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  For a moment, Cynthia itched to tell Mr. Ellsworth what a booberkin he was. She folded her hands in her lap instead, and forced herself to speak politely. “He did not like to say it, Mr. Ellsworth, but you know that Lady Malcolm sent for him because she has been feeling poorly. It would be a sad thing indeed, were he to miss the chance to tell her goodbye.”

  Mr. Ellsworth looked shocked and Hannah gasped, then covered her mouth with her hands. Cynthia blushed. “I should not have said it aloud, perhaps,” she admitted. “And naturally one assumes that the danger is slight. But I think that is why he is hovering as near her door as he can bear.”

  “Oh, poor Mr. Whittaker.” Hannah’s eyes filled with quick tears. “What a terrible thought. Do women still die in childbirth? One would think, with all the advances of modern science—”

  “Do not distress yourself, my dear Hannah,” said Ellsworth earnestly. “As Lady Cynthia has said, the danger is doubtless very slight. And whatever becomes of Lady Malcolm, you must devote your energies to getting well.”

  “I am perfectly well,” declared Hannah, waving her hand dismissively. “A sore knee is merely a trifle. Poor Aunt Natalie! I can think of nothing else.”

  This was doubtless a noble sentiment, but Cynthia had to turn away to hide her smile. It did seem that Hannah’s mind was fully occupied, but not in thinking of her aunt’s travails. Despite her lingering discomfort, she visibly glowed as she basked in John Ellsworth’s undivided attention.

  Hannah’s helplessness had evidently made her an object of interest. Mr. Ellsworth sat at her right hand, in a chair drawn very close to the sofa where she lay, and scarcely took his eyes from her. Cynthia was amused to see how intently his gaze fastened on Hannah’s face, and how alive he seemed to be to her every need as he waited on her, hand and foot. Was the ice making her cold? He jumped up and stirred the fire. Was she too warm now? He removed the rug that covered her legs. Cold again? Back came the rug. The sun, traveling across the sky, eventually slanted through the windows and struck her face. He hurried to the window embrasure and drew the draperies to her precise requirements—enough light, but not too much. And every quarter of an hour, like clockwork, he alternately took the cold cloths from her or handed her fresh ones, to make sure the surgeon’s orders were followed to the letter.

  It was really a remarkable performance. Cynthia remembered what Hannah had told her earlier, of his assiduous attentions when she was a child with measles, and had to stifle a laugh. If illness and injury brought out the best in John Ellsworth, he’d turn Hannah into an imaginary invalid within a decade.

  If, of course, he married her. That thought ran a chill of depression down Cynthia’s spine. If Mr. Ellsworth continued to dance attendance on Hannah, Mama would eventually notice it—and she would be beside herself with anger.

  There was not a doubt in Cynthia’s mind that her mother would blame her for this turn of events. Mama was utterly convinced that all Cynthia need do to attract any man alive was crook her little finger, and whoever he was, he would come running. No amount of evidence to the contrary seemed able to shake this belief; Mama was supremely confident of Cynthia’s superiority to every other marriageable female. She supposed it was a mark of her mother’s love for her, in a way... but these unrealistic expectations were wreaking havoc.

  She frowned and stared out the window at the darkening sky, thinking. The best way to avoid a scene would be to think of some other gentleman, equally acceptable to her family, whose name she could immediately suggest as a substitute for Mr. Ellsworth. But who? There were so few truly wealthy men... and those she had already met had shown admiration, but little serious interest in her. Except, of course, for Sir James Filey. And, come to think of it, one or two others in his circle. Older men, still clinging to the trappings of the last century. Men with dissipated faces and drawling voices and languid gestures and cruel smiles. She shuddered, remembering. They had all been horrid.

  She looked again at Mr. Ellsworth, almost wistfully. Of all the men that Mama had ordered her to encourage, he truly was the best of the lot. What a pity that Hannah loved him. And, of course, that Derek had shown up.

  On the whole, since Derek had shown up, she supposed she must be glad that Hannah loved Mr. Ellsworth. It would be harder to justify giving him up, if she had no other excuse to offer Mama than her own feelings. She watched, smiling a little, as Mr. Ellsworth shook out Hannah’s pillows for the umpteenth time. It seemed plain to her that someday—perhaps not this year, nor the next, but someday—Mr. Ellsworth would marry Hannah. And believing that, plus knowing Hannah’s feelings, gave her a perfectly respectable reason to look elsewhere.

  She did wish that ‘looking elsewhere’ allowed her to look at Derek Whittaker. But she did not share his sanguine belief that everything would work out, nor his trust in lucky stars. Her smile faded as she contemplated this unpleasant truth. She would have a week or two, at most, in which to indulge her dreams. Then it would be on to London, and another suitor selected from the ranks of the obscenely rich. Unless a miracle happened... but Cynthia feared that she had already used up her portion of divine intervention. The death of Sir James Filey had been her miracle. She dared not expect another.

  Darkness settled in, and the party scattered to dress for dinner. A walking cane was brought to Hannah, and she proudly demonstrated how well she could hop about with its assistance. Nevertheless, Mr. Ellsworth insisted that she be carried up to her bedchamber and that she have her dinner sent up on a tray. She wrinkled her nose at him and laughingly told him that he worried too much. Still, it was clear that his concern pleased her, and although she hobbled along the passage on her own she did allow the footmen—supervised by Mr. Ellsworth—to carry her up the stairs.

  Lady Malcolm’s interesting situation was not deemed sufficient to upset the smooth running of the household. Dinner was served at the usual hour. Lord and Lady Malcolm, Mr. Whittaker and Lady Hannah were absent, but the other adults gathered as if nothing unusual were occurring upstairs. The duke and duchess’s sense of decorum dictated that no one mention what was uppermost in everyone’s minds, so conversation was intermittent and a bit random.

  The suspense was nerve-wracking. Everyone at the table seemed to have one ear cocked for the approach of any news on the other side of the dining room door. They were politely listening, with the other ear, to one of the duke’s sporting anecdotes when His Grace abruptly fell silent in the middle of a sentence. Firm, rapid footsteps could be heard crossing the hall outside the dining room. A low voice spoke briefly to the footman outside, and the door was flung open.

  The surgeon entered, neat as wax, and beaming despite his evident fatigue. He bowed very low to the duke and duchess. “Your Grace,” he said, aiming his speech neatly at the air between the two. “It’s a boy.”

  Pandemonium broke out. Hannah’s fourteen year-old sister, Lady Elizabeth, actually tossed her serviette in the air and cried, “Hurrah! Well done, Aunt Natalie!”

  “Oh, Betsy, hush,” protested sixteen year-old Lady Jane, laughing with delight even as she pretended to be scandalized by her younger sister’s outburst. The duke rested one elbow briefly on the table and covered his eyes with his hand for a second or two, hiding the strong emotions that naturally seized him, but he swiftly regained control. Not even the birth of the first male Chase in thirty-six years could unman the Duke of Oldham. He took a deep breath, straightened, and calmly inquired after the infant’s health.

  “He’s a fine, healthy child, Your Grace,” the surgeon assured him, his eyes twinkling. “Large, well-formed—and exceedingly loud.”

  Even the duke laughed at this. Among the congratulations and exclamations that broke out, the duchess raised an imperious hand. “Pray tell me, Mr. Turner, how is my daughter-in-law?” she asked.

  “Lady Malcolm is resting comfortably, Your Grace.”

  “All went well?”

  “Very well, Your Grace.”

  The duchess’s shoulders relaxed, and she
nodded. “Thank you,” she said quietly. Her eyes sought her husband’s, and she smiled. “Congratulations, William.”

  “Thank you, my dear.” The duke’s countenance was warm with pleasure. It was the softest expression Cynthia had seen him display.

  Emotions ran high, not only at the head and foot of the table but around the entire room. Under the cover of Jane and Betsy’s impetuous hugging and Lady Ballymere’s more temperate offer of felicitations to the duke and duchess, Cynthia’s eyes were drawn to Lady Grafton. She saw the marchioness surreptitiously slip her hand into her husband’s, and witnessed the twinge of sadness in the smiles Lord and Lady Grafton exchanged.

  Cynthia felt a pang of sympathy. It must be bittersweet, for them, that Lord Malcolm had sired the anxiously-awaited heir after all their years of failure. Lord Grafton was next in line and would inherit the dukedom in due course, but his nephew, not his son, would follow him. Cynthia had observed how hard it was on Lady Malcolm to carry the weight of the Chase family hopes. Lady Grafton, as she produced daughter after daughter, must have seen her children awaited with the same bated breath—only to have them greeted, at least initially, with disappointment. How heartbreaking, how devastating, that must have been for her. It would be for any mother.

  Seated at the duke’s elegant dinner table, with candlelight sparkling in the crystal and gleaming mellowly on china and silver, Cynthia sat, untouched by the rejoicing that surrounded her, and brooded on the poverty of her sex. Why was it, she wondered, that the snowy linens, the china, the crystal, the silver, the servants, the palace itself and all its contents, should pass to the squalling infant upstairs rather than to his sisters or his aunts? For the first time, the ancient system of passing wealth through the male line struck her as inherently unfair.

  She frowned down at her plate and gave herself a mental shake. What was the matter with her? Everything seemed to upset her these days. It must be her new mood of rebellion, or her newborn determination to think for herself. Or perhaps she was merely suffering a touch of the megrims. If she continued on like this, questioning every established rule of life, she would likely end her days in Bedlam.

  Chapter 16

  Malcolm could not be torn from Natalie’s side, so Derek strolled downstairs alone. Happiness and relief made him feel almost giddy with contentment. He had seen both mother and child—for a space of, perhaps, twenty seconds—and could now confirm to anyone interested that Natalie was safe and the Chases had their baby boy at last. He hoped they would take his word for it. Anyone who wanted to see for themselves would jolly well have to wait for morning. He had achieved his own glimpse by ducking in unannounced, but Malcolm was now closely guarding his wife and son’s slumber.

  Humming, he headed past the drawing room and continued down the next flight of stairs, hoping Cynthia would have returned to the library after dinner. To his disappointment, the room contained only Lady Hannah Chase, stretched out on a sofa and morosely leafing through a slender volume of sonnets. Cynthia must have retired, very correctly, to the drawing room with the rest of the crowd. For a lady supposedly engaging in an illicit romance, she certainly was difficult to separate from the pack. He was going to have to explain the rules of the game to her: when everyone gathers in the drawing room, make some excuse to go elsewhere. Give a chap half a chance to see you alone. Follow the example of... Lady Hannah.

  Hmm. This was interesting. What the deuce was Hannah doing, all by herself in the library?

  “Hallo, my lady,” he said cheerfully, leaving the door very properly open behind him as he entered. “Am I interrupting you?”

  She closed her book hurriedly. “Oh, no, Mr. Whittaker. Certainly not. How is Aunt Natalie? Have you seen her?”

  “I have, and am here to report that your aunt and your new cousin both seem to be in excellent health. They have been through a hair-raising experience, however, and are sleeping it off together.” He dropped into a wing chair across from her and filled her in on the few details he knew. Hannah seemed glad enough to see him, but it seemed to Derek that she had been hoping for someone other than himself to walk in the door.

  He inquired after her health and she told him, with great relish, of the terrific pain she had endured, the palpitations of fear she had suffered when the surgeon examined her, the misery and inconvenience of icing one’s injuries in March, and the horrific colors her knee had turned. She was illustrating with her hands the diameter of her swollen knee, modestly hidden beneath a lap rug, when John Ellsworth walked in. Hannah’s face visibly brightened. She interrupted herself in the middle of her recitation to greet him, seeming to forget everything she had been about to say.

  Ah, yes, Derek knew the feeling well.

  He watched with some amusement as Mr. Ellsworth hurried to Hannah’s side, scolding her gently for placing herself too far from the bell pull, and for going off alone. “For what if you should need something?” he reminded her anxiously. “A cane will not safeguard you against further injury. Indeed, it may add to the danger you are in, by giving you a false sense of independence. You could very well fall a second time, trying to cross the room to summon assistance! Really, it is most imprudent. You must not run unnecessary risks.”

  Lady Hannah looked pleased by all this rubbish. She seemed about to speak when Mr. Ellsworth startled her into silence by seizing her hand and patting it. “And I must say, my dear girl, I think any idea of your leaving the house and actually walking abroad—particularly in the dark—must be abandoned at once. I have come here to beg you—to persuade you, if I can—that you must not do such a thing.”

  He seemed quite agitated. Hannah stared at him, her color fluctuating. “Why, I—that is—certainly, John. If you think it unwise—”

  “Indeed I do.” He spoke vehemently, dropping into the chair closest to the sofa and still retaining her hand. “Will you promise me, Hannah? Promise me you will not do anything so foolhardy.”

  Hannah glowed. “I promise,” she breathed, starry-eyed. Derek felt almost as if he should tiptoe away rather than witness this scene; it had taken on a distinct note of intimacy. He wasn’t sure exactly what Hannah had just promised, and would have bet a monkey Hannah didn’t know, either. It didn’t seem to matter. From the look on her face, she would have promised John Ellsworth dashed near anything.

  Ellsworth looked relieved. He patted her hand one last time and released it. “Thank you. You had me very worried, you know.”

  “Did I?” She looked a bit lost.

  “Well, of course you did.” He leaned earnestly toward her, lowering his voice. “I would be happy—honored—to speak privately with you at any time you desire. Anywhere you say. Why wouldn’t I?”

  She blinked at him. He seemed to expect a reply. “Why, indeed?” she murmured obligingly.

  “We can talk about anything you like.”

  “Can we?” She still looked confused. “Thank you.”

  He beamed. “No need to leave the house and tiptoe about in the shrubbery, eh? Ha, ha. I daresay Whittaker will excuse us here and now, if you like. Or not,” he added hastily. “If you’d rather do it another time.”

  They both turned to Derek, Ellsworth looking expectant and Hannah apprehensive. He coughed. “I’ve no objection. Shall I go away, Lady Hannah?”

  She was slowly turning pink. “Well,” she hedged. “I—I hardly know. What do you think, John?”

  Thus appealed to, Mr. Ellsworth puffed his cheeks and looked uncomfortable. “Why, my dear Hannah, it is entirely up to you. I am at your disposal. You have promised not to walk more than you should on that injured knee of yours, and I can ask nothing more than that. I really have no other stipulation.”

  Hannah glanced dubiously from John to Derek and back again. “Well,” she said hesitantly, “if you really do not care one way or the other, I think—I think I had rather go upstairs now. Will you take me? I do not think I need be carried, if you will give me your arm.”

  “Of course. Delighted. Happy to be of assista
nce.” Ellsworth jumped up with alacrity and, seemingly, relief. He handed Lady Hannah her cane. “Take my arm on your injured side, dear girl, and use the cane on your uninjured side. Yes, yes, that’s right. Excellent.”

  And so, with Hannah leaning heavily on Mr. Ellsworth’s arm and balancing with the cane on her other side, the two of them bade Derek good night and progressed slowly toward the library door. Ellsworth kept up a steady stream of gentle admonitions and instructions, seeming completely focused on guiding Hannah’s faltering steps.

  Courtesy dictated that Derek remain on his feet while Lady Hannah was still in the room, so he was in an excellent position to see what happened when they reached the threshold. Mr. Ellsworth, muttering something that sounded like, “And we shan’t need this any more, shall we?” pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and, in one motion, crumpled it with his fist and tossed it into a wastebasket. He then returned his attention to begging Hannah to mind her step: “For the floor out here is quite slick, I am afraid. Very highly polished, upon my soul.”

  Derek’s curiosity, already roused by the peculiar scene he had just observed, instantly got the better of him. The moment Ellsworth and Lady Hannah were out of sight, he nipped over to the wastebasket.

  “I’ve missed my calling in life,” he muttered ruefully as he rummaged among the bits of paper in the bottom of the basket. “Should have been a spy. I’ve a gift for it. Heigh-ho, what’s this?”

  He spread out the wadded-up sheet. It appeared to be notepaper, and of the finest quality, folded neatly in half. Inscribed on the outside in flowing, feminine handwriting were the initials: “J.E.” What Mr. Ellsworth had tossed away was a note—a note from a lady. Interesting.

  Derek took the sheet of folded paper back to the center of the room, where the lamp was. He sat on the sofa recently vacated by Lady Hannah and stared at the note, turning it over and over in his hands. Should he open it? Probably not. Whatever it was, it was clearly intended for eyes other than his.