A Suitable Wife - Louise Gouge M.

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“I thank ya, o’course.”

      Greystone coughed away a laugh. “You are welcome, Kit.”

      “Ah, here you are.” Mrs. Parton bustled into the room with Lady Beatrice in her wake. “Greystone, your mother is quite beside herself over your unexpected guest. I have relieved her mind utterly, for I plan to take on this little fellow’s care myself.”

      “I beg your pardon?” Greystone stood and gazed at the lady in puzzlement.

      “The child, my boy.” Mrs. Parton laughed in her inimitable way. “I plan to take him away from you and care for him myself. With Lady Beatrice’s help, of course.” She gave Kit a maternal smile. “We shall make him quite our little pet, shall we not, my dear?” She sent the young lady a glance before approaching the bed.

      Lady Beatrice gave him an apologetic shrug. “Lady Greystone does seem unhappy about your project.”

      “But you see, dear ladies, it is just that—my project. I have already made friends with young Kit, and I have no intention of surrendering him to you.”

      Kit’s eyes darted from Greystone to Mrs. Parton and back again. Greystone gave the boy another reassuring wink.

      “Hmm. Just as I suspected.” Without a hint of hesitation Mrs. Parton patted Kit’s dirty cheek with her gloved hand. “But do you have any idea of what you are doing?”

      Feeling a bit put upon, Greystone stepped between the older lady and his new ward. “I shall inquire of the physician.”

      “Humph.” Mrs. Parton wagged a sooty finger at him. “And what do you suppose a physician knows about taking care of children?”

      He opened his mouth to answer, but had no idea what to say.

      “Just as I thought.” The lady shook her head, and her red curls bounced merrily. “You must let me have him, Greystone.”

      Here was another lady who had nurtured him all his life and for whom he had the greatest respect. Unlike Mother she harbored no secret bitterness, but was merry and generous in every way. Still, he was done with letting these good women rule his life.

      “Forgive me, madam, but I cannot do that. His brother will be here soon, and I plan to care for the both of them.”

      Mrs. Parton scowled at him, at least as much as her permanently merry face would permit. “Your mama will be greatly disappointed. As will Lady Beatrice. Won’t you, my dear?”

      The young lady blinked in obvious confusion. “I... Well...yes, of course. But Lord Greystone must do what he thinks is best.”

      “I thank you, madam.” He gave her a nod. “At least someone thinks I can manage it.” From the startled yet pleased expression on her lovely face, he wished he had not shown quite so much gratitude.

      “Very well. Have it your way.” Mrs. Parton looped an arm around Greystone’s and moved him away from the bed. “But you will grant us visiting privileges.”

      “Yes, of course.” The words came out before he had time to consider all the implications. Had he granted Lady Beatrice unlimited access to his house just when he had determined it was best to avoid her very appealing presence? How could he possibly retract his words without appearing ungentlemanly?

      Chapter Five

      Her emotions churning, Beatrice watched the battle of wills between her benefactress and the viscount. On the one hand she wanted to laugh at Lord Greystone’s obvious struggle to overrule Mrs. Parton. She could see that rank was not held in high regard between these two friends. The observation sent a pang through her, for she longed to enjoy such friendships. She also wanted to comfort the distraught child, who held one hand over the other forearm and had lost his battle against weeping. Mrs. Parton had not held back from touching the boy, so Beatrice went to the bedside and brushed filthy black hair from his forehead, sending a cloud of soot over the white pillow. A smoky smell emanated from him, along with the scent of rancid perspiration. At her touch the child ceased his tears and stared up at her, eyes wide.

      “Coo, miss, yer the prettiest lady I ever did see.” He winced as he spoke.

      She smiled at his artless compliment. “I thank you, sir. And you are a dandy young fellow.” She glanced at Lord Greystone, whose bemused expression made her want to laugh. But the child might misunderstand, so she merely smiled. “May I look at your arm?”

      The boy winced again. “Aw, miss, I ain’t clean.” He sniffed loudly and ran his good arm under his damp nose, making more of a mess of himself.

      “Never mind that.” Beatrice shoved away her feelings of revulsion. The poor child could not be faulted for the life to which he had been born. And he could be cleaned up just like the immaculate orphans she had seen only two hours ago. “Now let me see your arm.” She touched his threadbare shirtsleeve, testing the frail arm beneath. “Have you broken it before?”

      After a tiny gasp of pain, he said, “Aye, miss,” on a whimper.

      “Hmm.” Beatrice swallowed the emotion his admission stirred within her. What a horrible life he must live. She glanced at Mrs. Parton, who gave her an inscrutable look, and decided to plunge ahead. “Of course the physician will know more than I, but I think the arm is not broken, merely sprained. Because of the old injury, it no doubt causes more pain.”

      “Indeed.” Lord Greystone eyed her skeptically. “And upon what do you base your diagnosis?”

      Bristling at his doubtful tone, she withheld a tart reply. After all, the viscount could not be aware of her experiences ministering to her brother’s tenants. She turned her attention back to the child. “Can you wiggle your fingers?”

      He raised his frail hand and complied. “It hurts.”

      “As it will for some time.” She turned back to Lord Greystone. “Still, I believe a bath will not harm him if care is taken for the injury.”

      Her words set off another bout of tears. “No bath, miss, gov’ner. Please, no bath.”

      “Hush, boy.” The aged butler, who had been scowling from the other side of the wide bed, shook a bony finger at the child. “You will do as you are told.”

      The little one cringed and trembled so fiercely, soot drifted up from his entire body.

      “Shh.” Beatrice caressed his cheek. “Have you ever had a bath?”

      Wide-eyed, he shook his head, and more soot dislodged from his person. “’Tis sumpin’ terrible, they tell me.”

      At that Lord Greystone and Mrs. Parton laughed, his baritone providing a perfect harmony to her soprano.

      Beatrice continued to caress the boy’s cheek.

      “Not at all, Kit. A warm bath is just the thing to make a new man of you,” said Greystone.

      He moved closer to the bed and chucked the boy under his chin, absorbing another dose of the soot that seemed to have already drifted to every corner of the room. At the same time, the viscount’s arm brushed against Beatrice’s, and a pleasant shiver swept over her making her fully aware of his height and masculine presence. Gracious, what was the matter with her? She cleared her throat and returned her attention to the child.

      “Lord Greystone speaks the truth. You may trust him.” Her words earned her a warm smile and a conspiratorial wink from the gentleman, and another pleasant feeling swept through her. A bit breathlessly, she suggested, “Perhaps you can send for a footman to do the honors?”

      “It has already been ordered, Lady Beatrice.” Again his smile stirred a giddy feeling within her. “I do believe we think alike in this matter.” A frown darted across his brow, but he shook it away and focused on the child. Then, as if to confirm his words, several footmen entered the bedchamber carrying a large brass tub and buckets of steaming water.

      Kit squirmed and sniffed,

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