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C amellia was in her bed, unable to sleep. She was huge, and the air was unbearably hot. The linens were damp with sweat. Any day now, she told herself. Any day.

She had been praying for a son, but now she prayed only for the baby to hurry up.

She could not bear the uncertainty any longer.

The nursery was ready. She’d hired a wet nurse.

The midwife from Tonbridge was on alert, though she pretended to believe she would not be needed for another two months. If only the baby would come!

The house was silent. Silent enough to hear the twittering and cooing of early morning birds outside.

The quiet was shattered by a horrible, prolonged thudding noise and a muffled shout.

She peeled herself from bed and pulled her wrap around her body.

She heard more shouting. A panicked clamor.

She hurried, waddling, from her bedchamber, then stopped dead at the top of the staircase.

Manfred lay at the bottom. Servants clustered all around.

The blood rushed from her face to her feet, and she had to lean against the wall lest she faint.

“Is Sir Bodwell all right?” she called.

Mrs. Clay shouted back. “Lady Bodwell, stay there. We’ll send for the doctor.”

“Manfred?” Her voice rose shrilly. “Manfred, are you hurt?”

Then she heard him moaning and swearing. Thank God. She started carefully down the stairs.

*

Manfred was bruised all over and had broken his hip. His hip. Like Neville. He was in terrible pain and confined to his bed. She could do nothing but sit with him and dole out laudanum.

The next night, her water broke. Mrs. Clay put her to bed while Edward ran for the midwife. She labored all through the night. She prayed first for a boy. Then she prayed for God’s will. A boy or a girl. Any end to the agony.

The midwife told her to push. She gripped Mrs. Clay’s hand hard and pushed, again and again, until at last, she heard Mrs. Clay’s cry of delight. The midwife put a bloodied hand on her shoulder.

“Relax, Lady Bodwell.” A moment later, she said, “You have a son. A beautiful boy.”

Camellia wept with relief. “Neville,” she murmured. “His name will be Neville.”

She slept. When she awoke, hours later, she saw the wet nurse seated in the corner of the room, cradling the baby. Mrs. Clay was bustling about. The midwife was gone.

“Has anyone told Manfred?” Camellia asked.

“Oh! You’re awake. I went to tell him earlier, but he was sleeping,” Mrs. Clay said. “The laudanum. I don’t think he heard.”

Camellia pushed back her blanket. Her linens smelled rank. She sat up. “Please have someone come change the bed.” As she swung her feet to the floor, Mrs. Clay hurried to her, horrified. “Lie down, Milady. What can you be thinking!”

“I’m going to Sir Bodwell.”

“Lady, you must—oh!”

Camellia stood, straightening her nightdress. “Give me my wrap.” Mrs. Clay did, still frowning. Camellia took short, painful steps to the nurse. “Let me hold him.”

The nurse stood and placed little Neville into her arms. Camellia peered down at him and her eyes moistened. He was healthy, hefty, and bald. With bright, bright blue eyes. But all babies were blue-eyed, weren’t they?

She limped toward the door.

“Lady, let me carry him,” Mrs. Clay said, coming up behind her. “You shouldn’t be walking.”

“No. Wait here.” Camellia wasn’t sure what words might emerge from Manfred’s mouth if she woke him.

She left the bedchamber and walked carefully down the hallway to Manfred’s room. She entered without knocking and approached her husband’s bed.

“Manfred?” she whispered. “Manfred?” She touched his shoulder. “Please wake.” She shook him gently until his eyes opened. It took a moment for him to get his bearings.

Then he started. “Camellia? Is that…?”

“Your son.”

“Praise God!”

“I want to name him Neville.”

“Of course. Anything.” He smiled and wept at the same time. “Thank you, Camellia. Thank you.”

He was thanking her for giving him a son that was not his own. She was not cursed. She was blessed.

*

The servants seemed willing to believe that Lady Bodwell delivered her baby at seven months because of the shock of her husband’s fall. Never mind that Neville weighed nearly eight pounds and had a lusty cry. Even if they didn’t believe it, that was the story they spread.

Camellia had never loved anyone so much as little Neville. It bothered her even to surrender him to the wet nurse. If she could hold him all day long, she would.

But she had another responsibility. Manfred faded quickly after Neville’s birth. It was as if he was now content to let go of life.

She tried to coax him to hang on. Reading to him. Feeding him. Singing to him. Bringing Neville in and laying him down on the bed. But Manfred was in such pain it seemed cruel to beg him to keep suffering. He was immobile. He complained of exhaustion. Exhaustion with life.

He had a son. Alexander would not get the estate. That was all that seemed to matter.

A fortnight after Neville’s birth, Manfred passed quietly in his sleep. Camellia was now a widow with a son. Everything had changed. Except that she was still wearing black.

*

After Manfred passed, Neville could not keep down his feeds.

The wet nurse first downplayed the problem as fussiness.

Or colic. But then she, too, became concerned.

Neville was clearly hungry. He cried constantly.

Wet tears at first, and then dry. When the nurse put him to her breast, he suckled voraciously.

But moments later, he would cast up the milk.

“Milady, I’ve never seen the like,” the nurse said, wide-eyed. She pointed out the spatter. “He doesn’t spit. He vomits clear across the room.”

Neville bawled piteously until he crashed back to sleep.

Camellia called back the midwife, who suggested a different wet nurse. Camellia brought in another woman, but the result was the same.

She sent for Mr. Bartholomew, the local physician, a man she knew well and trusted. By then, four-week-old Neville no longer had the strength to cry. He weighed less than he had at birth. He suckled poorly, but still vomited with force.

Mr. Bartholomew shook his head. He gave Neville a pat on the head, then turned to Camellia. He frowned, full of sympathy.

“My lady, I have never seen this, but I’ve heard tell of it. I believe your son’s stomach is blocked. Milk will not pass out of it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Ah. Well, you see,” the doctor scratched his chin, “milk should flow freely from the stomach into the bowels.” He repeated, “But your baby’s stomach is blocked.”

“How do we unblock it?”

“I’m afraid we can’t.”

Camellia stifled her panicked cry, but her voice rose and cracked. “Then what do we do? How can I feed him?”

Mr. Bartholomew was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You might try smaller feeds. Use a dropper. Small amounts may slip through.”

“And if that doesn’t work?”

“I think you had best pray that it does.”

*

September was slipping away. A little over a month had passed since Crispin had received Jasper’s letter and he was growing impatient. Of course, Jasper hadn’t said when he was coming. A taste of his own medicine. Crispin was getting an inkling of how annoying it was.

Even more annoying, in the past month, Crispin had received two urgent invitations from Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, an unscrupulous politician if ever there was one.

Yesterday’s invitation had the wording of a summons.

The Home Office requires a man of your caliber.

For rooting out “domestic troublemakers.” He’d sent back an emphatic no.

He was tired of being two or three or four different people, depending on the circumstance or the company he was in. He recalled his desire for consistency of self. He wanted to be himself. He was not a spy. He was a civilian, a gentleman, a Taverston , and he was going to live as one.

For a start, he’d hired himself a valet.

The man was middle-aged and stodgy, which would not have been Crispin’s preference, but the applicant’s previous employer had died, and his only reference was the widow.

He was unlikely to be hired elsewhere, and Crispin could not turn the poor fellow away.

Gerald. To his pleased surprise, Gerald was proving enormously competent.

Crispin’s boots had never sported so high a shine.

Early that morning, he went riding in Hyde Park on one of Jasper’s London mounts. A sleek gelding. He really did need more than one horse of his own. Perhaps in the afternoon, he would go to Tattersall’s and look over the stock.

As he returned to 8 Grosvenor Square, he saw a train of four carriages coming up the road, with Jasper and Reg riding alongside the first in line. Heart swelling with gladness, he trotted the gelding up to greet them.

In the drive, they all dismounted and embraced. It was impossible to miss the relief intermixed with his brothers’ joy.

In another moment, a horde of Taverstons spilled from the carriages. The first to reach him was little Hannah, who must be four now; or could she be five?

“Major! Major! I have a pony!” she exclaimed, dancing about his knees.

He swooped her up and spun her, her braids whipping around. “Where? What is his name?”

“Duke!”

Benjamin and Olivia followed on her heels. Benjamin said, “Have you anything else to tell the major?”

Crispin set her down and grinned. In Olivia’s arms, wrapped in a light blanket, was the newest Taverston.

“I have a brother!” Hannah shouted.

“Oh, fine, fine,” Crispin said. “I’m glad to see you have your priorities straight.” He shook Benjamin’s hand, and gave his sister a sideways hug so as not to crush the baby. “Who have we here?”

Olivia grinned at him and said, “This is Christopher.”

His heart gave a hitch. “May I?” He held out his arms.

“Just don’t spin him the way you did Hannah. His head will fall off.”