“Let’s go away for a couple of weeks.” Robert set Genevieve’s breakfast tray down on her bedside table and pulled up a chair. “We could motor down to St. Tropez.”

“Must we?” Genevieve adjusted her nightdress and did her best to look wan.

“The city’s stifling, darling. It can’t be good for the baby. Who’d ever have thought such a damp, gray place could get so damned hot in August?”

“I can’t bear the thought of the journey.”

“Well, how about Deauville, then? You could manage that little trip, couldn’t you? I’m sure the sea air would do you the power of good.” He picked up his newspaper and started rustling his way through it.

“If only you knew how terribly sick I’m feeling.” She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes. “I just want the comforts of home. Can you understand that?”

“Of course, my love.”

“And please take that tray away. Even the smell of bacon is enough to make me heave.” In fact it smelled delicious. But it was right that she should be deprived of some of life’s luxuries. She deserved to be punished for what she was doing to Robert—be it only in the most trivial of ways. Poor, poor Robert.

“Won’t you have even a little?” Reluctantly he got up and picked up the tray. “You really must eat.”

“I’ll have something later. When my stomach settles down a bit.”

He was over by the door with the tray. “Perhaps I should ask the doctor to look in on you.”

“No!”

It came out much too loudly. He was staring at her, perplexed.

“That won’t be necessary, thank you, darling. The sickness is normal at this stage.”

When Robert returned with his coffee, Genevieve had taken up his newspaper.

“Goodness!”

“What is it, honey?”

“He’s really done it!”

“Who’s done what?” But as he took his seat again, he knew exactly what she was talking about. He’d already seen the story himself.

“Guy Monteray and Whisper—it says here that they killed themselves at the Hôtel d’Alsace two days ago! Oh gosh, that’s where Oscar Wilde died. He was going on and on about Oscar Wilde at that party.”

“So you know him, then? The dead guy?”

“Well, yes, a little.” She was still scanning the paper. “He’s a friend of Lulu’s and a contributor to the magazine. He once said he had a death pact—ah yes, see here? He had a tattoo of a skull. And she had one too, it seems.”

Please let her stop talking about those tattoos…He couldn’t look at her. Just couldn’t.