“What a lovely analogy.” Lucy sat beside her and stroked Blanche’s hair back with a slow caress. “But what does that make me?”

“If there is a benefit to all this socializing,” Darius informed his sister Leah one cool April evening, “it’s that you at least get out of that house and away from Wilton. Where are we off to tonight?”

“The Winterthurs’ ball,” Leah said, fluffing her skirts as she settled into the Wilton town coach.

“You look fine,” Darius assured her. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be whispered about.” She might have leaned against him on that sentiment, but Darius’s sister was not complaining. “You’ll dance with me, and a few other stalwarts will, but it will mostly be an evening to endure.”

“I saw Val Windham standing up with the ladies the other night. He wouldn’t make a bad husband.”

“He’s a duke’s son.” Leah smoothed her skirts again. “He can do much better.”

“Dance with him anyway. He’s decent company, and it can’t hurt to be seen on his arm.”

“Suppose not, and it passes the time. What about you? Any prospective brides on the horizon?”

Sisters knew exactly how to turn the tables on a fellow. “A bad joke, Leah. I’ll leave the hunting to you and Trent.”

“And Emily,” Leah added. “She’s making lists, scouring Debrett’s, and ranking prospects by title.”

“A right little scientist. Has Hellerington pestered you?”

“He’s too infirm to dance,” Leah said, though her eyes narrowed tellingly. “So far, he just breathes on me, ogles me, and hints he’s in discussions with Wilton.”

“Which he well could be.”

“How do you know this?”

“Men talk.” Darius studied the passing street lamps, hoping Leah would accept that explanation. He’d put Kettering on to keeping an eye out at Hellerington’s solicitors, and clerks talked over a pint more than old women at a quilting party.

“Should I be worried?”

He wanted to offer her reassuring platitudes, about providing for her no matter what, dowering her if necessary, but he’d gotten another summons from Lucy Templeton, and the tone was overtly threatening. Before he took on his siblings’ troubles, Darius admonished himself to put his own house in order.

“You should be cautious,” Darius said, but that increased the anxiety in her eyes, which called for a change in topic. “What do you recall of a Vivian Longstreet? She said she came out with you.”

And thank the angels, the trepidation in Leah’s gaze became curiosity. “You ran into her in the park with Emily last month. I knew her as Lady Vivian Islington. She’s an earl’s daughter, and we’re of an age, so we were thrown together a great deal. We lost touch, though, when I went to Italy. I recall her as quiet, kind, and more sensible than the average debutante. Pretty too. Why do you ask?”

Darius did not take his sister’s hand, though he wanted to—to comfort her, but maybe also to comfort himself. “She was kind to Em, and a girl making her come out can use every ally. Speaking of allies, shall I remain at your side tonight?”

“Only if you spot Hellerington. I’ll find a place among the wallflowers and dowagers, and be content enough.”

Darius shot her an exasperated look. “You have to at least try. You’re pretty, intelligent, you run Wilton’s household on tuppence or less, and you’d make some fellow a wonderful wife. A husband would be an escape from Wilton and from whatever mischief he plans for you.”

Leah rummaged in her reticule, extracting a pair of long white evening gloves and slipping them on. “I’m used goods. Wilton has seen to it the world knows what low esteem he holds me in, Darius, and yet, you’re right: I should at least try. If I don’t, that will be reported to Wilton as well.”

“True enough.”

He danced the opening set with her then gave in to her pleading when they’d seen no sight of Hellerington, and left her among the companions and chaperones.

“Mr. Lindsey? Ah, it is you. A pleasure to see you again.”

Darius turned slowly, not initially placing the dry, aged voice. William Longstreet stood near a pillar under the minstrels’ gallery, looking pale, alert, and… genuinely friendly.

“Lord Longstreet.”

“A little bird told me that you might be interested in raising pigeons at your estate in Kent. Might we repair to the card room and discuss such a venture?”

Darius wanted to ask the old blighter what he was up to. A challenge lurked in Lord Longstreet’s rheumy eyes, a suggestion of a dare.

“May I fetch some punch for you first, sir?”

“For God’s sake, Lindsey, I’m old, I’m not doddering. That punch is for giddy children and tippling companions. Now, have you ever done contract work for the military?”

The question was peculiar enough to have Darius’s entire concentration, which explained why, when a soft, beguiling scent crept into his awareness, it took him a moment to realize that right at his elbow, a woman—

“My lady.” He bowed, while William turned a smile on Vivian.

“Dearest Vivian, I was wondering if Lady Chinwag was ever going to turn loose of you. I was interrogating young Lindsey here about raising pigeons for His Majesty’s military. Intriguing notion, and one we can pursue later, Lindsey.”

“Lady Chinwag, William? You are being curmudgeonly, and in public too.” Vivian’s smile for her husband was perfectly sweet, while her figure was…

Some queer sensation thrummed through Darius’s chest at the sight of Vivian in a high-waisted gown of shimmering brown velvet. Her hair was half caught up off her neck, half tumbling over her shoulders, while her bosom…

Carrying a child did marvelous things for a lady’s décolletage, though Darius could hardly allow himself to appreciate those things with William Longstreet looking on. And it wasn’t just the fullness of her breasts Darius noticed. Vivian had a glow about her, both a softness and a new substance that made him want to… linger in her ambit, though that was a thoroughly, exceedingly Bad Idea.

William cleared his throat, which turned into a fit of dry coughing. Vivian patted the old fellow’s back, Darius found him a glass of champagne, but William waved them both off.

“Perhaps you will take pity on an old man’s frail bones and take Vivian for a turn on the terrace, Mr. Lindsey? While the warmth of the ballroom might be stifling to you young people, the night breezes hold no appeal for me.”

William’s expression was saintly, a definition of the absence of guile, which suggested strongly to Darius that guile was at work. Vivian’s gaze was trained on the parquet flooring—no help would be forthcoming from her. Knowing it to be a Worse Idea Yet, Darius winged his arm.

“Come along, my lady. The ballroom is indeed stifling.”

Without so much as a backward glance at her husband—should Darius be pleased or alarmed?—Vivian laced her fingers over Darius’s arm.

“Do you think William is pale?” she asked when they’d left William to banter politics with a crony. The honest concern in her tone was a bracing reminder of the realities.

Vivvie—Vivian—was married to William Longstreet and cared for him sincerely. “I’ve met his lordship on only two occasions. He didn’t strike me as any more pale tonight than he did months ago.”

They exchanged no more words until they’d reached the relatively quiet terrace overlooking torch-lit gardens.

“The moon is about to come up,” Vivian said. “Shall we find a seat?”

Darius gave up cataloguing what an ill-advised turn the evening was taking and escorted Vivian to a stone bench in a shadowed corner of the terrace. Shadows were appropriate for them, and always would be.

The thought steadied even as it frustrated.

“How do you fare, my lady?”

She scuffed her dancing slipper against the flagstone, and though they were sitting, she did not disentangle her arm from his. “I am growing fat, Darius Lindsey.”