Mr. Lindsey would keep his handsome mouth shut; of that, Vivian was as certain as she could be, and he’d put William’s coin to good use. But having seen Darius Lindsey across ballrooms and parks and streets, having assessed him at some length, she was now concerned she’d just bid too high on a horse she might like watching in the auction pen but never be able to control confidently under saddle.

Darius Lindsey wouldn’t merely behave honorably toward a child, he’d be fiercely protective. Vivian knew his sister Leah, knew the lengths Lindsey had gone to in his sister’s interests, and knew what a hash of scandal and misery Lindsey had dealt with—still dealt with—on behalf of a mere sister.

For a child, he’d fight to the death, and for that reason—for that reason only—he’d been Vivian’s choice.

She had chosen him as a father to her child, and if that meant she had to endure him briefly as an intimate partner—the word lover seemed too sentimental by half—then endure him she would. But it wouldn’t be sweet or comfortable. Not with him.

“You’ve seen our guest out?” William looked up from his reading to see Vivian standing in the doorway. She’d dressed modestly for the evening, which he’d expect of her. Vivian Longstreet was that rara avis, a good girl. Muriel had been right about that. Muriel had asked William to look after Vivian, but as his second marriage had matured, William suspected Muriel had put Vivian up to looking after him, too.

How he missed his Muriel, and how she’d delight in the way matters were unwinding at the close of William’s useful years. He’d often told Muriel she should have been a man, and Muriel had thought it a fine compliment.

“Mr. Lindsey was a charming if somewhat reserved dinner companion.” Vivian closed the door to William’s sitting room. “How are you feeling?”

“I am all curiosity.” William patted the place beside him on the sofa, but Vivian pulled up a hassock and angled it around to face him. “You have that look about you, Vivian, as if you’ve been thinking something to death.”

“How ill are you, William? Should I be worried?”

The question was insightful, and he should have anticipated it. “I’m not ill in the sense you mean. I am sick to death of Hubert Dantry’s stupid parliamentary bills, and weary of life, but I’m not contagious. What does it mean, that Mr. Lindsey was reserved? If he offered you any unpleasantness whatsoever, Vivian, I’ll have a talk with him he won’t forget.”

“He was as pleasant as a serious man can be.” Vivian looked preoccupied rather than offended. “And you’ve talked with him quite enough, thank you.”

“Now he’s serious and reserved both.” William grimaced, thinking of the tedium of schemes that came unraveled. “Did he offend, Vivian? Make you doubt your choice?”

“Doubt my choice, yes. I’ll be doubting my choice when your son takes his own bride, William Longstreet. I know if I let you, you’ll list any number of cronies and familiars who raised children conceived by similar schemes, but I can’t like it.”

William set his letters aside. “I know you don’t like it, and it isn’t my preferred choice either, but you’ve met the man. Is his person offensive?”

“He’s taller than I thought. Bigger.”

“Believe it or not, child, back in the day, I was an impressive specimen, though perhaps not quite as tall as Lindsey. He tends to his toilette adequately?”

“He’s clean, and he uses some exotic scent.”

“Oil of fragrant cananga,” Lord Longstreet said. “I find it pleasant, incongruously so, given his saturnine personality. You know, Vivian, you needn’t spend much time with him when you’re down in Kent. Bring your books and journals, have the Gazette sent down, ride out when the weather allows. You can limit your dealings with him to fifteen minutes at the end of the day.”

“William…” Her tone was as repressive as it got with him, so he paused to consider her. Young people today were both overtaken with sentiment and constrained by propriety. It was an odd world, and William, for one, was glad he wouldn’t be spending much more time in it.

“Vivian.” His tone suggested marshaled patience, as he’d intended it to. “You are young. He’s comely and willing. For God’s sake, enjoy him.”

“It doesn’t seem right. You’re asking a lot of me, William, but do you realize what you’re asking of him?”

She would raise this. “I’m asking him to have his pleasures of my pretty wife for several weeks and be paid handsomely for it,” William said a trifle impatiently. “This isn’t a grand tragedy, Vivian, it’s a little holiday in the country that will solve many problems for people who are neither better nor worse than most of St. Peter’s clientele, provided you catch.”

“There is that detail.” She rose, pausing to tuck his lap robe more snugly around him. “And that much, at least, we can leave in the hands of the Almighty, in whom we are regularly exhorted to trust. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“Sweet dreams, my dear.” William smiled absently as she left and returned his attention to the letters Muriel had written him when he’d first gone off to Vienna without her. Within minutes, he had mentally turned back the clock thirty years, when the world was a less complicated, more exciting place, and wives understood that loyalty was a far more meaningful asset in a spouse than simple-minded fidelity.

“Join me in a nightcap?” Trent Lindsey held up the decanter so the brandy caught the firelight.

Darius nodded, shrugging out of his greatcoat. “I’m surprised you’re still awake.”

“Laney’s cutting a new tooth.” Trent yawned then poured them each two fingers.

“I thought she already did that.” Darius accepted his drink and sank onto the sofa facing the fire. Everybody, it seemed, could afford adequate heat except him.

Trent settled in beside him. “She has been doing that since just before we buried her mother. I’m told she’s particularly good at it.”

“It has been a year since Paula died, hasn’t it?” Darius lifted his glass an inch in a personal salute to a long, hard year all around.

“Just this week. Suppose we can take down the black, though I’m dreading it.”

“You dread putting off mourning?”

“I do.” Trent thunked the stockinged version of two large male feet onto the low table. “I do not want to remarry, Dare. Not ever, but these children need a mother.”

“You’re managing,” Darius said, but in truth, Trent looked like hell. He was as tall as Darius and even more robust, typically, but since his wife’s death, Trent had been slowly wearing away, losing muscle and life, and, Darius feared, the will to go on.

“I’m managing.” Trent yawned again. “You must be deranged to be out sporting around on a night like this.”

“I had a dinner engagement.” Darius sipped his drink, finding it inferior to what he himself stocked, which was puzzling. “How much do you know of Lord William Longstreet?”

“Viscount Longstreet is one of the senior members of the Lords.” Trent crossed his feet, getting comfortable with the recitation. “He has at least ten years on our sire, maybe closer to twenty, and he’s universally respected.”

“What about the wife?”

“Second wife,” Trent said, suggesting the heir to the Wilton earldom still bothered to keep himself informed of these things. “He married his first wife’s companion, but rather than be considered a pathetic old billy goat, he was regarded as a white knight. The girl’s family was unable to provide much of a send-off for her, and the daughters of earls marry where they must.”

“Daughters of earls?” Vivian was a lady then, had been from the moment of her birth. The notion… rankled.

“The title was…” Trent frowned, sipped his drink, then shook his head. “I can’t recall, but the fellow died, the title and means went to some cousin, and the countess remarried one of those grasping younger sons who enjoys flaunting his titled wife. He had plans for the daughters, and actually matched the first one up with some… a printer, I think, or publisher. I forget which.”