Patrick tried to look at his wife objectively. Why had he never enquired whether Sophie’s stomach was upset by her condition? Apparently it was a common occurrence. Why had they never talked about the child she carried?

For an instant he listened again to Eloise’s monologue. She seemed to have returned to the beneficial qualities of milk baths.

“I shall recommend it to Sophie,” Patrick said with perfect gravity, then stopped listening again.

He was very conscious of the distance growing between himself and his wife. He was caught in a web of his own making. Strangled by fear, he didn’t want to think about the baby because that meant thinking about its birth. Strangled by jealousy, he didn’t want to think about what Sophie did with Braddon on their long afternoon excursions, and yet he couldn’t help thinking about Braddon some twenty, thirty times a day. So he ended up walking the streets for hours at night, fighting against dual foes: his fear and his jealousy.

He knew, rationally knew, that Sophie and Braddon were not indulging in an affair, although sometimes he persuaded himself otherwise. It was just that his wife greeted Braddon with an affectionate smile whenever they met him, and they seemed to meet that blighter everywhere. If they went to the theater, there he was. If they attended the opera, the Earl of Slaslow was certain to attend. The only explanation Patrick could find was that Sophie informed him of their plans.

Why? So that she could greet her ex-betrothed with an insufferably intimate smile? So that Braddon could linger next to them, his hand on Sophie’s arm, until Patrick was ready to burst with rage? Red heat rose in his ears, and he forced himself to calm down. If gentlemen don’t stare lustfully at their wives at dinner parties, they also don’t work themselves into fevers over unanswerable questions.

He turned to Eloise, only to find that their ten minutes had passed and she was briskly talking to Peter Dewland. Apologetically, he turned back to Lady Skiffing, who was kind enough to forgive him for his inattention.

“Your wife is looking particularly radiant, given her condition,” Lady Skiffing observed.

Patrick silently groaned.

“I expect she will go into confinement in the near future,” Lady Skiffing continued. “I must say, it is quite unusual for a lady to give a dinner party when she is in an interesting condition. In my day, we remained on a couch for a good six months. But nowadays it seems that young women gallivant around the streets as long as they wish.”

Patrick nodded. In fact, he’d completely forgotten that women stopped going into society in the last few months of their pregnancy. Again he looked at his wife. Sophie happened to look up at the same moment.