believe.”
Vincent nodded.
“I don’t suppose he left anything to care for them?” Litton looked at Vincent, eyebrows raised.
“No, sir. That is the difficulty. Lady Diana is allowing me to assist her temporarily.” His face got warmer as his stepfather’s eyebrows rose higher. The devil take him. It had been hard enough to leave her last night without… “Now, my lord. Damn it, Litton, that is not the way of it!”
Helen sighed. “Don’t tease, Adam.”
“No, no. I’m not teasing.” Litton sobered. “It is just very… How did this come about, Vincent?”
Vincent related the whole sorry tale.
“And he had no will?” Litton studied Vincent seriously.
Vincent shook his head. “Apparently not. Wyn always did seem to think he would live forever.”
“Damned irresponsible young jackanapes!” Litton scowled. “With a wife and children and he…”
Vincent nodded. “Just so. But this is the first thing he has ever asked of me—and perforce the last—and I intend to oblige him.”
“And the lady herself?” This time Litton’s expression was not sardonic, simply inquiring.
“She is a very fine lady.” That was all that Vincent intended to say about that.
“I see.” Litton pondered for a moment, his expression speculative. “It is going to look very havey-cavey, you know, your providing for her. I suppose you can afford it?”
Vincent waved the question away. “Oh, yes, but it may not come to that. She intends to write to her cousin. It is his duty as head of her family.”
“Won’t do it.” Litton shook his head. “Her father was the only Bytham worth his salt, and his cousin hated him. So what will you do?”
“For the long run, I cannot yet say. That is why I need your help. The rooms where they were living are infested with cockroaches, rats and a corpse. Lady Diana could not stay there with the children. I took her to Fenton’s for the night, but that is not a good situation, either. It would be, however, much worse to bring her to my house.”
He could never trust himself for that.
“Of course,” Helen broke in. “I understand what you need. Bring her to me. She and the children may stay with me until she can make other plans.”
“I would be very grateful. I hope it will not be for long.” Vincent sighed with relief. “I will see to the funeral, but it would be a great kindness if she had someone with her.”
“She will be more than welcome. I will write her a letter immediately and invite her. You may carry it to her when you leave.”
Helen went to her desk, pulled out stationery and began to write. Litton gazed at Vincent speculatively. “Do you need help with the funeral?”
“I think not, but thank you.”
Litton nodded silently, but continued his contemplation of Vincent. Vincent began to feel uncomfortable. Well, more uncomfortable. He wondered if the man was remembering the brawl Vincent had provoked between the two of them. Or the time that he— He shoved the thought aside. There were so many unpleasant things Adam Barbon might be thinking about Vincent’s past. It was a wonder he tolerated him in his house at all.
But Vincent had had enough of his taciturn scrutiny. “You have another question, my lord?”
Litton shook his head. “No. I was just thinking how little we know of you now.”
Vincent smiled. If only his lordship knew how little.
By the time the knock sounded on the door of their rooms, the children had completely exhausted the entertainment possibilities of Fenton’s Hotel. Had she been there alone, Diana would have been reveling in the luxury of the service, the fine furnishings, the wholesome food. The basic cleanliness. It had been so long since she had enjoyed those comforts.
But cooping youngsters up in a hostelry with little outlet for their energy presented a challenge. Diana was nearing the end of her wits as to how to keep them occupied for the rest of the day. At present she had them working in their copy books in the sitting room, but they would soon grow restless.
They knew something was wrong.
She had not yet found the courage to tell them about their father. The crushing reality of her situation had simply drained her of the strength needed to find the words. What could she tell them about what would now happen to them? She didn’t know.
Even the stipend Wyn had earned at the Foreign Office was now gone. Or what she had seen of it. It had been little enough, but it had paid her a small household allowance. Sometimes. And the rent. Occasionally. How could Wyn have gotten four months behind? The position should have provided for their basic needs, but had it not been for the other money…
Oh, God! And what was she going to do about that?
And what must she do about the man standing in the door?
Other than invite him in.
“Good morning, my lord. Come in. Children, say good morning to Lord Lonsdale.”
Bytham and Selena jumped to their feet and chorused a “Good morning, my lord,” accompanied by a marginal bow and a creditable curtsey. One advantage of the small home to which they had been accustomed was that they often saw visitors, as children in a larger house did not. Diana could depend on them to know their manners. Besides, she knew the newcomer offered a welcome distraction from copying.
She gestured them back to their work. “Please sit, my lord. Should I ring for some tea?”
“No, thank you. I just had coffee with my stepmother. I have come to bring you this note from her and to discuss…” He glanced at the children. “The other matters.”
“Some wine, then?” When he shook his head, Diana took a seat at one end of the comfortable sofa and he sat in a chair at her elbow.
She took the note and glanced at the name in the corner. “Lady Litton is your stepmother? I had not realized that.”
“Yes, she married Litton quite a while after my father died.”
She broke the seal and perused the message. “Oh! Oh, how kind she is. She invites the children and me to stay with her.” She met his lordship’s expressionless gaze over the top of the note. “I’m sure that you brought this about. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but… How can I—a virtual stranger—impose on her with two children?”
His expression did not change. “How can you not?”
“How indeed?” Diana studied her hands where they lay in her lap. “I cannot stay here at your expense—and certainly not at my own. I cannot return to our rooms. They have likely been stripped by now. I cannot go to my cousin without knowing he will take us in—and in truth I have no confidence that he will. Oh, God, Vincent! What am I to do? There is always St.
