The season was due to begin. Having spent the last month poring over the pictures in La Belle Assemblée, ladies summoned the mantua-maker of their choice to the house, and spent uncomfortable hours being pricked by pins. Gentlemen visited their tailors, or bought new pairs of hussars, so highly polished they could adjust their intricate cravats in the shine of their boots. The more intrepid, or perhaps the more vain, tried out the newest leg and shoulder pads, acquired by their valets in circumstances of great secrecy. With calves swollen to a fashionable size, they strolled by White’s or visited the House of Lords.

Within a week carriages crammed Piccadilly and the Royal Exchange. High-perch phaetons tooled around Hyde Park, only occasionally spilling their inhabitants onto the damp ground. The fruit merchants of Covent Garden grew cheerful; lavender sellers began trotting down the streets of Mayfair and around Hanover Square, hoarsely selling sweet bouquets.

Henri was packed off to begin the spring term at Harrow, sporting a new wardrobe and a sprinkling of English oaths, learned from Patrick’s stableboys. He left with his dark eyes shining; with the effortless resilience of youth, Henri had put the traumas of war behind him and was ready for the excitements of a gentleman’s schooling. And Sophie and Madeleine were drawing their lessons to a close. Madeleine had become far more than just “ladylike.” She absorbed knowledge like a sponge. After one afternoon with Debrett’s Peerage, Madeleine knew more about the noble families of England than Sophie had ever bothered to learn.

The most difficult aspects of ladyhood came naturally to Madeleine. She knew to an inch how to depress a presumptuous servant, and she wielded her fan like a dangerous, if delicate, weapon. She took to dancing like a duck to water. Dressed in the height of French fashion, she looked like a member of the royal family, and not in the least like a horse trainer’s daughter.

So why am I not happy? Sophie asked herself. Her project was a success. In Sophie’s estimation, Madeleine would make a countess par excellence. Tonight Sophie and Patrick were hosting a dinner at which Sophie would launch Madeleine on the ton.

But Patrick … Patrick never mentioned the baby. Not once after he delivered the name of a doctor.

“His name is Lambeth,” he had said. “He will visit you tomorrow.”

Sophie had looked numbly at her husband. “I thought we might use Charlotte’s doctor.”

“Charlotte’s doctor! Are you addled? Charlotte almost died giving birth to Sarah.”

Sophie jumped at Patrick’s retort and said nothing. In her memory, it wasn’t exactly the doctor’s fault that Charlotte had trouble delivering Sarah, but what was the use of arguing? She didn’t really mind which doctor she saw.

“How did you choose Dr. Lambeth?”

“I didn’t. My lawyer checked maternal death rates. Lambeth is quite successful in that regard.”