A Treacherous Proposition. Patricia Frances Rowell
truth and no hesitation.
Unfortunately, Adam Barbon was a difficult man to deceive. He gazed at Vincent from under lowered brows. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
After a moment Litton’s expression cleared and he started walking again. Several steps later he glanced at Vincent. “I suppose this is none of my affair. What the devil am I to you? A stepfather by marriage or some such cockamamie thing?”
Vincent shrugged. “I haven’t the slightest notion.”
“Nor do I, but Helen and Charles and I—such as we are—are all the family you have. I have been a bit concerned that you may have involved yourself in that business. No, no…” Litton held up a restraining hand as Vincent opened his mouth. “You needn’t answer. I don’t wish to trap you into an admission—nor necessitate a lie. It is just that…well, we are not unaware of the changes you have made. We would hate to see anything happen to you such as happened to Corby.”
Indeed? They considered themselves his family? Had followed the changes in him? He didn’t know they had noticed. Vincent did not know what to make of that. “I… Thank you. I appreciate your thought. However, I assure you that I am no supporter of Bonaparte. On the contrary. I very much wish to see him remain on Elba. Or much farther afield than that.”
Once again what he said was completely true.
As they stepped up to the door of Litton’s club, he slipped his hand into his pocket, just to be sure.
The crinkle of folded paper assured him that the note that had been passed to him was still there.
Chapter Three
Diana sat before the window while she combed her damp hair and wondered what to do until bedtime. Already the small wisps around her face had dried to their silver-gold hue, but it would take the thick, waist-length mass an hour more to dry so that she could braid it for bed. For the first time in years she had had a real bath in a real tub—one for which she had not carried up the water nor carried it away nor set up the screen. In the rooms she shared with Wyn, she had nowhere to wash but the crowded kitchen.
She must beware of becoming too accustomed to such luxury. She had no idea how long her stay here would last, nor what would follow it. But for now she would revel in the fact that her children were tucked safely away between clean sheets in the care of a nursemaid, and that a clean bed awaited her clean body.
Somehow Lady Litton—no, not Lady Litton. She had asked Diana to call her Helen. Somehow Helen had found the mourning clothes she had worn after Vincent’s father had died, presenting them with the diplomatic comment that it would be a waste to order more for Diana. Only minor adjustments had been required for Diana to use them. Most of them were black, of course, but still much finer and more stylish than what she had been wearing.
She looked well enough in black—not that anyone would be seeing her. Except perhaps the Earl of Lonsdale. Diana flushed at the thought. Now why should she think of Vincent Ingleton in that context? True, he was being very kind to her, but only as a friend of Wyn’s.
Wasn’t he?
Surely what she had seen in his eyes did not mean…
He had never seen her except in stained, worn-out clothes, exhausted with caring for her children in the face of daunting poverty. Try as she might, it had become impossible to keep up appearances. She was far too thin. So worn-looking. How could he possibly want her?
Before she could come to any conclusion on the matter, a light tap sounded at the door. She called, “Come in,” and one of Helen’s maids put her head through the door.
“I have a note for you, my lady. A boy brought it ’round to the kitchen a short while ago.”
Diana’s heart went cold. Not another note! How did he know where she was? What did the wretch want? What could he possibly want? She was only too afraid that she knew. Her hand trembled as she took the paper, but she managed an automatic thank you as the maid curtseyed and took herself off. Carefully, Diana broke the seal and held the letter nearer to the candle.
My dearest Lady Diana—
My condolences on the loss of your husband. A great tragedy for you, I’m sure. But I see that you have been taken under the aegis of Lord Lonsdale. How fortunate for you.
And for me. I believe the time draws near that you may repay me for the little gifts I have provided. And of course, for keeping my knowledge to myself. That has become even more important now, has it not? So difficult for Selena and Bytham to lose both their father and their mother. Who knows what their future might become?
I believe your, ah—association?—with Lord Lonsdale will provide just the opportunity I have been seeking. As always, I expect you to maintain your silence on these matters as I have maintained mine. I’m sure you understand the necessity.
Until then, I remain unwaveringly yours—
Deimos
P.S.—I have included no gift, as it is obvious your every need is being provided.
Diana crumpled the note and dropped her face into her hands. Damn him. Damn him! Always a threat in every sentence—and now also innuendo. As though she and Vincent… But then, Deimos, whoever he might be, had always made her feel like a whore. She very much feared he intended to use his gifts to make her one. Had she but known who he was, she might have flung the money back at him, even if it meant starving. But that was fantasy. She could not let her children starve.
And she did not know who he was.
Deimos. The Greek god of fear. He had chosen his sobriquet well. The fear of what he knew ate at her every second of every day. Fear for herself. Fear for her children.
How dare he use their names!
How dare he sully their sweet innocence with his poisonous pen. If ever she discovered his identity…
Perhaps she was capable of killing.
The man in the shabby brown coat tipped his chair back against the wall and took a long pull from his tankard of ale while Vincent sketched circles in the cheap liquor spilled on the greasy table. “Nay, my lord. I ain’t found out who done it yet, but it wasn’t none of our lads. Wouldn’t be no reason for us to do it. Too easy to get information from him.”
Vincent nodded glumly. “He talked of everything he knew. Try as I might, I could not shut him up.”
“Aye. It was his mouth what killed him, I’ll warrant. Might even have been the culls at the Foreign Office.”
Vincent considered the realities of the intelligence trade. “That’s possible. But the whole debacle is their doing. They should never have exiled Bonaparte to Elba in the first place. Much too close to France. Too easy for him to escape—and escape he will, soon or late.”
“He will if Lord Holland and his set have their way, such a fine fellow they think him to be.” Vincent’s companion rocked his chair to the floor with a snarl. “But there are those of us who remember what that bastard cost us, first and last.” He spit on the floor.
“We shall confound them. He must be contained.” Vincent stood. “I’ve several more people to talk to tonight. I’ll be around the hells. You can find me if you have more to report.”
His companion nodded and Vincent put on his hat and walked to the door. Standing in the portal, he let his gaze drift casually up the street and then down. He saw no one but the usual crowd that patronized the cheap taverns along the way, but still, he stepped out cautiously. He had not gone half a block when a hackney rumbled around the corner toward him.
Instinct took over and, without thinking, Vincent dropped to the dirty cobbles. The knife sailed over his head and buried itself in the wall of the building behind him. Chips of plaster rained down on him. The driver whipped up the horses and the conveyance disappeared down the street. Vincent rose, brushing dirt off his clothes.