William glanced up from Muriel’s 1805 diary—and wasn’t that an exciting year?—to find young Lindsey standing in the doorway looking handsome, bashful, and determined.

Relief at seeing that Vivian’s doting swain remained well and truly interested vied with an old schemer’s pleasure at plans coming nicely to fruition. Lindsey would do—for Vivian and for the child; Lindsey would do well.

“Mr. Lindsey. I see you took me at my word, which is more than I can say for most of the damned Commons.” William creaked to his feet and extended a hand toward his guest. “Vivian has abandoned me to make the acquaintance of Professor Belmont’s new wife.”

Lindsey accepted the handshake, glancing around the study William considered his retreat at Longchamps. The furniture was heavy, worn, and comfortable, and Portia knew better than to trespass in here.

“I wasn’t sure you’d receive me in Vivian’s absence.”

Young men were so relentlessly afflicted with bravery. William glanced at Muriel’s diary and hoped she was enjoying the little drama playing out in their home.

“I’m the friendly sort,” he assured his guest. “Or perhaps I’m merely bored, as country life is abysmally quiet. Let’s find some shade out back. I’ve been wanting to know how your sister ended up wedded to Bellefonte’s heir.”

He led Lindsey through the house as he spoke, wanting the fellow to see that Vivian’s surrounds were commodious and well cared for. They reached a side door, and William turned to aim a conspiratorial wink at Mr. Lindsey. “We’ll have more privacy back here.”

To William’s delight, thirty minutes later, young Lindsey was deep in explanations of the Lindsey family’s secrets.

“I haven’t shared this with anybody.” Lindsey looked puzzled as he took a sip of sangria—the man had lived in Italy for a time, and William had chosen their refreshment accordingly.

“It isn’t as if I’ll be repeating it,” William replied.

Lindsey studied him for a long moment while a lovely fresh breeze stirred the leafy branches above them. From the look in the man’s eyes, William had the sense Lindsey hadn’t had the benefit of much plain speaking regarding his family, certainly not from those whose opinions were unassailably well informed.

When William picked up his drink, his hand shook slightly, so the ice clattered against the side of the glass. His guest ignored that indignity, for which William accorded him points.

Muriel would have said Lindsey had possibilities, and she would have been right, though Lindsey himself might not agree. Fatigue dragged at William, and a touch of regret that he would not see all of Lindsey’s potential bear fruit.

Lindsey rose and leaned down as if to offer William assistance.

“None of that,” William said, waving him off and pushing out of the chair. “I can still maneuver about, though God knows for how much longer I’ll be forced to racket around in these old bones. I’ll tell Vivian you called, and she’ll be sorry to have missed you. Truly, Lindsey, you’ve brightened my morning, and you must come again.”

“I think you mean that.” Vivian’s dashing swain looked bewildered and… humble. Humility was a precious quality in a young man—in any man. “I can’t fathom why it should be so.”

Lindsey was a bright fellow. In another few decades, he’d understand well enough.

“Be off with you.” William waved toward the stables, which lay at too great a distance for a tired old man to contemplate. “I’ll expect you back when you have more time to spend socializing.”

And then, when he ought to have gone striding off toward the driveway on those young, strong legs of his, Lindsey turned, hat in hand, and speared William with a look.

“Thank you, my lord. Thank you most sincerely.”

At least he had the savoir faire not to lapse into specifics, because William knew damn good and well Lindsey was not thanking him for a glass of sangria and some idle talk.

“And my thanks to you, Mr. Lindsey. You must come back soon, and we’ll talk further. I never did hear back from you regarding those homing pigeons.”

Lindsey took the hint. He bowed, tapped his hat onto his head, and promised he would call again soon.

Muriel would have been pleased.

Vivian would be pleased, too.

Darius had taken to calling at Longchamps on Mondays and Fridays, and for three consecutive visits, he’d found himself entertained exclusively by his host. Lord Longstreet’s company was oddly comfortable, and he told Darius a number of stories about Darius’s father that supported Lord Longstreet’s conclusion that Wilton was a “waste of good tailoring.”

Longstreet also talked about commercial policies, and where the trade opportunities were likely to lie if legislation were enacted as he anticipated.

“I’d be discussing this with my son, you know,” Longstreet said over one of their pitchers of sangria, “but the man hasn’t the head for policy matters. He’s a dab hand with the land, though.”

Longstreet was old and frail, but he was by no means growing vague. “You speak in the present tense, my lord. I was under the impression you had no extant progeny.”

“So Vivian didn’t get around to tattling on me?”

“Regarding?” Darius knew his host well enough by now to suspect Lord Longstreet had told him only what he wanted Darius to know when they’d met that long-ago November evening.

“My steward,” Longstreet said. “Able Springer is my by-blow. He can’t inherit the title, of course, hence your assistance was necessary.”

Assistance. Perhaps Longstreet had been more diplomat than politician. “I suppose this explains his wife’s presumptuousness.”

Longstreet gestured to the pitcher—a ceramic container Darius could lift easily, though he suspected his host could not. “Portia’s a managing baggage,” his lordship said as Darius refreshed their drinks. “Maybe a child will settle her down.”

“I don’t think so.” And what was it about Longstreet that invited such honesty? “Women like that are bound for trouble, and they don’t outgrow the taste for it.”

“You speak from experience, but there’s little I can do about her. She’s Able’s wife.”

“You can keep her away from Vivian.”

Longstreet regarded him steadily, and Darius realized it was the first overt mention between them of any interest Darius might have in Vivian’s welfare.

“I can send Vivian back up to Town,” Longstreet suggested after a moment. “I’d as soon have her lying in where there are physicians available. I do not want to entrust the Longstreet heir’s arrival to some country midwife.”

“It’s not my place to comment,” Darius said, though the idea that Vivian might have none save Portia to attend her was intolerable. “Her sister is in London as well, and if a lady cannot have the comfort of her mother’s support at such a time, then her sister might be the next best thing.”

Darius withstood yet more scrutiny from faded brown eyes that likely missed nothing. “I don’t suppose you’re on your way up to Town?”

He was—now. Darius rose, sensing the summer heat, the wine, and the time spent in conversation had tired his host. “As a matter of fact I will be soon.”

Longstreet pushed himself out of his chair, a maneuver Darius watched with some concern. William was slowing down yet further, having to pause for balance frequently, and looking even thinner than he had a few weeks ago.

He accepted the cane Darius handed him and aimed a look at his guest Darius could not read. “Will you make your good-byes to Vivian?”

“Lord Longstreet…”

“Now is not the time to turn up prissy,” his lordship said briskly. “If Vivian thought I’d let you scamper off without taking proper leave of her, she’d skewer me where I stand. She should be back now, though she and the Belmont woman have become thick as thieves.”

“They’re both facing impending motherhood for the first time.”