First things first.
And that first thing was Kit. “Just ignore him, Kit. It’s not important right now.”
He grumbled, but gave it up. “You’re right. But why the hell Cyrus agreed to see him this morning, what with—”
“Hush, Kit. Not here,” she warned as they reached the floor where the family’s private chambers were located. She smiled at an upstairs maid, who bobbed a curtsy and gave her a welcoming nod as they passed.
They turned right into the short corridor to her bedroom. Blowing out a heartfelt sigh of relief, Vivien opened the door and stepped inside, Kit following behind. She dragged herself across the room to the fireplace and collapsed onto the infinitely soft silk chaise, letting the heat and cheerful crackle of the flames wash over her.
Her gaze wandered gratefully about the cheerful space. More than once during her ordeal, she’d feared she’d never see her favorite retreat again. Finished in calming shades of white and pale blue and accented with cushions, drapes, and bedcovers of buttery yellow, Vivien’s bedroom had always been her one safe haven from chaos and trouble. Reading on her chaise, writing to friends at her elegant Sheridan desk, escaping the travails imposed on her by her family. Of course she loved them—even Cyrus, in a way—but they tried her patience to the breaking point.
Sometimes, the Blake mansion had even seemed more like a prison than a home. But in that horrible cave in Kent she’d sorely regretted her ingratitude and her careless acceptance of her privileged life. Over and over she had prayed to safely return home, vowing to shoulder any burden necessary. Now, by God’s grace and St. George’s, she’d been delivered. It was time once again to take up her responsibilities to her family.
“Mamma must have been terrified by all this,” she said, unbuttoning her pelisse. “God knows she screamed loud enough when they dragged me out of the carriage.”
Kit’s eyebrows flew up, and she winced.
“I’m sorry. I’m so tired I don’t know what I’m saying,” she apologized. Of course her mother had been terrified. But a tiny part of Vivien couldn’t help remembering her mother shriveled up into a wailing ball in the corner of the carriage, not even trying to help her.
Unlike Lady Thornbury.
She shook off the uncharitable comparison, focusing on her brother. Kit gave her a lopsided grin and shrugged. “Well, old girl, it ain’t like you’re exaggerating. According to Lady Thornbury, she had an epic fit of the vapors and didn’t come down until Lady T.’s doctor shoved a mighty dose of laudanum down her throat.”
Vivien draped her pelisse over the end of the chaise, drew her legs up, and nestled against the plump cushions. “How in heaven’s name did Cyrus prevent all the servants from finding out what happened to me, especially with Mamma in such a state?”
“Lady T. again. She had the presence of mind to send the carriage straight to Sir Dominic’s house after your abduction.” He gave a low whistle. “Thank God for her and Sir Dominic. Don’t know what would have happened if they hadn’t come to the rescue.”
“Indeed,” Vivien replied dryly.
Looking like he’d been caught putting frogs in his big sister’s shoes, Kit warily sat down on the padded stool before Vivien’s dressing table.
Yes, my lad, it’s time to own up to your sins.
“Anyway, once they calmed Mamma down,” Kit hastily continued, “they brought her home and put her right to bed. She’s stayed there ever since, supposedly with the same cold that felled you. Only Darnell and Mrs. Hammond know what really happened.”
“Good God,” she sighed. “What a disaster.”
It would be a miracle if they managed to squeak through this without a scandal. Fortunately, the senior servants had been with the family forever and were very loyal. Vivien—who’d been managing the household for years—had always made sure they were paid well enough to ensure that loyalty, even if she had to scrimp and save to do it.
Kit nodded sympathetically. “I know. But so far, we haven’t heard a stitch of gossip. Sir Dominic was quite forceful in impressing on the staff just how dire the situation could become.”
Vivien’s anxiety eased a fraction. “We’ve obviously been very lucky, thanks to Lady Thornbury and Sir Dominic.”
And St. George, of course, but she had no intention of sharing the intimate details of her rescue with anyone, including Kit.
“And speaking of luck,” she continued in a severe voice. “It’s time for you—”
She broke off as a tap sounded on the door panels. “Enter,” she called in a resigned voice.
Susan, her maid, edged into the room, wreathed in a welcoming smile and bearing a tray laden with enough cakes, scones, and tea to supply half of Wellington’s army. They did look awfully tempting despite the generous breakfast she’d consumed a short time ago. It was a consequence, she supposed, of having nothing to eat for two days but some dried bread and a piece of moldy—and not in a good way—cheese.
“My lady, welcome home,” Susan exclaimed as she placed the tray on Vivien’s writing desk. The maid turned and inspected her, a frown marking her pleasant features. “Oh, you do look peaked.” She turned her frown on Kit. “Now, Master Kit, I think it best if you let her ladyship get some rest. She needs to be in bed asleep, not chatting with you.”
Vivien tamped down her impatience. Susan had been with the family for years and had been a true support during some very trying times. “I’m fine, Susan. You may pour the tea, and then I’ll ring for you when I want to get undressed.”
Susan looked ready to disagree, but instead poured out the tea and heaped two plates with cakes and scones, grumbling all the while. After gathering up Vivien’s pelisse, she stalked back to the door. “Fifteen minutes, Master Kit,” she said sternly. “And then I’ll be back to put her ladyship to bed.”
Kit answered with an engaging grin, his mouth already stuffed with scones. At any other time Vivien would have laughed, but right now it felt like everyone and everything was out of her control. If only she could have confided in St. George. He would have known what to do, and how to handle Kit. He would have—
Stop.
She couldn’t allow her thoughts to drift in so perilous a direction. Besides, he would no doubt soon return to his regiment—or whatever it was he really did—and she must handle this latest crisis by herself. After all, she had promised Papa on his deathbed that she would look out for Kit and Mamma, and that vow had become the underpinning of her life. It often weighed heavily on her, but Papa had been the best father in the world. He had depended on her, and she wouldn’t let him down.
Vivien and Kit sat facing each other, with no more interruptions to prevent them from confronting the truth. Her brother knew it, too. He carefully set down his plate, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and faced her with the same apologetic, guilty expression she’d seen on his face countless times.
Setting aside her teacup, Vivien looked her brother in the eye and asked the question that had been rabbiting about in her brain for hours.
“Kit, exactly how involved were you in my abduction?”
Chapter Eleven
The blood drained from Kit’s face, leaving him the color of curdled milk. His gaze darted about, seeking escape before settling back on her. His bright blue eyes, so like her own, pleaded for understanding.
Vivien’s stomach twisted into a painful knot with his unspoken confirmation of guilt. Even though her brain had assembled the facts with an almost mathematical precision, her heart had still foolishly hoped her conclusion wasn’t true. She should have known better. If there were two things Kit excelled at, they were running up debt and getting into trouble.
Just like his mother, the reason why Mamma and Kit were usually thick as thieves.
“Oh, Kit,” she exhaled in a despairing breath. “How could you?”
He rushed over to flop to his knees before her, grabbing her hands. “It wasn’t like that, Vivi. I had no idea you’d be kidnapped. I didn’t think for a moment that bl
asted scoundrel would actually carry out his threats.” He clutched her hands in a convulsive grip. “I’d die before I let anything bad happen to you. You know that.”
His eyes grew wet, and for an awful moment Vivien was thrown back into a well of bitter memories. Kit hadn’t cried since Papa’s death. He’d shed many tears on that horrible day, heartbroken by his beloved father’s death, and it had almost destroyed her own heart. She’d vowed that Kit would never have reason to cry again, not if she could help it.
This time, though, Vivien had no idea if she could fix whatever disaster he’d stumbled into.
Letting her anger bleed away—it never paid to be angry with Kit—she drew him up from the floor to sit beside her. She patted his broad back while he composed himself, as she’d so often done when he was a boy. Then she placed her hands on his shoulders and turned him to face her.
“It was that moneylender, wasn’t it?” she asked. “The one we talked about last week.”
He averted his eyes. “I . . . I think so.”
“Kit,” she warned.
Grimacing, he met her gaze. “Yes, I’m almost positive. I’ve spent the time since you were taken trying to run him to ground. Couldn’t find him, so I can’t be perfectly certain, but it makes sense. Sorry, old girl,” he said, despondent. “They didn’t hurt you, did they? I mean, not really.” His eyes glistened again. “Please tell me they didn’t hurt you.”
“I’m fine,” she said, absently patting his hand while she puzzled over what she already knew.
Vivien had sensed something was wrong with Kit over a week ago. She’d always been able to do that, and with Mamma, too. Not that it posed much of a challenge. They were both inveterate gamblers and terrible liars. Still, she’d been forced to resort to an unpleasant subterfuge when Kit refused to tell her what was wrong. She’d searched his room until she’d found the vowels that revealed debts of over ten thousand pounds owing from losses at the tables.
The size of the sum had staggered her, and the moment he’d returned home Vivien had confronted him. Kit had reluctantly confessed he’d gone to a moneylender in order to pay off his debts and that choice news had led to a blazing row. But before he’d stormed out of the room, he’d demanded she stop treating him like a little boy and told her that he’d fix the problem on his own. And instead of insisting that he let her deal with the moneylender, Vivien had decided he was right. She’d spoiled Kit for his entire life, and it was past time he accepted responsibility for his own mistakes.
She’d woefully underestimated the depth of his mistakes, and the criminal inclinations of the man holding Kit’s vowels.
“Did you speak to this moneylender after our fight last week?” she asked.
“The next day. I told him that he’d have his money within three days. He said he would give me the time but if I didn’t pay up by then, my family would pay the price.” Kit raked a hand through his tumbled blond hair, looking ill with anxiety. “I suppose I could have gone to Cyrus, but you know how he reacts. If he’s not threatening to exile me to the countryside, he’s vowing to force me into an infantry regiment and ship me off to India or some godforsaken place. I think he’d do it this time, too. Not that I don’t deserve it,” he finished bitterly.
“No one is going anywhere,” she responded sharply. The idea of her darling, feckless little brother facing danger and disease in foreign lands was intolerable. “You’re not to worry about Cyrus or his threats, especially that one.”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s time I—”
“No, Kit. You are not running away from this and you are not going off to join the army,” she said firmly. “And don’t distract me. Why three days?”
“What? Oh, three days to repay the money, you mean. Well, there was a horse race at—”
She rested her forehead on her fists. “You didn’t.”
The heavy silence told the tale. If there was one thing Kit liked more than gaming hells, it was the track. That was to be expected, since her father had owned a string of thoroughbreds, but Cyrus had sold them off within weeks of Papa’s death. As a child, Kit had loved hanging about the stables and he’d inherited his father’s love of horses. Unfortunately, he had not inherited Papa’s discipline and self-control.
Vivien rubbed her temples, wishing she could crawl into bed and not speak or even see anyone for a week. But that wouldn’t protect her or Kit, and it wouldn’t make the problem go away. She’d learned long ago that problems must be managed directly or they would mushroom out of control.
She dropped her hands to her lap and sat up straight. If she looked calm and in control, dealing only with facts and not emotion, perhaps she would feel calm and in control.
“How much did you drop on the horse, Kit?”
He seemed to shrink into himself, and Vivien had the oddest impression that his formfitting coat was suddenly two sizes too large. Under her eyes, Kit transformed from a strapping young man into a frightened boy.
Her heart seized in her chest when he didn’t answer. “How much? Tell me,” she demanded through lips gone stiff and cold.
He swallowed again. “Twenty thousand.”
For a moment, the words couldn’t penetrate the haze of weariness that had apparently taken up permanent residence in her brain.
“Twenty thousand?” she repeated, her voice sounding dim and far away. Then she drew in a gasping breath. “Do you mean an additional twenty thousand pounds on top of the ten thousand you already owe?”
When he nodded miserably, Vivien’s last, lingering hope crumbled into dust. Since Papa’s death, life hadn’t always been easy, but for the last several years she’d been able to keep her mother and Kit more or less out of dun territory by consistently winning respectable and even substantial sums of money at the card tables. She even enjoyed the challenge, the pitting of her brain and skills against some of the finest gamblers of the ton. When she sat down to play, she could forget the rest of the world, all her willpower and wit focused on that square of green baize cloth. In taking on her opponents, in using all her skills, she could exert some degree of control over the chaos of her family and partly overcome her own financial circumstance.
Of course, she exerted great care not to let arrogance sweep away her native caution. When she began to lose significant amounts—which occurred quite rarely—she always walked away. She enjoyed the game and enjoyed the control it gave her, but she had vowed long ago never to let it control her.
But thirty thousand pounds? Even she couldn’t win that much, not in the period of time required. Vivien felt completely and utterly helpless, sunk by the selfish disregard for consequences too often displayed by her mother and Kit.
She stared into the fire, her emotions blanked out under a smothering weight that seeped into her mind and spirit. Her vision narrowed to a pinprick of concentration, all focused on one penetrating question.
How in God’s name could she fix this? Even as a last resort, she could not go to Cyrus for help. Although the Blake family fortune was entirely respectable, they didn’t have that kind of money lying about, especially since Mamma had substantial debts as well. Mamma had an allowance, of course, but she always exceeded it. Only Vivien’s winnings at the tables allowed them to hide the extent of the problem from Cyrus.
Besides, Cyrus despised the way Kit and Mamma gambled and he’d balk at even paying a farthing to help them. He’d rather see Mamma exiled to the country and Kit sent off to the battlefield than see any of the estate’s hard-earned money reward their folly.
And right in this moment, Vivien was halfway to agreeing with him.
“Vivi, wh . . . what’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you talking?” Kit’s voice held a frightened, quavering note.
She tried to marshal her thoughts, tried to care that her beloved younger brother so desperately needed her. But that smothering emotional fog refused to give way. It was as if someone had again forced laudanum down her throat. Aware and surrounded by danger but with every sense blunted
, unable to think or act to save herself or anyone else.
Her brother convulsively gripped her shoulder and shook. “Vivien! What’s the matter with you?”
With a great, shuddering effort, as if she rolled a tombstone from her chest, Vivien came back to herself. Anger and frustration rushed up with a cleansing blast, forcing past the leaden weight in her head.
“Yes, Kit. I hear you,” she snapped. “There’s no need to shout at me. I’m simply trying to think.”
He jerked back, startled by her reaction. She ruthlessly shoved aside her natural instinct to comfort him. If anything, she should box his ears, though Kit deserved a good deal more than that.
Still, his panic faded and color returned to his cheeks. He got up and began pacing the room, his long legs carrying him quickly to the far window and back again. She let him work off the energy, happy for the silence while the vague outlines of a plan began to take shape in her mind’s eye.
After a few minutes of wearing a path on the weave of her Axeminster carpet, Kit came to a halt in front of her, looking despondent yet resigned. Vivien cocked an eyebrow in silent question.
“You’re right, Vivi. I’ve made a complete muddle of things, and it’s time I owned up to it. This is all my fault and I’m going to fix it.”
She could barely repress a shudder at the idea of Kit trying to fix anything. “And how do you intend to do that?” she asked, curious despite herself.
He thrust up his chin, like a defiant boy owning up to a silly prank. “I’ll leave for the Continent immediately. Tonight, if possible. If I’m gone, there’s no chance of recovering the money, so the bastard will leave you and the family alone. Yes,” he said, growing more enamored of the idea by the second. “That’s the ticket. If I just disappear, there’s nothing anyone can do. I won’t tell you where I’m going, and that way no one can hold you or Cyrus at fault.”
He thrust his hand into his waistcoat, trying to look tragic. He likely saw himself as romantically heroic in his willingness to sacrifice himself for his family.
Secrets for Seducing a Royal Bodyguard Page 10