At last, he stilled, chest heaving, his weight heavy but sheltering over her.
She reached up, caressing his cheek with the back of her fingers. Mrs. Scott’s words came to her:Just be patient with him. Her tone was soft, but firm. “Why would you think I’d replace you with anyone? I wouldn’t—unless you gave me reason to.”
His eyes closed. When he spoke again, his voice was low, and fraying. “I just love you so much, Jane. I don’t know how to act around you. I know you’re true. It’s me I don’t know how to govern.” He swallowed. “Will you forgive me?”
From somewhere in the house, the baby’s cry rose again. Jane turned her head toward the sound. “Not if, because of you, my baby suffers,” she said gently. “Now, let me go to him, William.”
He rolled aside, ashamed. “Heaven preserve me. I carried you over my shoulder—in front of Charlotte.”
Jane straightened her gown, a small smile curving her lips. “She’ll never let you forget it. Thank you for that,” she teased, bending to give him one last quick kiss before she slipped from the bed.
* * *
From upstairs came the unmistakable squeak of bedsprings, rhythmic and insistent. Charlotte blinked, color rising in her cheeks.
“Good God,” she whispered. “Is he always like this?”
Mrs. Scott gave a warm, throaty laugh. “Like this? My lady, you’re hearing him at his best behavior. Lord save us all when he forgets to be considerate. I only hope they make the marriage public soon and move to a bigger house. Neither I nor Mary is like to get a decent night’s sleep through much of this.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together, torn between being scandalized or amused. “Well. That explains why Jane alwayslooks half-exhausted and half—well.” She stopped herself, cheeks pink.
Mrs. Scott winked. “And half-glowing, if you’ll pardon me saying so.”
“Yes. That is one way of putting it,” Charlotte said with a wry twist of her mouth.
Chapter 50
The carriage set her down before a townhouse in St. James’s Square, its façade tall and immaculate, already ablaze with lamplight. Jane smoothed her gloves and ascended the steps, feeling the weight of absence—no Charlotte at her side, no William glowering at the fringes. Only Mary behind her, carrying her shawl.
Mr. Colborn was waiting in the vestibule. He bowed with exaggerated flourish. “Mrs. Strathmore! At last. And unattended. Where are your lapdogs—Lady Charlotte and Lord Blackmeer? No matter. It is for the best, I assure you. Tonight you shall meet people who can establish you in the literary circles that matter. Mrs. Pritchard is the finest hostess in London; only the crème of the intellectual world crosses her threshold.”
Jane lifted a brow. “I beg your pardon? Lady Charlotte is patroness to many young poets. Without her encouragement, several voices now much admired would never have reached the page.”
Colborn’s mouth twisted faintly. “Indeed, she has the funds. But her taste, madam, is questionable—though not where you are concerned, of course.” He waved a hand dismissively. “As for the General—he is a Philistine. He comes to your gatherings not for verse or argument, but only to guard his sister’s reputation. Or perhaps your own. It seems even the faintest tie to Lord Blackmeer is enough to rouse such misplaced vigilance. Hestrikes me as a man who cannot abide the smallest blemish upon his name.”
Jane could not help it—she laughed. “Yes, of course. That must be it. Propriety.” Colborn looked momentarily puzzled, but she only smiled and followed him through the archway.
They entered the salon, the air thick with smoke, laughter, and wine. Jane scanned the crowd: some odd, some stiffly proper, some fiery and wild-eyed. A large, genial man with a ruddy face held forth in the corner; beside him, a striking woman with coal-dark hair and a beauty that drew every glance. They were introduced to her as Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. The wife shone; the husband seemed amiable but dim, though eager to assert himself.
They had been speaking of the Revolution and its aftershocks when Jane ventured, carefully, “It is impossible not to see the shadow of France in our own literature. That storm across the Channel has changed us all. But what sets Britain apart is this—” she leaned forward slightly, her voice warming, “—we did not fall. While kings elsewhere were cast down, our crown stood firm. Our poets may borrow the language of liberty—but we have seen what that song brought. Terror. Lawlessness. The guillotine. In Britain, it is the endurance of our monarchy that steadies us.”
The large man blinked, plainly surprised. “How odd! All the young radicals I hear these days want to pull the monarchy down root and branch. And yet you speak almost as a patriot, madam.”
Jane smiled softly. “One should never tear down a structure before something better stands ready to replace it. The British monarchy ought to endure a thousand years. Not because we always have the best sovereigns—” her smile sharpened—“but because the governance of the realm proceeds apace, with or without them. The crown survives on the idea of monarchy, and that idea is stronger than any one man.”
Mr. Davenport gave a great roar of laughter, slapping his knee so hard the beauty beside him started. “By God, that is rich! Stronger than any one man, eh? You are bold to say it, madam—”
Jane only inclined her head, serene. “It is the truth, sir. The crown is larger than the man who wears it.”
The large man chuckled, clearly impressed. “Very astute, Miss—?”
“Mrs. Strathmore.”
“Any relation to the Duke of Westford? That is their name, after all.”
She remained perfectly composed. “I believe my husband is a distant cousin. Both Lord Blackmeer and his sister attend my salon. I cannot boast such glittering company as Mrs. Pritchard, but I host a few men and women of letters—where, I assure you, the excitement lies in hearing thought at its newest and rawest.”
The man’s eyes twinkled. “Strange. Lord Blackmeer does not sound the sort for literary salons, if his father is any indication.”
