“What is so amusing?” His black brows drew together.
Diana chuckled. “The expression on your face when Selena called you Papa.”
“Huh.” After a moment, Vincent smiled a lopsided smile. “That was a bit of a shock. I certainly never thought of myself as a father. But that solves the problem of the children inadvertently calling me Lord Lonsdale. If they did so, the game would be up.” He nodded toward the trees. “Would you like to walk?”
“Yes, I would enjoy that.” Diana took the arm he offered and they strolled in the direction of the woodland. “You acted as a father just now, you know—a very good one.”
For a moment he frowned. Then his brow cleared. “Oh, you refer to my correcting Bytham? I didn’t think of it that way, but, yes. Boys need to be disciplined or they grow up to be abominable louts—as I know to my sorrow.”
Diana cast him an inquiring glance.
After a few minutes’ thought he said, “My father never disciplined me. I was his only surviving child. My mother suffered several miscarriages, and my older brother, Henry, drowned when he was eight years old. I think Papa just could not bear to hurt me in any way.”
“That’s understandable, I suppose.”
“Perhaps, but the result was that I grew into a nasty whelp and a worthless young man.”
“Not worthless, surely.” She smiled up at him.
“Near enough. The episode at Ashwell was not the worst, by any means.”
“Was that brought about by the drinking?”
“In truth, no. I always imagined myself with a burning thirst in those days, but I cannot say why. I don’t enjoy heavy drinking above half. I think the drink was more of an excuse.”
“An excuse for what?”
“To behave like an ass…uh, I beg your pardon, Diana, but that is what I was. And an excuse to test people. In addition to allowing me to behave badly, my father always taught me that others would pretend to be my friends in order to get what I have. I found that to be largely true, so I punished them.” He smiled ruefully. “I set out to make myself the most hated man in England. I succeeded only in becoming the greatest brat.”
“But not everyone is like that. Many people are true friends.”
“I suppose. Wyn was one of the few who never asked me for a shilling. I believed he was my friend.”
Diana found herself unwilling to speculate on the loyalty of her late husband, so she changed the direction of the conversation. “But why did you stop?”
“My Uncle Charles gave me a memorable lesson in honor.” Vincent’s wry smile broke through his serious expression. “And did me the greatest service of my life.”
“Your uncle… Helen’s brother? What did he do?”
“He took a riding crop to my backside.”
“Oh, dear. How old were you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Twenty-two! Not a boy, but a man. Diana walked in stunned silence for several moments and tried to imagine the uncle who could beat Vincent Ingleton like a naughty child. And then she tried to imagine Vincent Ingleton being a naughty child. And then… She could do neither. Vincent seemed so hard. So somber.
So forbidding.
Finally she said, “Your uncle must be quite terrifying.”
Vincent looked startled. “Caldbeck?” After a moment’s thought he added, “No, not terrifying. He is…very hard to describe. But you will meet him in Yorkshire.”
“I am not sure I wish to.”
“I have given you a false impression. He is a good enough fellow.” Vincent smiled. “But he is very formidable. For years I was in awe of him—and therefore hated him. Went out of my way to antagonize him, to be rude to him and to his wife. And Helen…” He stared into the treetops for a moment. “I cannot describe the hell I put her through. She tried so hard to be a good mother to me, but I insisted on treating her as an interloper—someone who would steal my father’s affection from me.”
He turned back to Diana, a great sadness in his eyes. “I knew how unlovable I was.”
The truth struck her like a blow. His grief was not only for the unruly child. He saw himself as a man that no one could love. A matching sorrow welled up in Diana. She would always wonder if she had been different—better somehow, more beautiful, more outgoing, more lovable—her husband would have loved her more. What a contrast they both were to Wynmond Corby who had expected everyone to love him, no matter what he did.
Her impulse to reach out to Vincent, to comfort him, died aborning as she recognized the fixed set of his jaw. He would have none of it. His pride would see it as pity. Besides, she was not yet sure she could afford to wish to comfort him, even though he had comforted her last night. She must remain wary.
She became suddenly very aware that the path they trod had taken them out of sight of the house. The trees shaded them completely now. She stepped back from Vincent too hastily and stumbled. He caught her arm and steadied her, gazing into her face, his expression unreadable.
He knew. He knew she was afraid of him. And that she wanted him. Again, he was so near. She could feel the heat of his body. See the heat in his eyes. She tried to draw away, but he tightened his grip and, with his other hand, smoothed her hair away from her face.
For a moment she thought—feared, hoped?—he would kiss her again. He was staring at her mouth. She opened it to speak, shut it again quickly, stared back at him. For a space, time stood still. Somewhere a bird poured its joyous song into the air.
Vincent muttered something under his breath.
“Damnation.”
And he turned them and led her back to the house.
She had called him Papa. The thought still created tremors of unease in Vincent. Had the chit really come to think of him as her father? Surely not, not in such a short time. But it had not taken Bytham long to begin clinging to him. Perhaps they did miss Wyn. Vincent felt pretty sure that Corby was no more constant a father than he had been a husband, but he had been good with children—including his own. They needed someone. Perhaps they needed Vincent.
But he could hardly see himself as a replacement. His life had grown too dark, too enmeshed with evil and danger. Not the stuff of parenthood. Not the stuff of husbands. He could not bring it into their lives.
Ah, Diana. Vincent stood and began to pace the library from fireplace to window. If only he were free of the menace, if only he could take her in his arms, claim her, keep her, without bringing violence down on her head. Every time he touched her it became harder to let her go. He must constantly remind himself of his honor—that she was under his protection. He could not impose himself on her, even if occasionally he saw an answering spark in her eyes.
Vincent paused and stared into the fire. Had he, in his desire, imagined it? Or had he truly felt a response from her? He must be dreaming. She knew the kind of man he had been. He had told her himself. Possibly she still did not realize just what a scurvy rascal he was. And practicing espionage had only stained him deeper. It had bloodied his hands.
No. She and Bytham and Selena deserved a future, and as much as he might wish to, he could not offer them one.
He might not have one himself.
The next week passed in deceptive peacefulness. Diana could almost forget that they were fleeing for their lives—or alternatively, that they had been cleverly kidnapped. Bytham and Selena blossomed with Mrs. Cobbs’s good food and the wholesome country air. Fanny and Throckmorton watched over them, and Diana begun to feel rested for the first time in months. Vincent Ingleton kept a polite distance—both to Diana’s relief and dismay.
The only cloud in this idyllic sky was the fact that the scrape on her face refused to heal. She would have a scar, but, Diana reflected, that would be the least of her worries if she did not survive to tell the tale.
Mrs. Cobbs, however, did not view the matter in that light. “We cannot have you with a scar on your pretty face, ma’am. The problem is, it wants to fester, and I don’t rightly know what to do. I’d best sen
d for Old Annie.”
They had been standing near the door in the small entry where the light would fall on Diana’s face through the glass. They were forced to step back as Cobbs came through from the outside.
He scowled. “What? What about Old Annie?”
Mrs. Cobbs turned to her husband. “We need her. She’ll know how to heal Mrs. Greenleigh’s face.”
Cobbs snorted. “That Cat Anna! Don’t like her prowling around. Can’t you tend to it yourself?”
“Now, Mr. Cobbs…” His wife shook her head. “You know there is no such thing as witches. Annie is harmless, and she is the best midwife in the shire. If she hadn’t been there when Aidan was born…”
“Oh, yes, yes. I know. I’ve heard it often enough.” He waved a dismissive hand. “But I still say she’s a crazy old witch. Makes my skin crawl when she has them spells. Well, do what you think best.”
With this grudging permission, he took himself off in the direction of the kitchen. Mrs. Cobbs put her hands on her hips and scowled after him. “Never mind him, Mrs. Greenleigh. Men don’t much like Annie. Something about her scares them. But she is just an old woman—and a very clever one at that. Just getting a little strange. I’ll send for her.”
When Old Annie arrived the next day, Diana found herself in agreement with Cobbs. There was something eerie about the midwife, in spite of her simple black dress and spotless white apron. It was not so much the gray hair peeking from under her cap or the fact that very few teeth graced her withered gums. It was in her eyes—an almost feral gleam. Diana fervently hoped she would not be treated to seeing one of Old Annie’s “spells.”
In Annie’s opinion, they had pursued the wrong treatment, as she hastened to instruct them. “Comfrey salve is all very well for healing, but this place has poison needs to be got out. Shouldn’t have let it go this long.” She scowled disapprovingly at the housekeeper. “What’s needed is a fomentation.” She turned the frown on to Diana. “You best go up to your room, me lady. I’ll fetch it up.”
Accordingly, Diana took herself off to her bedchamber. She put on an old wrapper and waited in the chair by the window. A light breeze blew in and sunshine flickered on the sill as the sun flirted with a growing number of clouds. It looked as though they were in for a bit of rain.
Diana glanced around the room. So pleasant. So comfortable with its chintz-covered chairs and stone fireplace. She sighed. Why couldn’t they just stay here forever, safe and hidden? The children loved being here. Why couldn’t she just shut the troublesome world away?
Pretend she was safe with Vincent Ingleton.
She felt safe. He certainly had expended every effort to keep her enemies at bay, had offered her comfort, watched over her children. It would be such a relief to explore that spark between them, to see where that kiss might have led. Diana wanted to simply enjoy his attention and his beautiful person, perhaps even to hold him next to her heart, without fear and suspicion.
If only…
A tap on the door interrupted this reverie and signaled the arrival of Mrs. Cobbs and Old Annie, the former bearing a steaming copper pot. Annie beckoned to Diana. “You best lie down, me lady, and turn your face this way.” Diana complied and Mrs. Cobbs dipped a cloth into the kettle. “Mind what you are about, Nellie!” Annie snapped, snatching the cloth into her own gnarled hands. “A burn is worse to heal than a scrape.”
“Yes, I know, Mistress Annie.” Mrs. Cobbs smiled gently and retrieved the material. “Here, let me help you fold it.”
When the poultice had been wrapped to her satisfaction, Annie took it again from her helper. “This will sting, me lady. I used calendula and yarrow. The calendula does smart.”
“Ah!” Diana winced as the hot cloth settled over the wound.
“Is it too hot?” Mrs. Cobbs hovered over her anxiously.
“Got to be hot,” Annie growled, reversing her earlier ground. “Don’t do no good if it ain’t hot.”
Mrs. Cobbs sighed. “Yes, Mistress Annie. I know.”
Diana gritted her teeth against the sting and wondered if the housekeeper gritted her own against the irascible old woman. Annie’s knowledge must be valuable indeed to illicit such patience. But then, Mrs. Cobbs had shown herself to be a very kind woman. Her compassion would certainly extend to the cantankerous aging.
Drowsiness descended over Diana. The stinging ebbed as she grew accustomed to the warmth against her cheek and she began to drift off. If only she could just stay here like this…. Safe… Cared for…
If only.
The peace and quiet had begun to chafe Vincent. Almost two weeks had passed without word from London. He had no way of knowing where his enemies were, how close they might be to finding him and Diana. They could not stay here forever without word of strangers in residence getting around the district, and when that information became widespread, they would no longer be safe. No, soon it would be time to move on.
At least the sojourn had given Diana a chance to rest and for the wound on her face to heal. The housekeeper had called for some old crone to come and minister to Diana. Whatever she had done appeared to be effective. The wound seemed to be healing. Mrs. Cobbs worried out loud about a scar, but that made no difference to Vincent.
He would never see anything but Diana’s beautiful face.
Somehow, by dint of the greatest effort, he had managed to stay at arm’s distance from her. He made it a point not to be alone with her at all. He dined with her, walked with her and the children, played skittles with them on rainy days, and went to his library every evening and stayed there alone until he was ready for bed.
And when he was in bed, he stared at the door that led from his chamber to hers, torturing himself with images of her soft body clothed in nothing but a thin nightdress. Of her glowing hair spread over the pillow. Of the hungry light he had seen in her eyes.
And his fledgling honor prevailed.
He did not go in to her.
Now he paced the library, waiting for Throckmorton to come back with the post. He needed information. But when the footman returned, he had nothing for Vincent, only two letters forwarded by Adam and Helen to Diana. Vincent curbed the impulse to snoop. Diana had said the last message she received had come from Helen, but he had his doubts. It had obviously upset her, as a letter from his stepmother would hardly have done. Perhaps she would eventually confide in him without his having to stoop to reading her mail.
But when he found her in the morning room and gave her the messages, he came no closer to discovering the source of her earlier distress. She simply thanked him, put the notes in her pocket unopened, and went back to her book, her face tense but expressionless.
Perhaps he would have to snoop, after all.
He made his way through the crowded ballroom, smiling and speaking to acquaintances, bowing to the ladies, and snarling inside. The bitch was defying him! She must be brought to heel. He needed the information she should be providing. How dare she deny him? Women! Sluts, all of them.
He slid past a small, provocatively dressed young woman in the throng. Slut! He stepped back suddenly to tread heavily and purposefully on her slippered foot with the heel of his boot. The bones crunched. When she screamed, he turned to her, all surprise, apologizing profusely. He watched with satisfaction as her escort carried her away.
He would send her flowers tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
Even though Diana had been expecting both letters sooner or later, the messages they conveyed fell with crushing weight. Deimos now vowed to go to a magistrate within two weeks if she did not comply with his orders. She would not do it, of course. She was beginning to realize that he would never leave her alone, even if she did as he directed. He would always want something, would always abuse her.
If he made good on his threat, she would deal with the inevitable consequences when they befell. A possibility—an exceedingly remote one—existed that the authorities would believe her explanation. If only she had never taken Deimos’
s money! That alone seemed to confirm her lack of character—made it appear that she had some clandestine relationship with the man. With that fact and his wicked tongue, he would surely hang her if he chose.
The other letter, the one from her cousin, put the death knell to her hopes of a respectable life, regardless of Deimos’s action. It was hardly a shock. She had expected it, but still… When the blow fell, the force of it numbed her.
A strange calm descended on Diana as she accepted despair. There was no further need to worry about her future. She very likely had no future. Between Deimos and her pursuers and her homeless condition… Her only concern now was for her children. She must make plans for their future—one they would very likely have to face without her.
Diana sent a message that she had the headache and would not be down for dinner. As night closed around her, she was still sitting in the chair in her bedchamber where she had read the letters. She did not bother to light a candle, but sat staring into the darkness, thinking.
The house quieted as its various inhabitants took themselves off to bed. The night deepened. Suddenly, Diana felt desperately shut in by the silence and the dark. She jumped to her feet and felt her way to the door of her chamber. The corridor outside still had candles burning in the sconces. She hurried down the stairs and quietly let herself out onto the terrace.
The moon was dark tonight, but a blazing carpet of stars blanketed the sky. Diana made her way to the bench and sat, marveling at the dazzle above her. She had lived in London so long she had almost forgotten the stars. Under which ones had she been born? They must be hidden far away in some very dark corner of the sky.
Was there somewhere among them a brighter one for her children?
Vincent heard the shuffling of soft slippers on the stones of the terrace. He rose from his desk where he had been sitting in the dark, planning what he would do next. Walking to the window, he peered through the glass. It was Diana, of course. He would know her step anywhere. She sank to the bench and sat staring at the sky. At least, tonight, she was not weeping.
Earth, Air, Fire, and Water 04 - A Treacherous Proposition Page 10