Resolutely, she turned her not inconsiderable intelligence to orchestrating dinners with her husband. She read The Times and The Morning Post, she read plays and the satirical ballads you could buy on the street corner. She turned the supper table into an engaging and lively encounter during which she and Patrick would fall into minibattles over the success of Napoleon’s military campaigns in the East, or brisk arguments over the morality of the new labor laws protecting apprentices in factories. They discussed Patrick’s imports, and at night Sophie dreamed of tall-masted ships, pushing off from the West India docks in London.

The only subjects they never discussed were children and the gossip pages of The Morning Post. The paper seemed obsessed with adulterous couples. Sophie read those pages only in order to find out where Patrick went at night. His name was never mentioned, which meant he was far more discreet than her own papa had been.

Sophie had no illusions about what she was doing. Her husband might be spending his nights with a courtesan. She was trying to ensure that at least he came home for dinner.

Never having left London, Sophie needed to do nothing in preparation for the new season. Madame Carême had already delivered a number of elegant maternity gowns, designed to conceal the babe growing within. But given Sophie’s small stature and her rapidly expanding girth, not even one of Madame’s gowns could conceal the truth at this point.

Sure enough, Charlotte knew the instant she saw Sophie. She shrieked with delight. “Sophie! Look at you! Why didn’t you write me?”

Her tall, beautiful friend swept her into a hug. A minute later Alex strolled into the room to find his wife seated on a narrow settee against the wall, talking nineteen to the dozen to his sister-in-law. One look at Sophie and he swung about to face his twin.

Despite himself, Patrick’s mouth quirked into a grin as he met Alex’s eyes. He didn’t mean to be pleased about the baby—he wouldn’t let himself be pleased. But he couldn’t help being just a trifle proud.

Alex gave his brother a rough hug. “Are things improved?”

“We’re still not sleeping in the same room,” Patrick said with a shrug. “But now it’s because of Sophie’s condition, so that’s an improvement.”

Alex looked appalled. “Sounds like an insufferable idea to me. What does your doctor say?”

“I didn’t ask,” Patrick replied. “After all, Sophie’s pregnant. If she doesn’t want to, I can’t make her.” Patrick’s voice was so tense that Alex felt a knot form in his stomach.

“I think it’s an absurd old-wives’ tale,” Alex said. “What’s your doctor’s name? I’m damn sure that other couples don’t have this idea.”

“David Lambeth,” Patrick replied. “He’s supposed to be the best in London.”