Jane’s voice was smooth. Secret or not, she was William’s wife, and she would praise him and his family, even if she had to bend the truth. “The Duke is a man of tradition. He adores the King and the Regent, and would sacrifice even his only heir, for his lordship has long served as an officer in His Majesty’s army. But he is no friend to radicals. Lord Blackmeer, however, attends often. With his maturity, he steers the younger men to safer ground. Or argues their wildest notions into reason.”
Mr. Davenport threw back his head and laughed. “Madam, if Lord Blackmeer attends your gatherings, it is not to guard the morals of Britain’s youth. I have known him since he was in his nippers. More likely, he is in love with one of your lady poets—or perhaps with you yourself.”
Jane’s composure wavered, just for an instant. She had not expected the man to know William, nor the Duke, so intimately.
The rest of the evening passed with less tumult. Jane conversed steadily, her poise unshaken, though her heart still beat oddly fast from Mr. Davenport’s laughter and sly familiarity.
She found herself in talk with Mrs. Baillie, the poet and dramatist, who listened with frank interest as Jane compared Byron to Catullus: both able to shift from yearning to scorn in a single breath. A few gentlemen from the Edinburgh Review drew near, and one—Mr. Jeffrey himself—remarked upon her “incisive clarity.” Jane inclined her head modestly, but inwardly she felt a ripple of triumph. For all Colborn’s boasts, she had indeed impressed intellectuals whose words carried weight in print.
* * *
A week later, Jane’s Bloomsbury drawing room glowed against the October dusk. Candles flickered in every corner, their light hazed by smoke and the chill air that crept in whenever the door opened. The space was crowded—poets and novelists shoulder to shoulder, pamphleteers arguing in low bursts, a young critic bent over his notebook. A woman read a sonnet in a voice so thin it was nearly swallowed by the fire’s crackle, while another argued fiercely that Milton’s Satan was the true hero ofParadise Lost.
Jane presided with calm, her gold-embroidered shawl, a gift from the Duke himself, gathered close. She welcomed the Davenports with the same unruffled grace as any of her guests, though his knowing laugh from St. James’s Square still echoed in her thoughts. The lady dazzled, impossible to ignore; the man bellowed laughter, filling the modest room as if it were his stage.
Then came the cry. George’s fretful wail pierced the hum of argument, sharp and indignant from the basket by the hearth.
Jane moved at once, but Charlotte forestalled her with a hand on her sleeve. “Stay. They’ll only follow you like ducklings if you leave. I’ll take him.”
Mary had already lifted the boy, murmuring apologies to the company, and together the two slipped upstairs. Jane’s heart strained after them, though she turned smoothly back to Milton and liberty, her tone steady even as her ear followed the muffled sobs above.
The talk in the drawing room had risen to such a lively pitch that no one heard the knock at the front door. Mary, on her way to the kitchen, hurried to answer it—and found Lord Blackmeer on the step, his coat and hat drenched.
“My lord,” she whispered, startled.
William stepped inside without ceremony, brushing rain from his shoulders. He started toward the drawing room—Jane would expect no less of him now—but then a thin wail carried down the stairwell. His son’s cry, fretful and sharp.
Mary followed his glance. “He is teething, my lord. Lady Charlotte is with him.”
William said nothing, though his lips pressed into a thin line. Rather than turn toward the hum of conversation and lamplight, he mounted the stairs two at a time. His son needed him.
Upstairs, Charlotte paced with the child in her arms, trying in vain to soothe him. The boy was flushed, gnawing furiously at his fists, every few moments breaking into another wail.
“Thank God,” Charlotte said, exasperated, when she saw her brother. “He will not be comforted—poor rabbit. Jane swears you’re the only one who soothes him when he’s like this.”
William took the child from her, settling him against his broad chest. His deep voice rumbled low and steady, words scarcely formed—nonsense, but spoken with that resonant gravity that stilled battalions. The baby did not quiet altogether,but his cries softened into whimpers, his fists unclenching as though the mere presence of his father was enough.
Still murmuring, William drew him closer, lips near the child’s ear. “Hush, lad. Strong lungs, eh? Bite through it. Strathmore blood does not yield so easy.”
Charlotte raised her brows. “He takes after you already, determined to complain. Stubborn little rabbit.”
William gave her a look, unreadable, then kissed his son’s temple. For a while he stayed there, pacing slowly in the dim light, his face tight with the quiet misery of a man who would give anything to take the pain himself. He spoke gently, endlessly, until the boy grew drowsy against him.
Only when the chatter below dwindled to the fading sounds of farewell, followed by the thud of the front door and the hush that followed, did William at last venture down, his son cradled safely in his arms. Charlotte came after him, her steps light on the stairs.
Jane was seeing the last of her company off, or so she thought. But in the drawing room two figures lingered: Mr. and Mrs. Davenport. The lady sat poised, a quiet contrast to the gentleman’s flushed exuberance, heightened by drink and laughter.
The moment William crossed the threshold, the man’s gaze fell on him, and on the child in his arms.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he declared, moving forward with surprising ease for his size. “Lord Blackmeer! I daresay you did not expect to see me here.”
William stopped short. For an instant, he nearly lost hold of the baby, then recovered and bowed deeply.
Jane froze. Charlotte gasped aloud. Mrs. Davenport merely smiled like a cat in on the game.
Before William could speak, the man forestalled him with a genial wave of the hand. “No need for formality, my dearfellow. Tonight, I am Mr. Davenport. We are only friends among friends.” His eyes flicked to Jane, amusement glinting. “But I must say—excellent taste. We share that, you and I. That boy—” he gestured at the child, whose resemblance to the man holding him was unmistakable, “surely your natural son?”
Color flamed in Jane’s cheeks. Charlotte stiffened, struck dumb. William’s head turned, slow and deliberate, toward his wife. “Jane?” he asked softly, his meaning plain: do we keep the truth veiled, or reveal it here?
