The Charity of a Viscount Page 8

  But Christopher Carlington, Earl of Haddon, stepped back and gave Marcus a deep bow. “Lord Lancaster. I assure you, I have done nothing but dance with your daughter. However, I was hoping to escort her to the supper. That is, if I have your permission, of course.”

  Marcus regarded the dark-haired, blue-eyed young buck who stood before him. He didn’t immediately recognize the young man, but he thought he looked familiar. “And you are...?”

  “Forgive me. Christopher Carlington. My father is Morganfield. I’ve just returned to London from Oxford, where I completed my studies in political affairs,” the young man said as he gave a short bow.

  Nodding his understanding, Marcus gave his daughter a quick glance before saying, “Lord Christopher.” He paused, remembering the young man had an honorary title. “Lord Haddon, may I introduce you to my daughter, Miss Analise? And I am Lancaster.”

  Christopher afforded Analise a deep bow before saying, “It’s very good to meet you, my lady.”

  Analise curtsied and said, “And you, my lord.”

  Marcus knew then that someone else had probably introduced them earlier in the evening. He gave a nod to the marquess’s son and said, “You have my permission to escort her to supper.”

  Lord Haddon’s eyes widened a fraction before they returned to normal. “Thank you, my lord,” he managed, barely able to hide his astonishment. His gaze followed Marcus’s retreat and attempt at a reunion with Lady Wadsworth—although the widow was no where to be found.

  Having watched the viscount’s waltz with the Countess of Wadsworth, Christopher now suppressed the urge to grin. He was reminded of how his father behaved in the company of his mother at a ball—as if he wanted nothing more than to get her alone in the library for a tête-à-tête.

  The young earl turned his attention back to Analise. “Now that I have his permission, I do hope you’re not going to withdraw yours,” he murmured.

  Analise shook her head. “I’ll do no such thing,” she replied as she placed her hand on his proffered arm.

  Not ever having seen her father in the company of another woman besides her mother, Analise couldn’t help but wonder about Lady Wadsworth.

  And her father.

  How long had this been going on?

  She had been tempted to ask just before her father disappeared into the crowd. Would her father give her an answer? Or would her query send him into another one of his daydreams?

  She allowed Christopher to lead her into the supper room, deciding thoughts about her father could wait until later that night.

  Chapter 11

  Contemplating a Viscount

  A few minutes later

  Charity, Countess of Wadsworth, had been lost in thought the entire trip back to the mansion she called home whilst she was in London. Before the Little Season started, she had thought she might return to Suffolk if life in London proved too difficult. A series of unusual circumstances had changed her mind, though. Circumstances that included the discovery of limited funds on which she was supposed to subsist for the rest of her life.

  Her oldest son, Benedict, had done what he could to shore up the Wadsworth accounts, including firing the earldom’s man of business and seeing to it rents were collected. With no property available to sell, he warned her that her allowance might not be as much as it had been when her husband was alive. I’ll do what I can to make Wadsworth solvent again, but it will take time, he warned.

  She had been left with little in the way of an inheritance from Wadsworth—the cur had gambled away all of the unentailed properties associated with the earldom—so the need to line up a position that would afford her an income made itself apparent. Since she had no desire to become someone’s mistress, the position had to make it appear as if she wasn’t working, exactly, but merely donating her time toward some worthy cause.

  The matchmaking position was perfect. Viscountess Bostwick had assured her no one would learn she was being paid for her services. The bit of blunt a soldier paid towards the search for his wife probably wouldn’t cover her salary, but Charity knew Lady Bostwick’s main charity, ‘Finding Work for the Wounded,’ was well funded. Those who had been placed in positions eventually paid back the amounts the charity incurred on their behalf—costs for a suit or appropriate work clothing as well as the bribe sometimes necessary to place them in a position. Those funds simply went back into the charity so it could continue its work for other soldiers unable to find employment in the capital.

  As for Viscount Lancaster, she didn’t know what to think. There was a time earlier that evening, when she was enduring a lecture on the proper behavior for a widow by one of the patronesses of Almack’s, that she had thought to simply leave the ball.

  And then, because she was angry and hurt by the countess’s insinuations, Charity was ready to do the same to the man she had caught staring at her.

  His words of adoration had caught her completely off guard. Left her nearly speechless. Why, if it hadn’t been for the attentions of the new Viscount Lancaster, Charity might have left the ball, returned to Wadsworth Hall, and had her lady’s maid pack up her traveling trunk so they could return to Suffolk on the morrow—matchmaker position or not.

  Lancaster’s words about her—about how he had pined for her long ago—had been said with such earnest. Such devotion. She almost said she would be happy to join him in his bed, but then thought better of it.

  She knew nothing—or rather, very little—about the viscount who so expertly led her through a waltz. When the dance was near its end, she almost hoped he would ask her to join him for the supper. Instead, he had nearly asked for her hand in marriage! With the rising temperature in the ballroom, was it any wonder she had nearly fainted?

  She had no idea how she was supposed to respond to Marcus Batey’s query, so she was relieved when his attention was diverted to the young heir to the Morganfield marquessate. Apparently Christopher Carlington, newly armed with a degree from Cambridge, had taken too much interest in Lancaster’s daughter.

  On the one hand, Charity had to admire the viscount for his protective stance when it came to Miss Analise. She would expect nothing less from a father. But on the other... being left at the edge of the dance floor after the waltz, with barely an apology from him, had her feeling abandoned.

  And yet, what should she have expected? The dance was done. She had curtsied to his bow.

  The coach jerked to a halt in front of the mansion, pulling Charity from her reverie. Allowing a quiet sigh, she stepped down with the help of a groom and made her way inside.

  As for returning to Suffolk, she decided against it. She had a position now. One that paid enough to see to her expenses—for now.

  Chapter 12

  An Applicant in Need of More

  The following day

  Roger Weatherby regarded his master with a critical eye—or rather the clothes in which he had just dressed him. “When you are next at your tailor’s, may I suggest you acquire a waistcoat in a dark green?” he said. “This bright blue is just a bit too much for the Nankeen breeches.”

  Luke Merriweather glanced in the cheval mirror and immediately understood his valet’s comment. The man had an eye for color and was quick in his choices of appropriate clothing. “Indeed. I shall make a trip to St. James Street to see to it after we’re done in Parliament today,” he replied. He glanced around his bedchamber, deciding there wasn’t anything else he could do to prepare for that day’s agenda. “Pray tell, what are your plans?”

  The valet allowed a shrug as he made his way to the dressing room with a pile of topcoats, his limp causing him to list dangerously to one side. Luke feared the man might topple over, but Weatherby made it to the dressing room and disappeared for a moment.

  Luke’s attention went to the man’s cane, a simple wooden stick with a rounded ball top. He made a mental note to shop for something more decorative for the valet he had employed since his move to London. He often wondered who he might have ended up dressing h
im had he not agreed to hire the veteran of the Peninsular Wars.

  Lady Bostwick had recommended the young man when Luke had approached the viscountess, thinking her charity might have someone he could employ as opposed to relying on an agency to send him someone.

  In the two years Weatherby had been in service at Luke’s small townhouse in South Audley Street, the valet had proved knowledgable and eager to please. He had even taken over the duties of butler given the townhouse didn’t come with one, overseeing the one footman and small kitchen staff.

  He also seemed terribly lonely.

  Reminded of Lady Bostwick’s charity to help find work for wounded soldiers, Luke then wondered if perhaps the valet could benefit from her newest charity.

  The viscount didn’t employ many servants. The housekeeper was older and married to a butler from a nearby residence, and the only footman and the only housemaid were married to one other. The scullery maid was apparently carrying on with a groom from the mews behind the townhouse, and the cook had informed him on more than one occasion that she had no use for a husband.

  The cook was also old enough to be Roger’s mother.

  Or my mother, he amended as he gave it some more thought.

  When Roger reappeared from the dressing room, Luke broached the subject. “Have you been courting anyone?”

  Roger straightened as best he could and regarded his master with a look of shock. “I have not,” he replied.

  “Do you... wish to?” Luke pressed. “I ask only because you seem of an age to take a wife.”

  The valet angled his head and said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but if I am of an age to take a wife, then so are you.”

  Luke chuckled as he bobbed his head in agreement. “I am guilty as charged. However, I do have a young lady in mind. I think I may have to see to courting her very soon.”

  “Oh?” Roger responded, fussing with the knot in Luke’s cravat.

  “Last night’s ball reminded me of duty and such,” Luke murmured. Indeed, the sight of Lady Analise had stirred something in him that was most unexpected.

  Desire.

  Which had him wondering just why. Most young ladies her age were annoying in their behavioral when among the young bucks, their titters and constant blushing making them seem far too young to be considered seriously as marriage prospects.

  Analise behaved far differently from the others who had made their come-out during the Little Season. She exuded a kind of confidence that suggested she was older than her seventeen years. An ease with conversation, even when addressed by those older than her. And she displayed poise regardless of who she with.

  Luke nearly winced when he remembered how pleasant she managed to be when Lord Albert approached her for a dance. The pimply-faced prick of an earl’s son always behaved as if he were another Prinny.

  Perhaps it was because her mother had died and her father had felt compelled to send her to a boarding school. Perhaps it was because her father had only recently inherited his viscountcy, and Analise hadn’t yet spent enough time around other daughters of the ton to have adopted their annoying behavioral traits.

  He thought of the eight years that separated them and winced.

  “Is something amiss?” Roger asked. He stepped back to regard the mail coach knot he had managed to create in the viscount’s cravat.

  “Eight years is a long time, is it not?” Luke asked.

  Roger furrowed a brow. “That depends, I suppose. To what are you referring?”

  Luke considered waving off the query, but finally said, “The difference in age between me and the young lady I am considering.”

  Roger’s eyes darted to one side before he finally sighed. “Then she must have had her come-out recently,” he remarked. “Since I cannot see you considering a silly chit or a bluestocking, then she must be a diamond of the first water.”

  Luke blinked, deciding to put voice to an argument as it applied to the comment about a bluestocking. “Sommers did rather well by marrying Lady Evangeline,” he argued. “Says they never lack for topics of conversation.”

  “He’s a baron, my lord,” Roger reminded him.

  Angling his head left and then right, Luke finally allowed a slight shrug, deciding his valet did have a point about a silly chit. “She’s not a silly chit, but she’s not the daughter of a duke, either.”

  “But she is an aristocrat’s daughter?” Roger half-asked.

  “She is,” Luke affirmed. “A viscount’s daughter, in fact.”

  “Very good, my lord,” Roger replied. “She will no doubt already be prepared for life as a viscountess.”

  “True,” Luke agreed, not having thought about it from that perspective. The prospect of courting Analise Batey wasn’t so daunting now. He just had to gain Lancaster’s approval.

  Well, he could work on that once he determined if Miss Analise was even interested in being courted.

  Frowning, he wondered how to encourage his valet to begin the search for a wife. “Is there a reason you haven’t courted anyone since your return from the wars?”

  Roger’s eyes darted about until they came to rest on his cane. “Can’t be thinking a proper young lady would want to walk in public with the likes of me, given my limp and all,” he replied with a shrug.

  Furrowing his brows, Luke realized he had the perfect response. “Lady Bostwick’s new charity can find you the perfect mate,” he countered. “The viscountess has hired another matchmaker that I here is all the crack.”

  Roger stilled his features, hoping his face wasn’t displaying the tell-tale color of embarrassment. “Well, perhaps I’ll pay a call on my day off,” Roger replied, although there wasn’t any conviction behind the words.

  He wasn’t about to admit he had already paid a call on the new matchmaker who had begun work there a few days ago. Even though she didn’t have a young woman in mind for him at the time of his appointment, Mrs. Seward had mentioned she would be paying calls on young misses in the hopes of finding matches for her many applicants. Apparently, the charity had been without a matchmaker for over a week, and the new one was left with a backlog of single men in search of wives.

  “Go today,” Luke encouraged him. “And should she find you a wife, you can move into the larger quarters at the end of the servants’ floor.”

  Roger’s eyes widened. He hadn’t even considered accommodations. “I appreciate the offer, my lord,” he replied.

  “Look, if I end up married in the next few months, I’d rather not be the only newlywed man in the house, if you catch my meaning,” Luke said in a quiet voice.

  Allowing a nod, Roger replied, “I’ll pay a call on the matchmaker. But, my lord, I won’t be allowing my hopes to get too high.”

  Luke straightened. “Understood.” He sighed. “Well, I guess I’m off to Parliament now.”

  The valet frowned. “No breakfast, sir?”

  The viscount allowed a grin. “After breakfast,” he agreed, deciding he could mentally compose a note to Miss Analise asking if she might be available for a ride in the park. And then, after Parliament, he would see to taking pen to paper and writing it down.

  “Very good, sir. But I should warn you, the cook is out of honey. She hopes to locate some when she goes to market later today.”

  Disappointed, Luke allowed a shrug. “I’ll live,” he replied, his mind still on the note he needed to compose. As for the delivery of the note, well, he might have someone else see to that.

  He didn’t want his servants spreading the news that he was in the market for a wife.

  Chapter 13

  In Pursuit of a Wife

  Later that morning

  “So, when is the wedding?” Luke Merriweather asked, just as he and Marcus were about to enter the House of Lords.

  “Whose wedding?” the older viscount countered, pausing a moment to adjust his robes.

  “Yours, of course. You spent enough time waltzing with Lady Wadsworth to court her, propose, and set a date,” the younge
r viscount teased.

  Luke was never pleased with dance sets lasting a half-hour or more. If he ended up with a partner who was a dullard or who couldn’t tell her left foot from her right, then he was stuck for the duration of the dance with no way out—short of breaking a heel or spraining an ankle.

  Now, had he been in the company of Miss Analise, he might not mind the long dance sets. The young woman was a breath of fresh air when it came to those who had made their come-outs so far this Little Season. Her happy countenance and unblemished complexion had him thinking of her as a daisy with perfect white petals splayed out from a bright yellow middle. That would make him a bee, of course, and he could think of nothing more satisfying than being the one to pollinate her. They would make the most delicious honey together.

  Luke rolled his eyes at the analogy. What the hell had gotten into him? Perhaps he really did miss having honey in his tea this morning.

  “Your impertinence has been noted, Merriweather,” the older viscount replied in response to his teasing about Lady Wadsworth. Marcus’s brows furrowed. “Why are you here? Your father didn’t die last night, did he?”

  Luke Merriweather rolled his eyes. “I accepted a writ of acceleration, which I am beginning to regret. Apparently there are too many ancient lords presiding these days. I decided I would prefer knowing what I would be getting myself into when I finally have to inherit the earldom. Besides, I have difficulty sleeping past nine o’clock in the morning.”

  Marcus’s annoyance was evident in how he screwed up his face. “Prefer a number of naps during the day, instead?” he teased. “Because that’s what’s in store for you here,” he warned.

  “This isn’t my first session,” Luke argued. “And, unlike you, I am rather fascinated by what happens in there,” he added as he he aimed his chin toward the door to the Chamber of Lords.