkeep, ma'am. Mr. Southern, his lordship's man of business in London, pays all bills for such and inspects the house at times. If the family were to be in residence, ma'am, one of the new water boilers would be useful, so as to have hot water readily available. And, perhaps, a Rumford stove in the kitchen?”

“I'll discuss it with Lord Dauntry,” Kitty promised.

She would have liked to wander the rooms again and perhaps unshroud some furniture and paintings in search of clues about Diane. That would be a waste of everyone's time, so they took their leave.

Once they were in a hackney, Edward made his report. “The two maids are her nieces, milady, but both seem sensible girls and good workers. Comfortable in a situation like that to have family around. I caught a suggestion that Mrs. Grant might not be as robust as she seems.”

Henry said, “I noticed that her ankles were badly swollen.”

“So she might be glad of an easy position,” Kitty said.

She had a number of thoughts about the fifth viscount and his wife, but didn't want to share them with Edward. Once they were back at Braydon's rooms, she intended to go over them with Henry, but Sillikin expressed rapture at her return and an insistence on a walk. A long walk.
Now.

“If Cook's been feeding you tidbits, you'll need it,” Kitty said. “Come along, then. Henry, you can stay here.”

The park was quiet at this time of year, so Kitty let Sillikin off the leash and had Edward throw the leather ball, for he could send it farther. After retrieving the third throw, Sillikin was racing back when she paused, turned, and ran in another direction, toward a pair of strapping young men in long cloaks over scarlet regimentals.

One bent to take the ball and ruffle Sillikin's fur, then threw it again. The men came over to Kitty, grinning.

“Kit Kat, as I live and breathe!” declared Captain Claudius Debenham. “Town's alive again.”

“Less of your nonsense, Cully,” Kitty said, laughing. Debenham was blond, connected to a dukedom, and far too handsome for his own good. “And, in truth, my blue cloak seems too lively.”

Cully pulled a face. “Good to be in uniform and spared that dilemma. Present Captain Barlow. Barlow, Mrs. Cateril.”

Kitty acknowledged the other young man, but said, “It's Lady Dauntry now. A recent event.”

“Congratulations! Wasn't Dauntry Beau Braydon? He'll keep you up to style.”

“Are you saying I'm wanting in that department?” Kitty teased, turning to stroll with the men, enjoying the lighthearted exchange.

“Never,” Cully said.

She let the officers take turns throwing for Sillikin. The dog would be ready for a long nap after all this.

“It is good to see you back in Town, Kitty,” Cully said. “The Kit Kat Club is missed.”

“Someone else will have to offer a gathering space.”

“No easy matter. It's a rum old world these days. We soldiers had a purpose once. Defeat Napoleon. Save the world. But now it's all riots and mayhem. We're more likely to be ordered out to fight Englishmen.”

Another officer joined them. Kitty greeted lanky Captain Edison, who'd given her Sillikin.

“I see she's in good form,” he said, hunkering down to make a fuss of the dog. “Thought of breeding her?”

“I'd be too softhearted to take her babies away.”

He shook his head as he rose. “Typical Kit Kat.” The look in his eyes was too warm.

“Did you hear my good news?” she said brightly. “I've been elevated to the peerage!”

“What?”

“By marriage. I'm Viscountess Dauntry.”

He congratulated her, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. “You married from Cateril Manor, I suppose.”

“No, I met Dauntry when visiting a friend near his seat in Gloucestershire.” She remembered the story they'd concocted. “Re-met, for we had known each other in the past. We married in a nearby village. Now tell me all your news.”

But Edison demanded, “When was this?”

Damn his eyes.
What business was it of his? But the only way was lightly. “A mere few days ago. We're honeymooning in Town.”

“Then he's neglecting you shamefully.”

Cully Debenham intervened and talk became general again, but Kitty was aware of Edison fuming at her side. She knew he'd been overly fond of her, but she was surprised his feelings had lasted. Even if they had, there was no reason for outrage. He'd had nearly two years to pursue her if he'd cared.

What would have happened then? If he'd visited Cateril Manor once her mourning year was over, she might have grasped the chance to escape. As matters had turned out, that would have been unfortunate.

Other officers joined them, again greeting Kit Kat and seeming truly delighted to see her. She hadn't known how much she'd missed being called by that cheery name. They came to a halt, sharing news, one man or another throwing the ball for Sillikin as required. Kitty teased one on his promotion and another on the news that he was a married man. She commiserated with a third on his difficult wooing.

Then Cully said, “Here's your husband.”

Kitty turned to see Braydon approaching, escorted by Sillikin, ball in mouth, who seemed to be saying,
Look what I found!
Braydon's expression was less readable. Kitty suddenly became aware of being the hub of a group of seven officers.