Earth, Air, Fire, and Water 04 - A Treacherous Proposition

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  But that was in the past. Now…now she faced problems she never dreamed could exist—certainly not in her life—and she didn’t know what to do. Everywhere she turned were men she could not trust—men who had designs on her body, men who wanted to take her children away, men who… Dear God!

  One man who threatened to send her to the gallows.

  As always, she had thrown the note from Deimos into the fire. She could not bear to look at them. But that did not erase the words from her mind. He wanted her to spy on Vincent Ingleton. To spy on the one man who seemed willing to place himself between her and the dangers that threatened her.

  A man who might be her most immediate threat.

  True, but every feeling in Diana revolted at the thought of betraying him. She would hate herself for practicing that deception. Whatever Vincent’s motives, she must deal with him straightforwardly. She would not answer Deimos.

  But what if Deimos made good his threats? What would happen to her children if she were taken away? In the first matter, it would be a case of his word against hers. She had never intended to hurt anyone, but who knew what a court of law might decide or who they would believe? That fiend made her every innocent action sound sordid or sinister. Diana felt sick when she remembered the money she had taken from him. What would he make of that?

  That he had actually insinuated that she’d had a hand in Wyn’s death in order to seduce Vincent had stunned her. How could anyone think that? Wyn had been killed on the street, in the presence… Oh, God. In Vincent’s presence. And St. Edmunds’s. And Sudbury’s.

  Had they killed him?

  She felt so alone, so tired, so afraid. Diana dropped her face into her hands and began to weep, weeping as she had not done since that awful night. Nay, long before that. Since her love for Wynmond Corby had died. Since her future had slowly disappeared. The well of sorrow overflowed, shaking her whole body as the anguish poured out of her. She had not known it was there. Had not realized how badly she hurt inside.

  Suddenly the pain was almost more than she could bear. It crushed her. Diana crossed her arms on the balustrade and collapsed over it in a forlorn huddle.

  He pulled the curtain back from the glass and watched her. He had been there for some time now. At first she’d merely sat looking out into the night. Moonlight suited her, Vincent thought. Silvery-gold, calm, mysterious. But as he watched the scene, another thought came to him. Where the moon shone its silver light, all was bright as day, but on the shadow side of the trees lay utter darkness. Nothing at all could be discerned.

  Like trees in the moonlight, his Diana was hiding something.

  At first he did not notice the shaking of her shoulders. But it gradually increased until he could not overlook it. Vincent gritted his teeth. She was weeping for Wyn. Slowly she crumpled into a ball, wedged between the railing and the bench. Her whole body shook now.

  He had been right about one thing. He could not bear it. He could not stand there watching her cry for her dead husband.

  He opened the French door and stepped onto the terrace.

  At the scuff of boot leather on the stones, Diana drew in a sharp breath and strove for composure. It did not come. Sobs persisted in escaping her control. She had not the strength to shut them off and straighten herself on the bench. She wanted only to crawl inside herself and disappear forever. The warmth of a gentle hand on her shoulder just made her cry harder.

  Warm breath against her cheek told her that Vincent Ingleton had knelt on one knee beside her. His hand slid across her back as he pulled her closer. Somehow her face now rested against his shoulder and he was stroking her hair. How long they remained thus, she later had no idea. How long she had wept, how many tears she had shed, faded into oblivion. She only knew that after a time, her sobs diminished to hiccups and the hiccups to sniffles.

  At that point Vincent rose and sat beside her on the bench, pulling a serviceable handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. His arm remained across her shoulders, holding her close. When finally she had dried her face and recovered enough breath to speak, she pulled back a bit and turned to look at him.

  “Thank you. Please forgive me. I did not intend to become such a watering pot.”

  “Do you miss him so badly?” Vincent didn’t want to hear the answer, but something in him compelled him to ask.

  “Miss…? Oh.” For a moment she sat silent. “You mean Wyn.”

  “Yes. Do you miss him so much?”

  Diana took a deep breath. “I have missed the man I married for many years. Or the man I thought him to be.”

  Relief washed over Vincent. The tears were not for Wyn. “He disappointed you.”

  “Yes. And many other people, I suspect.”

  He thought about that. “I suppose he did. He was always my friend, but I knew I could not depend on him for anything but his loyalty.”

  “I could not even depend on him for that.”

  Remembering Wynmond Corby’s attractiveness to the opposite sex, Vincent nodded. “But I think he always cared for you.”

  “I’ve no doubt he did—in his way.”

  “I know his way was not very satisfactory. He had no right to squander his fortune—and yours—as he did.”

  “No, but I suspect he never realized that he was doing it. It never seemed to occur to him that a household required money. His homes had always been there. Someone provided for the daily needs without his ever having to think about it, so he never did.” She turned more toward Vincent. “Once when there was no food in the house for me and the children, I asked him for money. He was astonished. He had eaten at his club.”

  Vincent sighed and shook his head.

  “He went out and pawned his grandfather’s watch,” she continued, “and came and poured the coins into my hands—all contrition. I finally realized that his intellect was not of a high order.”

  “No, nor his discretion. He was handsome and likeable, but not very wise.” Vincent thought of the loose talk that had very probably gotten her husband killed and put his wife and children in danger. Why he had trusted Corby himself? Of all people.

  They sat quietly for a space. Somehow his arm no longer encircled her, but he could still feel her warmth against his side. After a few moments he asked, “So what is the source of this distress?”

  For a minute or two he thought she would not answer. At last she murmured, “Everything…just…everything.” Comprehensive, but not very enlightening. Vincent waited, hoping for further elucidation. Finally she said, “I feel so frightened and alone. I don’t know who to trust, which way to turn.”

  Pain shot through Vincent’s heart. He knew she had no reason to trust him. Every reason not to. Still… He reached over and turned her face toward his. “I’m sorry you feel alone. Perhaps one day you will learn to trust me. I will do my utmost not to fail you.”

  She gazed at him soberly, searching his eyes, not speaking. Her face was too close. Her eyes too deep. Her mouth… Before he realized he would do it, he covered it with his own. She tasted salty from her tears, soft and sweet. Her breath checked. For a moment she leaned into him.

  And then she pulled away.

  He touched the wound on her cheek and reality intruded. This must go no further. He stood, helping her to her feet. “You are cold. We best go in.”

  She stepped back and drew her shawl tighter, armoring herself against him. “Yes,” she agreed. “We best go in.”

  And they did.

  Chapter Seven

  The kiss had meant nothing. A mere impulse on both parts, born of her need for comfort. Diana had been telling herself that ever since she had drunk her morning chocolate.

  And she did not quite believe it.

  There was something growing between Vincent Ingleton and herself. She hardly dared put a name to it. Perhaps it was only that she had been so long without a man’s touch. Without any masculine attention, in fact. She had told herself that she didn’t need it, that her children’s love was enough
for her.

  And she did not entirely believe that, either.

  The last four years had been bleak, cold and very lonely. She was only now beginning to realize just how desolate and empty. The passion she had ruthlessly crushed was showing a spark of revival. She could feel it warming inside her. She was comforted to know that it still lived.

  Both comforted and terrified.

  She must not let it again lead her into a lack of judgment about a man. If only she knew in what Vincent had involved himself, why he had brought her here, what his intentions were—in what he had involved her. He had asked her to trust him. What a huge relief it would be if she could, if she could allow herself to lean on him, both literally and figuratively. But until he became more forthcoming, that was out of the question.

  She would not be a fool twice.

  As Diana put the finishing touches on her toilette, a firm knock sounded at her door. She opened it to find Mrs. Cobbs with a small, round china pot in her hand.

  “Good morning to you, Mrs. Greenleigh.” She stepped into the room, her sharp eyes clearly taking in the circles under Diana’s. She frowned and tut-tutted under her breath. “You are still looking a bit pulled. You really should let Fanny care for the children and rest more. You may rely on her.”

  “I’m sure that I may, Mrs. Cobbs. Fanny is a very good girl.”

  “Oh, aye.” Fanny’s mother smiled brightly. “She is that. She minds her papa and me well enough, even when she don’t wish to.” She set the pot on the dresser.

  Diana smiled. “I cannot imagine her not minding you.”

  Mrs. Cobbs opened the small jar. “I’ve brought you the comfrey salve I promised yesterday. I had none in the stillroom, so I made it up yesterday evening.” She waved toward the dressing table chair. “Here now, sit down, and I’ll put some on your face for you. It does look a mite red.”

  Diana sat and Mrs. Cobbs returned to the subject dearest to her heart. “Our Fanny is a good lass, but you know how girls are. The Harter boy has taken her eye, don’t you know.”

  “Oh, dear.” Diana fervently hoped that young Harter was a good, steady lad.

  “She thinks she’s old enough to wed, and some would say she is, but I’d not like to see her tied down so soon—babies and all. She’ll won’t be seventeen until Christmas. Mayhap then.”

  “I agree. You are wise to hold her back. If I had been older when I…” Diana checked. She must not cast doubt on the story Vincent had told. She settled for, “When I married my first husband, I was much too young.”

  “As I was. It ages you.” The housekeeper stepped back to examine her work. “I should have listened to my ma.”

  Diana wondered if her own life would have been different had she had a mother’s counsel. Or would she have rebelled, as Mrs. Cobbs apparently had done, and married Wynmond Corby in any event?

  “Fanny wanted to go to the fires and dancing on May Eve, but Cobbs ain’t having none of that.” She dabbed a bit more salve on Diana’s cheek. “Says he knows too well what goes on at Beltane.” She giggled. “And so do I. But Fanny went to the Maypole dance the next day. No harm in that.” She stopped as if struck by a thought. “You and the mister could take the children next year. They would enjoy seeing the bright ribbons and pretty girls.”

  So would Diana. She had not seen a maypole since she moved to London. “I—I don’t know.” Where would they be next May? She decided to temporize. “Perhaps.”

  “I don’t mean to pry, ma’am, but if there is anything I can do…” The housekeeper gave her a motherly pat on the shoulder and reached to tuck a strand of hair back into Diana’s chignon. “I could not help seeing you last night, it was so clear and all. I can see you’re still grieving for the children’s papa. Why, you’re still wearing your weeds! If I may say so, better to put them off and look to the future. Mr. Greenleigh seems a good sort.” She turned to the door. “But enough on that head. Cobbs says I try to mother the whole world, and it ain’t my place. I best get back to my kitchen.”

  “I…” Diana didn’t know what to say. “You’re very kind, Mrs. Cobbs. Thank you.”

  The woman curtseyed and went out. Diana stared at the mirror for a long while, pondering the usefulness of motherly advice and the comfort of a motherly touch. How would she manage when Selena became a young woman? Would she be wise enough?

  Would she still be alive?

  Vincent turned his chair so that he could see through the French door in his study. Sunlight shone golden on the soft, green lawn and a light breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees. He could hear Selena and Bytham laughing, and soon they came running into view across the grass, followed by Diana and Fanny. Diana had ceased dressing them in black, much to his relief, and they made a pretty picture on the lawn. He waited a heartbeat and, surely enough, a watchful Throckmorton materialized in their wake. At least the man kept to his duties.

  Yesterday’s letters lay open on the desk. According to the report from his associate, St. Edmunds’s affiliation with Lord and Lady Holland continued to ripen. Damnation! Bonaparte’s supporters had to be stopped. Vincent cursed the circumstances that had him immured in Leicestershire when he needed to be in London—at the heart of the investigation.

  But some good might come of it. His instincts told him that St. Edmunds feared Diana and her knowledge—and probably feared Vincent himself. The man was not stupid and his sources were, in all likelihood, as good as Vincent’s. He knew he was being watched and by whom. Unless Vincent missed his guess, it had been St. Edmunds’s people who had attempted the abduction in the park. Having failed to bring Diana under his control by offering her shelter, he had attempted to do so by threatening her family.

  And he was still trying. Vincent had little doubt that it was his lordship’s men who had been following them—and likely the lord himself. At least, that would mean he could not be in London plotting, either.

  Vincent considered three cut throats. Whoever had followed them, he was making certain his identity remained obscure. Vincent feared, the kidnapping having failed, that its perpetrators would now move to lethal measures. He only hoped that he could lure them out and deal with them when he and Diana reached Inglewood.

  Assuming he could get them there safely.

  He reached across to the desk and picked up the second letter. Its contents worried him even more than the plans of Lord St. Edmunds.

  Vincent’s group had completely lost track of Deimos.

  No one knew where the assassin now lurked, who he really was, nor where he stood in the present issue. He had once served Napoleon, but how he viewed the Bourbon king remained a mystery. He had been known to change sides.

  They had, however, no doubt of his savagery. The notion that it might be not St. Edmunds who hunted them, but Deimos, caused the hair on the back of Vincent’s neck to rise. Deimos was infinitely more dangerous.

  He was far more cunning.

  Vincent suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to seek Diana and the children, to put his own strong body between them and the perils surrounding them. He rose and carried the messages to the fireplace and watched until they became ash. Then he used the poker to reduce the ash to dust. Satisfied that they would never be read by prying eyes, he stood and walked to the door.

  A wild pitch from Selena sent the ball sailing over Diana’s head. She turned to follow it, only to see Lord Lonsdale, coming across the terrace, stretch a long arm upward and capture the ball before it collided with the glass door. As she watched, he grinned and sent it flying across the wide lawn toward Throckmorton—a mighty heave, indeed. He was showing off, she thought, startled. For her? The thought brought a little thrill of warmth up from her depths.

  Laughing, the big footman caught it easily and pegged it back at his lordship. They were both showing off. Diana smiled. With such strong arms to come to her defense, perhaps she would survive this adventure, after all.

  A lively game of six-cornered catch ensued. The adults arranged themselves around the chi
ldren so that they could toss them gentle pitches. Occasionally the men on the outside of the circle would indulge themselves with a more energetic pass, hurling the ball the length of the lawn to one another. Diana and Fanny took their part, alternating short and long throws to each other and the children.

  After half an hour, Diana reluctantly called a halt to the game. Bytham was getting wilder and wilder, a sure sign that he was tired, and Selena was beginning to droop. She caught the ball and held up one hand. “I think that is enough for now. Time for a nap, children.”

  Both youngsters frowned and Bytham stamped his foot. “Don’t want a nap! I’m not a baby.”

  “Sir?” Vincent stepped up and lifted Bytham into his arms, favoring him with a stern look. “That is no way to speak to your mother. Apologize at once.”

  Bytham hung his head and Diana awaited events.

  “Well?” Vincent gave the boy a gentle shake.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” Bytham muttered and quickly hid his face on Vincent’s shoulder.

  “That’s better.” Vincent patted his back and set him on the ground. “A gentlemen is never rude to a lady—certainly not his mother. Now go with Fanny.”

  Fanny took Bytham’s hand and turned to Selena. “Come along, Miss Selena.”

  “I’m coming.” Selena paused to give her mother a quick hug and stopped beside Vincent. “Thank you for playing with us, Papa. I like it here.”

  Vincent stared at the girl, his jaw sagging. Diana almost broke into a fit of giggles. He looked stunned.

  “Wha… What did you call me?” He peered down at Selena.

  “I called you Papa. I told Fanny my papa was in heaven, and she said that you were my papa now, so I should call you that.”

  Fanny smiled in acknowledgment.

  Vincent stammered. “I—I… Of course. Quite right. Uh, well, off to your nap now.”

  Fanny and the children trooped away, followed closely by Throckmorton. Vincent walked to where Diana stood with one hand covering her mouth, her eyes dancing.