Patricia Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

“I only hope I may make this terrible time a bit easier for you. Do you know my husband, Lord Litton?”

Diana smiled at the gentleman who had emerged from a doorway and was presently engaged in tickling Bytham’s ear. Bytham, finding himself surrounded by strangers, was overcome with a fit of shyness and hid his face against Vincent’s shoulder.

Lord Litton left off the tickling and bowed. “Your servant, my lady. Who is this fine fellow and this lovely maiden?”

“My son, Bytham, my lord, and my daughter, Selena.”

Selena managed a bashful curtsey, but Bytham apparently decided that good manners were beyond him at the moment. He clung tighter to Vincent.

“Oh, dear.” Diana smiled ruefully. “I fear he needs a nap.”

“Of course.” Lord Litton patted the boy’s shoulder. “He’ll come about.”

Diana thought she detected something wistful in his expression, and that of Lady Litton, as well, when they smiled at the children. Lady Litton gestured to a young woman standing a few feet away. “Alice will take them upstairs and get them settled.”

The maid stepped forward and offered her hand to Selena, who cast a doubtful look at Diana, but took the hand. Vincent attempted to shift Bytham to the floor, but stopped when the child let out an unhappy shriek.

“It is the strange surroundings.” Diana held out her arms. “Here, give him to me. I’ll go with Alice.”

But Bytham was having none of it. He fastened his arms around Vincent’s neck and hung on for dear life.

“Bytham!” Fatigue and worry made her voice sharp. What was she to do with the little rascal? “Now, Bytham…”

Lord Litton let out a crack of laughter. “You seem to have an admirer, Vincent. One who especially admires your neckcloth.”

Vincent looked down at the chubby fist clutched in the ruined folds of his starched cravat and grinned crookedly. “Obviously a man of good taste. He liked the one I wore last night, too. Never mind, Diana. I shall carry him up for his nap. But what should I do if he does not wish to nap?”

Diana lifted her hands helplessly. For some reason she just could not focus on the problem. “I—I don’t… I’m sorry, my lord. I better come with you.”

“Never mind.” Vincent seemed to sense her exhaustion. “I will rely on my own resources. Bytham and I will settle it between us.”

Diana nodded gratefully and followed Lady Litton to the drawing room.

In the end the resources Vincent relied on were a sugar cake provided by Alice and a promise of a ride in the park on a real horse. He had always found that there was nothing like bribery to achieve one’s ends. Descending the stairs to the drawing room, he tried, with limited success, to straighten his neckcloth. It was coming to his attention that children were a mixed blessing.

At the door of the drawing room he encountered Diana and Helen on their way upstairs. Litton intercepted him. “They are off to discuss mourning clothes—a clear indication that you and I should repair to my club.”

His club? His lordship had never before invited Vincent anywhere, let alone to a public place. Of course, Vincent had never given him much opportunity. What might this portend? “Thank you, my lord, but after my recent engagement with Corby’s heir, I fear I’m not fit to be seen abroad.”

Litton made short work of the objection. “Never mind that. It will only take a few minutes to put you to rights. You may borrow one of my stocks.”

Considerably astonished by this magnanimous offer, Vincent made the necessary restorations and the two of them strolled off in the direction of St. James Street. More than a little wary, Vincent responded politely to the commonplace conversation initiated by his stepfather and wondered about the real purpose of the overture.

As they turned into the busier streets, the crowds thickened, forcing them to slow their steps. A man wearing a shabby brown coat and boots made a misstep as he approached Vincent and lurched into him. “I say! Sorry, guv’nor.”

Vincent regained his balance and the man tipped his hat and continued down the street without looking back. Vincent made a grab for his pocket.

“Purse still with you?” Litton stopped and followed the man with his gaze. “Shall we give chase?”

“No.” Vincent patted all his pockets. “I seem to have everything.”

“Amazing. Of course, had he taken your coin, he would have passed it to a confederate by now.”

“Undoubtedly.”

They walked on in silence for a few more steps before Litton cleared his throat. “I cannot help but wonder, Vincent…”

Ah. The real purpose of this jaunt at last. “Sir?”

“You were close friends with Corby since you came down from Oxford, were you not?”

“Yes, sir.” No need saying more than necessary.

“I have heard some talk about him—talk unbecoming his position at the Foreign Office.” Litton glanced at Vincent, his eyes narrowed.

“Oh?”

“Come now, Vincent. You are bound to have heard it, too. Did Corby support the return of Bonaparte to the throne of France?” Litton stopped walking and turned to look at Vincent.

“He never said as much to me,” Vincent replied with complete truth and no hesitation.

Unfortunately, Adam Barbon was a difficult man to deceive. He gazed at Vincent from under lowered brows. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.”

After a moment Litton’s expression cleared and he started walking again. Several steps later he glanced at Vincent. “I suppose this is none of my affair. What the devil am I to you? A stepfather by marriage or some such cockamamie thing?”

Vincent shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest notion.”

“Nor do I, but Helen and Charles and I—such as we are—are all the family you have. I have been a bit concerned that you may have involved yourself in that business. No, no…” Litton held up a restraining hand as Vincent opened his mouth. “You needn’t answer. I don’t wish to trap you into an admission—nor necessitate a lie. It is just that…well, we are not unaware of the changes you have made. We would hate to see anything happen to you such as happened to Corby.”

Indeed? They considered themselves his family? Had followed the changes in him? He didn’t know they had noticed. Vincent did not know what to make of that. “I… Thank you. I appreciate your thought. However, I assure you that I am no supporter of Bonaparte. On the contrary. I very much wish to see him remain on Elba. Or much farther afield than that.”

Once again what he said was completely true.

As they stepped up to the door of Litton’s club, he slipped his hand into his pocket, just to be sure.

The crinkle of folded paper assured him that the note that had been passed to him was still there.

Diana sat before the window while she combed her damp hair and wondered what to do until bedtime. Already the small wisps around her face had dried to their silver-gold hue, but it would take the thick, waist-length mass an hour more to dry so that she could braid it for bed. For the first time in years she had had a real bath in a real tub—one for which she had not carried up the water nor carried it away nor set up the screen. In the rooms she shared with Wyn, she had nowhere to wash but the crowded kitchen.

She must beware of becoming too accustomed to such luxury. She had no idea how long her stay here would last, nor what would follow it. But for now she would revel in the fact that her children were tucked safely away between clean sheets in the care of a nursemaid, and that a clean bed awaited her clean body.

Somehow Lady Litton—no, not Lady Litton. She had asked Diana to call her Helen. Somehow Helen had found the mourning clothes she had worn after Vincent’s father had died, presenting them with the diplomatic comment that it would be a waste to order more for Diana. Only minor adjustments had been required for Diana to use them. Most of them were black, of course, but still much finer and more stylish than what she had been wearing.