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There was no color whatsoever in Helene’s face now. He almost felt a gleam of pity.

“Gina’s son was born last December. But I assure you, Rees, that my desire for children has little, if anything, to do with the good fortune of my friends.”

Rees made a rude sound and stood up, wandering toward the piano. “That’s garbage, Helene. Women are all the same. You want what everyone else has, and you’ll go to any means to get it. Well, don’t count on me. I refuse to petition for divorce. I see no reason to put myself through an experience so expensive and ruinous to my reputation—” he threw it over his shoulder—“aren’t you pleased, Helene? I am finally gaining an aversion to scandal.”

Just then something caught his eye. “What the hell!” He bent over the sheets of paper on top of the piano. His vicious little wife had clearly enjoyed herself by destroying his score. “What in the hell did you do here? That line must dip. You’ve turned it to a bloody orange seller’s tune!” He spun around but the room was empty.

Three

In Which Tempers Are Lost

Number Forty, Berkeley Square

London

After women have been friends for ten years, or even one year, they can generally judge each other’s state of mind from five yards. Esme Bonnington, sometimes known as Countess Bonnington and sometimes as Infamous Esme, counted herself a near scientist when it came to the nice art of reading emotion. When her friend Helene’s braids were elegantly nestled on her head, without even a stray strand of hair to be seen, all was well. But today Lady Godwin’s backbone was as rigid as if it had been welded in place, her eyes were narrowed to chips of ice, and—most telling of all—wisps of hair were framing her face.

“What on earth is the matter?” Esme asked, trying to remember whether she, Esme, had done anything to outrage Helene’s sense of propriety. No. Since her second marriage, Esme quite prided herself on being about as scandalous as a cow. That meant Helene had encountered her husband.

With one chilly glance, Helene sent Esme’s butler, Slope, from the room. “I was going to ask Slope to bring us some tea,” Esme said with some disappointment.

“You can live without a lemon tart for at least another hour or so,” Helene snapped.

Helene lived on the air, from the look of her. But Esme was used to solid nourishment, and having asked Helene for tea, she would like to partake. She rang the bell to summon Slope. “I would guess that you have asked Rees for a divorce again?”

“He won’t even listen to me, Esme.” Despair and anger battled in her voice. “He doesn’t care a bean that I want a child.”

“Oh, Helene,” Esme said. “I’m so—”

“He laughed it off as a matter of competition,” Helene interrupted. “He won’t even try to understand what it feels like to watch other women have children and know that you are unable.” Her voice caught on the last word.

“Men are insensitive brutes,” Esme said sympathetically. “And your husband is among the worst of the species.”

“Anyone’s husband is better than mine! Do you remember when I told you after Miles died that I envied you your rapprochement, even if it was brief?”

“Of course.”

“I meant it. I would give anything to have married someone like your first husband.”

“Miles and I were far from an enviable couple,” Esme pointed out. “When he died, we hadn’t lived together in ten years. How can you envy a marriage like ours?”

“I don’t envy your marriage. I envy your husband. When you told Miles that you wished to have a child, what did he do?”

Esme’s eyes filled with understanding. “He agreed.”

“And if you had asked him for a divorce?”

“He would have agreed to that as well,” Esme said, swallowing a lump in her throat. “Miles was a truly amiable person.”

“He was better than amiable,” Helene said fiercely. “He was a kind person. He would have done anything for you, Esme, you know he would have.”

“You wouldn’t have liked being married to Miles, Helene. He was so placid, truly.”

“I am placid!” The only argument one might have with that statement came from Helene’s voice, a near shriek. “I would have—would have—oh, this is absurd! I don’t want to argue over who has the worst husband. It’s just that I want a child so much. I have for years! And now Carola has a perfect little daughter, and you only had to ask Miles in order to have a baby, and now Henrietta Darby, who didn’t even think it possible to carry a child, has a son—” her words were lost in a torrent of sobs.

Esme stroked her arm. “I’m sorry, Helene. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s just not fair!” It burst from her like rain from a drainpipe. “I don’t ever complain about my husband; you know I don’t, Esme. But why did I ever, ever have to meet Rees Holland and marry him! Why didn’t my mother stop me? Why didn’t someone come after me when we eloped? Why did I have to end up married to an utter degenerate when the rest of you—you and Carola and Gina—all of you have taken your husbands back and they have been utterly decent about it?”