Her lover was courageous to a fault, dear, and determined—also the father of their child—and he was asking for Vivian’s blessing. He could all too easily have sneaked away and proceeded without consulting her.

“You can’t trust him, Darius, but I trust you.” Simple, simple words, but so very well deserved.

The scone was receiving not a dollop of butter—it would hold no more—but some careful, artistic arrangement of the entire pat with flourishes of the knife edge. “And you can accept the means I propose to bring him to heel? This is not honorable, and the people who have supplied me with the necessary information are not highly regarded. I wouldn’t want you to be any more ashamed of me than necessary.”

Vivian forgot to chew. He hadn’t undertaken this scheme, which had required rubbing elbows with all manner of unfortunates and scoundrels, lightly, and he hadn’t shared it with her lightly.

When Darius Lindsey trusted, though, he trusted as fiercely as he cared.

“Darius, you haunt yourself with doubts for no reason. You are the most honorable man I know.” At his startled expression, she went on. “I am not ashamed of you, Darius, I am proud of you. You found a way to cut those leech-women loose when another man would have turned to violence. You’re doing the same with Thurgood, and when dealing with such as these, you have to fashion weapons they understand. I am proud of you, do you hear me?”

He studied her for a moment, then his lips turned up. “I think half the house might have heard you.”

She had, indeed, become emphatic in expressing her sentiments. “Let them. To answer your question, I do trust you, Darius. I trust Ainsworthy to be cunning, determined, and self-interested. You will best him, because while you are cunning and determined, your motivation is—continues to be—the regard you have for your loved ones.”

His smile became a shimmering, glowing embodiment of happiness, and then he surged over her like a slow tide, and once again, very tenderly, made love with her. Before it was over, there was raspberry jam in unlikely locations, much laughter, crumbs between the sheets, butter on the tip of Vivian’s nose—Darius licked it away—and a thoroughly agreed-upon plan for dealing with Ainsworthy.

Nineteen

“You might consider warning a man before you have mail delivered to his office.” Worth Kettering passed Darius several letters as he spoke.

“I might.” Darius took an elegant Louis XIV chair and sorted through the missives. “Except I’m a bit at sixes and sevens these days. My thanks, though. I think this one is the one we’ve been waiting for.” He opened the single folded piece of paper and scanned the contents.

“Game, set, and match.” He passed it to Kettering, who took the second seat. “She identifies Ainsworthy right down to the scar on his left earlobe where he tried to pierce himself at the age of sixteen. She says there’s another scar on the tip of his…”

Kettering’s smile was not nice. “I can read it. The lady has a memory for detail.”

“‘Hell hath no fury,’” Darius quoted, feeling the first sense of relief he’d known in days. “That’s two of them, and I’m ready to confront the man.”

“And if he calls you out?” Kettering’s tone could not have been more casual. He crossed his feet at the ankles, making the little chair creak. “One doesn’t like to brag on such a thing, but I make a fine second.”

“I’ve promised Vivvie I won’t meet him over pistols or swords, but if he challenges me, my choice of weapons would be these trusty appendages, and the timing as immediate as I can arrange.” Darius held up two clenched fists and met Kettering’s gaze.

“You would have made a fine barrister, Lindsey.”

“And you mean that as a compliment.” Darius abandoned his seat—it had precious little padding for all its elegance—and helped himself to a drop of Kettering’s brandy. “This is an interesting letter from Able Springer—it arrived to my address this morning and explains some forged marriage lines he found reposing in his wife’s workbasket.” He passed the epistle over to Kettering and sipped his drink, finding it very fine potation, indeed.

When he finished reading, Kettering looked up. “Are you ready to take on Longchamps as well as Averett Hill if the man emigrates to America?”

Darius set his glass down and rolled his shoulders. “One feels for Mr. Springer. William didn’t tell me Springer’s mother was married when she gave birth, which means Able is technically the legitimate issue of some other fellow.”

Kettering refolded the letter and set it aside, his expression suggesting he expected it to sprout eight hairy legs momentarily. “So the unfortunate Mr. Springer is married to a woman who forged marriage lines between Longstreet and Springer’s mother. I suppose the intended effect was to posthumously label Vivian’s son a bastard and visit the viscountcy on Springer.”

For which Portia ought to hang, there having been not one dishonorable bone in William Longstreet’s body. “Portia was also apparently in ignorance of the circumstances of her husband’s birth. The result of her efforts would have been to make Able’s mother the bigamist, any marriage between William and her invalid, and William’s subsequent marriages would have remained entirely legal. I do not envy you your profession, Kettering, if issues like these are your daily bread.”

Kettering spared the letter another chary glance, got up, and made a circuit of the room. While Darius took another sip of brandy, Kettering came to rest with his backside against the windowsill, arms folded. “What will you do?”

He would see that Ainsworthy was effectively silenced, marry Vivvie, and devote himself to raising up their child—their children, God willing.

“I would like to say I’ll manage Longchamps for the baron until he’s in a position to take it on himself, but that decision still rests in his mother’s lovely hands. She has another several weeks to make up her mind about who Will’s guardian will be. In those weeks, I shall deal with Ainsworthy in as decisive a manner as possible.”

“Your literary aspirations are threatening Vivian’s peace of mind, Ainsworthy.” Before his guest was seated, Darius closed the parlor-door latch with a soft snick. “Or do we call you Thurmont Ainsward, or perhaps Torvald Ainsely?”

Ainsworthy took a seat amid the comfortable opulence of Wilton House, the London residence of the late, unlamented Earl of Wilton, and present abode of nobody in particular.

“My name is Thurgood Ainsworthy. Says so on my marriage lines, and I’m not threatening anything. I’ve merely been doing some creative writing and attempting to turn a coin or two on it. I’ve a wife and child to support. Surely you can understand how that goes, Lindsey? Or do I forget? You had only yourself to support, and yet you still took coin where you could find it.”

“Prove that,” Darius said easily. “I’m happy to prove you’re a scheming bigamist, whatever your name is.”

Ainsworthy plucked at some imaginary lint on his sleeve, his self-possession likely the natural by-product of having no conscience. “Names can be very similar. England is a big place, and I’m sure those other fellows don’t look a thing like me. Now, how much are you willing to offer should my writing talents be put aside, Lindsey? I’m sure Ventnor would contribute—the cits are inordinately sensitive about these little social tempests. Then, too, I am loathe to queer Vivian’s marital prospects unnecessarily. One does, after all, feel some familial loyalty, and scandal could perhaps be profitably avoided.”

“Familial loyalty?” Nigh six and a half well-muscled feet of Trenton Lindsey, Earl of Wilton, sauntered into the room. “We understand that, don’t we, Darius? Did I hear this man attempt to blackmail you?”