Of course they did not. The steward’s wife might have visitors, but Vivian’s visitors were not Portia’s. Darius did not remark the distinction, but rather, exerted himself to bow and smile and give a convincing impression to Portia of a younger son avoiding work on a hot summer morning.

He made liberal mention of his sister, and batted his eyes at Portia until she was simpering. Vivian took her revenge by stroking Skunk, fiddling with his mane, and scratching gently behind the beast’s hairy damned ears.

“I’ll take my leave of you both.” Darius swung into the saddle. “My thanks for the provisions. You may be assured a letter reporting all to the Countess of Bellefonte will be in the next post.” He touched his hat brim and trotted off before Vivian could run her hand over the horse’s flank one more time.

Vivian, for her part, did not watch him go, because Portia was a shrewd observer.

Portia’s eyes narrowed on Skunk’s retreating quarters. “The man no doubt has haunted Town since coming down from university. He could have called on you there. He’s a good-looking devil, if you don’t mind all that height and muscle.”

“Wilton is tall.” Vivian picked up the basket of flowers—forget-me-nots among them, of course. “Lady Leah has the same height and was quite graceful on the dance floor.”

“And she’s caught an earl.”

“You’ve a good man, Portia,” Vivian chided. “We both have good men.”

“I suppose.” Portia linked arms with Vivian. “This heat makes me peckish. Shall we have a plate to tide us over?”

“Nothing for me, thank you. Mr. Lindsey brought with him a spectacular, if politely indulged, appetite.” She lifted the basket. “I’ll put these in water. They’re very pretty.”

Portia’s lips thinned. “That Mr. Lindsey was pretty, too. Speaking of attractive men, have you heard anything from your dear steppapa?”

Oh, for God’s sake. “Of course. He dutifully writes once a month and conveys that all is well in his household.” He also conveyed that William was rumored to be in declining health, and Vivian must resolve to join the Ainsworthy household when the inevitable occurred.

A carriage clattering up the drive interrupted her unhappy musing, and both women stopped to regard the Longstreet traveling coach as it pulled into the stable yard. Vivian set the basket down and cocked a questioning glance at Portia, who merely shook her head.

“William?” Vivian’s husband emerged slowly, blinking at the sunshine heating up the humid air.

“Greetings, dear wife.” He crossed the few steps between them to kiss her forehead, and Vivian accepted his embrace easily. “I know I should have sent a note, but I bring the best news. Portia, I’m sure you’ll be glad to know as well that Mrs. Ventnor has been safely delivered of a daughter. Mother and child are thriving, as is Mr. Ventnor, truth be told.”

“Oh, William.” Vivian hugged him in fierce joy and profound gratitude for her sister’s continued wellbeing. “You are dear to bring me this news in person, and I have missed you so.”

William smiled down at her. “You flatter an old man. I’m a tired old man, too. Come sit with me on the terrace, and I’ll catch you up on all the gossip from Town.” He did not include Portia in the invitation, which was likely what prompted her to speak up.

“We’ve some gossip of our own. Vivian just had a caller, an earl’s son, no less.”

“Vivian has occasionally entertained dukes, no less.” William offered his wife his arm, his tone deceptively pleasant. “If there’s a title visiting in the area, it was simply protocol for him to look in on my dear wife.”

“But Mr. Lindsey hasn’t a title,” Portia went on, “though I gather his sister and Vivian were acquainted in her youth.”

“Vivian is still very much in her youth.” William’s tone cooled a trifle at Portia’s persistence. “My eyesight, thankfully being undiminished, I can attest to this. Portia, would you be good enough to relieve Vivian of these flowers?” He passed her the basket, and a look even Portia should have been able to interpret. “I’ve missed my wife and would beg a moment to enjoy her all to myself.”

Portia took herself off, and William sighed gustily as he and Vivian made their way around to the back terrace.

Vivian peered up at him as they made a slow progress down the walk. “You look in need of a rest and some cosseting, William. You’ve been working too hard.”

“I’ve been getting too old,” he countered good-naturedly. “Clever of Lindsey to recall the connection with his sister.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Mind?” William took a minute to lower himself onto a cushioned wrought iron chair. “I should have thought of it, but if he’s bothering you, Vivian, I’ll wave him off. I think it’s… sweet, I suppose, that he’s doing the pretty.”

Vivian signaled a footman for a tea tray, hoping there was still a scone or two in the larder.

“I think it’s cheeky,” Vivian said, meeting her husband’s gaze.

William’s expression became thoughtful. “You’re going to need allies, Vivian, and Lindsey is motivated to champion your causes, so to speak. You’d be silly to take umbrage at a perfectly respectable social call. Now, I did not have time to write you and fill you in properly on the fate of Havisham’s little bill regarding French soap.”

He patted her hand, and launched into a juicy recounting of the maneuvering necessary to distinguish legislatively between French soap and English soap. Vivian listened dutifully, and could probably have repeated much of what William had said verbatim, though her mind was elsewhere. First, she was concerned, for William looked like death, for all his spirits seemed sanguine, and he was actually eating a little of the food before him.

Second, William was not the least perturbed that Darius had called on her. In fact, he’d seemed almost to have expected it.

Darius had nigh expired from surprise when William Longstreet signaled his coach to stop and poked his head out the window to offer a cheerful greeting.

“Lindsey, what a unique mount you have.”

“My lord.” Darius nodded as a sort of mounted bow. “I bid you good day, having just had the pleasure of doing likewise to your lady wife.”

“And how is Vivian?” William’s smile became mischievous. “Did she threaten to have you forcibly ejected from the premises?”

“She was all that is gracious.” Darius straightened a lock of Skunk’s mane that had fallen to the off side. “Mostly. You don’t mind?”

“My dear young man, you think I’d mind a social call after what has transpired previously—and at my request? Call all you like. It will be a nice change from all that parliamentary whining, and make your occasional presence at Longchamps in future less of an oddity. You’re summering with Moreland’s youngest, aren’t you? You must come calling when bivouacking with the primitives palls.”

He’d thumped his cane on the coach roof and departed with a wave of his hand, leaving Darius to stare at the retreating coach in puzzlement.

He tried to put a name to the expression on Lord Longstreet’s face: mischievous, yes, but also amused and even pleased. And of course, Valentine Windham’s father, His Grace the Duke of Moreland, would be rubbing shoulders with Lord Longstreet and passing along the occasional piece of family gossip.

Hence, William had known Darius would be in Oxfordshire.

Had William foreseen Vivian’s proximity to Darius?

He discarded that notion as patently absurd but had to admit William had seemed blasé about Darius calling on his wife. Blasé, and tired—weary to the bone, perhaps even ill. Vivian had warned Darius it was so, but still, seeing the man was a shock. Realizing Darius would genuinely mourn the old man’s passing was a greater surprise yet.

“The Honorable Mr. Darius Lindsey, come to call.”