Patricia Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

“Throw dice?” St. Edmunds’s eyes took on a crafty look. “For a woman?”

Vincent made no answer. He just stood, his expression hard, and tossed the dice in one hand.

St. Edmunds laughed uneasily. “Well, I suppose gambling is nothing if not a gentleman’s sport.” His eyes narrowed. “But not with your dice.”

“As you wish.” Vincent let the implied insult pass. A mere diversion. St. Edmunds also had a reputation where dice were concerned. Not that anyone ever accused him outright of cheating. He was much too good a shot and much too vindictive to chance a duel. But Vincent’s past had long ago taught him how to deal with cheats.

His mouth crooked up slightly on one corner. “But hazard will take too long. We have only minutes before Lady Diana returns. I suggest one roll of the dice each—high number wins. I will roll with your dice, and you may roll with mine.”

Sudbury nodded sagely. “Bound to be fair.”

Vincent handed his dice to Sudbury. “If you will give these to Lord St. Edmunds…”

St. Edmunds eyes became slits in his face. “What are you about, Lonsdale?”

“Apparently you believe my dice too likely to win. I offer them to you. I will use yours.” Vincent’s crooked smile flickered briefly.

Fury and suspicion strong in his face, St. Edmunds reluctantly reached for the dice in Sudbury’s palm. Vincent held his own open hand between them. “If you will first give me yours, my lord….”

St. Edmunds slapped them into Vincent’s hand and grabbed the pair Sudbury held, speaking between his teeth. “Very well. Roll.”

Vincent nodded and went to one knee on the splintered floor. The others followed him down. He shook the dice and tossed them into the space between them.

Sudbury bent for a closer look. “Six! Two treys.”

St. Edmunds smirked. “Surprised, Lonsdale?” He cast Vincent’s dice and scowled.

“Three!” Sudbury called out. “Lonsdale wins.”

Vincent retrieved his own dice and left St. Edmunds’s on the floor.

“Surprised, St. Edmunds?”

Diana slipped into the room she shared with her children. Not since Bytham was born almost four years ago had she slept in the bed in which her husband’s body now lay. Sometimes she wondered if he had ever noticed. She tucked the covers snugly under her little son’s chin, smoothed his golden curls, and moved to his sister. Six-year-old Selena lay sprawled out of the cover, the flaxen hair splashed across the pillow mirroring her mother’s. Diana straightened her in the truckle bed, covered her and kissed her rose-colored cheek.

Dear God, how she loved them. The only lasting gift that Wyn had ever given her. The tears she had not shed for their father now sprung into her eyes. What would happen to her babies? In spite of her brave words, she had no idea how she might care for them. But almost anything would be better than to accept Lord St. Edmunds’s offer. She had not a doubt as to where his arrangements would lead.

No, as difficult as it would be, she would write to her father’s cousin. As the present head of the Bytham family he should be obligated to help her, but considering the longstanding feud between him and her father, she doubted that he would. At the very best she would become an unpaid servant in his house, and her children… She could not imagine what their lives as despised poor relations would be. She might even be separated from them. Oh, dear heaven.

Poor little fatherless mites! If Wynmond had been a poor husband, in many ways he was a worse father. Worse because, like most people who knew him, his children adored him. And he spent only enough time with them to ensure their adoration, disappearing for weeks at time afterward.

And he never understood that. In his way, he did love them—just as, in his way, he had loved her. The children would miss him. They would grieve as she no longer could. What comfort might she offer them? What would she tell them about their lovable, irresponsible father?

She went to her own narrow bed and felt under the mattress, sighing in relief. The last terrifying, precious gift of money still lay where she had hidden it. If indeed it could be called a gift. She prayed it had not been sent by Lord St. Edmunds. If he was the one who knew… An icy fist closed around her stomach.

She closed her hand tightly around the few remaining coins, the metal biting into her skin, the shame of possessing them gnawing at her heart. They would feed them, barely, for the next month, the month’s reprieve that Vincent Ingleton—to her complete surprise—had bought for her. Such a strange man. Dark and cold, with the face of a hawk. She had heard whispers about him, gossip of a misspent youth, a cruel nature. But Diana could hardly picture the man carousing. He had never been anything but solemn and polite in her presence. Solemn and polite and cold.

But three gentlemen awaited her downstairs. She must go to them. Blood stained her shabby gray gown, but Diana could not find the strength to change it. Perhaps they would go soon.

Go and leave her to her dead husband and her fears.

All three men rose politely as Diana came into the parlor, although St. Edmunds’s expression remained dark. He was not accustomed to losing. Neither was Vincent. But unlike St. Edmunds, Vincent took care not to underestimate his opponents.

He ignored the man and directed his question to the lady. “How did you find the children?”

“Sleeping, as I had hoped.” She rubbed her temples as though they ached. Sighing, she sank into a threadbare chair. “Thank you, all of you, so much for coming. I will let you know when I have made the funeral arrangements.”

“Anything at all I can do…” Sudbury leaned to kiss the hand she extended as he approached her.

“Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

St. Edmunds cleared his throat. “Of course. If I may render any service at all, you have but to send word.” He glared at Vincent. “Your servant, Lady Diana…my lord… Sudbury.”

With a nod at Vincent, Sudbury followed St. Edmunds out the door.

When Vincent sat rather than follow them, Diana sent him a startled glance. With an effort he dredged up his crooked half smile. “I have persuaded Lord St. Edmunds to let me assist you with your future plans.”

The look of relief which rewarded that statement flickered after a moment and one of wariness replaced it. Not quite knowing how to reassure her, Vincent glanced down at the floor, only to see a cockroach emerge from under his chair. With an oath, he brought his boot down on it.

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Once again color flooded Diana’s cheeks. “I cannot get rid of the creatures, no matter how much I clean. I find them everywhere.”

“And little wonder, in this hole.” Vincent stood and walked to where she sat, and stood looking down at her, forcing down the anger that rose in him. “My lady, you are not to blame for the roaches any more than you are to blame for the unpaid rent. I knew Wyn. I knew him well, and my heart is sore for the loss of him. But I also know his nature. He should never have brought you to this.” He glared around the room. He’d be damned if he would leave her here. “And I see no reason for you to stay here another minute. You are not even safe in this neighborhood. And with a dead body in the next room, the cockroaches and rats will… You cannot stay. Go and gather up what you need for yourself and the children, and I will take you to a hotel.”

“That’s…that’s very kind, my lord, but not necessary. I have survived here very—”

“Diana, spare me.” Vincent glowered in her direction. “You have survived, but only that. The moment that hag of a landlady spreads the word that you are now alone, you will cease to have any security at all.” He softened his tone. “I understand your pride, but you must remove yourself and your children from these quarters. Now go and collect what you need. I promise you will be safe with me.”