Patricia Rowell - A Treacherous Proposition

She looked well enough in black—not that anyone would be seeing her. Except perhaps the Earl of Lonsdale. Diana flushed at the thought. Now why should she think of Vincent Ingleton in that context? True, he was being very kind to her, but only as a friend of Wyn’s.

Wasn’t he?

Surely what she had seen in his eyes did not mean…

He had never seen her except in stained, worn-out clothes, exhausted with caring for her children in the face of daunting poverty. Try as she might, it had become impossible to keep up appearances. She was far too thin. So worn-looking. How could he possibly want her?

Before she could come to any conclusion on the matter, a light tap sounded at the door. She called, “Come in,” and one of Helen’s maids put her head through the door.

“I have a note for you, my lady. A boy brought it ’round to the kitchen a short while ago.”

Diana’s heart went cold. Not another note! How did he know where she was? What did the wretch want? What could he possibly want? She was only too afraid that she knew. Her hand trembled as she took the paper, but she managed an automatic thank you as the maid curtseyed and took herself off. Carefully, Diana broke the seal and held the letter nearer to the candle.

My dearest Lady Diana—

My condolences on the loss of your husband. A great tragedy for you, I’m sure. But I see that you have been taken under the aegis of Lord Lonsdale. How fortunate for you.

And for me. I believe the time draws near that you may repay me for the little gifts I have provided. And of course, for keeping my knowledge to myself. That has become even more important now, has it not? So difficult for Selena and Bytham to lose both their father and their mother. Who knows what their future might become?

I believe your, ah—association?—with Lord Lonsdale will provide just the opportunity I have been seeking. As always, I expect you to maintain your silence on these matters as I have maintained mine. I’m sure you understand the necessity.

Until then, I remain unwaveringly yours—

Deimos

P.S.—I have included no gift, as it is obvious your every need is being provided.

Diana crumpled the note and dropped her face into her hands. Damn him. Damn him! Always a threat in every sentence—and now also innuendo. As though she and Vincent… But then, Deimos, whoever he might be, had always made her feel like a whore. She very much feared he intended to use his gifts to make her one. Had she but known who he was, she might have flung the money back at him, even if it meant starving. But that was fantasy. She could not let her children starve.

And she did not know who he was.

Deimos. The Greek god of fear. He had chosen his sobriquet well. The fear of what he knew ate at her every second of every day. Fear for herself. Fear for her children.

How dare he use their names!

How dare he sully their sweet innocence with his poisonous pen. If ever she discovered his identity…

Perhaps she was capable of killing.

The man in the shabby brown coat tipped his chair back against the wall and took a long pull from his tankard of ale while Vincent sketched circles in the cheap liquor spilled on the greasy table. “Nay, my lord. I ain’t found out who done it yet, but it wasn’t none of our lads. Wouldn’t be no reason for us to do it. Too easy to get information from him.”

Vincent nodded glumly. “He talked of everything he knew. Try as I might, I could not shut him up.”

“Aye. It was his mouth what killed him, I’ll warrant. Might even have been the culls at the Foreign Office.”

Vincent considered the realities of the intelligence trade. “That’s possible. But the whole debacle is their doing. They should never have exiled Bonaparte to Elba in the first place. Much too close to France. Too easy for him to escape—and escape he will, soon or late.”

“He will if Lord Holland and his set have their way, such a fine fellow they think him to be.” Vincent’s companion rocked his chair to the floor with a snarl. “But there are those of us who remember what that bastard cost us, first and last.” He spit on the floor.

“We shall confound them. He must be contained.” Vincent stood. “I’ve several more people to talk to tonight. I’ll be around the hells. You can find me if you have more to report.”

His companion nodded and Vincent put on his hat and walked to the door. Standing in the portal, he let his gaze drift casually up the street and then down. He saw no one but the usual crowd that patronized the cheap taverns along the way, but still, he stepped out cautiously. He had not gone half a block when a hackney rumbled around the corner toward him.

Instinct took over and, without thinking, Vincent dropped to the dirty cobbles. The knife sailed over his head and buried itself in the wall of the building behind him. Chips of plaster rained down on him. The driver whipped up the horses and the conveyance disappeared down the street. Vincent rose, brushing dirt off his clothes.

Damn! That was close.

At last Wynmond Corby was in the ground and, Diana prayed, at peace. Vincent Ingleton had taken care of the obsequies and his stepmother had taken care of her. All of Wyn’s friends had paid their respects, to him and to her, and gone on their way. Now Diana could only wonder at the huge void within her, empty of any emotion at all with respect to Wyn.

Its very absence made her heart ache. When had she stopped loving him? When had she sustained that loss without even knowing it? She could only hope that in the few days’ respite while waiting to hear from her father’s cousin, a modicum of peace would also find her.

Bytham had been clamoring for a trip to the park since Vincent had promised it to him, but the funeral had intervened. Alice offered her services, but Diana had cared for the children herself for many years. She just could not put them in the hands of someone else.

They were all she had in the world.

Society decreed that she should remain in seclusion, mourning her loss, but that seemed redundant. She had long ago mourned the loss of the man she thought she had married—the laughing, golden-haired boy, the shining young man of promise. Now she just wished to learn what her life was to be. And to feel a few days of freedom lest she learn that it would be a new sort of prison.

Helen did not chide her when she donned a black pelisse and gloves. Suitable clothes for the children had also appeared as if by magic. Where Helen had found those, Diana had no idea, but she told herself that she did not have too much pride to accept used clothes.

She lied.

She did have too much pride. She just had little choice.

She was a Bytham of Bytham House, the daughter of an earl, and by God, she would hold her head up, come what may. She hated seeing her babies swathed in someone else’s black, their brightness dimmed, but she would not forget who they were. Who she was.

The three of them set out for the park afoot, enjoying the easy walk in the summer sunshine. As they strolled through the patterns of shade along the park walks, Selena picked dandelions out of the grass and Bytham tugged on Diana’s arm.

“Look, Mama, a butterfly. Look, Mama, a bee. Look, Mama…” Everything was wonderful to him. Before, they had lived too far away to come to the park often, the price of a hackney too dear. Diana found herself laughing with him. How long had it been since she’d laughed? Had taken time to feel the breeze on her face?

When they came to a bench beside a green lawn, Diana released her son’s hand and sat. “You may play here for a while, Bytham, but do not go far from Mama. Selena, stay close by.”

The automatic chorus of, “Yes, Mama,” greeted these instructions and the children raced off onto the lawn. Selena soon abandoned her flowers in favor of helping her little brother chase the fleet of butterflies. She was such a lively child. Someday she would have to learn the manners of a demure young miss, but Diana hoped to put that off as long as possible. Why trammel such a free spirit?