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“With Tuppence,” Maddock said.

John frowned. “What’s the matter with Tuppence?”

“Pains in the inwards,” Belinda reported, while pouring boiling water from a kettle into a silver teapot. “Tuppence said since this morning, her guts been twisting like a knotted rope.”

Fuck.

“Did she say if her water’s broken?” John asked.

Maddock shook his head. “But June’s helping her to bed, and Enid’s going to sit with her. Tuppence thinks it’s just her guts gripin’. She says it’ll ease off.”

John took the notebook from his inside coat pocket and paged through it rapidly. “The midwife’s name is Mrs. Caswell. Go directly to fetch her—she lives in Soho. Number 13 Dean Street.”

Maddock responded with a single nod and left the kitchen immediately.

“I bloody knew it,” John muttered as he replaced the book and pulled a pair of white gloves from his pocket. After he put them on, he picked up the heavy silver tray.

“Mr. Pembroke, what can I do?” Belinda asked.

Despite his worry, John smiled slightly. “Have the sandwiches and beefsteak pie ready for me to take up next.”

“Yes, sir.”

John carried the tea service upstairs and into the library. Norman was at the writing desk, taking notes, while the other two talked. Farlow sat at the table with Reina leaning over his shoulder and pointing to something on a document in front of him. It was an intimate scene between two people who knew each other well.

He carried the tray to the sideboard while steeling himself not to react in any way. He was there to do a job, two jobs as a matter of fact, and emotion could have no part in it.

But he still hated how cozy they looked.

“. . . deposit and loan revenue projections seem rather high,” Farlow was saying.

“Not when you read this.” Reina opened a folder and slid it in front of him. “Start with the demographic analysis I’ve done of Knightsbridge. The district is chockful of working women and women of means, all of whom are being ignored by traditional banks. They need loans for starting small businesses or purchasing property . . . financial advice . . . estate management . . .” As she bent down, the gold pencil on its long chain dangled over Farlow’s shoulder. “Pardon,” she said, and pulled it out of his way.

John measured the tea leaves into the china teapot and poured hot water over them.

“When did your father give that to you?” he heard Farlow ask.

“My pencil?” Reina asked in surprise, resuming her seat. “How did you know it was his?”

“Prescott loved propelling pencils. I never saw him without one on his watch chain.”

John hadn’t realized until that moment that Farlow had been acquainted with Reina’s father. It made sense, as the two men would have belonged to some of the same committees and clubs. He thought the connection to Bernard Prescott probably inclined Reina to trust Farlow and want his approval. It might even influence her to overlook things she wouldn’t overlook in someone else.

Unobtrusively John carried items to the table—milk jug, sugar bowl, teacups and saucers—as the conversation continued.

“You have his way of toying with it while you think,” Farlow said.

“Do I?” Reina asked with a nonplussed laugh. “I’m afraid Papa didn’t give the pencil to me, exactly. He let me draw with it one day and forgot about it. And I never mentioned it to him, which was wrong of me.”

“But understandable,” Farlow said. “And quite forgivable. You must have been curious about him.”

“He was a figure of mystery,” Reina admitted. “At least, to me.”

“To most of us. Your father was a very private man.”

“He had reason to be,” she said wryly.

“Yes. One can’t excuse the choices he made, but on the other hand society dictates how we should behave, whom we should marry. It forces us to lead hidden lives.”