Page 48

And Theodosia, of course. That woman certainly knew how to have a good time, flirting with all the eligible older men and drinking entirely too much champagne. It was nice, having a mother figure around that was not drowning in her own melancholy.

That was not a kind thought, and Beatrice allowed herself a moment of guilt over it. Her mother had been a little better since the wedding, but Beatrice was sure that she worried constantly about her daughter getting with child and meeting the same fate as Jane’s.

Unlikely.My getting with child would have to be a miracle rivaling the Virgin Birth.

Despite herself, Beatrice’s gaze was drawn across the table to where Anna sat, round-cheeked and content, her hands resting on her rounded stomach. She was due any day now, and Beatrice lived in a state of perpetual anxiety.

“I scarcely slept last night,” Anna remarked. “My bladder seems to fill up with a sip of anything, and my back hurts all the time. And I had twinges this morning.”

Beatrice swallowed hard. “You should summon the doctor.”

“I’m fine, Beatty.”

“I am serious. Anna.”

“I’m fine,” Anna repeated quietly, leaning forward to take Beatrice’s hand. “After breakfast, Theo and I will go home and rest. Everything will be fine. I am not going to die, I promise.”

“You cannot possibly know that,” Beatrice murmured, swallowing past the lump in her throat.

“At the very least, I am more built for childbirth than Jane, aren’t I? I’m taller and stockier than she was. Look at my hips! Perfect child-bearing hips, are they not?”

It was meant to be a joke, but Beatrice could barely summon a smile.

“I wish you would be serious,” she muttered. “I can’t lose you, too.”

Anna’s smile faded. She squeezed her friend’s hand reassuringly. “I am not going anywhere, Beatrice. You’re going to have to be a godmother after all, I’m afraid. There’s no escaping it. Now, what plans do you have for the rest of the day?”

“Theodosia and I are going to the opera,” Beatrice responded, flashing a wry smile. “If she’s not too hungover, of course. But first, I shall go back to bed and sleep off my headache.”

Anna chuckled at that.

Stephen flicked through the pages of the gossip column, scowling. Almost every single scandal sheet mentioned the Duchess’s birthday party. One author had called it anorgy, for heaven’s sake, and not the first party of this caliber that his new wife had thrown. Last night, he recalled with a flash of guilt, had been her birthday.

It seemed that all of the carousers of London were there. Henry and George—who was tactfully referred to as ‘Lord Stanley’s companion, a painter’—had been in attendance, as well as Theo and Anna. That was made a good deal of, as Anna was heavy with child and ought to have been in confinement.

It was clear that the author did not agree with this but begrudgingly admitted that “the Duchess of Langdon did not imbibe any punch, wine, or champagne, sticking mostly to lemonade and plain water.”

There was a great deal more information, mostly about the excesses of the party. An unnamed debutante had been caught in a small closet with a gentleman, both in a state of undress, and Lord Rupert Orville had drunk too much wine and fallen from a balcony. He was unharmed, having had a patch of rose bushes break his fall, but still. Apparently, a priceless portrait had also been defaced.

Now, thatdidinterest Stephen. He wondered which portrait and in what way it was defaced.

He hoped it was one of his father’s portraits.

The carriage suddenly ran over a pothole, nearly launching him out of his seat. Stephen pounded on the roof of the carriage.

“Have a care, man, have a care!” he shouted at the coachman, who grunted in response.

This was what came of hiring cabs instead of using one’s carriage. Unfortunately, since Stephen’s carriage was in need of repairs, he was obliged to either hire one or wait for a new carriage to make its way to him—and frankly, he simply wanted to get home.

The sudden motion had scattered his correspondence across the floor, and he bent to collect it. A neat littlebillet-douxfell out of the stack, wrapped with sugar-pink ribbon and scented so heavily that the smell of perfume filled the carriage even now. He tossed the letter aside with a sigh.

He knew who it was from, and what it would contain. Cornelia had sent him a score of those letters over the past weeks and months, increasingly desperate and even angry.

You say you have made it plain how our relationship is going to be,she wrote in one letter,but you give me no chance to defend myself. Let us meet, Stephen. Let us talk, face to face and heart to heart, as we once did. Forget that plump little wife of yours—heaven knows you mention her more than enough—and let us be ourselves.

He hadn’t responded to that letter, and that seemed to fill Cornelia with fury.

It wasn’t her fault, of course. Stephen had intended to pick up where he had left off with Cornelia, only to find himself… well,hindered.