“Yes,” he answered, looking more certain by the second. “I’m sure it will. But how are we going to find that large a sum?” His eyes suddenly rounded. “You’re not going to put it on a horse, are you Vivi?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” she said, sitting next to him on the chaise.
He gave her a lopsided grin. Her anger faded away, pointless given the fact that in so many ways this wasn’t entirely Kit’s fault. He’d been terribly spoiled his entire life, and being such a handsome, sweet-natured boy hadn’t helped. Only Cyrus had ever demanded more of his brother, but his open contempt had only prompted Vivien and her mother to spoil Kit even more. Now, of course, they suffered the consequences, but there was little to be gained by lamenting it.
“You’ve always had the brains in the family, sis. But I still don’t see how we’re going to wrestle up even that amount of blunt.”
“As it so happens, I do have a plan. The annual Darlington ball is on Friday. You know how deep the play is at that particular gathering. With a little luck, I can win what we need to keep your moneylender at bay.”
On top of that, Vivien could dip into the tidy sum of money she’d managed to put away from her winnings. Two thousand pounds wasn’t that much, but if she could manage to win at least another two at the tables, they should be safe for the time being. It killed her to think of throwing away her carefully earned money on a stupid, reckless debt, but their safety and reputation took precedence.
Kit frowned. “Then what? That barely puts a dent in what I owe.”
“We’ll worry about the next step after the ball.” Vivien wasn’t yet ready to discuss the next part of her plan. It was so risky, she had little doubt that even Kit would object. Better to coach him along by degrees.
“If you say so, Vivi,” he said doubtfully.
“And you are not to play cards or bet on the horses, or anything else for that matter. I mean it, Kit,” she said, adopting a threatening tone.
He put a hand over his heart, looking solemn. “I won’t, Vivi. That’s done. If you really want to know, I’m sick and tired of that life. It feels so . . .” he trailed off, lifting his palms up in a helpless gesture.
“Useless?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
She took his hand. “I know, dear. It’s time for you to grow up.”
He nodded, shamefaced. “I just don’t know how to go about it.”
Her heart seemed to scrunch up in her chest. “We’ll figure it out later. But I do need you to do something.”
He nodded eagerly.
“You must go to this moneylender,” she said, “and tell him that you will pay him at least four thousand pounds by Saturday, and that the rest of the money will follow within the month.”
“Yes, I will. I don’t know if he’ll believe me, though.”
“Tell him that Lady Vivien Shaw gives her word the money will be repaid. I have never reneged on debt, and I have no intention of doing so now.” If necessary, she’d sell her jewelry, too.
Kit nodded. “What about Mamma? Cyrus has been complaining about her debts, too. He was railing on about it after you were kidnapped. Mamma got hysterical and told him everything was his fault. That if he’d only pay off her debts everything would be fine.”
Vivien rubbed her throbbing temples, certain her headache had, indeed, taken up permanent residence in her skull. Not for the first time, she wondered if Mamma, Cyrus, or even Kit really spared a thought for her.
She didn’t think so.
“I didn’t realize that,” she answered wearily. “I cautioned her last week against spending so much money, but it’s like trying to convince a toddler not to cry when she’s skinned a knee.”
“I’ll speak with her,” Kit offered. “You shouldn’t have to do it. Not with everything else you have to worry about.”
Vivien stood, eager now to be rid of Kit. To be rid of all the troubles in her life. She passed a hand over her eyes and, for a second, the image of Aden St. George emerged from the darkness. For a fugitive moment her heart cried out for the strength and protection she’d found in his arms.
“Vivien? Are you all right?”
She dropped her hand and forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll speak to Mamma this afternoon, after I get some sleep.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “I can’t bear the thought of dealing with her right now, which I suppose makes me a terrible daughter.”
Kit gave her a fierce hug. “You’re the best daughter and sister anyone could ask for. None of us are the least bit worthy of you.”
She let out a thin laugh. “Right now, I’m inclined to agree with you. Now, off with you, Kit. I’ll see you this evening at dinner.”
Her brother walked to the door, then paused and looked at her. “Everything will be all right, won’t it, Vivi?”
She heard it then, the plea she’d heard a thousand times since the death of her father. A thousand times Mamma or Kit had come to her, asking her to make things right.
“Yes, Kit,” she said, as she always did. “Everything will be fine.”
But this time, she couldn’t be so confident. This time, if she wasn’t very careful and very adept, they could lose everything she’d struggled so hard these long years to protect.
Chapter Twelve
Aden scowled at his mother’s butler, refusing the fellow’s repeated attempts to move him from the hallway into the drawing room. He had no intention of getting comfortable, and he had no intention of letting his mother
think
he was getting comfortable visiting her in Duke Street. There was only one reason for his presence here—Lady Vivien. She would be attending the Darlington ball, which meant
he
would be attending as well. It had been years since he’d graced such an event, and having made his disdain for the
ton
abundantly clear, Aden needed an excuse for overcoming his aversion to society.
That excuse was serving as his widowed mother’s escort, the prodigal son returning home to attend to his filial duties.
And as much as it galled him to admit it, he needed his mother’s help. Aden could recite from memory shipping schedules, French troop movements, and the likely boltholes of every spy in Europe, but he’d be damned if he could keep straight the arcane social relationships of the British aristocracy. He’d walked away from that world long ago, and only his work could make him walk back in. With any luck, his stay would be mercifully short and free of opportunities to stumble into embarrassing social situations.
Like seeing his natural father. On the occasions when they had encountered each other before Aden had joined the army and then the Intelligence Service, the Prince Regent had greeted him with bluff cordiality, seemingly unaware of the avid and mean-spirited gossip whispered behind fluttering fans and in the card rooms. Aden, however, remembered each humiliating incident all too well. It hadn’t been much better for his mother, who’d had to suffer both the gossip of her peers and the smoldering anger of her affronted husband. To give her credit, she’d endured it all with a dignity and grace that Aden could only admire, however reluctantly.
He pulled out his watch to check the time. Again. His gaze flickered to the butler who sighed in sympathy, obviously commiserating on the inevitable delays that accompanied the arrival of the fairer sex.
Holding back an unexpected snort of laughter, Aden leaned against the bottom post of the staircase, letting his gloved hand absently trace the barley twist pattern of the carved baluster. He relaxed his shoulders and let tension flow from his body. It would be a long and trying evening. There would no doubt be many long and trying evenings over the next few weeks, so he’d better get used to it.
Growing bored, he let his gaze wander. The discreet elegance of his mother’s small but well-appointed town house had surprised him, used as he was to the smothering opulence of the family mansion in Berkeley Square. He’d been forced to visit the huge pile last year, paying his respects after Thornbury’s sudden demise. The experience had made his skin crawl. Fortunately, Aden’s mother had soon moved out, leaving the Berkeley Square mansion to Edmund, oldest son and heir, and Aden’s half brother.
Edmund wasn’t a bad sort. He had always treated Aden with a sort of distant kindness, inviting him to stay at the mansion whenever Aden was in London. But Edmund could also be insufferably pompous and could never seem to forget that his half brother was not truly a Thornbury. The less the family saw of the proverbial black sheep, the better, as far as the new earl was concerned.
Aden couldn’t agree more.
“Aden, why are you waiting in the hall? Surely Patterson hasn’t been neglecting you?” His mother’s cultured voice floated down from the first-floor landing.
Glancing up, he studied her as she descended the staircase. Although no longer young, no one could doubt the beauty she had once been. She carried herself with a grace and elegance that put many a younger woman to shame. Only up close, when one could see the lines around her eyes and mouth, and the gray streaks threading her raven-colored hair, did her age reveal itself.
And when a perceptive observer gazed into her dark eyes, he might observe sorrow and a certain kind of weariness, one that came of too many mistakes made early in life. Mistakes that could never be forgotten or forgiven, at least by the person who had mattered most—her husband.
“Good evening, Mother,” Aden responded, leaving her questions unanswered. He’d fallen into the habit long ago of holding his counsel from her, even over trivial matters. That had subsequently formed the pattern of their relationship—a polite distance neither seemed inclined to break. Lately, though, he suspected she chafed against their mutually agreed boundaries, which left him uncomfortably bemused.
She reached the bottom step and stopped, meeting him eye to eye. The slight frown on her refined features, combined with her assessing gaze, still had the power to discomfort him.
Resisting the urge to tug at his too-tight cravat—God, he hated wearing them—he returned her gaze, finally lifting an ironic eyebrow. She gave up, but not before she rolled her eyes.
“Would you like a brandy before we leave?” she asked, letting him hear the note of exasperation in her voice.
“Thank you, but no,” he answered. Then he relented, dropping his shield just a bit. “And, yes, Patterson fussed about me in the most entirely correct way. You may rest easy on that account.”
Her mouth quirked up as she took his arm. “You have ever been the most stubborn of my children, you know. I have always wondered where you acquired that particular trait.”
“No doubt passed on to me by my dear father.”
She cut him a sharp glance, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. That startled him and a throb of guilt beat in his chest. Over time, his mother had armored herself against insult and gossip, especially when it involved references to her affair with the Prince Regent. But she’d undergone a gradual change during this year of widowhood, as if something had breached her ironic detachment. Aden didn’t know what to make of this woman, so like the mother he knew, and yet not.
“Mother,” he began, starting a sentence he didn’t know how to finish.
She pressed her hand against the inside of his elbow. “Never mind, dear. I understand.”
At least someone did, but it wasn’t him.
Patterson bowed them out, and a moment later Aden had them settled in his town coach. An uncomfortable silence thickened the air, one that his mother obviously wasn’t inclined to break. Although only to Park Lane, he suspected the trip to the Darlington mansion would seem endless unless he did something to break the brittle tension.
No wonder he avoided his family.
He capitulated, at least for now. “I’m grateful for your help this evening. I’m sure you have better things to do than play nursemaid to me and Lady Vivien.”
Her eyebrows arched, then her lips parted in a generous smile, lighting up her handsome features. With that smile came a rush of memories—happy ones, when he was a little boy and she still loved him. Before she came to see him as a source of shame rather than of pride and affection.
“Indeed, I’m quite delighted to be able to assist you,” she said. “I can only devote so many hours in the day to visiting, shopping, and my correspondence. Since your brother has taken over the estates, I have little meaningful work to keep me occupied.”
He could well imagine. His mother had managed the Thornbury households and staff to perfection, including the London house, two large manors in the country, and a hunting box in Kent.
“Why did you move out of Thornbury House?” he asked, curiosity drawing him in. “I’m certain Edmund and Elizabeth would have made you welcome. And I know you must miss the children.”
Unlike many women of the
ton,
his mother doted on Edmund’s two little boys and Aden’s half sister’s children as well. Given her cool relationships with her own children, his mother’s open devotion to her grandchildren had come as something of a surprise.
“I do,” she said with a sigh. “But one’s children and grandchildren cannot become the center of one’s life. Besides, although she would never say it, your sister-in-law could never be comfortable while I was there. Elizabeth is something of a shrinking violet, and does not need me looking over her shoulder.”
Aden contemplated her words—and what lay underneath—for a few moments.
“I’m sorry, Mamma,” he said.
Her eyes rounded. He hadn’t called her
mamma
in years, nor was he in the habit of expressing sympathy toward her. Aden had surprised her, and himself.
“Thank you, my son,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion.
“Yes, er . . . you’re welcome,” he said, feeling awkward. God, he hated emotional entanglements.
Her gaze sharpened and her manner changed in the blink of an eye. “You’d better tell me everything,” she said in a brisk voice. “What have you been doing to protect Vivien, and what do you wish to gain from this evening?”
Grateful for the change in subject—and for his mother’s astute perceptions—Aden was more forthcoming than usual. Not that his mother didn’t know exactly what he did for a living. He just wasn’t used to discussing it with anyone outside the Service.
Especially his mother.
“I’ve had her watched, from a distance, of course. We don’t want to tip anyone off. With a little luck, the kidnappers might show themselves sooner rather than later. Then we’ll be able to track them back to the source of the plot.”
She looked worried, but he waved a reassuring hand. “You needn’t be concerned. If anyone tried to snatch Lady Vivien, my men would be close enough to prevent it.”
Dominic had given him carte blanche to pick whichever men Aden wanted to assist him. Aden had kept the number small in order to minimize detection—two agents that Dominic agreed to recall to London, along with two others from Dominic’s personal staff. The other agents had made it possible for Aden to devote his time to tracking the villains responsible for her kidnapping, and had the added benefit of keeping him well away from Vivien’s path.
But despite long days and longer nights trolling through London’s underbelly, he’d only managed to gather a few bits of useful information. Nothing close to what he needed to discover who had actually planned the abduction, and why.
And that had forced Aden to come out of the shadows and into the bright, overheated ballrooms of the
ton,
placing himself directly in Vivien’s orbit. Down deep, a growling satisfaction with that notion rustled within him, which served as more than ample warning.
“Does she seem well?” his mother asked. “I just returned to London this morning, so I’ve not yet seen her.”
“She appears to be fine, and she’s displayed a satisfactory degree of caution, I’m happy to say. Lady Vivien has only left the house twice in the last two days. Once to visit Hatchard’s and once to Bruton Street to see her modiste. Both times she was accompanied by a very large footman and her maid.”
“Vivien has always been a very sensible girl.”
Sensible was not a word others had used to describe her. Aden had made it his business to find out how others perceived her, especially men.
A prime article
,
a charming piece
,
a reckless flirt
, and
fast
had been descriptions crossing the lips of more than one gentleman in London’s most expensive gaming hells or in the coffeehouses. Anger had tightened every muscle when hearing those insulting descriptions, but he’d forced himself not to react. Her reputation didn’t match his experience with her, but he couldn’t afford to let that cloud his judgment.
How she’d acquired that reputation was something of a mystery, although he suspected it had to do with her success at the card table. No man appreciated losing to a woman, especially a beautiful and young woman.
“What do you think of her brothers?” he asked.
His mother blinked at the abrupt change in direction. “Well, Kit—Christopher—is a lovely boy, but too reckless by far. He is forever in his brother’s bad books, and I fear he causes Vivien much heartache. Both she and Lady Blake are afraid that Cyrus will soon lose his patience with Kit and force him to take a commission.”
Aden frowned. “What would be wrong with that?”
“Kit is much too young. Barely more than a boy.”
“He’s more than twenty, from what I understand. And if it’s maturity Lord Blake seeks for his brother, then the military will provide it.”
His mother sighed. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right. No, don’t bother to explain,” Aden said, waving a hand. “We’re almost to Darlington House. Tell me about Cyrus, Lord Blake, instead.”
His mother’s lips thinned with displeasure. “You’ve met him. He’s a prig. Unbearably pompous and solely devoted to the political career he hopes to achieve.”
“Ah. That would likely explain why Khovansky was hanging about Blake House the other day.” The friendship of a wealthy and influential Russian prince would be of great advantage to a man with political ambitions.
His mother looked startled. “Was that dreadful man there when you brought Vivien home? You didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Aden, if you wish me to help you, you must tell me everything.”
He raised his brows. “Hardly everything, Mother.”
She scowled. “Aden,” she began in a threatening voice.
“Yes, I understand. Forgive me. I wasn’t sure what the prince’s presence meant at such a delicate time in the Blake household. It struck me as odd.”
“What
was
he doing there?” she demanded.
“He’d come out of concern for Vivien, having heard she was unwell.”
But Aden didn’t believe that. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a hundred guineas Lord Blake had told Khovansky about Vivien’s abduction. Why he would do that was a mystery, but Aden didn’t trust the barrel-chested, sneering Russian, and didn’t want him anywhere near Vivien.
“Good God,” exclaimed his mother. “Vivien can’t stand Khovansky. He’s the last man she’d want hanging about.”