The Lady’s Guide to Marrying a Viscount (The Lady’s Guide to Love #8)

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Dartmoor, late November, 1903

It was hardly surprising that Reverend Wapshot’s wife looked forward to her weekly invitation to Wulverton Hall. The Honorable Marguerite de Wolfe, widow of the late viscount’s younger son, was generous in her provision of afternoon tea, and Griselda Wapshot was extremely fond of all varieties of cake.

Today’s tête-à-tête was, no doubt, proving especially rewarding, as Marguerite had received not one but two pieces of correspondence, each bearing a foreign stamp.

“The new viscount makes his return at last,” sniffed Marguerite. “It seems he failed to hear of his father’s passing until a few weeks ago.” Setting aside the letter, she snapped a butter biscuit on her plate and proceeded to crumble it to a state of dust.

“And does he travel alone?” Griselda shot her a birdlike look of inquiry.

“There’s no wife that I know of.” Marguerite added sugar to her cup and stirred vigorously before summoning a white-capped maid.

“More hot water, Betsy.” She waved her hand at the diminishing platters. “And more of these. Strawberry jam rather than raspberry, if you please.”

“If he’s married, won’t it put an end to your Hugo’s expectations?” Griselda applied her spoon to the clotted cream; a scone was not worthy of the name unless sufficiently heaped.

Hugo’s position as heir presumptive was widely known. He was next in line, should the new viscount fail to bear a son to carry the title. Mallon’s imminent return was a worry. Even if he’d avoided the married state all these years, bachelors of a certain age were likely to surprise one. He might take a notion to wed at last and sire a whole nursery.

They’d all be gossiping, anticipating the dashing of Hugo’s hopes. Her son was respected well enough but lacked strength of character. His father, Edward, had been the same.

Meanwhile, as Marguerite understood, the eldest son, Mallon, had commanded great respect among the moorlanders—and not just by dint of sporting the traditional dark hair and green eyes of the de Wolfe line. He’d ensured the rethatching of every tenant’s dwelling, and the repair of several wells and stone walls on the estate.

However, coming down from Balliol College, he’d remained barely seven months under his father’s roof before announcing his joining of Her Majesty’s Field Forces, under Major General Roberts .

Marguerite felt a degree of sympathy. Her late father-in-law had been a cold fish. Even the birth of Hugo had done little to melt the froideur of his heart.

She smoothed her skirts. “Hugo has a title and wealth in his own right, being the main beneficiary of my brother’s will.” She invited Mrs. Wapshot to another macaroon. “I wrote over a year ago to invite his widow to the hall. With no family of her own, it will be lonely for her at the chateau, beautiful as it is.”

Mrs. Wapshot nodded, soaking up every detail, Marguerite knew, for careful repetition.

Naturally, Marguerite was selective in what she chose to share. There was no need, for example, for the reverend’s wife to hear about her sister-in-law Geneviève’s modest beginnings. Marguerite’s brother, Maxim, had been over thirty years her senior and there was little doubt that Geneviève’s physical charms had inspired the marriage. Her family connections were best over-looked and she’d brought not a penny to the match.

Having entered the house as companion to Marguerite’s mother, the dowager countess, she would, at least, have learnt how to comport herself. If the girl proved suitable, Hugo might do well to marry her himself, thereby consolidating the income from the family estate.

Really, what had Maxim been thinking, bequeathing to his young wife such a significant portion of the vineyard’s revenue for the duration of her lifetime? She might claim the benefit of it for another fifty years!

Marguerite pictured herself leaving the damp and dreary moor and returning to the glorious sunshine of her native land, to long summers of picnics and plucking figs and lemons fresh from the tree.

One should hardly rejoice at such things, but the passing of her brother might be viewed as a blessing. His roguish behavior had brought disrepute on the family name. Under her guidance, Hugo would make amends. Moreover, her grandchildren would be born as generations before them, as true little French men and women, under the roof of Chateau Rosseline.

As soon as the festive period concluded and she’d overseen the viscount’s acquaintance with his nephew, she would make plans.

There was a knock at the door, and a stooped figure shuffled in, giving a slight bow. “Excuse me, madam. There’s a gentleman to see you. I’ve put him in the library, to await your convenience.”

Marguerite sighed. “You know I don’t see casual callers, Withers.”

“’Tis Sergeant Hawky.” Placing the caller’s card in her hand, his own shook a little.

Mrs. Wapshot swallowed her remaining piece of walnut cake. “Nothing…wrong?”

“Not at all, Griselda!” Marguerite rose from her seat to encourage her guest’s departure.

Not for the first time, Marguerite lamented that life had brought her to such a remote and unsophisticated location. Genteel Society was sadly lacking, requiring her reconciliation to company she would otherwise have shunned.