“We’ll have to see,” Dr. Lambeth replied. “I dislike making absolute statements but I cannot find any indication of life. Sometimes children do not live through the gestation period … no one can say why. Do you feel any pain here?” He delicately touched Sophie’s stomach.

“No.”

“If the baby has ceased to live, your labor will likely begin today or tomorrow.”

“Labor.”

“The baby will have to be delivered, Your Grace.”

Sophie couldn’t find any words to say.

“Would you like me to inform your husband?”

Sophie just looked at him and shook her head.

Dr. Lambeth persisted. “I’ll ring the bell and see if the duke is in the house, shall I?”

“No!” Sophie’s face was dead white. “I need to think. I …”

“Are you sure that you wouldn’t like me to inform your husband?” Dr. Lambeth started to turn toward Simone.

“No,” Sophie said drearily. “I’ll tell him myself, later. Please, Dr. Lambeth.”

The doctor nodded and turned to Simone, giving her a muttered series of instructions. Then he turned back to Sophie.

“I have told your maid what symptoms to expect,” he said, picking up her wrist and taking her pulse. “Please, send a messenger as soon as there is any sign of labor or birth. I suggest that you retire to bed. I will attend you first thing in the morning.”

Birth seemed an odd word to Sophie. Birth was for babies who were living.

“I can’t do that,” Sophie replied. Go to bed and wait? A horrible notion. Innate politeness and her mother’s training got her out of the chair.

“Tomorrow, you said?” she asked, quite as if she were talking about a garden party.

Dr. Lambeth nodded, his eyes shrewdly assessing Sophie’s near-sleepwalking state. In shock, he thought. Well, probably just as well.

“Keep her warm,” he said, turning to Simone.

The maid nodded, her eyes full of tears.

Dr. Lambeth bowed politely. “I shall visit you tomorrow, if I may, Your Grace.”

“I shall walk with you downstairs,” Sophie replied.

Dr. Lambeth said nothing. It certainly wasn’t normal for his aristocratic patients to accompany him to the door. He doubted very much that this patient was thinking clearly.

He tried once more. “Madame, are you quite certain that you don’t wish me to speak to your husband?”

“Quite certain, thank you,” she replied with dull civility.

They walked down the wide steps of the great marble stairs side by side, Dr. Lambeth an odd, dignified figure with his red hair and tired eyes, and Sophie looking blazingly beautiful. Her face was no longer stark white; her cheeks had taken on flaming circles of red that would have given Dr. Lambeth pause, had he registered them.