Darius set his glass down and rolled his shoulders. “One feels for Mr. Springer. William didn’t tell me Springer’s mother was married when she gave birth, which means Able is technically the legitimate issue of some other fellow.”
Kettering refolded the letter and set it aside, his expression suggesting he expected it to sprout eight hairy legs momentarily. “So the unfortunate Mr. Springer is married to a woman who forged marriage lines between Longstreet and Springer’s mother. I suppose the intended effect was to posthumously label Vivian’s son a bastard and visit the viscountcy on Springer.”
For which Portia ought to hang, there having been not one dishonorable bone in William Longstreet’s body. “Portia was also apparently in ignorance of the circumstances of her husband’s birth. The result of her efforts would have been to make Able’s mother the bigamist, any marriage between William and her invalid, and William’s subsequent marriages would have remained entirely legal. I do not envy you your profession, Kettering, if issues like these are your daily bread.”
Kettering spared the letter another chary glance, got up, and made a circuit of the room. While Darius took another sip of brandy, Kettering came to rest with his backside against the windowsill, arms folded. “What will you do?”
He would see that Ainsworthy was effectively silenced, marry Vivvie, and devote himself to raising up their child—their children, God willing.
“I would like to say I’ll manage Longchamps for the baron until he’s in a position to take it on himself, but that decision still rests in his mother’s lovely hands. She has another several weeks to make up her mind about who Will’s guardian will be. In those weeks, I shall deal with Ainsworthy in as decisive a manner as possible.”
“Your literary aspirations are threatening Vivian’s peace of mind, Ainsworthy.” Before his guest was seated, Darius closed the parlor-door latch with a soft snick. “Or do we call you Thurmont Ainsward, or perhaps Torvald Ainsely?”
Ainsworthy took a seat amid the comfortable opulence of Wilton House, the London residence of the late, unlamented Earl of Wilton, and present abode of nobody in particular.
“My name is Thurgood Ainsworthy. Says so on my marriage lines, and I’m not threatening anything. I’ve merely been doing some creative writing and attempting to turn a coin or two on it. I’ve a wife and child to support. Surely you can understand how that goes, Lindsey? Or do I forget? You had only yourself to support, and yet you still took coin where you could find it.”
“Prove that,” Darius said easily. “I’m happy to prove you’re a scheming bigamist, whatever your name is.”
Ainsworthy plucked at some imaginary lint on his sleeve, his self-possession likely the natural by-product of having no conscience. “Names can be very similar. England is a big place, and I’m sure those other fellows don’t look a thing like me. Now, how much are you willing to offer should my writing talents be put aside, Lindsey? I’m sure Ventnor would contribute—the cits are inordinately sensitive about these little social tempests. Then, too, I am loathe to queer Vivian’s marital prospects unnecessarily. One does, after all, feel some familial loyalty, and scandal could perhaps be profitably avoided.”
“Familial loyalty?” Nigh six and a half well-muscled feet of Trenton Lindsey, Earl of Wilton, sauntered into the room. “We understand that, don’t we, Darius? Did I hear this man attempt to blackmail you?”
“You did,” Darius said, “except he alluded to a familial connection with Vivian Longstreet, with whom it has not yet been my privilege to form a legal union. Unfortunately for Thoroughgoing Arsewipe here, he was married when he took his vows with Vivian and Angela’s widowed mother. This makes his marriage to the countess invalid, his use of her funds fraudulent, his contracting marriage on Angela’s behalf equally fraudulent, and the farthest thing from a display of family loyalty.”
“Unfortunate,” Trent mused. “You know, the magistrate might have caught wind of this. I understand he’s signing warrants for the arrest of one… what were all those names you said? I happened to glance at the documents when information was laid, and there were at least five names on them.”
“Who is this?” Ainsworthy’s tone was dismissive, but his eyes betrayed the first hint of uncertainty.
“Wilton.” Trent bowed graciously. “Earl of, at your service, whoever you are. Are you going to call him out, Dare?”
Darius cocked his head. “He’s got literary aspirations. I might accidentally blow off his fingers and damage his writing hand rather than put a ball through his black heart.”
Ainsworthy rose. “There’s no need for violence. This is all a simple misunderstanding, probably the work of some jilted wife who married a man with a name like mine. Or several wives, getting up to nonsense because they aren’t properly supervised.”
“Is that so?” Nicholas Haddonfield emerged from the hallway. “Several wives, acting in concert, all with husbands who have names like yours?”
“Right.” Ainsworthy swallowed audibly at the sight of Nick, who topped Trent by a couple of inches of height and at least two stone of brawn. “If you get descriptions, you’ll see the error of your conclusions.”
“Nicholas, Earl of Bellefonte.” Nick grinned menacingly. “Perhaps the man has a point, Darius. You can’t be calling a fellow out on mere whim and speculation.”
“Heaven forefend,” Trent added, “that any brother of mine react so cavalierly when a man’s good name, much less the arrangement of his face, his ability to walk, and possibly his ability to sire children hang in the balance.”
“Well, then.” Darius lifted a document from the sideboard. “Nick, perhaps you’d assist the man out of his breeches? We can clear this up easily enough.”
“Out of my breeches?”
“Rhymes with screeches,” Nick said, approaching Ainsworthy. “Interestingly enough. We’ll settle this right now, and I’m sure Mr. Lindsey will offer apologies all around if he’s wrong.”
Trent grimaced, taking Ainsworthy’s other arm. “One does wonder how a man would acquire such a scar.”
“His wife says”—Darius peered at the document—“his current wife and two previous wives, anyway, say he has a scar on the tip of his cock in the shape of the letter L, running from… what?” He looked over at Ainsworthy, who’d blanched white as ghost.
“Who said I have such a scar?”
“Your present wife, for starters,” Darius said slowly, as if the man were simple. “Bellefonte chatted her up with an officer of the court on hand to take her statement. Sweet woman, if a little too trusting, though Bellefonte’s charm is legendary. She described your scars, the exact shape of various intimate attributes, and a few other details only a wife would know. And by sheerest coincidence, two other women describe their husbands having precisely the same characteristics. Moreover, we went to the trouble of bringing witnesses to those marriages up to Town, Ainsworthy, and they each identified you by sight as the errant husband.
“Now the strangest coincidence of all.” Darius paused, and his tone became flat. “Each woman was well set up until she married you. Her fortune, or as much as she turned over to your keeping, disappeared with you.”
“And correct me if I’m wrong,” Trent said, “but didn’t those women have children to support?”
Nick gave Ainsworthy’s arm a nasty little shake. “And wasn’t one of them expecting when her dear spouse accompanied the entire harvest of wool into London, never to be seen again?”
“All right!” Ainsworthy glanced nervously from one man to another. “I’ve been unlucky in love. It’s not a crime to leave your wife.”
“It isn’t,” Darius agreed, “though whether you leave or not, she’s still your wife, and it is a crime to marry again while the first wife is extant. Moreover, you owe your deserted wife support at all times during the marriage, and you surely owe your own child the same.”
“You cannot expect me to sit here and listen to this nonsense,” Ainsworthy sputtered.
“You can read the sworn statements,” Darius said, “but you won’t convince us we’re in error without dropping your breeches. You can let him go, gentlemen, though I’d guard the exits.”
Nick took one doorway, Trent the other.
Ainsworthy rose, tugging down his waistcoat with a righteous jerk. “Name your seconds, Lindsey. I am at your service.”
“Present company. Yours?”
