He climbed the steps and walked into Sophie’s bedchamber cautiously. It was a wet evening, just cold enough that there was a fire lit in the fireplace. Sophie was sitting next to the fire, wearing a nightdress of thin lawn.

Patrick walked over and dropped into the other rocking chair. He stretched his legs out before him and then looked up. Sophie smiled at him, but her eyes were a dark, wary blue. Patrick felt a small pulse of triumph. He’d learned how to read his wife: that was good. An unknowing male might think she was perfectly happy, but Patrick knew better.

“I apologize,” he said.

Sophie nodded. “I would have told you, Patrick, if you had asked.” Her hands were twisting in her lap.

Another way to read Sophie, Patrick thought. Her face looked sweetly placid, but her hands were anxious. She said nothing, shifting her gaze to the flames trotting along the logs in the fireplace.

In fact, Sophie was stiff with rage. But what could she say? If she opened her mouth, she would scream reproaches at him for being so callous about their unborn child, so stupid in general. Better to say nothing. She clenched her hands together so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Have you consulted a doctor, Sophie?”

At that she looked up, startled. “No.”

Patrick frowned. “I’ll find one, then.”

After a moment he stood, took one large step, picked Sophie up, and plopped into her chair. His wife’s body tensed, then relaxed against his chest.

“A wife and a baby,” Patrick whispered against her neck. He wound his arms around her, as if he could always keep her safe. They sat like that, together, for a long time.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22

In the beginning of May, the gentry began to flood back into London. Knockers appeared on formidable oak doors, and dust covers were pulled from damasked furniture. Housekeepers anxiously checked the number of wax candles and the state of the linen.

Butlers complained among themselves over the irresponsibility of the young, and sent desperate messages to employment agencies: “Lady Fiddlesticks must have four experienced footmen by next week.” “Without two good upstairs maids—and we would prefer girls from the country, mind you—Baron Piddlesford’s housekeeper will surely lose her mind.” “Lady Brimticky searches for a matched pair of footmen, with the same hair color, weight, and height, to wear her livery and stand behind her carriage. She would prefer dark hair; redheads are not invited to apply.”