Braydon returned then with a wide-eyed young maid bearing a tea tray. So that’s where he’d gone. The tea was already made in the pot, so Kitty poured it and stirred in two lumps of sugar. She passed over the cup and saucer. “Drink this. It will help.”
The woman sipped. “Thank you.”
Kitty poured tea for herself and Braydon. “I told Dorothy that we’d take care of her and her family. I explained that you were distantly related to her husband.”
He took the tea and sat on the sofa. “Of course. Are you in need at the moment, ma’am?”
Dorothy’s face was still marked by the news, but she seemed composed. She was a strong woman. She’d need to be.
“In need? No. Alfred arranged an annuity when we married. I didn’t see the need, for his income was ample, but he insisted. It provides a monthly income, and I was told that will continue until I die. It’s provided the necessities for us in his absence. There was also some arrangement to provide for the children’s future. He was a good man.” She looked between them. “You are quite sure he’s dead?”
“Quite sure,” Braydon said.
Dorothy sighed. “Where’s his grave? I’ll want to visit it.”
“In the grounds of Beauchamp Abbey.”
“Why there? Is it a ruin?”
“No, it’s a house. My house, in fact. Ma’am, I’m sorry to say that we have some more bad news for you.”
“More? What could be worse than my husband’s death?”
Kitty wished desperately she could fend off the coming blow.
“That your husband wasn’t your husband, ma’am. He wasn’t free to marry you.”
The cup and saucer tilted. Kitty caught them in time.
“I don’t believe you! Alfred would never have done such a thing! We were married in Cirencester, in good order.”
“All the same, he was already married to a woman called Diane. She left him for another man, but he never divorced her. He was not free to marry.”
“I don’t believe it,” the poor woman repeated, but she did. She’d aged in the minutes since hearing the news. “Oh, my poor, poor children! How am I to tell them this?”
“I suggest you don’t, ma’am,” Braydon said. “There’s no need to make this public in any way.”
Dorothy stared at him. “Not... I’m to live alie?”
“For your children’s sake and your own. There’s no reason anyone should find out.”
He was being cool and logical—the marble box again—but Kitty wasn’t surprised when Dorothy shot to her feet.
“You speak as if this is a matter of mere practicalities, my lord! My husband isdead, and now you tell me I’m a bigamous wife and my children are bastards, but I should put it all out of mind?”
Braydon had risen. “It’s the only sensible thing to do.”
Kitty stood, too, shooting him an angry look. “It’s all a terrible shock, Dorothy, but Dauntry’s right. Of course you can’t put it out of mind, but do nothing hastily. What purpose will be served by your telling the world? You and your children will suffer.”
Dorothy’s hands gripped her apron. “But what if someone finds out? Can I be jailed for this?”
“No, I’m sure not. She can’t, can she?”
Braydon said, “You’re an innocent party, ma’am. If the truth does come out, we’ll deal with that together. However, there is more.”
“More.” Dorothy wavered, and Kitty eased her back into her chair. “Perhaps we shouldn’t...”
But Braydon continued, “Your husband was Alfred Braydon—”
