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He rolled toward her, one hand slipping to her leg. “Since childbirth is all taken care of,” he told her, “perhaps we should ensure that the previous steps are successful, hmmm?”

In the end, quite a few drops of cold rain fell on Rees’s ass, just as he had feared.

But he didn’t really notice.

Thirty-four

Disaster!

The elegant carriage that drew up before Number Fifteen, Rothsfeld Square had barely come to a halt when two ladies tumbled out, shawls flying behind them, hair all a whirl, a glove left on the floor of the carriage. Leke opened the door just in time to stop it being shoved in his face, only to find himself confronted by an army of two Amazons demanding to see the countess.

Helene was curled up in the library, trying very hard to concentrate on the score she held in her hand. Rees was thumping away on one of the pianos. More than anything she wanted to go into the room and bump him over with her hip and—and just sit there. Next to him.

I can’t do that, she told herself. He must work. I must work. What if we added a French Horn to this section? she asked herself. What indeed?

The door burst open. “Oh, my goodness,” Helene said, jumping to her feet. “Esme! And Gina! What on earth are you doing here?” It wasn’t time for morning calls; they were over hours ago. And it wasn’t yet time to ready oneself for supper, even if they had made plans to dine together, which they hadn’t. To this point, the three friends had delicately avoided the fact that Helene couldn’t receive callers, given Lina’s presence in the house.

“Disaster!” Esme cried. “Helene, did you tell the Earl of Mayne that you were staying in this house?”

“No,” she said. “But he knew—” She stopped, horrified. “I asked how he knew and he didn’t tell me, and then I forgot to press the point.”

“Do let me into the room!” Gina said, pushing Esme forward and shoving the door shut behind her, only narrowly missing Leke’s nose. He had been on the verge of offering refreshments, but instead he retreated to the servants’ quarters for a think. And then he ambled over to the Number Eighteen, Rothsfeld, because the butler in that establishment, by the name of Watts, knew everything worth knowing.

In the library, Helene sank into the armchair she had just vacated, feeling as if her legs had lost all strength. “He promised he wouldn’t tell anyone,” she said. And then, “Surely he didn’t!”

“He did,” Esme said grimly, sitting down opposite Helene. “Since you didn’t tell him yourself, he must have bribed the footman who forwarded his note to Gina.”

“It’s all my fault,” Gina said. She was stark white and looked anguished. “I’m so sorry that I ever, ever passed on Mayne’s note to you. He’s naught more than a cad!”

“Cad!” Esme cried. “That doesn’t half cover it. The man’s an utter bastard, and if anyone’s to blame, it’s myself. I put him on the list I gave to Helene; I sang his praises between the sheets!”

Helene’s lips felt numb. “Blame is surely not the point,” she said. “May I ask what the Earl of Mayne has done with his illicitly obtained information?”

There was a moment of silence. Helene faintly heard a plink-plinking coming from the music room; Rees must have switched to the harpsichord.

“He told everyone,” Esme said, finally. “Last night, at Vauxhall.”

“He was at Vauxhall?” Helene gasped. “I never saw him!”

“Neither did I. But he was there, because Felicia Saville is citing him as her source of information.”

“Felicia Saville?” Helene asked numbly.

“I would guess that she’s paid twenty morning calls today,” Gina said quietly. “And all circling around two topics: the Earl of Mayne and his magnificent endowments, and your scandalous activities.”

“Mayne and Felicia?” Helene was unable to conceive the breadth of the scandal that must be spreading about herself, so she fastened on the lesser matter.

“Felicia would appear to be his latest inamorata,” Esme said with distaste, “though how he can put up with all that mindless gabbing, I don’t know. Helene, do you think that you might have insulted Mayne in some way? I don’t mean in the least to defend the man, but he’s acting like someone bent on revenge. I’m told he put a bet in White’s that—” She stopped.

Helene looked at her. “What did he bet in White’s?”

“Sebastian was likely mis—”

“What did he bet in White’s?”

“It had to do with the portion of the night that Rees granted to you as opposed to his mistress,” Esme said.

“Obviously not a real bet,” Helene said slowly. “He wrote in the betting book only in order to spread the scandal.”