The Charity of a Viscount Read online

  Checking the date on the issue of The Tattler she held, she rolled her eyes. It was from last May!

  Well, so much for old gossip.

  She perused several more issues in search of any news of a Lancaster. She finally located a brief obituary of Mrs. Marcus Batey. Joan Harrington Batey. The daughter of an earl, Joan had died giving birth to a son. Besides her husband, she left behind a son, Andrew, a daughter, Analise, and the baby, John.

  Charity checked the publication date and rolled her eyes. The issue was nearly two years old!

  Besides cleaning out widows weeds, it seemed it was time to weed out old gossip rags as well.

  Charity swallowed and dared another glance at the invitation for a ride in the park, determining from the simple signature that it was from Marcus Batey. Her earlier anger dissipated. He was a widower, and he had been for nearly two years.

  She wondered if the younger son was still alive. He would be about two now. The age at which he would test his nurse and his lungs, display his stubbornness, and attempt to create pall mall in every room of the house. Charity knew because she had given birth to two of them. Thank the gods they were grown.

  Despite his youth—he was barely eighteen—the Wadsworth heir, Benedict, had taken his seat in Parliament with the session that had just begun. In the meantime, he had been seeing to the business side of the earldom and apparently ruffling some feathers as he did so. He expressed a desire to be more hands-on in the running of the earldom, eschewing the advice of his late father’s man of business with the claim that said man had nearly bankrupted the earldom.

  Benedict had not asked for advice from his mother, and she didn’t expect he would. She offered her assistance and took relief in learning he would call on her if he was in need of anything. He assured her she could live in Wadsworth Hall as long as she wished while he lived in one of the earldom’s small townhouses close to Parliament.

  Her youngest son, Benjamin, had just started university in Oxford. His fascination with the heavens above had him spending his nights staring through the long tube of a telescope. She supported his hobby, hoping his evening pursuits wouldn’t be redirected to something more earthbound, like a harlot. Apparently Benedict was satisfied with his brother’s choice of education, since he was seeing to his housing and allowance.

  One of the late earl’s mistresses was not treated so kindly. She was summarily dismissed without so much as a bauble and informed she was to vacate her leased townhouse at the end of the contract

  Of the other, she hadn’t heard a word.

  Charity wondered from where her son’s opinion of the two women had been formed. She had never said one word of her husband’s infidelities to anyone. However, she remembered quite clearly how Benedict had stared at her when he paid a call in Suffolk last May. When was the last time you ate anything? he had asked, his brows furrowed in worry.

  She had been stunned to realize her weight loss was noticeable, an unfortunate side effect of having lived on meager rations the past few years. The Wadsworth earldom, at one time a thriving business concern, had suffered under her husband’s lack of attention—his man of business had probably been embezzling—and his tendency to spend too much on his mistresses. With the coffers nearly empty, her allowance had been slashed, most of the servants had been let go, and Charity simply adapted to a life of less.

  Your collar bones are showing, Mother.

  The reminder of that particular comment had Charity wincing, her fingertips moving to trace the line of those bones through the fabric of her night rail. Despite there being a bit more in the pantry these days, she was still forced to be careful with expenses and had only a skeleton staff for Wadsworth Hall. Although the house might have one day been a fashionable abode—perhaps the century prior—it was no longer.

  Turning her attention to The Times, Charity was considering just what unpredictable something she might do that day when she found her gaze perusing the postings at the back of that day’s newspaper.

  Position for the perfect matchmaker. Busy office seeks a woman to match eligible bachelors with women seeking husbands. Experience preferred, but not required. Hours negotiable. Apply at 30 Oxford Street.

  Leaning back in the pillows, Charity considered the sentences in reverse. 30 Oxford Street was a familiar address. That’s where Lady Bostwick housed her charity, ‘Finding Work for the Wounded’—and her other charity, ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’. Charity knew this because her solicitor, Andrew S. Barton, Esquire, had his office right next door.

  Her eyes rounding, Charity realized two things at once. First, the latest matchmaker for ‘Finding Wives for the Wounded’ had obviously found a husband for herself and then given notice. Probably one from among the wounded men for whom she was supposed to find a mate.

  And second, the position didn’t require experience.

  How hard could it be? Charity wondered. Matching women to men? What did it matter if those men had scars from the wars? From Charity’s experience, if a woman was in the market for a husband and couldn’t find a suitor from among her contemporaries, she would take what she could get.

  Tearing the advertisement from the paper before quickly finishing her breakfast, Charity had her plan in place for the day.

  Get dressed, which might take an hour depending on how long Thompkins fussed over her hair. Take a ride to 30 Oxford Street, which might take an hour, depending on traffic. Apply for the matchmaker position, which might take ten minutes. Or more if she caught Lady Bostwick in her office.

  “Thompkins, I need a carriage gown,” Charity announced as she stepped out of the bed and stripped her nightrail from her body. “And the town coach. I’m paying a call on a charity.”

  Her lady’s maid blinked as she added yet another black gown to the pile at the end of the bed. “Yes, my lady,” she replied, her eyes darting to one side. “I believe there are two or three left in the dressing room.”

  Charity sucked a breath between her teeth, her gaze going once again to the pile of black at the end of the bed. Perhaps she wouldn’t give up every black gown. It wasn’t as if she could afford a modiste to replace them.

  She could get rid of old journals, however.

  “And you can throw out every issue of The Tattler that is older than last week,” she added, pointing to the pile on her nightstand.

  Thompkins regarded the stack of news sheets before turning an expression of surprise on her mistress. “Yes, my lady.” Never mind that she could barely read.

  Wait until the other servants hear about this!

  Chapter 4

  A Father Boggles

  Meanwhile, at Stanton House

  “Can you please repeat what you just said?” Marcus Batey, Viscount Lancaster, said to the dark-haired woman who had arrived at Stanton House with a phalanx of other women equipped with sewing baskets. They had made their way to Analise’s bedchamber and disappeared behind the carved wood door more than an hour ago. The viscount’s curiosity had him knocking on that same door in an effort to ensure Analise hadn’t fainted.

  Or climbed out the window.

  Madame Suzanne’s eyes widened. “Your daughter will require no fewer than three ballgowns, two dinner gowns, two riding habits, a carriage gown, and five morning gowns with matching pelisses or spencers, a mantle, and a redingote,” the modiste said, sounding ever so patient. She had no doubt had to do the same for others who employed her to outfit their daughters for a Season and couldn’t believe her list of supposedly required clothing.

  Even though he was impressed the modiste had managed to repeat exactly the same words she had said when he asked as to what she was doing with so many gowns and what-not scattered about his daughter’s bed, Marcus frowned. He was, truth be told, impressed that she managed to provide exactly the same list the second time. “It sounds like the same clothes my late wife was told she needed when she married me,” he replied on a sigh.

  His gaze went to the gown his daughter was wearing, a cream musl
im confection with purple pansies and ribbons trimming the neckline and bottom ruffle. A memory of her mother wearing a nearly identical gown had a lump forming in his throat.

  “Oh, that cannot be,” Suzanne argued, a slight French accent evident in her words. “A new bride would have required at least three carriage gowns and five dinner gowns.”

  Screwing his face so it displayed his annoyance, Marcus was about to admit the modiste was right—Joan always had five dinner gowns, replacing them one at a time as the dictates of fashion changed—when Analise tugged on his sleeve. He turned his attention to her and allowed a lopsided grin. “Let us hope you receive an offer of marriage at your first ball of the Little Season,” he teased. “I cannot imagine having to do this again next spring.”

  Analise’s eyes rounded. “But—”

  “I’m teasing, darling,” he interrupted, rather glad to see that the thought of receiving a proposal so soon after her come-out had her shocked, and not in a good way.

  “I don’t really require two riding habits and five morning gowns,” she said in a quiet voice, as if she didn’t want the modiste to overhear her words.

  “But you shall have them,” her father countered. “You’re my only daughter. It’s not as if I’ll ever have to do this again.”

  “You will if I don’t get married this year,” Analise replied, dimpling with her tease.

  “That’s it!” he called out in a loud voice. “I’m sending you to a nunnery.” A huge grin gave away his mirth.

  Madame Suzanne couldn’t seem to decide if she should smile or frown at her client’s antics. One moment, the viscount seemed dismayed at learning what would be required for his daughter’s come-out, and the next, he seemed as happy as a lark. “Do you wish me to continue with the fittings, my lord?”

  Marcus nodded. “Yes, yes, of course,” he replied as he regarded Analise. The familiar cream frock with purple pansies and green ribbons had him imagining his late wife, but he shook away the thought as quickly as it appeared in his mind’s eye. “And do be sure her favorite ballgown is ready for Lord Attenborough’s ball.”

  Madame Suzanne dipped a curtsy. “Of course, my lord.” With a signal to her seamstresses, the team continued their work on the hem of the cream gown as the viscount took his leave of the bedchamber.

  Just outside the door, Marcus leaned against the hall wall and closed his eyes. Before today, he hadn’t realized how much Analise looked like her mother. Standing on a box in the middle of the three kneeling seamstresses who were busy hemming the gown, Analise looked exactly the same as Joan had looked on a day they had taken a picnic. He was sure Joan had been wearing that very same gown.

  And before his evening at White’s with the Lords Bostwick and Merriweather and Mr. Streater, he hadn’t realized just how much he missed her mother.

  Another moment, and he was imagining an afternoon spent in Joan’s company, an afternoon in the park, with a blanket spread out on the clipped lawn in the shade of a maple tree. He had carried a basket filled with their luncheon and a bottle of wine. He was leaning on an elbow, watching as Joan took each item out of the basket and placed it within easy reach.

  “Whatever possessed you to suggest a picnic?” she asked as she handed him two glasses and the bottle of wine. A footman had seen to opening the bottle before they took their leave of their small townhouse in Marylebone.

  Marcus considered the question, hoping she would tell him the news he was sure she meant to tell him the night before but couldn’t when they were interrupted by his damnable brother, Charles. “The weather is fine, and I thought to continue where we left off last night.”

  Joan nodded. “Before your brother arrived. Was he...?”

  “Drunk, yes,” Marcus replied in disgust. “But I didn’t have the heart to send him home to Elise.” He gave a shake of his head. “What I mean to say is that I didn’t wish to force his company on her. As you know, I like my sister-in-law very much, and I dislike my brother immensely.”

  Joan might have felt a pang of jealousy just then, but she knew what he meant. Elise was a duke’s youngest daughter, forced to marry Viscount Lancaster because, rumor had it, her father couldn’t afford a dowry for her, and Lancaster had agreed to forgo a dowry in exchange for gaining her as his wife.

  Her eyes darting to the side, Joan finally nodded her understanding. “Promise me you’ll never behave as he does.”

  Marcus straightened on the blanket until he was sitting up. “That’s an easy promise for me to make,” he replied. “I promise I shall never behave like Charles.”

  Allowing a prim smile, Joan nodded. “Good. Because you’re going to be a father before Christmastime, and I shan’t...”

  Joan’s words were interrupted when Marcus reached out and pulled her into his arms. “I knew it. I was sure you were going to tell me last night,” he said before he kissed her thoroughly. “I adore you,” he added before he kissed her again, oblivious to the nurse and two small children who passed by on the nearby crushed granite path. The poor young woman was attempting to shield the tykes’ eyes from the scandalous activities happening beneath the maple tree.

  “Marcus!” Joan scolded, when she was finally allowed to come up for air. They had been friends since childhood, but at no point had there been this kind of passion in their union.

  But the viscount was digging into a waistcoat pocket, his grin widening as he extracted a small pasteboard box. “Thank you,” he said as he gave her the box. “I know it’s not much, but I shall acquire the entire demi-parure for you. Eventually. I promise.”

  Joan regarded him in surprise before lifting the lid from the slim, square box. A gold bracelet festooned with amethysts lay in a perfect circle at the bottom. “Oh!” she managed before she reached out and bussed him on the cheek. “Purple gemstones are my favorite,” she whispered as she pulled the jewelry from the box.

  “Here. I’ll help you with the clasp,” Marcus said as he took the bracelet from her, opened it, and wrapped it about her wrist. He secured the fastening and then straightened. “It’s perfect with that gown,” he murmured, noticing the purple pansies scattered about the creamy muslin fabric.

  “Oh, indeed,” Joan whispered before she leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

  Marcus was in the middle of returning his wife’s kiss when his daughter appeared in front of him.

  And not as he would have expected just then, all tiny and wrapped in a soft blanket, smelling like a baby and making baby sounds that would have him visiting the nursery more often than he admitted to his wife. But rather as a young lady, her eyes rounded in disbelief.

  “Father, you’re doing it again,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Marcus blinked several times, unsure for a moment if he was staring at his late wife or his grown daughter. Analise was wearing the gown with the pansies and green ribbons. “Doing what?”

  Rolling her eyes, Analise said, “Daydreaming. You’re doing it more and more these days.”

  Alarmed at her comment, Marcus gave his head a shake. “I am not,” he countered.

  “Last night, during dinner, you were lost in thought for three entire courses,” she accused, her hands balled into fists at her sides.

  About to argue, Marcus held his comment when one of her forefingers came up in the very same way Joan’s might have to stave off an argument.

  “I know because I threw a potato at you during the meat course, and you didn’t even notice.”

  His brows furrowing in disbelief, he was about to say that there had been no potatoes anywhere but on his plate when she added, “It bounced off your arm and landed on the floor. Horace ate it.”

  His eyes widening, Marcus sighed. “No wonder that dog was so flatulent this morning. I nearly had to vacate my study,” he claimed in disgust.

  Analise’s eyes darted to the side just then. She wasn’t about to admit she had fed Horace her Brussels sprouts. Since her father had been oblivious to the tossed potato, she sorted he wouldn’t notice
that any other vegetables had disappeared from her plate—other than in the usual manner. “You also ignored my comment about the footman riding the housemaid I saw in the library.”

  She didn’t want to tattle on the servants—the two resumed their work quite quickly after their tumble ended—because they were completely unaware of her presence behind a bookshelf. And seeing how happy they seemed as they engaged in their activity had her hoping she might find such joy in the marriage bed.

  “What about the housemaid and the footman?” her father asked, a brow furrowing. Why, just the day before, Harrison had mentioned something about a randy maid, as if it was the young woman’s fault that she’d been caught with a footman in the middle of a quick tumble.

  Analise swallowed. “It was nothing, really. They didn’t know I was in the library, or I’m quite sure they would have chosen a different room in which to... ride one another,” she stammered.

  Deciding he didn’t want to know which housemaid or which footman had been engaged in improper behavior—in the library of all places—Marcus closed his eyes. “I’ll have a word with the butler,” he said, opening his eyes to regard her for a moment. His gaze went down the front of her frock. “Was that your mother’s gown?” he asked, deciding to deflect her attention from his frequent bouts of daydreaming and the servants’ amorous activities.

  Analise glanced down. “It was,” she admitted with some hesitancy. “I apologize for not having asked, but mother rarely wore it, and Miss Suzanne said it only needed to be shortened—”

  “It’s quite all right,” her father assured her, holding up a staying hand. He had half a mind to ask if there might be others in his late wife’s wardrobe that could be reworked for Analise. “Could you just stay there a moment?” he asked as he held up a finger before he suddenly rushed off down the hall.

  Analise sighed as she watched her father head to her mother’s bedchamber and disappear for a moment. Her eyes widened when he emerged carrying something in the palm of his hand. “What is that?” she asked, meeting him halfway.