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

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  “It is my anchor in a sea of deceit, my salvation from the vile creature I once made of myself.”

  “That creature is far behind you now.” How differently she had come to see him in the last weeks.

  Vincent sighed. “I pray that it remains so. But I yet have many wrongs to right, Diana.”

  She nodded in understanding. “Which is why you serve the Crown as you do—to right the wrongs of the world.”

  Vincent lay silent for a long moment. At last he said, “Yes, I wanted to make up for the evil I caused. And in so doing, I have involved myself in further evil. But, God willing, that is now coming to an end. I must now learn to be an ordinary, but virtuous, man.”

  “You have already become a virtuous man.”

  She thought him virtuous. Vincent considered that fact with overwhelming relief. He had truly tried. He wanted virtue and honor and respect more than anything in his life—except Diana. She had not yet agreed to marry him, but Vincent knew now that it was her own past, not his, that had held her back. While they had not resolved the matter, a comforting understanding now existed between them.

  But what if Delamare—Henry—succeeded in establishing his claim to the earldom? What would Vincent have to offer her?

  He was still pondering that question when his growing household assembled for a light noon repast. He watched with growing annoyance as Delamare paid court to Diana. She responded no more than courteously, but Vincent had had enough. The time for a discussion was at hand.

  As they adjourned to the drawing room for tea, Vincent stopped Delamare. “Could I trouble you to come into the library for a moment, Delamare? I wish to speak with you.”

  Delamare nodded, bowed to Diana and followed Vincent into his study. “Of course I am always eager to serve you, my lord. How may I do so?”

  Vincent ignored the mocking smile and waved him toward a chair. He took his usual place behind the desk. “I believe it is time to clarify a situation for you. From the amount of attention you bestow on Lady Diana, it appears that you do not realize that there is an understanding between her and me.”

  Delamare grinned derisively. “How could I not be aware of that? You sleep in her room every night. What troubles you, little brother? Are you afraid of losing your mistress?”

  A red haze fell across Vincent’s vision. He was on his feet before he even realized he had moved. He forced the fury back and leaned across the desk. “Lady Diana is…not…my…mistress.”

  “Indeed?” Delamare continued to smirk. “I fail to see in what way she differs from that.”

  A difficult statement to refute. But the man was baiting him. Vincent took a long breath and subsided into his chair. “She is my affianced wife.” Almost. He calmed himself and sent Delamare a level look. “Sir, I hesitate to quarrel with a guest in my home, but I think you should realize that, at this time, you are only a guest.”

  “Ah, but I have the potential for becoming so much more, do I not? You know who I am, whether you are prepared to admit it or not. I wonder how your understanding with the lady might change if I were declared the Earl of Lonsdale.”

  “You always wanted anything I had.” The words slipped out past Vincent’s guard.

  “You see?” The man across the desk continued to smile. “You have accepted me as your elder brother. Can Parliament do less?”

  “Parliament will do as it sees fit. I still reserve judgment.”

  “But in the end you will support my claim.” Delamare’s smile suddenly became a snarl. “Because you are so honorable. You were always the favorite, the good son, currying favor with my father, and I hated you for it. I told you that. Do you remember? The day I ran away. I told you I would make him regret it. It was your fault I left, and now I will take back what is mine.”

  Delamare rose and stalked out of the room.

  Vincent sat in stunned silence, every word of the long-ago childish tantrum returning to him. Henry in a snit that day because their father had corrected him, blaming Vincent, pouting until he was allowed to go to the docks. Their father had been very indulgent with both of them. But Henry… Henry had never been satisfied, had always resented Vincent, and in a jealous rage he had run away.

  Vincent no longer doubted.

  His brother had come home.

  That afternoon while Bytham and Selena napped, Diana carried her needlework into the morning room for a few moments of solitude—if one could describe having two footmen outside the door as solitude. Vincent had declared that neither she nor the children could go out of doors until they had apprehended the person who had shot at her. Diana sighed. It might become a long, difficult summer.

  Both Lord Caldbeck and Lord Litton had ridden in a short while ago, and Vincent had closeted himself in the library with them. Discussing strategy, no doubt. Dear heaven! What were they to do? How would they find Deimos? And whoever had shot at her?

  Diana could not see the end of it.

  As she was pondering these discouraging thoughts, the sound of footsteps signaled the end of the little privacy she had. Henry Delamare sauntered into the room. Oh, drat! She did not have the patience today to avoid his gallantry.

  She rose. “Good afternoon, sir. I was just going to look in on my children.”

  He stopped in front of her, almost crowding her back into the chair. “Please do not go just yet. I wish to speak with you.” He lifted the sewing out of her hand and set it aside. “I have just been talking with my brother.”

  Diana raised an eyebrow.

  Delamare smiled. “Yes, I believe I may now call him that.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.” She tried to step back, but encountered the chair from which she had just risen.

  “He and I have had a most enlightening conversation.” He took both of her hands in his, clasping them firmly. “I think sufficient doubt has now been raised as to whether he is, in fact, the rightful Earl of Lonsdale.”

  “Sir, I…” Diana tugged on her hands, but he did not release them.

  “I just want you to know that whatever Parliament decides in the matter, that you have the opportunity to become the Countess of Lonsdale. Do not make a hasty decision.”

  He stepped back and Diana gazed at him in astonishment. He said nothing more, but narrowed his eyes as he watched her for a moment.

  Then he turned and walked out of the room.

  Vincent made his way up to bed in a decisive frame of mind. He could no longer question the identity of Henry Delamare. He was exactly who he said he was—Henry Ingleton. Vincent felt honor-bound to recognized him as such. Let the House of Lords decide whatever they might.

  Whatever it cost him, Vincent would take the honest course.

  Tonight he wanted a firm decision from Diana. For so much of his life his only associates had been more interested in what he had than who he was. He did not believe that Diana held that sort of values, but she had endured so much want. Financial security must certainly be paramount to her.

  And what else was he offering her? A man with bloody hands, a despised past, a brusque demeanor. Perhaps he should withdraw his offer of marriage. That might be more fair to her.

  But by God, he would not do that.

  Vincent had struggled for half of his adult life to overcome his past mistakes. He had paid reparations to former victims. He had humbled himself to beg pardon. He had risked his life in the service of his country. What more could he do? Charles had said that he had been forgiven by others, that he should forgive himself. Perhaps now was the time to do that.

  The time to leave the past behind and move into the future.

  As a child, he had given Henry his toys in a futile attempt to please him, to gain his love. Now he might be required by the law to give him his position, his very home.

  But he would fight him for Diana.

  Vincent gazed long and hard into her face when she opened the bedchamber door, trying to read her thoughts. As usual he could see only the tranquil exterior she maintained in all but the
most distressing circumstances. He folded her in his arms for a long moment. Then he moved to the chairs by the hearth, leading her by the hand. She looked at him in puzzlement as he nudged her into one chair and took the other himself, then sat looking at her for several heartbeats.

  At last he said, “I must write to the Lord Chancellor tomorrow. I no longer harbor any doubt that Delamare is, in fact, Henry.”

  “What happened? He spoke to me today in a…very odd way.”

  Vincent related his conversation with Henry. “No one would remember that but the two of us, and… And, toward me, he is still just as he was then. He has grown older, but has given up nothing of the past. He still hates me. I would know him from that, if nothing else.”

  “How sad.” Diana nodded and, apparently sensing that he had not finished, waited.

  “Aye, it is sad, and it may change my situation entirely. I have asked you to be my wife, and I want that more than I want my next breath. I had thought that I would be offering you a respected title, an historic home, an impressive fortune—but now… My circumstances may change. You should know that.”

  “But, Vincent, my own circumstances…”

  He held up his hand, palm out. “Your situation is not what you have believed it to be. I, myself, can bear witness to Goodnight’s death. You had nothing to do with it, and Deimos will never come forward to present his lies. He will not make himself known. You are in no danger of the gallows.”

  Diana leaned one elbow on the arm of the chair and rested her forehead on her hand. “All these many months…all the fear. And it was all for nothing. I feel a very idiot. How could I have been so stupid as to fall prey to Deimos’s manipulation? How could I have been stupid enough to marry Wyn in the first place? To choose such a poor father for my children?”

  “Not stupid. You were very young when you married, and you are certainly no match for a schemer of Deimos’s caliber. Even if you were…” He thought about his uncle’s words again. “All you can do now is learn from the experience and forgive yourself.”

  “Forgive myself.” She sat silent for a moment. “Yes, I suppose that is what I must do. I cannot undo the past. At least I did not succumb to Deimos’s threats.”

  “No, you did not, and that was very courageous of you.” Vincent slid out of her chair and knelt beside her, taking hold of her hands. “Diana, I still want you to be my wife. I may not continue as the Earl of Lonsdale, but I will not be penniless. My father had set aside a portion for me as a younger son. That will always be mine, and I have invested it well.”

  She smiled down at him. “We could go to Eldritch Manor. In spite of the circumstances, I felt almost happy there.”

  A great rush of feeling rose in Vincent’s chest.

  Relief.

  He had come to know that she loved him, but still… “So will you be my bride, no matter what happens with Henry?”

  Diana put a hand on either side of his face. “With all my heart.”

  His arms reached out of their own accord and pulled her closer. She leaned her head against his, her fingers tangling in his hair. “Oh, Vincent. I love you so.”

  He heard a catch in her voice and became aware of the warm tears on his own face. He pulled her out of the chair and stretched out beside her on the floor in front of the hearth.

  “Diana. Oh, God. My love.” He kissed her tears, her eyelids, her hair. The faint scar on her cheek. One knee came up across her body and he found her mouth with his. As he moved his lips down her throat, she melted under him, her hands still in his hair. He untied the tapes of her nightgown and let his lips and tongue trail over her breasts, pause for a moment over her nipples. He was hard and throbbing, but he only wanted to taste her, smell her, to worship her.

  His wife.

  The mother of his children.

  He lifted the gown and kissed her navel, then moved his mouth around the curve of her belly. One day, one day soon, it would grow sweetly, sheltering his child. He moved his head lower, drawing in her scent. He kissed the inside of each thigh. She opened them for him.

  Vincent tore the flap of his britches open and rolled over her. She pressed her hips upward and he slipped into her. Their mouths met again, open, seeking. Tongues traced lips, touched, tasted, moved in the primordial rhythm of love. Their bodies followed, hers circling, his thrusting.

  When the cry burst from her throat, for the first time he did not stifle it. Let the whole world hear! She was his, and he was hers. For all time.

  And then he was falling over the edge, swirling away in a cataract of sensation. He shouted in triumph. She was his.

  For all time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A side from a short visit with Diana and the children, sharing a nuncheon and allowing Bytham to wreck his cravat, Vincent had spent the next day in his study composing the letter that must be written acknowledging his brother’s return. It proved an arduous task. He wrote and rewrote, scratched out and started over. He had never realized how much Lonsdale meant to him until a threat to his possession of it arose. It had been his home all his life. It had grown into his very bones. Leaving it would break his heart.

  But he would still have Diana. And Bytham. And Selena. That thought made the duty bearable.

  Henry had regarded him with smug satisfaction throughout dinner. Mercifully, he somewhat abated his pursuit of Diana. A good thing, that. Otherwise, Vincent might have done violence to his newfound only living relative. Obviously the man was not a complete fool. Vincent had told him what he was doing. Henry would not jeopardize his success at this critical juncture.

  Vincent excused himself from drinking port with the men and returned to his study to complete a fair copy of the letter. He had just signed his name when Henry entered the room without knocking.

  He crossed to the desk and laid a paper on it. “I have also written to the Lord Chancellor, explaining my situation and making my request for recognition. Perhaps you will be good enough to enclose it with yours.”

  “Of course.” Vincent picked up the sheet. He glanced over it, his gaze finally falling on the signature.

  Henry David Rufus Ingleton, also known as Henry Delamare.

  Vincent stared at the names, something about them catching his attention. Now what was it? What about them looked familiar?

  Suddenly he knew.

  A boulder of ice dropped into his stomach. He stilled himself carefully. When he looked up, Henry was watching him closely, a feral gleam in his eye. Vincent refused to allow himself to react. He nodded and calmly folded all the papers into a packet. He franked it and placed it in the desk drawer. “I will post these tomorrow.”

  Henry smiled wryly, bowed and left the library. Vincent sat staring at the door for a long time after he departed. Great God in heaven, what must he do now?

  With a living and already patented incumbent holding the title of Earl of Lonsdale, inertia alone would very likely prevent Parliament from forcing a change. But if the title were open… If Vincent had already acknowledged Henry as his older brother… If Vincent were dead…

  He had just signed his own death warrant.

  Henry Ingleton would not hesitate for a moment to remove the small obstacle of a brother in his path. Vincent had once captured a note written by Deimos. He had memorized every line of it—the handwriting, those flourishing capital Ds.

  His brother and his most-hated enemy were one and the same.

  He did not know how long he had been sitting there, considering the problem. Somehow Vincent must prove that Henry Ingleton was a vicious assassin, and he must stay alive while doing it. If he killed Deimos out of hand as he had vowed to do, it would seem that Vincent wished to remove a competitor for his position.

  And he would be killing his own brother.

  How could Henry have done this? Why had he done it? Why could he never simply be the big brother that Vincent wanted, might have loved? With whom he would willingly share. An urgent rap sounded on the study door. Vincent looked up. “
Enter.”

  James Benjamin came into the room, breathless. “M’lord, someone is skulking about in the park. My lads are chasing him now. He might be the cove what shot at Lady Diana.”

  Vincent jumped up. “I will be right there. Leave my horse at the steps. Don’t let that man escape.”

  James Benjamin darted out of the room and out into the night. Vincent followed, but instead ran up the stairs toward the drawing room. He could not leave Diana and the children unprotected in the house with Henry.

  With Deimos. His blood ran cold at the thought.

  On the other hand, Diana would not be safe until he apprehended the man who’d shot at her. In fact, that person was of more immediate danger to her than his brother. Henry wanted Diana for himself. He was unlikely to kill her. Perhaps he should tell her, but Vincent feared she would not be able to conceal her knowledge. If Henry learned that Vincent realized he was Deimos, none of them would be safe for another minute.

  As he ran, Vincent came to a decision. He could not be in three places at once. He must enlist help.

  He must put his trust in Justinian Sudbury.

  When he reached the top of the steps, he slowed and proceeded with stealth. He stopped just outside the door and peered furtively around the edge. He could not see Henry or Diana, nor could they see him, but Sudbury sat in his usual place opposite the door. He glanced up and met Vincent’s eye. Vincent put a finger to his lips, then pointed at Justinian, then in the direction of Henry and Diana. He repeated the gesture, praying the man would take his meaning.

  Sudbury yawned, stretched lazily and looked at Vincent again, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  Vincent turned and went to ensure that his most dangerous enemy would not lay hands on his children.

  When Henry left the drawing room, Diana hoped that he had gone to bed for the night. She had wanted to have Vincent with her, but he seemed to be busy in his study, so Diana enjoyed Justinian’s droll observations while they drank tea. But fate was not to favor her. After half an hour, Henry returned. This evening he did not monopolize the conversation as he was wont to do, or pay her unwanted attention, but sat regarding her with disconcerting intensity.