That question brought to mind the scent of stale powder and singed hair he associated with Blanche and Lucy. He was going to have to do something about those two. Vivian was carrying—carrying his child—and that meant the first and second installments of William’s payment would come due. The first one should be on its way as soon as Vivian rejoined William at Longchamps, and the second when she’d missed her second menses. The third, if there was a third, would arrive when she was safely delivered of a child, and then, by God, Darius’s finances would be in the closest thing to good repair he’d ever known.

“And then what will I do?” He scowled at the decanter. “Raise bloody pigeons to bill and coo their way across England while I grow old selling pigeon shit?”

Such a question signaled inebriation, even Darius knew that, as unaccustomed as he was to overindulging. He rose unsteadily, saluted the decanter, and went up to his room. He spent the night fully clothed in a chair by the fire, alternately missing Vivian and cursing his stupid, useless, pointless life.

Vivian took an extra day in London to regain her energy, though her energy wasn’t very cooperative. Her clothes were repacked, the townhouse closed up, the baggage loaded, Dilquin and her lady’s maid loaded with it, and off they went.

And with each mile, Vivian’s emotions grew more confusing and unhappy.

William greeted her with a smile and a kiss to her cheek, then took her hands and stepped back to study her.

“You’re well?”

“I am in good health,” she said, not wanting to remove her cloak. Reluctantly, she undid the frogs herself—thank goodness William would not be so presumptuous—and passed the garment to the waiting footman. “And yourself?”

“Getting over a little cold, my dear.” William’s eyes skimmed over her new dress and the way she’d styled her hair with a part down the middle, not pulled straight back into a governess’s bun. “Will you join me in a cup of tea?”

She didn’t want to, but she kept her expression pleasant.

“Of course, William.” She took his proffered arm as she had a thousand times before, but missed, badly, the strength of Darius’s escort as she did. William’s arm was a prop. In truth, she supported him more than he supported her.

They sat down to tea in the library and began the ritual conversation that signaled each of their various reunions over five years of marriage. William was polite, Vivian was polite, and it was all… wrong.

“Shall we speak of your time in Kent, Vivian?” William had waited until the tea tray was removed and they were guaranteed privacy. “Or would you rather we pretend you were merely visiting your sister while I passed the holidays down here?”

His old eyes held nothing but a banked, patient kindness when Vivian finally met them. “I wouldn’t know what to say, William.”

“The trip did you good. You might not see it yet, but it did.”

“If you say so.” Vivian wished the tea tray were still there, so she could at least occupy her hands. William missed little, and his scrutiny weighed on her.

William patted her knuckles. “It’s all right to be infatuated with the man, probably better, in fact.”

She looked away, feeling her throat closing. “William, hush.”

She’d never told him to hush once in five years, but he was apparently able to weather the shock. He passed her his handkerchief.

“Vivian, you’re young, and he will be the father of your child,” William said. “We didn’t choose him because he was the Scourge of the High Toby. Lindsey is comely, he has a certain dash, and he no doubt charmed you. Some feelings for him were inevitable.”

“I said hush.” She let the tears come, not realizing William had shifted until the familiar scent of bay rum grew stronger and she felt his arm around her shoulders. He said nothing, but for the first time in her marriage, she merely tolerated his embrace, finding no comfort in it at all.

She wanted to smack him, in fact, and shout at him to stop reasoning with her.

“You are angry with me,” William said. “I’m sorry for that, but you won’t be so angry when you hold that child, Vivian. I promise you.”

“I know.” She agreed out of a need to shut him up. They’d never been this personal with each other in all their years of marriage, and she wasn’t about to start now. Maybe not ever, given what had passed in the last month.

“Can I assume your lunation is late?”

“You can.” She blotted the last of her tears and folded his handkerchief into a small, tidy square. “Just a little.”

“That’s enough for now.” William rose off the arm of her chair. “We’ll not speak of your visit in Kent again, for it upsets you, and we must take the best care of you now, Vivian. Early days can be chancy.”

“Yes, William.”

“You’re tired. Shall I send Portia to you?”

Vivian rose, though fatigue and sadness dragged at her. “Everlasting God, please, not that. I’ll see her at dinner, and we can trade veiled barbs over a decent meal.” Except Vivian had no appetite. “I think I’ll take a walk while the sun is at least shining.”

“As you wish.” William stepped in and kissed her forehead. “You know, Vivian, I do realize what a toll this has taken on you, what a toll it will take, and I am appreciative.”

“As I am,” she said, “of all you’ve done for me.” She withdrew, wrestling with her first-ever bout of anger at William Longstreet. Oh, she’d been exasperated with him in the past, irritated, cross, annoyed—they were married, after all—and he was two generations her senior, but she’d never felt this burning, resentful rage at him.

So she took her walk in the cold sunshine. A long walk was an excuse to wrap Darius’s scarf around her neck, and the pretty, warm cloak he’d bought her around her body, and to be alone with his scent.

“I need the name of a good solicitor.” Darius put the question to his older brother, who was for once looking reasonably well put together.

“I thought you used a firm you were happy with,” Trent replied, pouring his guest a cup of tea.

“I do, for my commercial interests. This is personal, and requires… discretion.”

“Anything I can do?” The question was posed with studied casualness, but the offer was sincere, and Darius knew a pang of… something. There was loneliness in it and love for his brother and despair.

“A small matter”—Darius’s lips quirked at the private joke—“requiring a delicate hand. I won’t get my ears blown off though, so you needn’t worry.”

“One does, you know.” Trent sipped his tea with the equanimity Darius had long associated with him. “In your absence over the past couple of months, I’ve had to do the pretty with Leah a time or two, and I’d forgotten how exhausting it is.”

“It’s not so bad. You learn to bow and smile and twirl down the room without putting anything into it.” And you looked for the well-padded chairs, of which Trent’s modest library sported an adequate number.

“Well, I haven’t yet acquired the knack. Your return to Town is most welcome. In terms of solicitors, I use Kettering. He’s young, but absolutely discreet and shrewd as hell.”

“He’ll not go tattling to Wilton?”

“I’d shoot him on sight if he did,” Trent said, no smile in evidence. “And likely miss. The man is quick in every sense.”

Darius studied his brother, who was drinking tea for a change. “You seem to be a little more the thing. Maybe you needed to put off mourning.”

“Having to go out with our sister on my arm required a certain reestablishing of my own routines.”

Routines, Darius surmised, like having one’s hair trimmed, shaving regularly, putting together a proper suit of clothes, and getting them on one’s person. Making conversation, those sorts of routines. Well, bless Leah’s social calendar, if it had given Trent a toehold on regaining his balance.