Lucy Templeton was similarly discommoded by Darius’s absence, and her missive promised predictable retribution for his not coming when she snapped her fingers at him.

Darius set her note aside as well, anticipating a game of Spoiled Puppy when he returned to Town. She’d spank him until her hand hurt, and “let” him put his nose in her lap for his reward when he was sufficiently contrite. It was beyond tedious. If Lord Longstreet provided the remuneration he’d promised, Lucy Templeton, Blanche Cowell, and all of their ilk might soon be nothing more than bad—very bad—memories.

“So this is where you hide?”

He glanced up from his desk to see Vivian standing in the door of his study. She was attired in the closest thing he’d seen on her to an attractive dress—a soft brown velvet creation with a raised waistline, suggesting it was years out of date, though it looked comfortable.

“This is where I shovel my way through the reams of correspondence that must occupy a man involved in commerce.”

“Commerce?” She advanced into the room, glancing around. “I thought you were a gentleman farmer.”

“A farmer, in any case.” He tossed his pen down. “I haven’t enough land to raise corn and livestock in any quantity, so I raise those goods that can be easily sold in Town.”

“And those would be?”

“I’m still figuring it out.” He rose and gestured to a pair of reading chairs near the hearth. “I’ve done well with garden vegetables thus far, mostly because I take inordinate care in their transport. I eschew the practice of hauling manure out of London in the same wagons I use to haul the vegetables in. The flavor benefits as a result. Eggs are easy to produce in quantity, chicken manure is valuable, and the feathers can also be sold, to say nothing of having a steady supply of chicken for the table. Eggs are hard to transport, though, and most everybody with an alley can keep a coop themselves in Town. Some keep their chickens on the rooftop, much like an old-fashioned dovecote.”

“William once said something about homing pigeons being a profitable venture.”

“I hadn’t considered them.” Darius took his seat after Vivian had taken hers. “It would require time, because the generations born on my land would always home to me. I’d have to sell breeding pairs, though I assume it can be done.”

“The government is using them more and more,” Vivian said. “They used them to get word of the victory at Waterloo, and it was faster than any horse or packet.”

Darius considered her, seeing not only beauty and grace, but also intelligence—and wondering if William saw any of it. “I didn’t know that. What else does William have to say about British commerce?”

“We need finer wool,” Vivian said. “There are Spanish sheep that produce a much higher grade of wool than our farm breeds, but we stick to what we know, when pretty much every country on earth can grow its own sheep.”

“His Majesty had some of these Spanish sheep, didn’t he?”

“William bought some in the dispersal about ten years ago, and they’ve been producing little sheep at Longchamps all the while. They’re… distinctive, but very soft to pet.”

“Like you.”

She smoothed a pleat in her dress. “And here we were doing so well, Mr. Lindsey.”

For her fortitude, Darius returned to the matter at hand. “So William thinks we need to focus on competing with other nations?”

“Of course. The Americans have more space to grow corn of all kinds than we’ll ever have, the Antipodes can grow sheep, and the shipping is getting faster each year. You think of competing with other vegetable farmers to get your goods to Town, but soon you’ll be competing with the French table grapes, the Spanish citrus, and so forth.”

“You’ve learned a thing or two, being married to Longstreet.”

“And what fascinating stuff it is.” She smiled, though the result was sad around the edges.

“To a man strapped for coin, it is fascinating.”

She apparently took him at his word. “Whatever you have, there’s demand for it on the Continent. The Corsican saw to that.”

“What do you mean?”

“His Majesty’s troops were usually provisioned by design, with quartermasters and contracts and a whole supply line set up by the military as the armies moved from place to place. The Russians and Germans operate similarly. Napoleon relied on what he called foraging, and what we would call pillaging, even in his own territory. Any place the Grand Armée passed through was devastated. Crops, goods, livestock, entire buildings were torn asunder in a night to feed the campfires—they’d even burn the fodder for the livestock in their campfires. You could export lumber, had you a wood. You could export anything, and there’d be a market for it there somewhere.”

Darius frowned at the fire, because this conversation was the furthest thing from flirting—and he was enjoying it. “How to get my goods to that market? And how to retrieve one’s coin?”

“That’s easy.” Vivian rose and went to the window. “You hire one of the half-pay quartermaster’s officers who campaigned from Portugal to Poland, and he’ll be happy to live cheaply on the Continent while taking a little coin to see to your business. Most of them picked up enough of the languages, they still have contacts, and a few have wives of foreign extraction.”

“You’ve thought about this?”

“I listen.” She turned, that slight smile still in place. “Hour after hour after hour, I listen to my husband and his parliamentary associates debating everything from soap taxes to window taxes to reform of every stripe.”

He could see her doing it too, quietly keeping the servants organized, the guests happy, and the conversation flowing—while William expounded on soap taxes. “What is there to debate about a soap tax, for pity’s sake?”

“If soap were more affordable, the general populace might put it to more frequent use and avoid some of the pestilence plaguing them. We’d then have a healthier work force and could tax what they create, rather than the soap they can’t buy now. Similarly with the tax on windows and fresh air in tenements and factories.”

She looked lonely over there by the window. Remote, though she was only a few feet away. “And we’d all smell better. This is what you and William discuss over dinner?”

“William and I rarely dine together privately. We entertain a great deal, or we did until this fall. Losing two sons has taken a toll on William.”

“It would take a toll on any man.” Darius rose and crossed the room to stand behind her. “Except possibly my father.”

“I don’t know the man.”

“Count yourself fortunate.”

She cocked her head in a manner Darius was learning meant serious study, so he distracted her by scooping her up and settling with her in his lap.

“You said you’d wait until tonight.” She sounded wonderfully tart in her disapproval, even as she cuddled into his embrace.

“I’m not under your skirts, Vivvie.” He nuzzled her breast, closing his eyes. To his consternation, she threaded her fingers through his hair and cradled him against her, as if he were a tired boy.

“Tell me about your father.”

“He’s awful.” Darius resisted the temptation to tell her they weren’t going to speak of this either. The topic was harmless enough—though distasteful. “If I learned to tolerate a beating anywhere, it was at his hands. My brother, Trent, was his particular project, which was no privilege, believe me, and my mother staked me as her personal favorite.”

“I gather your parents were not congenial.”

“They were at daggers drawn. Part of the reason I can countenance this scheme of William’s is because there is reason to doubt the paternity of at least one of my siblings. My mother was that angry with Wilton, that desperate.”

She stroked his hair absently. “One shudders to think of it, years and years of battle, and all within the one place that’s supposed to be a haven from strife.”