“Are you going to leave me any breakfast at all, Mr. Lindsey?”
“I’ll have another tray sent up when I take my leave of you, but, Vivvie, I must know your position on the question of the day.”
He passed her half a buttered scone and—just when she might have taken a bite—snatched it away and slathered it with raspberry jam.
“Which question?” This time, she took the scone from his hand. “I seem to recall refusing your offer of lovemaking last night.”
And the devastation in his eyes when he’d thought she was refusing him had been heart wrenching. Soldiers too long at war had eyes with that bleak look, women who grieved for their children… “You are asking for my leave to deal with Ainsworthy, aren’t you? It’s why you must repair to Town before the will is read.”
Darius topped up her teacup—the tray was resting across his thighs—and settled back against the pillows.
And everlasting God, did she like the look of him in her bed.
“I will deal with Ainsworthy, with or without your permission, Vivvie. I’d rather have your permission.”
Deal with, when uttered by Darius in those tones, with that light in his eyes, was not a pleasant prospect at all—for Ainsworthy. The day was getting off to a lovely start indeed. “Not the pistols or swords sort of ‘deal with,’ Darius. I haven’t budged on that. I cannot condone killing.”
Nor could she condone any notion that lessened the chances she and Darius might eventually share a future with their child.
He slathered butter on yet another scone—one had to wonder if the kitchen weren’t already privy to the number of the bedroom’s occupants—and looked thoughtful. “I can promise you I will not kill him. He has a wife and a stepson, and they are innocent of his schemes.”
Vivian thought back to Darius’s words from the night before, his eyes closed, his hands clasping hers tightly, “…because it’s my first time.”
Her lover was courageous to a fault, dear, and determined—also the father of their child—and he was asking for Vivian’s blessing. He could all too easily have sneaked away and proceeded without consulting her.
“You can’t trust him, Darius, but I trust you.” Simple, simple words, but so very well deserved.
The scone was receiving not a dollop of butter—it would hold no more—but some careful, artistic arrangement of the entire pat with flourishes of the knife edge. “And you can accept the means I propose to bring him to heel? This is not honorable, and the people who have supplied me with the necessary information are not highly regarded. I wouldn’t want you to be any more ashamed of me than necessary.”
Vivian forgot to chew. He hadn’t undertaken this scheme, which had required rubbing elbows with all manner of unfortunates and scoundrels, lightly, and he hadn’t shared it with her lightly.
When Darius Lindsey trusted, though, he trusted as fiercely as he cared.
“Darius, you haunt yourself with doubts for no reason. You are the most honorable man I know.” At his startled expression, she went on. “I am not ashamed of you, Darius, I am proud of you. You found a way to cut those leech-women loose when another man would have turned to violence. You’re doing the same with Thurgood, and when dealing with such as these, you have to fashion weapons they understand. I am proud of you, do you hear me?”
He studied her for a moment, then his lips turned up. “I think half the house might have heard you.”
She had, indeed, become emphatic in expressing her sentiments. “Let them. To answer your question, I do trust you, Darius. I trust Ainsworthy to be cunning, determined, and self-interested. You will best him, because while you are cunning and determined, your motivation is—continues to be—the regard you have for your loved ones.”
His smile became a shimmering, glowing embodiment of happiness, and then he surged over her like a slow tide, and once again, very tenderly, made love with her. Before it was over, there was raspberry jam in unlikely locations, much laughter, crumbs between the sheets, butter on the tip of Vivian’s nose—Darius licked it away—and a thoroughly agreed-upon plan for dealing with Ainsworthy.
Nineteen
“You might consider warning a man before you have mail delivered to his office.” Worth Kettering passed Darius several letters as he spoke.
“I might.” Darius took an elegant Louis XIV chair and sorted through the missives. “Except I’m a bit at sixes and sevens these days. My thanks, though. I think this one is the one we’ve been waiting for.” He opened the single folded piece of paper and scanned the contents.
“Game, set, and match.” He passed it to Kettering, who took the second seat. “She identifies Ainsworthy right down to the scar on his left earlobe where he tried to pierce himself at the age of sixteen. She says there’s another scar on the tip of his…”
Kettering’s smile was not nice. “I can read it. The lady has a memory for detail.”
“‘Hell hath no fury,’” Darius quoted, feeling the first sense of relief he’d known in days. “That’s two of them, and I’m ready to confront the man.”
“And if he calls you out?” Kettering’s tone could not have been more casual. He crossed his feet at the ankles, making the little chair creak. “One doesn’t like to brag on such a thing, but I make a fine second.”
“I’ve promised Vivvie I won’t meet him over pistols or swords, but if he challenges me, my choice of weapons would be these trusty appendages, and the timing as immediate as I can arrange.” Darius held up two clenched fists and met Kettering’s gaze.
“You would have made a fine barrister, Lindsey.”
“And you mean that as a compliment.” Darius abandoned his seat—it had precious little padding for all its elegance—and helped himself to a drop of Kettering’s brandy. “This is an interesting letter from Able Springer—it arrived to my address this morning and explains some forged marriage lines he found reposing in his wife’s workbasket.” He passed the epistle over to Kettering and sipped his drink, finding it very fine potation, indeed.
When he finished reading, Kettering looked up. “Are you ready to take on Longchamps as well as Averett Hill if the man emigrates to America?”
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.