The benevolence of the spring day muted. “Thurgood.” Vivian stopped abruptly, so lost in her ruminations she hadn’t seen him on the sidewalk before them until he’d spoken. “A pleasure. Portia Springer, may I make known to you the gentleman who used to be my stepfather, Thurgood Ainsworthy. Thurgood, Mrs. Portia Springer, late of Longchamps, Oxfordshire, where she is the wife of William’s hardworking steward.”

Hell would freeze over before Vivian would discuss her husband’s illegitimate son with the likes of Thurgood.

“Ladies.” He bowed low over each of their hands, holding Portia’s—of course—a moment too long. “May I escort you somewhere, or are you returning home?”

“We’re off to Bond Street,” Portia caroled, batting her lashes.

“All the way to Ludgate, actually,” Vivian said. “I need to pick up a bottle of scent made to order. But it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Nonsense.” Thurgood slipped his arm through Portia’s, and Vivian wasn’t at all surprised to note Portia had turned loose of Vivian without a second thought. “Lead on, Viv, and let me be your gallant escort.”

There would be no getting rid of him, not when he was having such a good flirt with Portia, and Lord, wouldn’t William laugh to hear of this. Portia was handsome, true enough, but girlish coquetry on her looked about as believable as spectacles on a flying pig.

Thurgood insisted on fetching a hackney, so they arrived to their destination shortly where, thank a merciful deity, Thurgood made his excuses.

“Mr. Ainsworthy.” Portia held out her hand again. “It has been the most sincere pleasure. You must call on us at Longstreet House.”

Heaven help me, I shall kill her. Portia had no business extending such an invitation.

“I’d be delighted. My dear daughter and I always have a great deal to talk about.” Thurgood gave Vivian one of his indulgent smiles, and Vivian smiled back, trying not to choke. He’d been enough of a pest lately, with his carping about grieving together and William’s failing health. Everlasting God, the man was a disgrace.

Once in the shop, surrounded by a blend of lovely scents, Vivian was possessed of an immediate sense of well-being. She felt closer to Darius here. He’d had this shop mix up her personal scent for her. She’d come here only once since Christmas, but she wore the scent every day and never wanted to run out.

“What a handsome specimen you have for a steppapa.” Portia took Vivian’s arm as they strolled the shop. “You never said, Vivian.”

“I don’t think of him as handsome or ugly,” Vivian said, though she did—he was as ugly as a week-old sheep carcass in high summer. “He’s a terrible flirt, Portia, so mind yourself around him.”

Portia’s nose tipped up. “He’s not a flirt. He’s gallant, and that’s something else altogether.”

Vivian gave her order to the clerk then started on a round of the shop, sniffing idly at this and that scent. She was hunting for the one Darius used, but suspected he had his custom-made as well. And then she caught it, a little hint of his scent, as a woman’s voice drifted across the shop.

“Really, Darius,” the lady drawled, “rose is too juvenile, and lavender doddering. You can’t expect me to wear those in public.”

He was there, leaning in to say something quietly to the woman, speaking right into her ear. She laughed softly in response, and her bosom was positively mashed against his arm.

Vivian had ached over Darius Lindsey, and cried a bit, and sighed and wished and wished. Those tender sentiments paled to nothing when between one heartbeat and the next, her heart broke, leaving both anger and sorrow to flood into the breach.

“Perhaps in private then,” the woman said, loud enough that others could overhear. Darius straightened, and whatever he’d been intending to say died on his lips as he realized Vivian was standing only a few feet away.

Gaping, like a stupid cow. She shut her mouth and turned with brittle dignity. From behind the woman’s shoulder, though, she caught Darius mouthing the words, “cut direct.”

What was he trying to say to her? Cut him? Prepare to be cut by him? And there was Portia, catching sight of Darius and his companion as if they were the most fascinating entertainment since the coronation of Mad George.

Darius touched the woman’s arm. “Excuse me, Lucy. I see an acquaintance. An old acquaintance.”

He prowled over to Vivian, his entire manner exuding a kind of mute swagger, but his eyes held a plea Vivian still couldn’t fathom. He sidled up to her and picked up her hand, bowing low over it.

“My lady.” He kept hold of her hand, just as Thurgood might have, until she snatched it back. “A pleasure to see you again.”

“Sir.” Vivian’s voice shook. “I believe you have me at a disadvantage, and I would like to remain there. Portia, it’s time we left.” She walked out without retrieving the perfume the clerk had brought from the back, but then she had to wait at the door of the shop for Portia to join her.

“Another satisfied customer, Darius?” The woman’s voice held amusement.

“Hardly.” Vivian heard him dismiss her without a backward glance. “If you don’t like the single-note fragrances, Lucy, you should try the blends. Over here…”

Portia came huffing up to Vivian’s side. “What was that all about? I was about to make a purchase.”

“I needed some air.” Vivian put a hand over her stomach, for reassurance, to steady herself, to quiet the pounding of her heart. “Shall we be on our way?”

“But we just got here.” Portia glanced back at the shop with longing. It wasn’t a cheap place to spend money.

And Darius had so little of it to spend.

“We’re going home, Portia.” Vivian’s tone was for once sharp. “We can come back later.”

“Who was that man?”

“I haven’t the least notion,” Vivian replied, walking faster, and her words were true. That fawning, droll, insouciant tramp was not her Darius, and that woman… how could he bear it? To be intimate with such as that? Had he taught that creature how to press up against him? Was she going to leave the shop with a personal blend chosen by the handsome Mr. Lindsey?

Or was the better question how Darius had borne being intimate with Vivian? She was unsophisticated, retiring, and more knowledgeable about Corn Laws than quadrilles, and it hurt, terribly, to see how she compared with Darius’s usual fare.

It hurt for her, and worse, it made her hurt miserably for him.

Thirteen

How he got back to his rooms, Darius didn’t know. Lucy had ambushed him on The Strand, and that was how they played their game now. She and Blanche both insisted he acknowledge them when they met in public. And lately, he’d been running into them far too much for it to be mere happenstance.

He felt stalked, hunted, like a wee mouse in the shadow of the hawk.

And then his worst nightmare, a potential encounter between Vivian and Lucy.

Between good and evil, between his dreams and his deserts.

Vivian had looked so stricken, seeing him with Lucy on his coattails, and well she should have. Her thoughts had been clear enough: she’d been comparing herself to Lucy and finding herself wanting. And that, that, was what hurt the most, that his lovely, sweet Vivian should doubt herself.

Though wouldn’t Lucy have a fine time shredding Vivian’s reputation? Leah had been through the worst treatment gossip and scandal could cause, had dealt with heartbreak, grief, and a load of earthly woes. Lucy could hurt Leah, but she could destroy Vivian.

So Darius had dealt what he hoped was a survivable blow first, and now he had to do something, had to make amends to Vivian lest she fret and brood and doubt herself further. He owed her an explanation and an apology, and that was that.

He was about to put pen to paper when a knock sounded on his door.

“Mister Darius Lindsey!”

Darius opened the door to find a running footman panting on his doorstep.

“I’m Lindsey.”

“I know.” The man bent over to ease his breathing. “I’m to give you a message from Reston. Your sister is at his place, and she’s right enough, but you’re to come. Don’t tarry or discuss your plans, and I’ve told your brother the same. I’m off to the grandame’s when I get me wind.”

“Grandame?”

“Lady Warne.” The man straightened. “Reston’s grandame.”

“Leah’s all right?”

“She be fine.” The man’s gaze slid away, and Darius could only guess Leah wasn’t quite so fine.

Darius caught up with Trent, whose toilette had likely required some attention before he could call on Reston even casually. Together, they arrived to find a teary Leah burrowed against Reston’s side, a visible bruise rising on the side of her face.

Reston explained that their sister had nearly been abducted from the park, and further ventured his suspicions that it was likely Hellerington’s doing. To Darius’s thinking, the near tragedy was a blessing in disguise, as it put any notion of Reston’s offering for Emily off the table.

Leah wasn’t just comfortable with Reston’s touch, which would have been noteworthy enough, she was positively clinging to him, and Reston was damned near clinging right back. On a man of his size, the behavior was oddly sweet and… dear.

Which was fortunate, for Reston announced his intention to marry Leah, and from what Darius could see, Leah was going to allow it.

Arrangements were made for Leah to be chaperoned under Reston’s roof by his grandmother until a special license could be procured. Reston was confident he could handle Wilton, and so Darius was left to stroll home in the slanting twilight with Trent. Later, he’d troll in low places for clues regarding his sister’s would-be abduction; for now, he’d see his brother home.