Patricia Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

And from him, more was the pity.

She sat for a moment more with eyes closed and one hand pressed to her mouth. At last she drew in a deep breath and stood. “You are correct, of course. For months I have slept with a pistol by my hand. I will go with you. My concern must be for Selena and Bytham. If you will wait, it will take only a few moments.”

Vincent watched her through the door and began to pace the small room. Why had Wynmond Corby done this to her, to his children, to himself? Vincent shuddered. He had been so close to following the same path, so close to bringing himself to utter ruin. And he still wasn’t sure why.

Nor exactly why he had mended his ways, for that matter.

“I believe this will do for a day or two.” Diana came into the room dragging two small valises. “Now I must get the children up and dress them.”

“May I help?” Vincent moved toward the bedroom. “I know very little about youngsters, but perhaps I can assist.”

The first smile he had seen since he had helped carry a bleeding Wynmond Corby home softened her face. “It is not that difficult. Perhaps you can get Bytham into his clothes. He is such a heavy sleeper—it will be a struggle.”

His brief smile answered hers. “Surely I will prove equal to stuffing a small boy into his britches.”

Her eyes twinkled for an instant. “We shall see.”

He had done surprisingly well with it, Diana thought as the hackney turned into St. James and headed toward Fenton’s Hotel, even if his lordship’s previously crisp neckcloth did now hang around his neck in crumpled folds. Thank heaven he had been willing to help her. She felt completely unequal to the task of wrestling with a cross, half-asleep, small boy. Getting Selena, now sleeping, slumped between them on the seat, dressed had almost proved more than she could do. When had she last enjoyed a sound night’s sleep? Diana could not remember. She roused herself when she realized his lordship was speaking to her.

“I desired the doctor to have the body prepared for the funeral. If you will tell me what you want, I will convey your wishes to him.”

“Oh, thank you.” Diana struggled to focus. “You are very kind. Right now I am not sure…” She rubbed at the pain in her temple.

“You needn’t think of it now. Tomorrow is time enough for that.” Vincent shifted slightly to move the dozing Selena away from his pocket, retrieved his overworked purse once again, and settled the child back against him, holding her upright. He removed a few coins and handed the purse to Diana. “There should be enough here to provide for any services you need tonight and in the morning. I had rather not be seen handing it to you.”

How thoughtful of him, even though Diana had little doubt that his championship of her would soon be all over London—with the attendant gossip. She should not take any more money from him. She really should not. But the pittance she had in her purse would hardly cover a night at Fenton’s, let alone meals for the children. Once more she must bite her tongue and swallow a large chunk of her pride with it. “Thank you, my lord. I will repay you as soon as I am able.”

He stared at her for a moment with sharp black eyes, and Diana experienced a twinge of alarm. Then he shrugged slightly. “Of course. In the meantime, until you have made your plans, I will settle with Fenton’s.”

The carriage drew to a stop and Vincent opened the door. He took Bytham from Diana and helped her down, then gave the boy back to her, lifted her daughter into his own arms and paid the driver. As they made their way into the hotel, Selena snuggled her face against his neck.

Diana collapsed onto the nearest sofa while her escort approached the desk. In a matter of minutes, the child draped limply across his shoulder, he had arranged for rooms with a parlor, turned the luggage over to the porter, instructed a maid to assist Diana with the children and seen the three of them upstairs.

And in a few more minutes he had invited her to send for him if she needed him, promised to call on her on the morrow and bowed himself out of the room, no doubt relieved to be rid of the three of them.

Diana fell into bed in a blur of fatigue.

There was nothing for it.

He would have to ask for her help. And God! How he hated to do it.

Hadn’t he caused enough trouble for her in the past? Vincent trotted up the stairs of the town house and lifted the knocker. A dull booming on the other side of the door rewarded this effort and immediately thereafter a startled face appeared in the portal.

“Why, Lord Lonsdale! We haven’t seen you this age.” The tall, white-haired butler stepped back and bowed Vincent into a small but elegant entry.

“Good morning, Feetham.” Vincent nodded at the butler and handed his hat and gloves to a footman. “Is Lady Litton in?”

“I’m not sure, my lord, but I will inquire.” Feetham nodded at the footman who disappeared up the stairs.

Vincent carefully schooled his face to show no expression. What the butler meant was, of course, that he did not know if his mistress was willing to see Vincent. The footman reappeared in a matter of minutes.

“Her ladyship is in the morning room,” he reported. “She asks that you come up.”

Vincent nodded to Feetham and followed the footman back up the stairs and into a cheerful chamber, bright with sunlight.

The dark-haired lady on the sofa, a lady only a few years Vincent’s senior, smiled warmly and held out a hand. “Vincent! What brings you here?” A tiny wrinkle formed, marring the perfect skin between her eyes. “Is something amiss?”

“No, my lady.” Vincent bent and kissed his stepmother’s smooth fingers. “At least not…”

“Well! Will wonders never cease?”

Vincent turned toward the fair-haired gentleman who had just sauntered through the door and bowed. “Good morning, Lord Litton.”

“We haven’t seen you since Helen and I married.” Adam Barbon, Viscount Litton, extended a hand, which Vincent shook.

“For which, I am sure, you are suitably grateful.” Vincent tried to smile.

“Now, Vincent, don’t talk so. You know you are welcome here.” Vincent was relieved to hear that. He had not been sure. Helen Barbon reached for a fresh cup on the tray just provided by the footman. “Do you still take your coffee black?”

“Yes, ma’am, thank you.” Vincent took the cup and marveled that she truly seemed to mean what she said. How could anyone be that forgiving? But he had hoped she would be. Otherwise, he would not have come.

Had it not been for Diana, he would not have come at all.

He only hoped his stepmother’s new husband would find himself able to command an equal degree of forbearance.

His lordship grinned. “I’ll hold my gratitude in abeyance until I discover what has brought you here this time.”

Vincent took a sip of coffee, struggled with the words and finally choked them out. “I need your help.”

One of Litton’s eyebrows rose. “Do you, indeed?”

“I would not ask… I dislike troubling you, but…” Vincent felt his mouth tighten. “I am not asking for my own sake.”

“Heaven forfend that you should ask your family for help.”

The sarcastic tone caused Vincent to look at his stepfather more closely, his eyebrows drawing together. He half rose. “If you had rather I not, I will immediately relieve you…”

Litton waved the comment away. “Oh, sit down, sit down. Tell us who needs what.”

“Pay him no mind, Vincent.” Helen reached out to place a calming hand on Vincent’s sleeve. “You know how he is. We are happy that you asked. Now…who needs our help?”

Setting aside for the moment that he had never understood how Adam Barbon “is,” Vincent directed his gaze at Helen. “It is a lady.”