“It’s only going to get worse,” Emily cautioned. “Papa has said Leah must accept every invitation.”
God in heaven. Though maybe if he were sufficiently exhausted, Darius might forget Vivian Longstreet, or at least stop fretting for her. “Nobody expects Leah to be at every entertainment.”
“Tell that to Papa,” Emily said quietly, for the grooms were at hand.
“You can leave the horses,” Darius said, swinging up on Arthur and taking Skunk by the reins. “Shall we do this again, Emily?”
“Yes, but can we at least trot next time?”
“Ladies riding sidesaddle primarily walk and canter,” Darius informed her. “But yes, we can trot. You’d best have a soaking bath this evening and another tomorrow.”
“How one suffers for the cause. Send a note around when you’ve another afternoon free, and Trent can lend us his gelding.”
“As my lady wishes.” Darius saluted and clattered back into the alley at a trot. He had to drop off Trent’s gelding, Arthur, then grab some rest, or he’d be asleep where he stood tonight when he’d need all his wits about him.
And he would see Vivian today, of all days.
Most nights, he saw her in his dreams, if his schedule permitted him any sleep. He’d been fortunate that Lucy Templeton’s mother had requisitioned her presence at the family seat for a few weeks, leaving him to contend with only Lady Cowell. That lady’s husband was between mistresses, and because he was a randy beggar, Blanche had not been free to impose on Darius for much of the past month either.
But tonight she’d summoned him, and tonight he’d go—to explain to her that their dealings were at an end. Lucy would be the trickier situation to extricate himself from, but she would come into line if he held firm.
He hoped.
As he returned to his rooms and fell onto his mattress, he had to wonder what drove a woman to enjoy beating on a man’s naked ass. It was difficult to comprehend that Lucy and Blanche weren’t as bored with and tired by the whole business as he was. He lay down and hoped to soon be drifting off, once again dreaming of Vivian and the nigh-unfathomable miracle that she should be bearing his child.
Eleven
Blanche lay on the bed, replete and rosy, watching Darius while he got dressed as quickly as he could without giving away how desperately he wanted to be away from this place and this woman.
“Lucy won’t stand for this,” she said, twiddling a bed tassel around her finger. “She’ll be wroth you’d even think of ending our arrangement.”
“She’ll be wroth whether I end it or not.” Darius wrapped his cravat around his neck once, rather like a linen noose. “She was born unhappy, Blanche, and the less you have to do with her, the more likely you are to find some peace in this life.”
“Peace is boring.” She rolled up on her side and regarded him through slumberous eyes. “She’ll make you think twice about throwing us over.”
His temper would not be silent. He turned and glowered at her. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m warning you, Darius.” For once, Blanche looked like the tired, nearly middle-aged woman she was. “Lucy doesn’t see straight where you’re concerned. I can understand if you’re bored with the whips and bindings, and I’ll speak to Lucy, but she won’t give you up without a fight.”
“I’m not a juicy bone to be scrabbled over.” Darius yanked on his boots. “And you are exactly correct: I’ll have no more of the bindings, whips, and stupid games. I’m done with it, and done with Lucy’s airs and pouts. You may kindly tell her for me to go swive herself if she can’t accept that.”
Blanche sat up and shrugged into a dressing gown. “She’d rather be swiving you. As would I.”
“No, you only think you would. You want to believe you’re wicked, naughty, and sophisticated in your pleasures, but you’re not, and neither is Lucy. What we do is nothing short of pathetic, and I’m through with it.”
“You’re not. You’re not done until Lucy says you’re done.”
Darius barely resisted offering her a rude gesture, but instead bowed and took his leave, the long walk in the chilly night air serving to calm him only marginally.
Sleep, unfortunately, eluded him, leaving him to the torment of his thoughts. He didn’t want to think about Vivian; his mind felt too dirty for even her mental presence, but she beckoned to his thoughts like a siren.
How was she feeling?
Was William taking good care of her?
Was she anxious over the prospect of giving birth?
Did she think of Darius?
He flattered himself she did, as her obvious pleasure in their two chance encounters suggested, but this was not a good thing at all for several reasons.
Having had hours to ponder his dealings with Blanche Cowell, Darius concluded he’d tactically erred, and this could eventually devolve to Vivian’s detriment.
Lucy Templeton would be on notice now that Darius was abandoning the kennel where she’d tried to tie him. She’d have time to plan her countermoves, which meant the element of surprise was on her side. Stupid of him, but he’d been so damned tired lately…
He fell into restless slumber then, and dreamed of Vivian making snow angels with John while Wags sat on the fence, licking his paws.
***
“You have to rest.” Vivian crossed her arms and prepared to lay siege to William’s stubbornness. “You’re just over that cold, William, and you’ve been pushing yourself ever since you got back to Town.”
“We’ve been here weeks, Vivian. Months, in fact.” William’s smile was patient and pained. “I am resting. I do little else but rest.”
And read Muriel’s old letters and diaries. That, more than his pallor or the persistent weakness dogging him, alarmed her. She knew her husband occasionally communed with his first wife’s personal effects, but it had become a nightly ritual, and she suspected he carried one or two of Muriel’s letters around with him too.
“You work,” Vivian said, hands on hips, “and while we aren’t entertaining as much, you attend one supper meeting after another, William.”
“It’s my duty.” He met her gaze only fleetingly, twitching at the blanket over his knees. “There’s a sense of urgency, Vivian, when one feels time is running out.”
“Hush.” She poured him a finger of brandy and brought it to him. “You’re simply tired and fretting over me and the fate of an entire nation. Fret a little for yourself, William Longstreet. I’ve no wish to become your widow.”
“You fret enough for both of us.” William sipped the brandy, but Vivian sensed it was more to placate her than because he enjoyed it. “There’s something else to fret about in the mail today, Vivian.”
“Anything serious?”
“One hopes not. Portia has taken it into her head to come up to Town for the Season.”
Gracious, everlasting, immortal, avenging God. “Portia is to be our guest?”
“I’ll refuse if you insist.” William’s tone was noncommittal. He did not want to refuse—did not want Portia’s enmity, probably. “Nothing must be allowed to upset you now, Vivian. Nothing.”
“You upset me.” She softened her words by patting the back of his veined hand. “I can’t face having this child without you, William, so no more late nights, and no more tearing around the city at all hours on foot. Please.”
“If you insist, my dear.”
Vivian’s alarm notched up at his complacent tone. “Don’t humor me, William.”
“I’ll be a good boy, Viv.” He smiled at her, a sincere smile that hinted at the charm he’d traded on as a younger man. “With Portia underfoot here, it will be hard not to haunt the offices of government.”
“She can help me sew baby clothes.”
William’s smile widened. “That’s diabolical. Muriel would have approved. You’re feeling well?”
He asked often, and she replied the same as she always did. “I’m fine. A little more prone to fatigue, but even that’s passing.”
William eyed her. “What does the physician say?”
“First babies show later.” Vivian busied her hands by poking at the fire. With Darius, she had discussed bodily functions and female biology openly and often. “In all other regards, things appear to be progressing normally.”
“Shall I convey that sentiment to young Mr. Lindsey?”
Vivian set the poker back on the hearth carefully, so as not to make a racket—also to buy her an instant to hide any reaction. “William?”
“I was young once too, Vivian.” William peered at the rejuvenated fire. “In his place, I’d want to know that my firstborn child, however conceived, was being carried in good health.”
Vivian’s conscience pricked her hard every time she kept her encounters with Darius to herself. There was no reason to tell William, even though there was no reason not to, either.
“You must do as you see fit, William.” Vivian rose from the hearth, considering William. Considering her husband. “If you think it would be kind, then pass along what you must. I honestly don’t know if he’d prefer to know or be left in ignorance. He’ll know when the child’s born, and perhaps that’s enough.”
“I shall ruminate on this.” William took another sip of his brandy. “Ruminating is one activity my great age leaves me suited for.”
“Don’t ruminate too hard.” Vivian tucked his lap robe around him and took herself to her chambers, knowing William would spend the shank of the evening reading Muriel’s letters and diaries, while Vivian dreamed of Darius Lindsey.
***
Before he opened his late wife’s diary—he was up to old George’s second bout of madness, about which Muriel had written plenty—William Longstreet gave some thought to his present wife.
Vivian had fallen hard for the Lindsey rascal, and since coming to Town, she’d contrived to run into the man at least twice that William knew of. Dilquin wouldn’t peach on his mistress, but the grooms were mostly up from Longchamps, and they were loyal exclusively to William.
Lindsey had behaved with perfect propriety toward Vivian on both occasions. No covert letters were being exchanged, no tokens dropped, no steaming glances or bald innuendos passed around.
Young people didn’t realize how quickly years slipped away, and then there you were, sitting alone with a brandy you didn’t want, laboring for each breath, and trying to recall the laughter of the only woman you’d truly loved in all your days on earth. It was sad and lonely, and made the prospect of death almost a comfort—almost a reward.
One he couldn’t claim just yet, not with the young people being so buffle-brained about what should be perfectly obvious to any save themselves.
***
“Darius says Reston’s coming back to Town for the Season.” Blanche offered that tidbit in hopes of placating Lucy, who was stomping from one end of her boudoir to the other.
“What interest would I have in that great, strutting lout?”
Blanche’s mouth curved. “You had an interest once, Lucy. As did I.”
“Reston is fine for a simple romp,” Lucy conceded. “I graduated from simple romps years ago, and so did you.”
“A simple romp has its place.” Blanche set her teacup down—the taste was off, as if the leaves had been reused and the tea boiled. “At least with a man built like Reston. I wish Cowell understood even a simple romp.”
“He still bothers you?”
“We have only the one son.” Blanche went to the window and regarded the wet, cold day outside. “I’m not that old.”
“One must occasionally tolerate a husband to cover one’s tracks, so to speak.” Lucy turned to regard her. “I’m sorry, Blanche. I’ll bring Lindsey to heel for you, see if I don’t.”
“Maybe I’m bored with him.” Blanche felt Lucy’s arm go around her waist and leaned her head on the other woman’s shoulder. “He’s so… ungracious. Mercenary.”
“You still want hearts and flowers, my girl. That’s not what men are for.”
“So you say.” Blanche slipped away. “What have you in mind for Darius?”
“Just a little pressure, applied in the right places. You said his sister is up for a husband this Season, and we can queer her chances easily enough.”
Lucy in a plotting mood was unpredictable. Brilliant, but unpredictable. “Some have mentioned Hellerington in context with his sister.”
Lucy’s smile broadened. “A truly dreadful specimen. Wasn’t there some scandal involving the sister years ago? She must be quite the antique.”
“She’s younger than we are by a decade,” Blanche chided. “But yes, she ran off with a younger son, and there was rumor of a duel and then a long stay on the Continent.”
“How do you learn these things?”
“Her papa is hard on the help,” Blanche explained. “The help will talk, if induced sufficiently, particularly when they’ve been turned off without cause and a quarter’s wages wanting.”
“So Darius comes by his sour nature honestly. Well, don’t fret, my dear. Darius will be eating out of our hands once again, so to speak. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.” Blanche sat on the bed and began to peel down her stockings. “He’s just… the thing you cleanse your palate with between the substantial courses. Inconsequential. Largely decorative.”
“What a lovely analogy.” Lucy sat beside her and stroked Blanche’s hair back with a slow caress. “But what does that make me?”
***
“If there is a benefit to all this socializing,” Darius informed his sister Leah one cool April evening, “it’s that you at least get out of that house and away from Wilton. Where are we off to tonight?”
“The Winterthurs’ ball,” Leah said, fluffing her skirts as she settled into the Wilton town coach.
“You look fine,” Darius assured her. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be whispered about.” She might have leaned against him on that sentiment, but Darius’s sister was not complaining. “You’ll dance with me, and a few other stalwarts will, but it will mostly be an evening to endure.”
“I saw Val Windham standing up with the ladies the other night. He wouldn’t make a bad husband.”
“He’s a duke’s son.” Leah smoothed her skirts again. “He can do much better.”
“Dance with him anyway. He’s decent company, and it can’t hurt to be seen on his arm.”
“Suppose not, and it passes the time. What about you? Any prospective brides on the horizon?”
Sisters knew exactly how to turn the tables on a fellow. “A bad joke, Leah. I’ll leave the hunting to you and Trent.”
“And Emily,” Leah added. “She’s making lists, scouring Debrett’s, and ranking prospects by title.”
“A right little scientist. Has Hellerington pestered you?”
“He’s too infirm to dance,” Leah said, though her eyes narrowed tellingly. “So far, he just breathes on me, ogles me, and hints he’s in discussions with Wilton.”
“Which he well could be.”
“How do you know this?”
“Men talk.” Darius studied the passing street lamps, hoping Leah would accept that explanation. He’d put Kettering on to keeping an eye out at Hellerington’s solicitors, and clerks talked over a pint more than old women at a quilting party.
“Should I be worried?”
He wanted to offer her reassuring platitudes, about providing for her no matter what, dowering her if necessary, but he’d gotten another summons from Lucy Templeton, and the tone was overtly threatening. Before he took on his siblings’ troubles, Darius admonished himself to put his own house in order.
“You should be caut
ious,” Darius said, but that increased the anxiety in her eyes, which called for a change in topic. “What do you recall of a Vivian Longstreet? She said she came out with you.”
And thank the angels, the trepidation in Leah’s gaze became curiosity. “You ran into her in the park with Emily last month. I knew her as Lady Vivian Islington. She’s an earl’s daughter, and we’re of an age, so we were thrown together a great deal. We lost touch, though, when I went to Italy. I recall her as quiet, kind, and more sensible than the average debutante. Pretty too. Why do you ask?”
Darius did not take his sister’s hand, though he wanted to—to comfort her, but maybe also to comfort himself. “She was kind to Em, and a girl making her come out can use every ally. Speaking of allies, shall I remain at your side tonight?”
“Only if you spot Hellerington. I’ll find a place among the wallflowers and dowagers, and be content enough.”
Darius shot her an exasperated look. “You have to at least try. You’re pretty, intelligent, you run Wilton’s household on tuppence or less, and you’d make some fellow a wonderful wife. A husband would be an escape from Wilton and from whatever mischief he plans for you.”
Leah rummaged in her reticule, extracting a pair of long white evening gloves and slipping them on. “I’m used goods. Wilton has seen to it the world knows what low esteem he holds me in, Darius, and yet, you’re right: I should at least try. If I don’t, that will be reported to Wilton as well.”
“True enough.”
He danced the opening set with her then gave in to her pleading when they’d seen no sight of Hellerington, and left her among the companions and chaperones.
“Mr. Lindsey? Ah, it is you. A pleasure to see you again.”
Darius turned slowly, not initially placing the dry, aged voice. William Longstreet stood near a pillar under the minstrels’ gallery, looking pale, alert, and… genuinely friendly.
“Lord Longstreet.”
“A little bird told me that you might be interested in raising pigeons at your estate in Kent. Might we repair to the card room and discuss such a venture?”
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