Patrick looked at her almost as if he didn’t see her. When he finally spoke, his voice was cold and distant. “I told you before, Sophie, I’m not the sort of man who howls with joy to hear that he has procreated. I’ve always been damn careful before this point to make sure it didn’t happen!”

“But we’re married!”

“What excuse is that?”

“I thought we agreed to have one child,” Sophie said warily.

“We did,” Patrick snapped. He knew he was behaving like an ass, but he couldn’t stop himself. From the moment the knowledge sank into his mind, he had been paralyzed with fear. Why, why didn’t he control the whole situation better? Why on earth had he blithely deserted the habits of a lifetime and made love in such a feckless and stupid fashion?

“Then why are you so angry?” Sophie was completely baffled.

“I’m angry at myself,” he said, and then added irrationally, “Damme, Sophie, you must be as fertile as a rabbit!”

Sophie turned white. “That’s a cruel thing to say,” she said slowly, her eyes searching his face.

Patrick turned around and stared out the window again. “Let’s just leave it, shall we? I see no reason to discuss the situation further. The die is cast.”

Sophie nodded, but Patrick didn’t see her. She felt as if she were speaking through a sheet of ice. “In that case,” she observed, walking over and pulling the bell rope, “I shall call Simone. It’s time for my bath.”

Patrick looked over at his wife in bewilderment. Her face was relaxed, even pleasant. But she stood by the door looking expectantly at him, so he stamped out. It was hard to maintain rage in the face of such utter … pleasantness. Every step he walked down the stairs peeled off his anger, leaving cold, bitter fear at the base.

Pulses of rage and fear ran through his body like charges of lightning. He jerked open the front door, brushing past the footman who had moved to open it.

Then he stamped down the front steps and hailed a passing hackney without pausing for breath. He had to get out. Out of the house, away from the house.

Two hours later, the central stage in Jackson’s Boxing Salon was lined with curious, cheering gentlemen, watching Patrick Foakes demolish yet another partner.

“Coo!” One of the professional boxers said to Cribb, as they stood at the corner of the ring. “He’s not bad for a swell, is he?”

“Strips well,” Cribb said absently, his eyes watching Foakes’s arms intently. “Lead with your right, sir,” he shouted.

“He don’t need any advice,” the boxer said, half resentfully. Sure enough, with a final solid thunk, Foakes had knocked out yet another of Cribb’s boxers.

Foakes looked over at Cribb, panting, and gestured. Cribb shook his head.