The Secrets of a Viscount Read online

  Elise gave a shrug. “I thought to locate Lady Morganfield somewhere up here,” she admitted. “I find talking with her rather refreshing. She tends to have a different perspective on matters.” The daughters of the ton hadn’t exactly welcomed the Italian daughter of a count when David Carlington, Marquess of Morganfield, had returned from his Grand Tour with the woman on his arm. She could barely speak English. But after a few years, she proved adept at gossip and at entertaining, her experience as a daughter of European aristocracy her secret weapon in the parlors in Mayfair. She was also adept at listening and providing advice when asked to do so.

  “I saw her head toward the library only a moment ago,” Diana said as she turned in that direction. There, in a bright red satin gown, the marchioness was just leaving the company of another woman to make her way farther down the hall.

  Elise followed her niece’s gaze and gasped. “Forgive me,” she managed as she took her leave and hurried off to join Lady Carlington.

  “Of course,” Diana managed, despite her aunt’s hasty departure.

  Hoping her aunt would find the answers she sought from the marchioness, Diana returned her attention to the couples below and breathed a sigh of relief when the strains of the waltz came to a blessed end for her youngest student. At least the poor girl could still walk. God knew how many times Lord Graham’s son had trod upon her silk dance slippers.

  Deciding she wouldn’t stay to watch anymore of the dancing, Diana took her leave of Weatherstone’s mansion, hailed a hackney, and made her way back to Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School.

  She had classes to teach the next day.

  Chapter 5

  An Unmarried Woman Contemplates Cupid

  Later that night

  The youngest sister of the current Duke of Ariley watched in the looking glass as her maid took the pins from her elaborate coiffure and combed out sections of her honey blonde hair. She winced when she caught sight of an errant gray hair at her temple. What a waste of a perfectly good styling, Elise thought, now regretting her decision to avoid making an appearance in the ballroom of Lord Weatherstone’s mansion.

  At least she had made it to the gardens by way of a side gate, deciding since her driver had gone to the trouble of getting her town coach through the crush of traffic in Park Lane, she could at least pay a visit to the grounds. Better to simply spend some time amongst the early spring foliage and statuary before the couples made their way from the French doors for their assignations in the gardens.

  She had stared at the statue of Cupid—uninterrupted— for nearly an hour, trying to decide if she should curse the cur or kiss him on his chubby cheeks—the round ones just above his chubby thighs.

  She rather doubted she could reach the others.

  In the end, she had done neither, her reverie interrupted by her oldest brother’s appearance. At least he had known of her quandary, although she didn’t know how much help his words provided. His promise of her inheritance was a surprise, though she didn’t want it to color her decision to marry or not.

  When James had taken his leave of her, she was left to once again contemplate the chubby cheeked marble. At least until she was once again interrupted by a giggling chit straight out of the schoolroom. That particular girl was led by some young buck intent on teaching her how to kiss. Elise had managed to make it into the house by way of another back door.

  Finding first her niece and then Lady Carlington had been a pair of pleasant surprises. She could chide her niece on her lack of a husband and then turn around and hope for an excuse to avoid taking another for herself. The few minutes she had of the countess’ attention afforded her the opportunity to put voice to her concern without mentioning exactly who had her so concerned.

  “If I loved a man a long time ago, and he still wants to marry me, should I? Marry him, that is.”

  The marchioness had angled her head to one side and allowed a brilliant smile. “Why, of course,” she replied as she leaned in. “Love is enduring. And it can help keep you young even after the blush of youth has faded.”

  Faith! Had the blush of youth taken its leave of her already? Or was Lady Morganfield referring to the future?

  “You’re awfully quiet this evening, my lady,” her lady’s maid, Merry, commented. “Did something happen at the ball?”

  The younger woman regarded her own image for another moment before returning her attention to the maid’s reflection. “I wouldn’t know. I never actually made it into Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom.”

  Merry stopped combing and stared at her mistress in the mirror, her eyes widening as she did so. “Were you accosted by footpads?” she asked in alarm. Despite nothing nefarious ever having happened to either her or Elise Burroughs Batey, Merry seemed to think the worst was about to happen whenever one of them went out.

  “Worse,” Elise commented with an elegantly arched eyebrow. “Cupid shot me.”

  Again.

  Or could it really be considered a second shot if the effects of the first had never actually worn off?

  It had been so long, she realized the poor boy had probably forgotten he had already struck her, straight in the heart, back when she was only thirteen.

  Damn the archer. Damn him and his chubby cheeks.

  The object of her not-so-sudden affection had put voice to a similar claim about her at the time. He had kissed her. She had kissed him. Promises had been made. And then the realities of life in the aristocracy had intervened—or death, rather—and their worlds had been turned topsy-turvy.

  Merry stared at Elise for several seconds, her attention fixed on her mistress’ reflection until she suddenly shook herself out of her apparent shock. “But, you’re an independent woman, my lady,” she said in a hoarse whisper, the words ‘independent woman’ said as if they were some sort of armor that would prevent such an attack by the archer. “I thought Cupid knew enough to stay away from the likes of you.”

  Elise couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled up despite the sense of despair she had felt since her time in Lord Weatherstone’s gardens. “I, too, thought I was immune to those pesky arrows. Seems time and...” Him. “Well, let’s just say I have given the thought of having children another think through, and I certainly can’t be having any of them unless I marry...” Him. “So, I suppose I shall have to accept an offer of marriage on the morrow.”

  Blinking rapidly, the maid moved to the side of the vanity so she could regard Lady Lancaster directly. “Where is my mistress? What have you done with her?”

  A tear escaped the corner of one of Elise’s eyes before she allowed a shrug and a watery grin. “She’s grown old and feels rather alone.” She squeezed her eyes shut. After such a disastrous marriage, widowhood promised respite. Independence. A happy life. But after a year of mourning and another few weeks of the independence so many widows welcomed, life was anything but happy.

  Something was missing.

  “Perhaps it’s time I marry again. Have a child or two. Become a mistress of a mansion in town and an estate in the country. Be in charge of a phalanx of servants and host a ball every year.” Mum had five children by the time she was my age, she didn’t bother to add.

  Merry waved a hand in front of Elise’s face. “I’ll ask you one more time, my lady. What have you done with my mistress?”

  Elise allowed a look of contrition before she gave a shrug. “Surprise!” she said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  Truth be told, the trappings of an aristocrat’s life had never appealed to her. She had grown up in such homes, one in London and one in Derbyshire. Oh, and the one in Brighton, even if the family was only there for one month every summer.

  She had watched her older brother, James, and two sisters marry into exceptional families. Although Margaret had died giving birth to her son, her husband had hired an experienced nanny and to this day remained a widower. Her younger brother, Andrew, was following in his uncle’s steps as a banker at the Bank of England. Even though he claime
d he would never marry, he had done so at a young age and then been left widowed when his wife, Bess, died in 1807.

  As for how she felt about her siblings, Elise had cried for three days when Margaret had died giving birth to her second baby and laughed for nearly as long when James, a supposedly confirmed bachelor who knew damned well he was going to have to marry and sire an heir, did just that in the course of nine months after falling heels over head in love with Lady Helen Harrington.

  A younger sister of the Earl of Mayfield, Helen was proving to be the perfect duchess. Her firstborn, a son, was now the heir-apparent to the Ariley dukedom. The second, a girl, had her father happily wrapped about her pinky.

  Elise hoped the boy wouldn’t still be drooling when he inherited. Drooling and saying, “No!” to everything he was told to do.

  “It’s the only word he seems to know,” her sister-in-law claimed one afternoon whilst they had tea in her parlor. Having met the nursemaid, Elise could certainly understand why. The woman said the word at least a thousand times a day!

  I shall never employ such a strict nurse, Elise thought suddenly. If I were to be blessed with a boy, I would allow him some latitude at such a young age. Then, when he was older, I would start to say ‘no’.

  She blinked. She had never given thought to such an edict before!

  A boy!

  “I should have been sent to a convent,” Elise claimed before blinking away the odd thought and shaking her head.

  Now where the devil had that idea come from?

  From the expression on her maid’s face, Merry apparently agreed.

  “I’m not that bad,” Elise countered, her chin coming up in an effort to examine her neck in the looking glass.

  “I cannot believe you are considering matrimony again when you aren’t even being courted,” Merry said, moving to continue the ritual of removing all the pins from Elise’s hair before braiding it for bed.

  Elise gave her maid a quelling glance in the mirror. “Why, I’ll have you know, I was courted by this rather handsome gentleman,” she said with a firm nod. When Merry stopped braiding her hair to stare at her in the mirror, Elise sighed. “A long time ago, of course, before I married Lancaster. But... true love is... timeless, it seems.” What else could explain why she had received an offer of marriage after...

  Faith! Had it really been nearly twenty years?

  Despite her maid’s look of disbelief, or maybe because of it, Elise sighed and angled her head, braiding be damned. “He sent me a letter this morning. A rather sweet note, actually. Asking for my hand. I plan to pay a visit to render my answer in person in the morning,” she said, her manner meant to prevent Merry from rendering any protests. “I’ll wear my royal blue carriage gown and pelisse, and you shall do my hair in the same style you did for tonight’s ball,” she ordered, almost tempted to have her maid redo it right that very moment so she could pay a call on the man tonight and give him her answer in person.

  Before she could change her mind.

  Before he could change his.

  Although, if his words were to be believed, he had held a candle for her ever since their first—and only—kiss. She supposed it was rather unlikely he would change his mind now.

  A quick glance at the mantle clock had her changing her mind just as quickly—it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. How long was I sitting in Lord Weatherstone’s garden? she wondered.

  Had she actually entered Lord Weatherstone’s ballroom that evening, she could have danced with the man. He would have been there, she was sure, which was why she had instead spent the evening in the gardens. Unseen but surrounded by the amorous activities of at least a dozen couples over the course of a few hours, she had enjoyed two glasses of champagne—a footman had the good sense to make the rounds with a tray of flutes filled with bubbly—whilst she pondered her future as a remarried woman.

  Apparently her maid was doing the same pondering, given the expression on her face.

  “Oh, really, Merry. You needn’t think the worst,” Elise said with a wan smile. “It will just be another adventure for us.”

  Merry allowed a nod, realizing there was nothing she could say to change her mistress’ mind.

  Apparently, Lady Lancaster was getting married again.

  To whom, Merry had no idea.

  Chapter 6

  About a Bow Window

  May 7, 1818 in St. James Street

  The moment she realized she was walking in St. James Street, Miss Diana Albright wondered if she could turn back. Wondered if she could simply stop, turn around, and begin walking in the opposite direction. For in her few moments of introspection, or what most would refer to as daydreaming, she had made the turn onto St. James Street, completely unaware she had done so.

  She wanted to go in the direction the street would take her, of course. She just didn’t want to pass by the window.

  The bow window.

  The one that had been added onto the front of the building that housed one of London’s most notorious men’s clubs.

  White’s.

  As much as she supposed the men therein didn’t know their secret was out, it was. Even her students at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School knew what went on in the bow window at White’s. Apparently, before his departure to the Continent the year before, Beau Brummel occupied the table in front of the window, his status as a socially influential gentleman his ticket to watch the world go by.

  Or rather, the women of London. The women of the world.

  The ones that dared walk down St. James Street did so either because they didn’t know any better or because they did and were curious as to how they would be rated by him—or those in his company who watched.

  Diana knew there was some discussion as to what constituted a rating of a ‘one’ versus a ‘ten’. Were ‘ones’ given to those young ladies deemed most beautiful? Or were those ‘tens’? For unless one knew which was considered the better end of the rating spectrum, only the women deemed a ‘five’ knew exactly where they stood in the rankings.

  That is, if they actually overheard the numbers being called out by the young bucks who ruled the roost of the bow window.

  She rather imagined there were times when no one was in the window, or when older gentlemen managed to claim the seats closest to the window simply because whoever was deemed most socially influential wasn’t present in the club at the time. Certainly an older gentleman would be more discreet if he bothered with the practice at all.

  Given it was entirely too late to simply turn around and walk the other direction, Diana held up her head and continued her walk toward Jermyn Street. If her hips swayed any more than usual, she wasn’t conscious of it. If a slight smile played at her lips, it was only because her daydreams were rather pleasant. Anything was better than thinking about the never-ending days spent attempting to teach spoiled rotten girls basic arithmetic and dancing.

  Well, the dancing she didn’t mind so much—at least the young ladies wanted to learn to dance. That was part of their ticket to an advantageous marriage, after all.

  The fact that Diana wasn’t married and probably never would be was the only reason she was teaching arithmetic and dancing at Warwick’s Grammar and Finishing School.

  When the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly seemed to tickle, Diana nearly paused in mid-step. Something skittered down her spine, and she was quite sure it wasn’t an insect.

  And then she did pause. Her head turned at an angle and her attention immediately went to the bow window.

  A man was watching her. A rather handsome man, in fact, was openly gazing at her. He didn’t even try to hide the fact, nor look away when he realized he’d been caught staring at her.

  Diana was suddenly conscious of every piece of clothing she wore. A peach muslin gown, sprigged with tiny embroidered flowers over which she wore a darker peach spencer. Not a fan of poke bonnets—she was quite sure a gust of wind would send an especially light young lady sailing away down the
streets of London—she preferred hats with silk flowers. Not the large, overpowering silk flowers which festooned some lady’s hats, but rather small, delicate flowers that merely lined the edges of where a brim met its crown. And none that featured feathers. Goodness! Some of those hats sported ostrich plumes that nearly grazed a ceiling and required their wearer to duck down when passing through a doorway.

  The one she wore today was a rather simple hat, peach with darker peach and green flowers. A shade of peach that showed off her charcoal black hair to its best advantage. Her half-boots were well-hidden beneath her skirts, a reticule that matched her hat hung from one wrist, and white kid leather gloves hugged her fingers almost too tightly.

  I’m at least a five, she found herself hoping as she stared at the gentleman. And then, quite before she realized what she was doing, she approached the front door of White’s and rang the bell. Reason arrived far too late to have her stepping away. Stepping away and running down the street in an effort to escape before anyone could answer the door, for an older, liveried man did indeed open the black-painted door. He regarded her with a set of gray eyebrows that were rather high on his forehead and combed into elaborately shaped fans.

  “My lady?” he ventured, as if he were seeing a woman for the very first time in his entire life. Well, he probably was seeing a woman at this particular door for the very first time, Diana realized. White’s was a men’s club, after all. Women were not allowed.

  Diana bobbed a curtsy, the action so automatic she didn’t realize she needn’t have done so given a servant answered the door. “Could you please provide me the name of the distinguished-looking gentleman who is currently presiding in the bow window?”

  The butler’s eyebrows seemed to go even higher and fan out wider, if that were possible. “I... cannot,” he replied carefully. He seemed to reconsider his answer and then said, “One moment,” as he held up an index finger. The door closed, and Diana was left on the stoop feeling ever so much a fool.