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“I’m afraid if Mrs. Raddle is a fishwife, I’m a wet blanket. To be honest, I cry most of the time. My nanny says I’ll hurt the babe.”

Henrietta reached in her pocket and took out a clean handkerchief, which she used to wipe Lady Rawlings’s face. Then she said: “I haven’t the faintest idea about crying while in a delicate condition, although I think it is extremely unlikely that it would hurt your child. I do think that crying is not the best choice for the morning though.”

“Why . . . why not? What could possibly be a better choice?” Lady Rawlings was clearly not herself.

“Tears will make your tea salty. Here, drink this.” Henrietta had found that activity had a tendency to curb hysteria. Esme Rawlings drank some tea, but it didn’t seem to stem the tears.

“I expect you miss your husband dreadfully,” Henrietta said. “I’m so sorry.”

She gulped and said, “Of course, I miss . . . I miss my husband Miles, of course I do.”

There was something odd about her tone. Henrietta was as aware as anyone that Miles and Esme Rawlings hadn’t lived together for years. Moreover, having lived in Limpley Stoke all 92 Eloisa

James

her life, she had quite frequently encountered Lord Rawlings in company with one Lady Childe. Everyone knew about that connection. But then, last night Darby had implied that his uncle and aunt had reconciled before Lord Rawlings died.

“They say the pain eases with time,” she said rather awkwardly.

“It’s just difficult, bearing a child under these circumstances. And now that Darby and children are here, I feel so . . . so . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Perhaps if you think about your baby, it will make you feel better.”

“I can’t imagine,” Lady Rawlings said, and there really was an edge of hysteria in her voice. “I don’t know what my baby will look like!”

“Well, no one ever does, do they? But it doesn’t seem to matter. I can assure you that you will be pleased by its looks no matter how unaesthetic. Mrs. Raddle’s son is as plump as a parsnip, and yet she has never called him a gammon-faced glutton. Which he is, I assure you. He won a pie-eating contest last spring and he’s barely seven!”

Esme Rawlings said, in one long wail, “You don’t understand. I don’t . . . I don’t. . . . I’m not certain what my baby will look like!”

Henrietta blinked. “But, Lady Rawlings—”

“Don’t call me that, please just don’t call me that name!”

Esme was clearly descending into a state of hysteria. Henrietta looked around. Hartshorn or strong spirits were supposed to cure this sort of thing. She never carried a vinaigrette herself.

Luckily Lady Rawlings didn’t appear in imminent danger of a thrashing fit. “My name is Esme,” she said rather fiercely, taking a spoonful of sugar and placing it in her tea.

“Please call me Esme. The fact of the matter—”

She raised the delicate teacup to her lips and met Henri-Fool for Love 93

etta’s eyes over the rim of it. “The fact of the matter is that I am uncertain who fathered this babe.”

By a strong exertion of will, Henrietta managed to show no sign of shock. She picked up her own teacup and took a sip. “Ah, is the—are there many candidates?”

“You sound like my friend Gina. The Duchess of Girton. That is just the sort of thing that she would say. She’s so practical. Gina would never find herself in this situation.” Esme started crying again. “I’ve been a terrible friend to her.”

Henrietta tried to think of more practical, bracing things to say. And couldn’t since she didn’t really have any idea what Lady Rawlings was talking about.

“You see, Gina was going to marry Lord Bonnington but didn’t,” Esme gulped. “And I’m afraid that he might be the father of this babe.”

Henrietta’s eyes grew round. She knew, of course, about the perfidious marquess, and his rapscallion attempt to trick the Duchess of Girton. “The same marquess who tried to force the duchess—to—”

“No, no. That whole story was naught but a tarradiddle. He entered my room because he was looking for me. Because—

he was looking for me.”

“And he found your husband instead,” Henrietta said.