“I see.” A pause. Darius heard papers being shuffled. “I don’t see. You’re setting up a trust for another man’s child?”
“Legally, yes.” Darius turned from the farce below and watched as Kettering parsed the realities.
“Is the child’s legal father to know?”
“I don’t care if he knows. I care only that Wilton doesn’t and Polite Society doesn’t. My sisters need spouses, and this is the kind of juicy little aside that could queer their chances.”
Kettering took up a quill pen and began stroking his fingers over the white plume. “How much coin are we discussing?”
Darius named a figure, and Kettering’s brow shot up. “Not such a little aside after all. I’ll need details.”
“Here are the most pertinent details: you will not have the trust document copied by a clerk, will not leave the file where the clerks can find it, will not tell them I’m a client of yours.”
“My staff is trustworthy, but yes, if those are your conditions, I agree to them.”
“Those are some of my conditions.” Darius went back to his window, hating the necessity of discussing Vivian’s personal life with anyone, even Kettering, who was rumored to rival the tomb for his ability to keep confidences. “Another is that I pay you in cash, not bank draft, and I deposit the contents of the trust in your hands, also in cash.”
“That is a deuced lot of cash. Why not use bearer bonds?”
“I’m being paid in cash.” Darius felt the silence behind him grow and intensify as Kettering no doubt put the puzzle pieces together.
“Why didn’t you just have the husband put funds into a trust?” Kettering spoke from Darius’s elbow. For a big man, he’d moved without a sound, sneaking being perhaps a required talent for his kind.
“Because the funds had to leave the man’s estate.” Darius rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “A man’s life can end at any moment, so the funds had to be legally transferred into other hands, lest they become tied up in his affairs and subject to scrutiny upon his death.”
Kettering snorted. “Scrutiny? You mean controversy, and likely hung up to dry in Chancery for all the world to see for years on end as a result.”
“It’s your profession, not mine.”
Mr. Kettering refrained from commenting on what Darius’s profession must be, and began asking the questions Darius knew he had to answer. Names, dates, exact amounts, and conditions. The document would be straightforward enough, leaving a tidy sum in Vivian’s hands, or in Kettering’s hands for the benefit of Vivian and her firstborn child, should Vivian remarry. The trust was revocable only by the creator, that worthy soul being Darius, and the principle invested, some in the five percents, some in ventures of Kettering’s choosing.
Hashing through all the what-ifs and in-the-event-ofs took two hours, but Darius left satisfied he’d done what honor demanded.
He couldn’t claim he’d behaved without self-interest—not that he’d expect that of himself. Some of William’s first installment had gone to liquidation of immediate debts, and some of the second would go to enhancements at Averett Hill. If there were a third installment, a portion of that sum would go to a trust for John, because Trent’s money was largely tied up in trusts for his children, and Darius never wanted John scrabbling for necessities, as Darius had been for his entire adult life.
Vivian wasn’t lying in wait for Darius, exactly, but she did make it her business to quietly learn where his quarters were, and to frequent the shops closest to his neighborhood. She also went riding as often as the weather permitted, which was hit and miss, at least for most of February. She listened rather more carefully than she had previously to idle gossip when she made calls on the wives of William’s various associates.
She heard no mention of the Earl of Wilton’s younger son, though she did hear the older was out of mourning, and perhaps once again in search of a bride.
By the time March rolled around and Vivian’s menses were absent for the third time, she’d all but given up hope of seeing Darius again by chance. Still, she’d gotten in the habit of taking Bernice out for a hack in the park, and in another few weeks her riding habits wouldn’t fit. So when the weather moderated a trifle, Vivian was again hacking along the Ladies’ Mile when she spotted a pair of riders ahead, moving along at the walk.
She knew that piebald gelding—or thought she did.
The rider was female, petite, blond, and unfamiliar to her, though there on the big chestnut sat none other than Darius Lindsey.
This hurt, physically and emotionally, to see him with a young lady—a very young lady—smiling and enjoying a day that whispered of spring. Whoever she was, she was on Darius’s personal mount, the one reserved for him, always available to him.
Now Vivian understood why Darius hadn’t wanted them to run across each other: not because he wanted shut of her, necessarily, but because even though he was shut of her, he sought to spare her sensibilities.
Vivian drew Bernice down to the walk and made as if to pass the pair, when the mare decided to turn up friendly. She whickered at Skunk, who stopped, planted his hooves, and turned a curious eye on the mare.
The blonde offered a cheerful smile. “Good morning. You will excuse my mount, but he has a mind of his own, much like his owner.”
“Good morning.” Vivian would have edged Bernice forward, but the way the horses were positioned, that would have meant brushing stirrup to stirrup past Darius.
“That’s a lovely mare,” the blonde said. “I told my brother I’d get along better with a mare.”
“Tell your father,” Darius said. “It’s his stables that lack a suitable lady’s mount and require that you borrow my horse if you’re to go for a safe hack.”
“A generous brother.” Vivian addressed her words to the blonde, lest Darius see the relief in her smile. “You must be Lady Emily.”
Emily turned a questioning glance on her brother. “Darius? Where are your manners?”
“Lady Longstreet, I believe?” Darius’s expression was bored, as if he’d rather be home reading The Times than indulging the ladies in their socializing. Vivian nodded rather than address him, and Darius continued with the introductions.
“Dare, you and Arthur lead on, and I’m sure Skunk will follow along.” Lady Emily ordered her brother around with apparent confidence in his compliance, and he maneuvered the chestnut back onto the path ahead of the ladies.
“How do you know my brother, Lady Longstreet?” Emily’s expression betrayed simple curiosity and maybe even some friendliness.
“In truth, I’ve known your sister longer,” Vivian said. “We came out the same year. I trust she’s keeping well?”
Emily’s lips thinned. “Leah will be setting her cap for a husband this Season, or my father will know the reason why, but as wonderful as she is, the men ought to be lining up to offer for her.”
“A loyal sentiment, and one that takes the perspicacity of men as a given.” Vivian’s mouth kept making words, despite the dictates of prudence. “That, I’m sad to say, is likely a mistake.”
“I heard that.” Darius drew rein until his horse was even with the others. “Though where Leah is concerned, I’m afraid I have to agree. It will take a special man for each of my sisters.”
“Spoken like an overprotective older brother.” Emily was not offering a compliment.
“Spoken like a wiser older brother,” Darius said. “Watch your whip, Em. You don’t want it bouncing along on Skunk’s quarters like that. But tell me, Lady Longstreet, how are you faring?”