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
“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
“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 cautious,” 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
