Charlotte’s grave eyes looked straight past the light comment and into Sophie’s eyes. “Sophie,” she said ominously, her voice a command.

“I don’t know where he is,” Sophie said. Then she braced her shoulders. “I suppose he might be spending the evening with his mistress.”

“Pooh!” Charlotte retorted. “He hasn’t a mistress, and you’re a nitwit if you think Patrick has eyes for anyone but you.”

“We quarreled over Braddon,” Sophie said.

“Braddon!” Whatever Charlotte had expected, it wasn’t that. “What on earth is there to quarrel about?”

“Braddon invited me for a drive and Patrick refused to allow me to go.”

“Goodness,” Charlotte replied faintly. “He must be jealous. How very odd.” She met Sophie’s eyes and a smile irresistibly grew between them. “Jealous of Braddon! Goodness, how absurd men are! Well, it’s not as if you have the inclination to spend much time with Braddon.” She giggled. “Oh yes, Braddon the gay lothario, stealing Patrick’s beautiful new wife!

“If jealousy is making Patrick quarrelsome,” Charlotte added, “avoiding Braddon should do the trick.”

Since Sophie had promised Braddon to tell no one about her plan to teach Madeleine the rigors of ladyhood, all she could do was nod in agreement to Charlotte’s undoubtedly sage advice.

Back home, Clemens took Sophie’s pelisse and asked whether she would like some refreshment. As she declined, he handed her the note she had left for Patrick. “Given that his lordship has not returned,” Clemens intoned, bowing as his mistress climbed the stairs.

Sophie looked at the delicate clock in her chamber. It was eleven-thirty at night. She had stayed at Charlotte’s house until the last possible moment, hoping against hope that Patrick would arrive home before she did.

Well, Sophie thought, unpinning her bonnet and tossing it onto a chair, Mama and Papa’s marital bliss survived precisely two months, but we are rather less successful. She counted on her fingers. My husband has vacated my bed in a mere seven weeks … obviously, my charms are eclipsed by my mama’s. All those verses about the “heavenly fair” Eloise must have been true.

Or perhaps, Sophie thought bitterly, Papa thought he was in love when they got married and only found out later that he had married for lust. Whereas my clearheaded husband never considered love as a reason for marriage.

Sophie finally went to bed at one o’clock, but she didn’t sleep. Neither did she cry. She lay, dry-eyed, staring at the ceiling above her bed and straining her ears to hear a noise in the adjoining chamber. But none came. At six o’clock she heard Patrick’s man, Keating, enter the room and open the drapes. Perhaps Keating will think he slept in this room, Sophie thought drearily. It hardly matters.