Earth, Air, Fire, and Water 04 - A Treacherous Proposition

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  “Yes, my lord.” The footman stepped behind Diana as she walked to the entrance, shielding her from the drive.

  As Vincent strode toward the curricle, she stopped to peer at the man driving. No, she did not know him. So why did she…? Suddenly she understood. He looked much like Vincent, with a face of sharp planes and hair of raven-black. Who could he be? As she watched, Vincent’s hand moved to the opening of his coat, where she knew he carried a pistol. The gesture reminded her of her situation.

  She hastened into the house.

  Vincent approached the open carriage cautiously, his hand on his pistol. He did not relish strangers appearing unannounced. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Vincent could not place him as anyone he had ever met. Endeavoring to keep his expression neutral, he waited until the man’s servant had jumped down from his perch and come to the horses’s heads.

  “Lord Lonsdale?” The man descended from the seat and bowed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Henry Delamare, your most obedient servant.”

  “Mr. Delamare.” Vincent nodded. “How may I serve you?”

  The man smiled, apparently taking no notice of the lack of an offer of hospitality. “I have a matter I would like to discuss with you. May I do so in private?”

  Vincent cast a quick glance over the man’s frame. He could see no obvious sign of armament, but that meant little. On the other hand, neither could he see any sign of threat, and his keep was now well defended. He extended an arm toward the house.

  “Come in.” He led the way into the library, gratified to see that Diana was nowhere in sight. “May I offer you brandy?”

  “Thank you.” Delamare took the glass from Vincent and sat in the chair he indicated.

  Vincent sat behind the desk and studied his visitor. The sense of familiarity hung on the edges of his awareness. “Have we met before, Delamare?”

  “Oh, yes.” The man’s smile did not reach his eyes, even though creases in what appeared to be weathered skin appeared around them. “We have been at many of the same entertainments. I have been in London frequently over the last few years, though my business keeps me away much of the time.”

  “I see. And what is your business?”

  “Shipping. I captain my own ship.” Delamare sipped his brandy comfortably.

  “I regret to say I don’t remember you.” Vincent narrowed his eyes and looked harder.

  His visitor shrugged. “At large affairs, one never sees everyone. But we have met before.”

  Vincent’s eyebrows rose. “Where was that?”

  “Here.” The smile widened.

  “Oh?” Vincent scowled. He was losing patience with guessing games.

  “I am Henry Ingleton, Vincent. Your brother.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The words momentarily deprived Vincent of speech. For several heartbeats he could only stare in astonishment. Then anger began to grow. “Do not be absurd, Delamare. My brother drowned when he was eight years old.”

  “And where is his body buried?” The smile lingered on Delamare’s lips.

  “Obviously you know that it was never found. It was assumed that the tide carried him out.”

  “Ah. Just so. Assumptions are always so dangerous.” Delamare sipped delicately.

  Vincent glared across the desk. “Enough, Delamare—or whoever you are. What do you want?”

  “That should also be obvious. After years of exile, I desire to return to the home of my fathers.” The man’s expression became serious as he set his brandy aside and leaned forward. “Forgive me, Vincent, for enjoying your surprise. I have for years pictured the reaction my return might create—a dream I have lately decided to bring into reality.”

  “I suppose you have an explanation for your return from the dead?” Vincent leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Actually, you see, I have never been quite dead.” Delamare smiled again. “Only absent.”

  Vincent raised an eyebrow and waited.

  “I made the mistake that young boys so often make—that the world beyond my horizons must be wonderfully large and exciting and adventure-bestowing.” He got up and refilled his own glass. “I wanted to see it.” He returned to his chair while Vincent watched with narrowed eyes as he continued.

  “When Papa took me with him to see the ship in which he had invested, I took advantage of a moment’s inattention while he visited with the captain on the dock. I slipped away and hid, working my way down the dock.” Delamare sat silent for a moment, as though staring into the past. “I remember that the day was warm. I took off my jacket and left it near the water somewhere along the way.”

  To be found by Vincent’s father. Vincent well recalled the time of the panicked search, the dragging of the harbor, his mother’s heartbroken sobs. Even his father’s tears.

  His own inability to comfort them.

  But the man’s assertion remained outrageous. He refused to dignify it with a response.

  Undeterred, his visitor went on. “I made my way onto a French ship—although I did not know its nationality at the time—and found a place to hide. They did not find me until we reached Calais. By then I had become homesick and wanted to return, but I could not make them understand me. By the time my French improved enough to explain, no one believed that the cabin boy was in fact the son of an English earl. I quit saying it after the captain lost patience and had me beaten. But I did not forget who I am.”

  “Very affecting.” Vincent could not keep the cynical tone out of his voice.

  Delamare’s expression hardened. “I am not asking for your pity, my lord.”

  “What are you asking for?”

  “Only the opportunity to be here again. To get to know you. To perhaps convince you that I am, indeed, your brother.”

  “It is not I you will have to convince of this Banbury tale.” Vincent stood. The implications were becoming clear to him. Henry had been his older brother. “If you wish to displace me as Earl of Lonsdale, Delamare, it is Parliament you will have to persuade.”

  “But I have not said that I wish to do that.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Vincent, I simply want to come home.”

  At least the man had not asked to stay at Inglewood. He had taken himself off, back to the Blue Boar in the village, asking only that he be received again the next day.

  “And you allowed him?” Diana asked in amazement later that night after Vincent had slipped into her room. “I would have thought that you would speedily send him to the right about.”

  “I may do so yet.” It had been all he could do to sit through dinner in the presence of Justinian Sudbury and say nothing to Diana of his visitor’s presumptuous announcement. Sharing his thoughts with her had become a habit. “But there were several things he said—things about Inglewood and our childhood together…” He fell silent and stared into space.

  “Could someone have told him those things?” Diana propped the pillows against the headboard behind her and leaned back, watching as he sat on the bed and divested himself of his clothes.

  “Some of them, probably. But, Diana…” He stopped with one boot in his hands, still looking thoughtful. “He apologized for the time he locked me in the schoolroom cupboard. I didn’t think anyone knew about that prank—not even Nurse. Henry made me promise not to tell.”

  “Hmm. That does give one pause.” Her brows drew together thoughtfully. “But you cannot be sure she didn’t know—or perhaps your tutor did. Where is he?”

  “He died of a fever a few years after Henry drowned.” He pulled off the other boot and tossed it aside.

  “So he is no source of information. What else did Mr. Delamare say?”

  Vincent tugged his shirt over his head. “He said he wanted to see the spring again—the one at the foot of the park where we used to wade. Of course, anyone who was here then might have told him that.” He moved nearer to Diana and turned to look into her face. “But I have the strangest feeling…”

/>   “What is that?” She reached up to move a strand of hair away from his forehead.

  “That I know him.” Vincent sighed and leaned forward to kiss her forehead.

  “How could you? Even if the man is Henry, he would be too much changed for you to recognize him.” Her lips touched his chin.

  “Very likely. Still…”

  “What will you do?” She moved her hand to his chest, stroking the curve of the muscle.

  A thrill of desire shot through Vincent. He allowed a moment for it to subside before he answered. “I will be very cautious. I knew coming here would reveal our enemies, but I never thought there would be so many candidates—nor a ploy so completely unpredictable. I thought I would easily recognize them.” He clasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “Is Delamare one of the plot to free Bonaparte, Diana? Or simply a soldier of fortune seeking to take my place? Or…” He drew a long breath. “Is he truly my brother?”

  “He may be all those things.” Her thumb traced his lips.

  “Egad! What a thought!” Vincent grimaced. “But you are correct. How am I to know?”

  “You cannot yet know.”

  “No. Again, you are correct. So, as with Justinian, I must give him time—time to either prove himself or prove himself false.” He reached out and gathered her to him. “Which, if he intends it, will also give him time to betray me.”

  Even as Diana’s arms fastened around his neck, he could not shut out the thought. Secrets. So many secrets.

  Her secrets.

  Might they also betray him?

  The taste of her lips wiped the thought from his mind.

  Vincent sat by the spring alone. He needed time to think.

  To think about secrets and betrayal.

  About trust and honor.

  He had begun to realize that he could no longer say that he trusted no one. To his surprise, he had been obliged to acknowledge that he held not one shred of doubt about the motives of his stepfather and stepuncle. Neither Charles nor Adam would ever play him false. They were both too firmly rooted in honor. His lips curled ruefully at his next thought.

  They might beat him with a riding crop if they deemed it a need, but they would not betray him.

  He fervently prayed he would never again require their chastisement. Not because of its severity. Three licks on his backside that he barely felt when he was drunk…? Hardly. His fear was that he might disappoint them again. Might somehow once more fail in honor. They would not give him another chance.

  Vincent plucked a blade of grass and chewed on it absentmindedly, scarcely noticing the green taste of it. Had he already failed in honor with respect to Diana? Had he taken advantage of her fear and despair to bring her into his arms? God knew he intended her no harm. If she would have him, he would happily make her his wife. Assuming he could bring this present affair to a conclusion with both of them still living.

  Which brought him back to secrets and betrayal. What mystery did she harbor? Why would she not tell him? In the beginning, of course, she did not trust him enough to take him into her confidence. He understood that. But now…now she seemed willing to rely on him. So why did she remain so stubbornly silent?

  Might she possibly betray him?

  He could not imagine it. She was herself very firmly rooted in honor, in duty and responsibility. She did not have it in her character to lie. But perhaps keeping the secret obviated the necessity to lie. And, intentional or otherwise, not having the information she held might just as well bring about his downfall. He would scarcely be the first agent to have been brought low by his desire for a woman.

  Vincent sighed and lay back on the grass, studying the clouds. And now he had two more unknowns to deal with— Justinian Sudbury and Henry Delamare, a man who wished to see the spot where Vincent now reclined. He trusted neither of them at all. Did coincidence alone bring them to Inglewood within days of one another? Vincent did not like the concept of coincidence. Either or both of them might be in league with St. Edmunds. In all likelihood he should send them both packing. But if he did, he would not know where they were or what they were up to.

  If anything.

  Why was he even considering Delamare’s assertion? The story was absurd. Yet if there were even a chance that it were true… Could he turn his only brother away? If his visitor was, in fact, Henry Ingleton, then Vincent was not, by rights, the Earl of Lonsdale. Inglewood and its income did not rightfully belong to him. What did honor demand of him in this situation? Certainly that he attempt to discover the merits of the claim. And just as certainly that he not naively turn his heritage over to an imposter.

  If that could be done at all. What Parliament and the Crown would do regarding such a claim, he had no idea. Errors had been corrected in the past. In all probability it would take the whole of their lifetimes to resolve the matter legally.

  But what was his moral responsibility?

  Not for the first time, Vincent wished his father were still alive. Perhaps he would be able to discern the truth, to look into the man’s eyes and see him for who he was. Papa had always wanted his older son back. Had never ceased to grieve, had never ceased to search for him.

  Vincent never felt that he had been enough for his father.

  But that was neither here nor there. He must make a decision regarding Henry, must plumb the truth of the tale. He must give the man enough rope either to hang himself or to pull himself to shore out of the dark ocean of the past. Vincent smiled.

  He would kill the fatted calf.

  Diana could hardly believe that she was actually dressing for a dinner party. And that she actually owned something suitable to wear. The lovely silver satin dinner gown she had inherited from Helen would be perfect. Never mind that it was no longer the height of fashion or that the donor of the gown would be one of the guests. It looked very well on her. The color reflected her eyes and brought out some pink in her wan cheeks.

  It had been so long since she had socialized, she feared she would not know how to behave. But what a welcome distraction from her present troubles. Emma sounded as excited as Diana felt. “His lordship ain’t never had guests for dinner before—not since I worked here.”

  Diana pondered what Vincent had told her about his former “entertainments.” “How long have you been here?”

  “Three years. I started work in the scullery, but Mrs. Buckden, she liked my work so she moved me up.” Diana could hear the pride in the girl’s voice. “I helped her with her hair once, and she liked how I dressed it, so she sent me to you.”

  So young Emma had been spared Vincent’s earlier excesses. Very likely the stolid Claugh would not have allowed his daughter to be employed in such a situation, in any event.

  “And,” Emma continued, “Lord Caldbeck and Lord Litton and their ladies are to be with us until tomorrow.”

  An interesting ploy on Vincent’s part, Diana reflected. In fact, the whole affair showed his cleverness. Rather than vigorously denying Henry Delamare’s assertions—or accepting them—Vincent had invited him to meet his family. Had offered him the chance to convince them of his claim.

  Or be discredited.

  Caldbeck and Litton would remember the boy Henry Ingleton. Possibly they would be able to discern some clue about the man Henry Delamare. And the more people in the house, the more difficult it would be for an enemy to act undetected.

  A knock at the door signaled the arrival of her escort. As she opened the door, Diana realized she had never before seen Vincent in proper evening attire. It became him. He had chosen to wear all black, the somber color reflecting his sable hair and setting his dark eyes to glittering. And the glitter revealed something else.

  Tonight he was on the hunt.

  Tonight Vincent would stalk the truth through the maze of danger and deceit that surrounded him. His onyx gaze rested on her and for a moment Diana felt utterly naked. He knew. He knew she harbored secrets. And he would find them. Sooner or later, he would find her out in her shame and dish
onor. A flash of the fear of him she had formerly felt washed over her.

  What would he think of her?

  What would he do?

  But now, this evening, he bowed, and the sense of menace retreated. He offered his arm. “Come, beautiful lady, our guests await us.”

  Our guests. As though they were already married. As though she were his hostess. She was not, of course. Helen, as his only female relative, would perform that function in his home tonight. Diana would probably never do so. Another tormenting reminder of what could not be.

  She managed to smile and, followed by a vigilant footman, walked with him to the drawing room. There, as he had predicted, were Justinian Sudbury, Lords Litton and Caldbeck, Helen, and a young, flame-haired lady Diana did not know. The gentlemen stood and bowed, and Diana hurried to Helen where she sat with the other woman near the fire.

  “Lady Litton! Helen…how happy I am to see you again.” Somewhat to her own surprise, Diana discovered how true her words rang. She was glad to see the lady who had treated her so kindly. The one who would very likely have the rearing of her children.

  Helen, clad in a glowing royal purple that set off her fair skin and dark hair, stood and embraced her, pressing a soft cheek to hers. “Diana, I am so relieved to find you well. And Selena and Bytham?”

  “Well, also, thanks to Vincent and Throckmorton. They love being in the country.”

  “Oh, yes, the country is so much better for youngsters.” Helen extended a hand toward the red-haired lady who displayed an exquisite sapphire necklace and was gowned in a matching blue. “Catherine, may I present Lady Diana Corby? Diana, this is Lady Caldbeck, Catherine Randolph.”

  A warm smile lit the woman’s sparkling blue eyes. “How do you do, Lady Diana? I am happy to know you.”

  “And I, you, Lady Caldbeck.” Diana clasped the hand she offered. “I met Lord Caldbeck just a few days ago.”

  “Yes, he told me. But please, I am Catherine.” Lady Caldbeck turned to Vincent. “So, my lord, where is this mysterious gentleman whom we are to examine?”