“You have to rest.” Vivian crossed her arms and prepared to lay siege to William’s stubbornness. “You’re just over that cold, William, and you’ve been pushing yourself ever since you got back to Town.”

“We’ve been here weeks, Vivian. Months, in fact.” William’s smile was patient and pained. “I am resting. I do little else but rest.”

And read Muriel’s old letters and diaries. That, more than his pallor or the persistent weakness dogging him, alarmed her. She knew her husband occasionally communed with his first wife’s personal effects, but it had become a nightly ritual, and she suspected he carried one or two of Muriel’s letters around with him too.

“You work,” Vivian said, hands on hips, “and while we aren’t entertaining as much, you attend one supper meeting after another, William.”

“It’s my duty.” He met her gaze only fleetingly, twitching at the blanket over his knees. “There’s a sense of urgency, Vivian, when one feels time is running out.”

“Hush.” She poured him a finger of brandy and brought it to him. “You’re simply tired and fretting over me and the fate of an entire nation. Fret a little for yourself, William Longstreet. I’ve no wish to become your widow.”

“You fret enough for both of us.” William sipped the brandy, but Vivian sensed it was more to placate her than because he enjoyed it. “There’s something else to fret about in the mail today, Vivian.”

“Anything serious?”

“One hopes not. Portia has taken it into her head to come up to Town for the Season.”

Gracious, everlasting, immortal, avenging God. “Portia is to be our guest?”

“I’ll refuse if you insist.” William’s tone was noncommittal. He did not want to refuse—did not want Portia’s enmity, probably. “Nothing must be allowed to upset you now, Vivian. Nothing.”

“You upset me.” She softened her words by patting the back of his veined hand. “I can’t face having this child without you, William, so no more late nights, and no more tearing around the city at all hours on foot. Please.”

“If you insist, my dear.”

Vivian’s alarm notched up at his complacent tone. “Don’t humor me, William.”

“I’ll be a good boy, Viv.” He smiled at her, a sincere smile that hinted at the charm he’d traded on as a younger man. “With Portia underfoot here, it will be hard not to haunt the offices of government.”

“She can help me sew baby clothes.”

William’s smile widened. “That’s diabolical. Muriel would have approved. You’re feeling well?”

He asked often, and she replied the same as she always did. “I’m fine. A little more prone to fatigue, but even that’s passing.”

William eyed her. “What does the physician say?”

“First babies show later.” Vivian busied her hands by poking at the fire. With Darius, she had discussed bodily functions and female biology openly and often. “In all other regards, things appear to be progressing normally.”

“Shall I convey that sentiment to young Mr. Lindsey?”

Vivian set the poker back on the hearth carefully, so as not to make a racket—also to buy her an instant to hide any reaction. “William?”

“I was young once too, Vivian.” William peered at the rejuvenated fire. “In his place, I’d want to know that my firstborn child, however conceived, was being carried in good health.”

Vivian’s conscience pricked her hard every time she kept her encounters with Darius to herself. There was no reason to tell William, even though there was no reason not to, either.

“You must do as you see fit, William.” Vivian rose from the hearth, considering William. Considering her husband. “If you think it would be kind, then pass along what you must. I honestly don’t know if he’d prefer to know or be left in ignorance. He’ll know when the child’s born, and perhaps that’s enough.”

“I shall ruminate on this.” William took another sip of his brandy. “Ruminating is one activity my great age leaves me suited for.”

“Don’t ruminate too hard.” Vivian tucked his lap robe around him and took herself to her chambers, knowing William would spend the shank of the evening reading Muriel’s letters and diaries, while Vivian dreamed of Darius Lindsey.

Before he opened his late wife’s diary—he was up to old George’s second bout of madness, about which Muriel had written plenty—William Longstreet gave some thought to his present wife.

Vivian had fallen hard for the Lindsey rascal, and since coming to Town, she’d contrived to run into the man at least twice that William knew of. Dilquin wouldn’t peach on his mistress, but the grooms were mostly up from Longchamps, and they were loyal exclusively to William.

Lindsey had behaved with perfect propriety toward Vivian on both occasions. No covert letters were being exchanged, no tokens dropped, no steaming glances or bald innuendos passed around.

Young people didn’t realize how quickly years slipped away, and then there you were, sitting alone with a brandy you didn’t want, laboring for each breath, and trying to recall the laughter of the only woman you’d truly loved in all your days on earth. It was sad and lonely, and made the prospect of death almost a comfort—almost a reward.

One he couldn’t claim just yet, not with the young people being so buffle-brained about what should be perfectly obvious to any save themselves.

“Darius says Reston’s coming back to Town for the Season.” Blanche offered that tidbit in hopes of placating Lucy, who was stomping from one end of her boudoir to the other.

“What interest would I have in that great, strutting lout?”

Blanche’s mouth curved. “You had an interest once, Lucy. As did I.”

“Reston is fine for a simple romp,” Lucy conceded. “I graduated from simple romps years ago, and so did you.”

“A simple romp has its place.” Blanche set her teacup down—the taste was off, as if the leaves had been reused and the tea boiled. “At least with a man built like Reston. I wish Cowell understood even a simple romp.”

“He still bothers you?”

“We have only the one son.” Blanche went to the window and regarded the wet, cold day outside. “I’m not that old.”

“One must occasionally tolerate a husband to cover one’s tracks, so to speak.” Lucy turned to regard her. “I’m sorry, Blanche. I’ll bring Lindsey to heel for you, see if I don’t.”

“Maybe I’m bored with him.” Blanche felt Lucy’s arm go around her waist and leaned her head on the other woman’s shoulder. “He’s so… ungracious. Mercenary.”

“You still want hearts and flowers, my girl. That’s not what men are for.”

“So you say.” Blanche slipped away. “What have you in mind for Darius?”

“Just a little pressure, applied in the right places. You said his sister is up for a husband this Season, and we can queer her chances easily enough.”

Lucy in a plotting mood was unpredictable. Brilliant, but unpredictable. “Some have mentioned Hellerington in context with his sister.”

Lucy’s smile broadened. “A truly dreadful specimen. Wasn’t there some scandal involving the sister years ago? She must be quite the antique.”

“She’s younger than we are by a decade,” Blanche chided. “But yes, she ran off with a younger son, and there was rumor of a duel and then a long stay on the Continent.”

“How do you learn these things?”

“Her papa is hard on the help,” Blanche explained. “The help will talk, if induced sufficiently, particularly when they’ve been turned off without cause and a quarter’s wages wanting.”

“So Darius comes by his sour nature honestly. Well, don’t fret, my dear. Darius will be eating out of our hands once again, so to speak. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf.” Blanche sat on the bed and began to peel down her stockings. “He’s just… the thing you cleanse your palate with between the substantial courses. Inconsequential. Largely decorative.”