John Bellasis was sitting in a large leather armchair in the library of the Army and Navy Club in St. James’s Square drinking a cup of coffee and reading a copy of Punch, a new magazine he had heard of but never seen until then. Dressed in a pair of fashionable pale yellow trousers, a blue Valencia waistcoat, a white shirt, and a black frock coat, he had made something of an effort with his appearance. That afternoon, he was waiting for a friend, Hugo Wentworth, to arrive and he was very keen not to appear down on his luck.

Wentworth was a member of the club, which had opened only four years earlier, in 1837, the year that had seen the young Queen Victoria ascend the throne, and as an officer in the 52nd Light Infantry, Wentworth was eligible to belong to it, but John didn’t envy him. With the membership confined to those in the forces, when John did visit the place he found the conversation rather flat, and the food… well, the food left a lot to be desired. It was not for nothing that Captain Higginson Duff had christened it “The Rag.” The story went that, on returning from a tour, he’d described the unappetizing supper he’d been served as a “Rag and Famish affair.” The Rag and Famish was a squalid gaming house, not unknown to John’s own father, that was notorious for its filthy rooms and disgusting dinners, so the remark was clearly intended as an insult. But the members chose to be amused rather than offended, and the club had been known as The Rag ever since.

“Bellasis!” came the booming voice of Hugo Wentworth, who was standing in the doorway and pointing straight at John. “There you are!” He strode across the room, resplendent in his uniform, the noise of his heavy boots thudding on the Turkish carpet. “You look very dashing,” he said. “You certainly know how to show a man up.”

John shook his head. “Nonsense. There is no civilian dress that can compete with a uniform, as we all know.”

Hugo coughed. “Is it too early for a glass of Madeira?”

“It’s never too early for a glass of Madeira,” said John. But he wondered how much longer they would have to go on with this small talk. He was impatient to start the business that had brought him here.

“Good, good.” Hugo looked around and caught the eye of a club servant. “Madeira, please,” he said as the man approached. “For both of us.”

“What is your news?” said John. Evidently they were going to have to wade through a certain amount of idle chatter before Wentworth would begin.

Hugo’s tone became serious. “I’ve just been told I’m off to Barbados. I must say I don’t fancy it one bit. Can’t stand the heat.”

“No. I can imagine.”

“Anyway, what will be, will be,” he said. “By the way, I saw the notice of your engagement in the Times. Congratulations. She’s a lovely young woman.”

“I’m very lucky,” said John, without meaning it.

“When’s the wedding?”

“Soon, I think.”

His leaden tone told Captain Wentworth it was time to move on, and at last he did. “Now”—he took out a packet and removed some papers from it—“I have done a little digging, as you asked.”

“And?” John sat up in his chair. This was what he’d come for.

He had not been himself since he’d read the copied material that Ellis had brought him. And when she’d failed to return with the originals later that day, he had been forced to acknowledge that the information they bore witness to could not be destroyed or even contained. In the first of Sophia’s letters she’d told her maid of the child she had conceived. A child who was to be sent to live with a family named Pope as soon as it was born. That much he had absorbed easily. He’d long realized that Charles Pope was in some way connected by blood to one of the major players in this game. John had suspected him of being James Trenchard’s son. Now it turned out he was the son of Trenchard’s daughter. All this was fair enough. Trenchard had been anxious to keep the secret to protect his daughter’s good name, and John understood why. The letters had also allowed him to fill in the missing piece of the jigsaw. The father of Sophia Trenchard’s baby was Edmund Bellasis, John’s own cousin. It all made sense—Trenchard’s patronage of Charles Pope, Lady Brockenhurst’s obvious affection for him. There was nothing to surprise in this revelation. On the contrary, for the first time since Charles Pope had come into their lives, everything was clear.

Then he had read the remaining sheets. The first was apparently proof of a wedding in Brussels. This was when he’d barked to Ellis that he would give her the ludicrous sum of a thousand pounds if she could retrieve the originals. The maid had run off as John settled down to read the rest. But suddenly he was faced with a conundrum. If there really had been a marriage, if Sophia and Edmund had been husband and wife, then why was it necessary to keep the child a secret, to place him with the Popes? Why was the boy not brought up by his grandparents amid the splendors of Lymington Park? Why had he not been acknowledged as Viscount Bellasis in his turn, the heir to his grandfather, superseding Stephen and John in the line of succession? He picked up the final letters in the package, and there was his answer. In them, Sophia Trenchard spoke of her horror and her shame at being “tricked.” Was this the case? That there had been no true wedding? That the marriage lines were false and Bellasis had deceived the girl into believing there had been one? It must be so. There was no other explanation that would fit the facts. Who, then, was the Richard Bouverie who’d signed the false certificate of marriage and who had written the letter of explanation as to why the ceremony had been performed in Brussels? Might he have been a fellow officer, a regimental friend of Edmund’s? Why else would he have been out there? One thing was clear. Sophia believed Bouverie had impersonated a clergyman so that Edmund might succeed in getting her into bed.

But before John could celebrate—indeed, before he could decide what he should do next, if anything—he had to be quite sure of the truth. He needed proof that Bouverie was an impostor. Only then would he be able to think straight. Only then would he be safe. When Ellis had failed to reappear and it dawned on him that he would not, as he had hoped, be able to throw the originals onto the flames flickering in the grate of his modest drawing room, he had flung himself down on the sofa, clutching a bottle of brandy, and racked his brains. In the small hours, he’d remembered his friend Hugo Wentworth, a captain in the 52nd Light Infantry and a self-appointed military historian. Bellasis had been in the 52nd Light Infantry when he died, and surely it must be possible for Wentworth to review the evidence in their records and discover if Bouverie was a fellow officer. And so he had written to Hugo, supplying him with what information John was prepared to commit to paper, asking him to indulge his old friend for a moment and do “a little digging.”

And now here they were.

“Right.” Hugo tapped his chest. “I’ve brought your letter asking about this Richard Bouverie.” He paused. “He was in fact the Honorable Richard Bouverie, a younger son of Lord Tidworth, and he was indeed a captain in the Fifty-Second Light Infantry alongside your cousin, Lord Bellasis. They died together at Waterloo.”

At his words, John felt a wave of relief. Edmund had behaved like a scoundrel, his brother officer was no better, and Sophia had been seduced. Charles Pope was the result, and he, John, could still claim his inheritance. He smiled at Wentworth. “I don’t suppose we could have another glass?” he said.

“I wouldn’t mind. But before we do, there’s more.” Hugo started to unfold a sheet covered in his own small writing.

John felt the touch of an icy finger on his spine. “What sort of more?”

Hugo cleared his throat and began to read from his notes. “Captain Bouverie retired from the army in 1802, after the Treaty of Amiens was signed with Napoléon, and then he went on to take holy orders.”

John stared at him. “But you said he fought at Waterloo.”

“Well, now, this is the thing.” Hugo smoothed out the paper. He was enjoying himself. Clearly he felt he had turned up something fascinating.

“Go on,” said John, but his voice was as cold as the grave.

“It seems that he made the decision to return to his regiment, the Fifty-Second Light Infantry, just after Napoléon escaped from Elba in February 1815.”

“But was that allowed? For a member of the Church?”

“All I can say is that, in this case, it was. Maybe strings were pulled by his father. Who can tell? But he was readmitted to his regiment. An example of the Church Militant, I suppose you could say.” Hugo laughed, pleased with his joke. “I think he must have been a brave chap. When old Boney marched back to Paris without a shot being fired, he would have known the Powers couldn’t tolerate his return and that a battle was coming. Obviously, Bouverie felt his duty was to fight for his country.”

John’s heart was pounding. He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “But did he have the power to perform a marriage when he was an officer again?”

“Oh yes. He was a clergyman before the fighting started, and he was a clergyman when he died.”

“So any wedding he conducted in Brussels before the battle was legal?”

“Yes, so there’s nothing to worry about. Whomever he married were definitely husband and wife. So I hope it’s soothed any concerns you had on that score.” He waited for John to say something, but his friend just stared blankly back. “As I said, the news is good.” He waved at the club servant, pointing at their glasses, and the man soon returned with the decanter. “I know you’ll want to thank me, but please don’t. I really enjoyed it. I’ve been thinking that I might like to write something about that time. The question is, would I have the discipline?” But still John said nothing. Hugo tried again, wondering at his friend’s silence. “Might I know the parties in the wedding you were worried about? Was there a story behind the request?”

At this, John woke up. “Oh no. It was just a relation of mine. The wife died in childbirth and the father was killed in the battle. Their son was a little nervous about his own status.” John raised his eyebrows humorously and his companion laughed.

“Well, you can tell him he has nothing to worry about. He’s as legal and legitimate as the little Princess.”

Caroline was in her private sitting room at Brockenhurst House, cleaning her brushes. In front of her was an easel, a large canvas, and a wooden palette covered in curls of paint that went in a circle of colors from browns, blues, and greens to various shades of yellow, pink, and white. On the tray next to her was a collection of cloths, palette knives, and paintbrushes varying in width, shape, and thickness.

“Don’t move,” she said, looking around the canvas at Maria, who was sitting on a pale peach divan. “I’m afraid I haven’t used oils in too long and I’m a little rusty.”

The truth was, Caroline liked having Maria in the house. She had initially offered the girl shelter because she was determined to protect her for her grandson, but, as time wore on, Caroline had to admit she enjoyed her company. She placed a well-judged stroke on the pretty, pale face that was beginning to emerge from the canvas. She supposed she had been lonely without knowing it. That must be the truth. She’d been lonely since Edmund’s death, but, like all her kind, she would never have admitted it. Still, sitting here now with Maria, she felt as if the weight of the last twenty-five years had been lifted slightly, as if the world were coming alive again.

That said, her plans had gone awry. When Maria had first begged for her help she’d intended to take the girl to Lymington, invite Charles to join them, and then she would tell her husband and her grandson the truth in one sitting. But the day after her tea party she’d received a letter from Peregrine, who had stayed in the country, to say that he was going shooting in Yorkshire and he would return via London. So she and Maria had lingered on in Belgrave Square, waiting for Lord Brockenhurst to come home.

“Have you had any news from your mama?” she said.

Maria shook her head. “Nothing. She’ll arrive one of these days with Reggie or someone to drag me away.”

“Then we shall take hold of your other arm and prevent it. Anyway, would Reggie pull on her team or yours?”

Maria smiled. It was true that she thought she could count on her brother if it came to a fight.

There was a sound at the door and Lady Brockenhurst looked up. “What is it, Jenkins?”

“Your ladyship, Lady Templemore is in the hall.” The butler knew enough to be sure that he was right not to have shown the Countess straight into the drawing room.

Caroline looked at Maria. “Talk of the devil.”

“Indeed,” said the girl. “But we must face her sooner or later, so it might as well be now.” She stood, arranging her skirts as she did so.

Her hostess considered this for a moment and then nodded. “Please bring Lady Templemore up to the drawing room.”

The butler gave a slight bow and left.

“Perhaps you’d better stay here.” Caroline stood to remove her painting apron and check her appearance in the glass above the chimneypiece.

“No,” said Maria. “This is my battle, not yours. I’ll see her.”

“Well, you’re not going in there alone,” said Caroline, and the two women walked across the gallery together to face the enemy. The green marble columns that linked the balustrade of the staircase with the decorated plaster ceiling seemed to lend a certain formality to their progress—as if we’re going into court, thought Maria.

Lady Templemore was already sitting on a damask Louis XV bergère when Caroline walked into the room. She looked rather stately and, somehow, very much alone, which gave Caroline a slight twinge of guilt. “Can I offer you anything?” she said, as pleasantly as she could manage.

“My daughter,” said Lady Templemore, without a trace of a smile.

At that moment, Maria entered. She had stopped by a looking glass on the gallery to tidy her hair before she faced her parent’s stern gaze. “Here I am, Mama.”

“I’ve come to take you home.”

“No, Mama.” She was as definite as she knew how to be.

The words were unexpected, even shocking. It had never occurred to Lady Templemore that she could not reclaim her own child when she wanted. For a moment nobody said anything.

Lady Templemore was the first to break the silence. “My dear—”

“No, Mama. I am not coming home. Not yet, at any rate.”

Corinne Templemore struggled to maintain her equilibrium. “But if word leaks out—which it is bound to—what will people think?”

Maria was very calm. Lady Brockenhurst’s opinion of her was rising by the minute. “They will think I am staying with the aunt of my fiancé, which they will find perfectly normal. Soon, however, we will announce that the marriage will not now take place. And that I am going to be married instead to a Mr. Charles Pope. This they will find very interesting indeed, and they will no doubt discuss it a great deal. Who is this Mr. Pope, they will say, and that will keep them happy until there is news of an elopement or some great man in the City fails, and then they will talk about that and we will fade away into the background and get on with our lives.” She was sitting on a sofa, and as she finished speaking she clasped her hands with resolve and let them rest in her lap.

Lady Templemore stared at her daughter, or rather at the faery changeling that had stolen her true daughter and was now sitting in her place. But she did not answer. Instead she turned to Lady Brockenhurst. “You’ve done this,” she said. “You have corrupted my child.”

“I do hope so,” said Lady Brockenhurst, “if this is the result.”

But Corinne Templemore had not finished. “Why are you doing this? Are you jealous of me? I have living children, while your son is dead? Is that it?” Her calm, even pleasant, voice as she spoke was, if anything, more startling than if she had shouted and torn out her hair by its roots.

It took a moment for Caroline Brockenhurst to catch her breath. At last she spoke. “Corinne—,” she said, but Lady Templemore silenced her with a gesture of her open hand.

“Please. My Christian name is only for the use of my friends.”

“Mama,” Maria said. “We must not be at odds, like ruffians fighting in the street.”

“I should prefer to be attacked by a ruffian than by my own daughter.”

Maria stood. She needed to use this moment to move things forward. Otherwise she and her mother would be caught in a dead end. “Please, Mama,” she said as reasonably as she could, “I will not come home until you have had time to accept that your plans for me to marry John Bellasis will not come to fruition. When you are able to grasp this fact, I’m sure we can soon repair matters between us.”

“So that you can marry Mr. Pope?” Her mother’s tone was not encouraging.

“Yes, Mama.” Maria sighed. “But even there, things are not perhaps quite as bad as you think.” She glanced at Caroline in the hope that her hostess would take over the argument. She was not sure how much, or how little, she should say.

Lady Brockenhurst nodded. “Maria is right. Mr. Pope is less obscure than he might at first have appeared.”

Lady Templemore looked at her. “Oh?” she said.

“It seems that his father was the son of an earl.”

There was a silence as Corinne absorbed these surprising words. Then, when she had thought for a moment, she spoke. “Was the father illegitimate? Or is Mr. Pope himself a bastard? Since clearly there can be no third explanation for your statement, if it is true.”

Lady Brockenhurst took a deep breath. She was not quite ready to play all her cards. “I might remind you that, fifteen years ago, the illegitimate son of the Duke of Norfolk married the daughter of the Earl of Albemarle, and today they are welcomed everywhere.”

“And you think because the Stephensons have gotten away with it, Charles Pope would, too?” Lady Templemore did not sound as if she agreed.

“But why wouldn’t he?” Caroline’s voice was as soft and as pleading as Maria had ever heard it. The woman was begging, and of course Maria knew why.

But Corinne Templemore was unrepentant. “For a start, because the Duke brought up Henry Stephenson as his son and he was recognized as such from his birth. And secondly, because I am not aware that Lady Mary Keppel broke off an engagement to an earl in order to marry him. Your meddling has cheated my daughter of a position that would have allowed her to do some good in the world. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I think I could also do good if I were married to Charles.” Maria was growing irritated with her mother’s intransigence.

At this, the Countess of Templemore finally got to her feet. Caroline was forced to admit there was something impressive in the woman’s stance; well dressed, her back as straight as a poker, she was unbendingly severe and all the more imposing for that. “Then you must manage it without your mother’s help, my dear, for I will have no more of you. I’ll send Ryan around with your things as soon as I get back. You are welcome to keep her on as your maid, but it must be at your own expense. Otherwise, I will give her notice. I’ll ask Mr. Smyth at Hoare’s to write and explain your income under your father’s trust, my dear, and in future you will communicate with him but not with me. Henceforth, I cast you off. You are adrift and you must sail your own barque. As for you,” she turned to Caroline, hatred shining from her eyes, “you have stolen my daughter and ruined my life. I curse you for it.” With that, she swept out of the room and down the great staircase, leaving Maria and Lady Brockenhurst alone and silent.

Susan Trenchard couldn’t tell precisely what her mood was. Sometimes she felt hopeful, as if her life were about to change for the better. Sometimes things seemed darker, as if she were trembling on the brink of an abyss.

She had told John she thought she was pregnant the last time she’d gone around to Albany. She spoke almost as soon as they had climbed the stairs to reach his little drawing room. He was puzzled as he listened, surprised even, although not at first hostile. “I thought you were unable to conceive,” he said. “I thought that was the whole point.”

It was an odd choice of phrase. “What does that mean? The whole point?”

He covered himself by ignoring her question. “I suppose you’re sure?”

“Quite sure. Although I haven’t had it confirmed by a doctor.”

He nodded. “Perhaps you should. Do you have one you can trust?”

She looked at him. “I’m a married woman. Why do I need one I can ‘trust’?”

“True enough. But go to a doctor who’ll know what to do.” Again, his wording was odd, but she could see he was distracted. She knew her mother-in-law’s maid had just walked away when she arrived, and Susan could only suppose he’d learned something, presumably about the mysterious Mr. Pope, which was taking up his attention.

At any rate, they’d made the decision that Susan would arrange an appointment on a certain day to see her physician, and she would then report back to his rooms where he would be waiting for her. Except now she was here, he was nowhere to be seen. His silent servant had let her in, and she’d been shown to a chair in the sitting room where she’d waited, crouched over a meager fire. The master had kept an appointment in St. James’s, and it must have run longer than he expected. But he would be back shortly. How long was shortly? The servant couldn’t tell and nor could she, since she’d been waiting for almost an hour.

John’s absence gave Susan time to review her situation. Did she hope they would marry and she would be rescued from the dreariness of the Trenchard household? In her dreams, yes; but now that the first flush of infatuation had passed, she was too clever a woman to believe she was the chosen candidate to be the next Countess of Brockenhurst. A merchant’s divorced daughter? She would not fit easily into the history of the Bellasis dynasty. And anyway, how long would a divorce take? Could they find a tame Member of Parliament to usher through a private bill dissolving her marriage, and would it be in time for them to wed before the baby was born? Almost certainly not.

What, then, did she want? To be John’s mistress in perpetuity? To take a house somewhere and bring up the child as his? Once his uncle was dead, there would be plenty of money for this sort of arrangement, and yet… and yet… Susan was not certain it would suit her, to live outside the boundaries of Society, even the dull and ordinary level of Society that she had succeeded in penetrating. But could she stand to stay with Oliver, and would she even have that option? Oliver Trenchard might not be a genius, but he would know the child was not his. They hadn’t made love for months. There was a certain irony in the realization that for years she had lived as a barren woman, pitied on every side, when she had not been barren at all. The fault must have been Oliver’s, but of course he would not see matters in that light. Maybe to accept the post as John’s kept woman was the best choice available. Finally, the door opened.

“Well?” John said as he entered the room.

“I’ve been waiting for the best part of an hour.”

“And now I am back. What happened?”

She nodded, knowing perfectly well that there was no point in even trying to make John Bellasis feel guilty. “I’ve done what you asked. I’ve seen a doctor and I am pregnant. Three months or more.”

He took off his hat and threw it down impatiently. “But will he see to it? Or has he done so already?”

His words cut her like a knife. Will he see to it? In all her thoughts, Susan had included the child as part of her calculations. Not once had she entertained the notion that she might get rid of it. She’d waited ten years to become pregnant, and now that she was, John wanted her to risk her life, to flush it out and away? Indeed, he did not even appear to understand there was an issue to be discussed.

She shook her head impatiently. “Of course not!” Then she paused, staying silent until she could breathe more easily. “I don’t want to be rid of it. Did you think that I would? Have you no feelings for the child?”

John looked at her, seemingly puzzled. “Why would I have feelings?”

“Because you’re the father.”

“Who says? What proof do I have? You fell into bed with me at the first opportunity. Am I to take from your behavior that you’re a new Madame Walewska, untouched and pure until you caught the eye of the Emperor?” He laughed harshly as he poured himself some brandy from a waiting decanter and threw it down his throat.

“You know it’s yours.”

“I don’t know anything.” He filled his glass again. “This is your problem, not mine. I will, as a friend, pay for you to solve it, but if you refuse, then that is the end of my responsibility.” He dropped into a chair.

Susan looked at him. For a second, her rage was so great that she felt as if she had swallowed fire, but she knew enough to keep control of her feelings. If she shouted, she would get nothing from him. But might there still not be a way to bring him around, if she played her hand carefully?

“Are you quite well?” she said, moving away from the subject. “You seem preoccupied.”

He looked at her, surprised by the gentleness in her tone. “Do you care?”

Susan was nothing if not resourceful. “John, I can’t answer for you,” she smiled winningly, “but I have been in love with you for many months. Your happiness means more to me than anything else on earth. Of course I care.” Even as she spoke the words, she marveled at her own dishonesty. But she could see they’d had an effect. How weak men were. Like dogs, one pat and they’re yours for life. “Now won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

He sighed, leaning back, putting his hands behind his head. “Only that I’ve lost everything.”

“It can’t be as bad as all that.”

“Can’t it? I have nothing. I am nothing. I will always be nothing.” He stood and walked to the window. His rooms looked over the courtyard in front of the building, and he stared down at the activity below, at the people hurrying about their daily lives, while his life seemed to have vanished in a puff of smoke.

Susan was beginning to understand that she was dealing with something more than petulance. “What has happened?” she said.

“I’ve discovered that I will not, after all, be the next Earl of Brockenhurst. I will not inherit my uncle’s fortune. Or Lymington Park. Or Brockenhurst House. Or any of it. I am heir to nothing.” He did not care that she knew. Anne and James Trenchard would have seen Sophia’s papers by now, and sooner or later they would have them looked into. They must, and when they did they would learn the truth and publish it for the whole world to read.

“I don’t understand.” This extraordinary revelation had for the moment taken Susan’s mind off her own predicament.

“That man, Charles Pope, is the heir. My nemesis. It seems he is the grandson of my uncle and aunt.”

“Isn’t he supposed to be the son of my father-in-law? That’s what you told me before.”

“That’s what I thought before. But he’s not. He is my cousin Edmund’s son.”

“But then why has he not been recognized as such? Why does he bear the name Pope? Shouldn’t he be… what is the courtesy title?”

“Viscount Bellasis.”

“Very well. Why isn’t he Viscount Bellasis?”

“He is.” John laughed, but the sound was harsh. “He just doesn’t know it.”

“Why not?”

“They all thought he was illegitimate. That was why he was put away, given a false name, brought up far from London.”

Susan was genuinely interested. Her mind was working like one of the new railway engines. “When did they find out the truth?”

“I found out the truth. They don’t know it yet. There was a marriage between Edmund and the Trenchards’ daughter. In Brussels. Before Waterloo. But they think it was false. They think it was a trick to seduce her.”

Susan blinked. So many revelations at once. Oliver’s sister, Sophia, of sacred memory in that household, had been seduced. Except, no, she had not. At least, not without a wedding first. It was almost too much to take in. “So you say they don’t yet know the truth?”

“I don’t believe so. You see, I had a friend of mine look into the marriage, and it was legal.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his inner pocket. “They think the clergyman who presided at the ceremony was in reality a soldier, and so it wasn’t valid. When the facts are that he was a soldier, and an Anglican priest as well. And I have the proof right here.”

“I’m impressed you haven’t burned the papers. If they don’t yet know.”

At this, he laughed again. “Don’t be. I would have done, but there’s no point. I only have copies of the proof of the marriage. They have the originals.”

“But if they haven’t seen your friend’s evidence—”

“They’ll find out the truth. They’re bound to.”

And now Susan saw her chance. Far from his loss ruining her hopes, she realized almost at once that it gave her a real option for the future. A realistic ambition. “John,” she said carefully. “If all this is true and the title is gone—”

“And the money.”

She nodded. “And the money. Then why shouldn’t we marry? I know you would not have chosen me if you’d been the head of your family, but now you will be the son of a younger son. It’s not so much. I can divorce Oliver and go to my father. He has money of his own, lots of it, and I’m an only child. I’ll inherit everything. We could have a good life together. We’d be comfortable. We could have more children. You might take up a commission in the army, or we could buy land. There may be better-bred women on offer, but few who could provide for you as well as I can.” She paused. She had made what sounded to her own ears like a good case. She would have a husband in Society, and he would have the means to live like a gentleman. Surely, given his situation, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain?

John stared at her for what seemed like an age.

Then he threw back his head and laughed. Except he didn’t just laugh. He roared with laughter. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. Then he stopped and turned to face her. “Do you imagine that I, John Bellasis, the grandson of the Earl of Brockenhurst, whose ancestors fought in the Crusades and on almost every major European battlefield since, would ever—” He stared at her with malice, his eyes as hard and cold as stone. “Do you seriously imagine that I would ever marry the divorced daughter of a dirty tradesman?”

Susan recoiled with a gasp, as if she had been drenched with icy water. He had started to laugh again now, almost hysterically. As if all his own misery at his fall were finding its expression in his cruel, savage humor.

It was a hard and vicious slap across her face. Susan stood, her hands on her cheeks, her heart racing.

He hadn’t finished. “Don’t you understand? I need to make a brilliant marriage. Now more than ever. Not Maria Grey, with her downcast looks and her empty purse. A brilliant marriage, do you hear me? And I am sorry, my dear, but that scenario could never include you.” He shook his head. “Poor little Susan Trenchard. A grubby little tradesman’s tart. What a joke.”

She was quite silent and still for a moment, not speaking, not moving, until she felt she once more had mastery of her body and her voice. Then she spoke. “I wonder if you would ask your man to call me a hackney carriage? I will follow him down directly.”

“Can’t you go down now and hail one yourself?” He spoke to her as if they had never met before this day.

“Please, John. There is no need for us to part so badly.”

Was it some tiny shred of decency, a last trace of honor, that made him grumble “very well” and leave the room to give the order? No sooner was he gone than she’d seized the papers abandoned near his chair, stuffed them into her reticule, and hurried out. She was halfway down the stairs before she heard him call her name, but she quickened her pace and ran through the courtyard into the street. A minute later, she was in a hackney cab and on her way home. As John rushed out onto the pavement, looking furiously up and down Piccadilly, she shrank from the window and leaned back in her seat.

Oliver Trenchard was in James’s library in Eaton Square, drinking a glass of brandy and leafing through a copy of the Times. By his own standards, if not his father’s, he’d had a busy day, although the office and his work for the Cubitt brothers had played no part in it. He’d been riding in Hyde Park for most of the morning, visited his tailor’s in Savile Row to approve the design of a pair of shooting breeches, then a luncheon party in Wilton Crescent, after which he joined a group of friends for a game of whist. Although Oliver wasn’t a gambler. He disliked losing too much for his wins to offset it. In fact, while his lack of industry may not have pleased his father, Oliver’s vices weren’t great. It was true that he drank when he was unhappy, but his real sin would have been women, if only he could have shaken off the image of his wife whenever he had an assignation. There she would be in his mind, with her superior smile and her eyes looking for someone to flirt with, someone other than her husband… and he would abandon his plans and go home. If he could just learn to forget her, he knew he could be content. Or so he told himself as he settled into his chair and raised his glass to his lips, hoping to avoid both his father and Susan.

Despite living in the same house, Oliver had successfully managed not to speak to his father since that unpleasant luncheon at James’s club. He had deliberately left the house late every morning long after James had gone to work, and he often returned home in the small hours, hoping his parents would both be safely tucked up in bed. However, that day he’d miscalculated, thinking James was out to dinner, and just as he put down his glass and folded the paper in half, his father walked into the room.

James stopped in his tracks. He was evidently not expecting to see his son there, either. “Are you still reading the Times?” he asked, slightly awkwardly after such a long silence between them.

“Unless you would like it, Father?” Oliver replied, politely enough.

“No, no. Carry on. I just came in to find a book. Do you know where your mother is?”

“Upstairs. She was tired after a long walk this afternoon. She wanted a rest before dinner.”

James nodded. “You have no trouble speaking to her, then?”

“I have no quarrel with her,” said Oliver calmly.

“Just with me.” James was beginning to sense that the tensions between them were coming to some sort of climax. Were he and Oliver at last to join battle when they had delayed it for so long?

“You and Charles Pope.”

This was the mystery that James could not fathom. “And you dislike him so much that you were prepared to travel the length of England just to try to ruin his good name?”

“Did he have a good name to ruin?” Oliver snorted, and returned to his paper.

“Did you give those men money? In Manchester? To write the letters?” James demanded.

“I had no need to. They wanted him destroyed as much as I.”

“But why?” James shook his head in disbelief and stared at his son. It was so hard to understand. Here was Oliver, a passenger in life, reading in this pleasant library which was fitted up like the best gentlemen’s libraries that James had seen, gilded spines gleaming in the light from the oil lamps. A portrait of King George III hung over the chimneypiece, and an inlaid desk sat between the bookshelves on the long wall. What could be nicer? An oasis of civilization in the city. How different from the ragged, crumbling, threadbare setting of his own youth. And what had Oliver done to earn it? Nothing. But was he ever satisfied, ever happy, ever even content? “So you deliberately went all the way to Manchester just to find something, anything, that would damage Mr. Pope in my eyes?”

“Yes.” Oliver did not see much point in obfuscating now.

James was bewildered. “Why would you want to ruin a man who has never done anything to you?”

“Never done anything to me?” Oliver repeated the words in a tone of wonder. “He has stolen my father and is in the process of stealing my fortune. Is that nothing?”

James snorted with indignation. “It’s nonsense.”

But this time Oliver had decided to say it all. His father wanted to know what was behind his hatred of Pope. Very well. He would tell him. “You lavish him with your attention, this newcomer, this outsider, this upstart! You give him your money and your praise without stinting!”

“I believe in him.”

“That may be.” Oliver was almost sobbing. He felt himself starting to shake. “But, by God, you don’t believe in me, and you never have! You’ve never supported me, never cared for me, never listened to anything I’ve said—”

James could feel a fist of anger forming in his chest. “May I remind you that I have gone out on a limb, endangering my friendship with the Cubitts, men I respect more than anyone living, in order to make a career for you? And what is my reward? To see you miss every meeting, cut every appointment, to go riding, to go shooting, to go walking in the park! Am I not allowed to be disappointed? Am I not allowed to feel that my son is not worthy of the trouble I have taken?”

Oliver stared at his father, this undignified, insignificant man, with his red face and his tight coats, who knew so little of the finer things in life. It was odd. In one way he despised the man. In another he craved his respect. Oliver could not really understand the situation or himself, but he knew he could not keep silent anymore about what troubled him most. “I am sorry, Father, but I cannot change places with Sophia, which we both know is what you would have wished. I cannot place myself in the grave and set her free. It is out of my hands.”

So saying, he wrenched the door open and left James alone in the flickering light from the grate.

Susan was unusually quiet as Speer dressed her hair before dinner. The maid had some inkling that things had not been smooth between her mistress and Mr. Bellasis, but of course she could only guess what had gone wrong. Naturally, she knew that Mrs. Oliver was pregnant—something no one can hide from a lady’s maid—and she was equally sure Mr. Bellasis was the father, since eleven years with Mr. Oliver had not produced even a miscarriage. But if Mr. Bellasis and her mistress had been discussing the matter that afternoon, and if Mrs. Oliver had dreams for the future that included Mr. Bellasis, they had obviously been dashed.

“Are you ready to dress, ma’am?” asked the maid.

“A little later. I have something I want to do first. And can you find me a piece of paper and a ribbon?” Susan waited patiently until the maid returned, carrying what she had been asked for. Then her mistress took out a bundle of papers from her reticule, rolled them in the sheet of white paper, tied the ribbon, and sealed it with some wax from her writing desk in the corner. She turned to Speer. “I need you to write on this. Just write James Trenchard, Esquire.”

“But why, ma’am?”

“Never mind why. Mr. Trenchard does not know your handwriting. He does know mine. I won’t ask for your secrecy. You already know enough to hang me.”

The maid was not entirely reassured, but she sat at the desk and did as she was told. Susan thanked her, took up the bundle, and left the room.

James was almost dressed when he heard the knock on his dressing room door. “Who is it?”

“Me, Father.”

He could not remember Susan ever visiting his dressing room before. But he was decent and needed only his topcoat to complete his toilet, so he opened the door and asked her in, dismissing his valet as he did so.

“How can I help?” he said.

“This bundle was handed to me outside on the street, as I came toward our front door.” She held out the packet and he took it.

Her manner was subdued, which was quite unlike her, and for a moment James wondered if there was more to this than she was saying. He stared at the packet she had placed in his hands. “Handed to you by whom?”

“I don’t know. A boy. He ran off.”

“How odd.” But he had opened the packet and now he started to look through its contents. The blood seemed to drain from his face as he read through page after page. At last he looked back at Susan. “This boy, was he a servant? A page?”

“I don’t know. He was just a boy.”

James stood quite still for another long moment. “I must go and see Mrs. Trenchard.”

“Before you do, there is something else I want you to know.” Susan summoned up her courage. She was placing everything she had on the next roll of the dice. She’d assumed a modest, almost blushing manner, which seemed appropriate, but she had to gauge it just right. She took a deep breath. This was the moment. “I’m going to have a child,” she said.

And suddenly James’s happiness was doubled, trebled, quadrupled. In one flash, his daughter’s name was rescued from shame, his grandson would inherit a great position, and his son, the next Trenchard in the line, would also have an heir. For a second, he thought he would literally explode with joy. In the two or three minutes since his daughter-in-law had joined him in the room, his life had entirely changed. “Oh, my dear. Are you certain?”

“Quite. But now you must go to Mother.”

“May I tell her?”

“Of course.”

On the whole, Susan was relieved when she returned to her bedroom to find Speer laying out her clothes for the evening. She had ensured the ruin of John Bellasis, which had been her principal purpose. If the Trenchards had not known the truth before tonight, they would know it now. That done, she had embarked on a plan to save her own reputation, and while the outcome of her gamble was uncertain, she was still glad that the end was in sight.

John Bellasis was cursing himself for not having burned the proof of Bouverie’s appointment to the ministry. Why had he kept it? What good was it to him? And if he’d destroyed it, then Susan would only have had papers to show them that were copies of the ones already in Anne Trenchard’s possession. Who knows how long the Trenchards would have continued in their belief that the marriage was a sham? But now, thanks to his stupidity, he was lost, and everything was beyond his control, thanks to that ridiculous woman. If he could have strangled her then and there he would have done it.

Impulsively, John took a cab to Eaton Square, but when he got out of the vehicle, he hesitated. If he rang the doorbell, what would happen? He would be shown in and eventually someone—probably not Susan but someone—would see him, and then what would he say? After a few more minutes, he decided not to wait and be spotted by a member of the family or a servant as he lounged against the railing protecting the gardens of the square. Instead, he went round the corner to the Horse and Groom, where he always met Turton. If the butler were there, he might prevail on him to… what? Steal back the papers? What good would that do? He assumed Susan would have shown the documents to the family, and by now they would know Bouverie was genuine. They could easily find more proof to back up the claim. Very well. He would just have a drink to calm himself down and then he might walk back to Albany. Perhaps twenty minutes outside in the cool of the evening would dampen his fury. He pushed the door open and looked around.

But it was not Turton leaning against the long, scarred, and stained wooden bar that ran almost the length of the low and smoky room. It was Oliver Trenchard, nursing a glass of what looked like whisky. And, as he saw him, John Bellasis had an idea. It was a desperate one, maybe, but desperate times breed desperate measures. He knew from Susan that Oliver hated Charles Pope, that he blamed his own estrangement from his father on the newcomer, and that he would do anything to be rid of him. He knew, too, from his erstwhile mistress that Pope was aware he’d caused Oliver and his father to quarrel, and Pope was sorry for it. Oliver had told his wife that the man hadn’t denied the charges he’d brought against him, but that James had never believed they were true. Susan had more than enough cleverness in her to solve this puzzle, as she’d confided in John. Obviously, Charles Pope was uncomfortable that he had pushed father and son apart and was trying not to make things worse. John frowned. Couldn’t he use the quarrel? Wouldn’t Pope do anything he could to patch it up? Couldn’t he, John, make Oliver his instrument?

The plan continued to form in his mind. Oliver wanted Pope out of the way; he’d made no secret of it. He had denounced Pope in front of many people, including his own wife. If anything happened to Charles Pope, wouldn’t Oliver Trenchard be the first suspect? And if they could find proof that Oliver and Pope had arranged to meet…

Oliver looked up. He saw the figure of John watching him and almost blinked in case it was an illusion. “Mr. Bellasis? Is that you? What on earth are you doing in this stinking hole?”

“I was going to have a drink to calm myself.” It was an odd answer.

“Do you need calming?” asked Oliver.

John moved closer, casually leaning against the bar alongside the other man. “You know who I mean by Charles Pope?” He smiled, but inwardly, as he saw Oliver’s face flush with rage.

“If I hear that name one more time—”

John signaled to the barman for two more glasses of whisky. “I should like to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget,” he said.

Oliver nodded. “And I’d like to help you.”

“Would you?” said John, taking hold of his glass and downing the contents in one. “Because you could help me, if you’ve a mind to.”

The owner looked along the bar at the two men, heads bent, muttering into each other’s ear. He wondered what it could be about, this urgent conference. He’d seen them both in here before, but never together.

James walked into his wife’s bedroom while Ellis was still tidying her hair. “May I see you alone for a moment?” said James.

Anne thanked the maid. “Come back in ten minutes,” she said. Then, when the door was closed, she turned to her husband. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“Look at these.” He placed the papers in front of her.

She looked through the first two or three. “Where did you get them?”

“Some boy pushed them into Susan’s hands as she was walking into the house. What do you make of them? They’re copies, of course.”

“I know they are copies,” said Anne, standing. “I have the originals.” She bent to unlock the cupboard and retrieved the papers that Jane Croft had given her. She said nothing as she handed them to him.

She could see at once that James was hurt. “Why didn’t you say anything to me about them?” he said.

She wouldn’t give him the real reason—that she’d wanted to keep a part of Sophia for herself. It was only for a little while, she’d told herself. She had planned to show them to him eventually. Whether she would have kept to this, Anne would never now know. “They’re Sophia’s false marriage papers. She told her maid to burn them when we were in Brussels, but the woman never did. Croft came here to put them into my keeping when she was on her way to America. They change nothing.” James looked at his wife for a moment before he spoke. The enormity of what he had to say silenced him. Anne was puzzled. “If I’m missing something, please tell me what it is.” She sat, waiting patiently.

“This is what you’re missing.” James removed one paper from the others. “It is not a copy, and you will not have seen it.” Anne took the sheet from his hand. “Someone has looked into the man who faked the marriage. Richard Bouverie, or the Honorable and Reverend Richard Bouverie, to be precise. Because it seems he was a clergyman before he rejoined the army and was therefore fully qualified to perform the marriage service. In other words, the wedding was not a sham. Sophia was Lady Bellasis when she died, and Charles is legitimate.”

“And Edmund was an honorable man.” Anne’s eyes filled with tears as she thought of how they had traduced and turned against this brave young man who may have been impetuous and even foolish, but who had truly loved their daughter and wanted only the best for her. She would go to church the next day and have prayers said in his name.

“How like you to think of that.” But James, too, was happy that his judgment of his daughter’s suitor had not been so wide of the mark. He’d spent the last quarter of a century blaming himself for Sophia’s ruin, but now he wondered why he’d allowed himself to be so easily convinced and not looked further into it at the time. Why had they all simply accepted Sophia’s horrified verdict, when she saw Bouverie outside the Richmonds’ house, that the man was a charlatan? But then, how easy it is to do things better with the benefit of hindsight.

Anne was still staring at the papers laid out before her on her dressing table. “How did you say Susan got them?” she asked.

“A boy pushed them into her hands in the street.”

“But I know this writing—”

Anne could not finish the thought before the door opened and Ellis reappeared. “Are you ready for me, ma’am?”

Anne nodded and James started to gather up the bundle as Ellis crossed the room to join her mistress. Then she stopped with a gasp and her hand flew to her mouth. She was quite unprepared for the sight of the papers in Anne’s hands, and she’d spoken before she could regain control of her senses. “Where did you get those?” she said, only hearing the words after she had spoken them. Then, faced by their stares, Ellis made a desperate bid to save herself. “I mean, what interesting-looking papers, ma’am.”

Anne was the next to speak. There were not too many candidates, after all, if the papers had been copied by someone whose writing was familiar to her. And it was Ellis who had welcomed Croft when she first arrived. “Would you like to tell me about them, Ellis?” She studied the floundering maid, this woman who had helped her and served her for thirty years and yet about whom she knew so little. Could she, Anne, have betrayed her employer of thirty years if their roles had been reversed? She doubted it, but then she’d never had to endure the bitter tests of humiliation and survival that were so often the hallmarks of a servant’s life.

James was becoming impatient. “If there is anything you can tell us to diminish your guilt, now is the time to say it.”

Ellis’s mind was in turmoil. Of course she should have insisted Mr. Bellasis read the copies and then burn them in front of her eyes. But would he have obeyed her? Probably not. She was thinking fast. Her job was gone, she could not save it, but she might at least manage to stay out of prison. “It was Mr. Turton, sir. It was him what found them in Miss Croft’s bag, and he made the copies.”

“On whose orders?”

Ellis thought. She’d lied about Turton searching for the papers, but was there any point in lying further? Would it benefit her to save Mr. Bellasis? No. He wouldn’t pay her any more now. What would he have to gain by it? But then, there were her references to consider. How was she to get another job without good references? And Mrs. Trenchard wouldn’t want to give them, that was certain. Ellis started to weep. She had always been quite good at weeping when it was required. “I’m ever so sorry, ma’am. If I’d known it might hurt you, I’d never have gone near the whole business.”

“You watched Turton copy out Miss Sophia’s letters, yet you never thought it might hurt me?” Anne’s tone had become hard.

James was fidgeting. “The point is, who were they copied for?”

Ellis decided some direct talk might save time. “I know I’ve lost my place, sir. But I’m not a bad woman.”

“You’re not a good one,” said Anne with some asperity.

“I’ve been weak. I know that. But if I have no references, I’ll starve.”

“I see.” James was in command of the situation at once. He understood what they were being told sooner than his wife. “You’re saying that if we will give you some sort of reference, you will tell us who asked for the copies to be made. Is that it?”

Of course that was exactly it, so Ellis was silent. She stood there before them, staring down at her hands.

“Very well.” James silenced his wife with a gesture when it looked as if she might intervene. “We will give you a reference, not a glowing one, but a reference that should make it possible for you to find gainful employment.”

Ellis sighed with relief. She was glad she’d had the presence of mind to bargain with her last chip. “Mr. Turton made the copies for Mr. Bellasis, sir.”

Anne looked up, startled. “Mr. John Bellasis? Lady Brockenhurst’s nephew?”

Ellis nodded. “That’s the one, ma’am.”

James was thinking. “Of course it was John Bellasis. And he’ll have been the one to look into the man Bouverie. Which we should have done twenty years ago. If Bouverie was a fake, then John Bellasis would still be the next Earl. If Bouverie was genuine, then Bellasis would have nothing.” He had forgotten Ellis’s presence for a moment, but a discreet cough from Anne brought him back to the present.

“What was your role in all this, Ellis?” Anne said.

The woman hesitated. How much should she tell? She’d got her reference now, and she knew the Trenchards well enough to be sure they would not go back on their word. Still, there was no need to tell them more than was necessary. “Mr. Turton made me take the copies around to Mr. Bellasis’s rooms.”

Anne nodded. “Very well. You may go. You may stay the night here, but you will leave tomorrow. With your reference.”

Ellis bobbed a curtsy and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. Things could be worse, she thought as she started down the stairs. She’d been paid well enough until the end, and she had some money saved, thanks to her tips from Mr. B. She’d find another job with someone too stupid and selfish to take the trouble to look into her past.

Back in the room, James Trenchard took his wife’s hand. “We mustn’t tell anyone. Not Charles Pope, not the Brockenhursts, not the family. We must have this information on the clergyman checked and rechecked until we know for certain that Sophia’s marriage was legal. Then we must investigate how we have it registered with the authorities. I do not want to raise anyone’s hopes only to let them down.”

Anne nodded. Of course she was happy. She was delirious with joy. But there were elements of the story that didn’t quite seem logical. If John Bellasis had gone to the trouble of researching the marriage, why would he not guard the information closely? Surely he would have been praying that the validity of the marriage would remain a secret. Edmund was dead. Sophia was dead. Bouverie was dead. The only proof was the paper he’d commissioned, and if he’d burned it, no one would have been any the wiser. So why did he let it out of his hands so carelessly? And who was this boy who gave the bundle to Susan in the street?

“There’s something else.” James’s voice brought her back into the present. “It was driven out of my mind for a moment, but you’ll be very happy.” He paused for effect. “Susan is pregnant.”

It was like an answer to Anne’s unspoken question. “Is she, really?” She arranged the expression on her face to one of delight.

James nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “She just told me. Over ten years with Oliver, and nothing. We’d all given up. And yet now she’s going to have a baby. Isn’t it extraordinary? What can have changed?”

“What indeed?” said Anne.

Oliver was late arriving home, and Susan was dressed and ready when he looked into her room.

“I think I’ll go on down,” she said.

“Do. Start dinner if you like.”

She could see he was angry. Had he and James had another quarrel? He was swaying a little and held on to the door frame to steady himself. So he was drunk. Never mind. She would go down and use the time she had alone with his parents as best she could. She was guessing her way through this trial, but if she could only get it right, if she could only carry them with her, then disaster might be avoided. Oliver would be her greatest test, but there was no point in speaking to him while he was in this state. The key to it was courage, and while Susan might have been short of some of the other virtues, she did not lack that.

When she reached the drawing room, her parents-in-law were there and waiting. She approached Anne with a sinking stomach. Of all of them, Anne was the one with enough brains and enough understanding of human nature to guess the truth. “Has Father told you?” She waited, patiently, for the reaction.

“He has,” said Anne. “Congratulations.” But her tone was not delirious. She looked at her daughter-in-law through new eyes.

“Go on!” shouted James from across the room. “Give her a kiss!”

Anne leaned forward and planted a cool peck on Susan’s cheek.

Susan dutifully kissed her back. “Oliver may be a while. He’d only just arrived home when I came down. He says we’re to go in without him, if we want.”

“Oh, I think we can wait,” said Anne, coolly. “James? Have you spoken to Turton?”

Her husband shook his head. “I thought I’d leave it until after dinner. Or is that cowardly?”

“It’s important that he hears it from you and not from Ellis, although we may already be too late.”

“Quite right.” Her husband nodded briskly. “I suppose we’d better give him some sort of reference as well, if she’s to have one. I’ll look out a couple of bottles of champagne while I’m down there.” In another moment he was gone and the two women were alone.

Susan had dressed carefully but demurely for the evening. She wore a shirt of pale russet chiffon and a darker russet wide silk skirt. Her hair was arranged in a simple chignon with becoming curls in front of her ears. The effect she was striving for was well-bred simplicity, a good woman, pure, upright, a pillar of society. That was how she wanted to look, as Anne recognized well enough.

“Shall we sit down?’ said Anne, and they did, choosing two pretty gilded chairs on either side of the marble chimneypiece. After a moment, Anne continued. “Why did John Bellasis give you those papers?”

Of course the question was a shock, catching Susan off guard for a moment. Her breath stuck in her throat, but she stopped herself from lying just in time. Her mother-in-law had guessed the truth, or at least some of it, and the younger woman had the sure sense that she might just possibly get through if she spoke boldly, but she knew she would not if she hid behind lies.

“He didn’t. I took them.”

Anne nodded. She almost liked Susan for not attempting to deceive her further. “May I ask why?”

“He told me they proved that Charles Pope was legitimate and the heir to his uncle, and that once they were shown to the right people, he, John, would lose everything. You couldn’t have known any of that, or why was Mr. Pope left toiling away in some dirty mill in the north?”

“We knew there was a marriage, but we did not believe it was genuine.”

“John seemed to think you’d have the facts investigated when you saw the original letters, and then you’d learn the truth.”

Anne sighed. “And so we should have, a quarter of a century ago. But now Mr. Bellasis has done it for us. It’s ironic, really. If he’d left well enough alone we would probably have been none the wiser.” This thought had only just occurred to Anne. It made her dizzy. “Why did you want to harm him? If you were lovers?”

Again, the boldness of the question winded Susan for a second time, but she was in deep by now. Only the truth would suffice. “I wanted him to marry me, if I divorced Oliver. I never dreamed of such a thing when I thought he would become Lord Brockenhurst—or if I did, I knew it was just a dream. But when he was only the penniless son of a younger son, it did not seem outlandish. I shall have more money than him. Much more.”

“I agree with you.” Anne sounded as if they were discussing the merits and demerits of a new cook. “I should have thought you might have been the answer to his prayers.”

“Well, I wasn’t,” said Susan. “He laughed in my face at my presumption.”

“I see.” Anne did see. Susan had been dazzled by this handsome man with his style and his Society manner. They had met when she was lonely and barren and unloved. “So you aren’t barren, after all,” she added. “That must be a relief, albeit a complicated one.”

Susan almost smiled. “If I’d known the fault lay with Oliver and not with me, I’d have been more careful.” How strange this exchange felt. She looked around the room, with its pleasant colors and gleaming furniture and pictures, a room she knew so well but would never think of in the same way again. They were talking like two equals now, two friends even, which in one way was extraordinary when Susan thought about it, although she had always had a higher opinion of Anne than of any other member of the family.

“And this is the point.” Her mother-in-law’s voice became more serious again. “Oliver is unable to father children.” There was real sorrow in her tone and so there should be, thought Susan. It is terrible for a mother to know that her son can never have an heir.

“It seems he cannot father them with me. But then, Napoléon couldn’t have children with Josephine but had a son with Marie Louise.”

“Oliver is not Napoléon,” said Anne with a certain finality. She was thinking. There was a silence between them, interrupted only by the ticking clock on the mantel shelf and the burning coal shifting noisily in the grate. Then she looked at Susan directly. “I want to be sure about the deal you are offering.”

“Deal?” Susan had not thought of it as a deal.

“You want to stay with Oliver now that your exit route with John Bellasis has been cut off?”

Susan’s heart was thudding in her chest. The next few minutes would decide her fate. “I would like to stay in this family, yes.”

There was a sudden yapping that made them both jump. Agnes had woken from her place on the hearthrug and was pushing against Anne’s skirts, begging to be lifted. Once the dog had been settled in her lap, Anne continued. “How will you handle Oliver? I assume he must know the child is not his.”

Susan nodded. “Yes, he will know. But leave Oliver to me.”

“What do you want of us, then, James and me?” Anne was curious to see how much of this was planned. In fact, Susan was making it up as she went along, but she had enough style to make the whole business sound premeditated.

“I want Oliver to see how pleased Father is by the news, how overjoyed, how proud of his son, how happy. It is a long time since Oliver made his father happy.”

Anne did not say anything for a while. The silence was long enough for Susan to wonder whether the surreal conversation had come to an end. But then Anne did speak. “You mean, you want Oliver to understand that he has a great deal to gain if he accepts the child as his?”

“He will be the winner by it.” Susan was actually coming to believe this.

Anne nodded slowly. “I will do my best, and I will keep your secret, on one condition. If you will live at Glanville.”

Susan stared at her. Live in Somerset? Two or even three days’ journey from the capital? “Live there?” she said, as if it must have been a question intended for someone else.

“Yes. Live there. And I will keep your secret.”

Susan was beginning to understand that she had no choice in the matter. Anne spoke as if she were asking a question when in fact she was giving an order.

She had not finished. “It’s time for us to admit that Oliver will never be happy in the career James has mapped out for him. He will never make his mark in development or trade or any of it. Very well. Let him be a country gentleman. That’s what he wants. Who knows? He might be a success.” In truth, the loss of Glanville was a dagger to her heart. It was like the loss of a limb; worse, the loss of half her life. Glanville had been her love and her joy, but she knew it would be her child’s redemption and so it must be. “I will continue to visit, but not as the mistress of the place. From now on, that would be your position. If you’ll take it on. Will you?”

Susan already knew no other decision was possible. What contrasting fates lay ahead? On the one hand, to be a divorced, adulterous wife with a bastard child, living in exile, alone and rejected by anyone of even the smallest pretensions. On the other, to find herself the mistress of a great house in the West Country, with a husband and a son or daughter, playing her role in county society. It wasn’t exactly difficult. But…

“Could I come up to London for the Season?”

Anne smiled for the first time since Susan had entered the room. “Yes. You will come here for two months every year.”

“And I may make the occasional visit?”

“You may. Although I think you’ll be surprised by how much you enjoy country life once you enter into it.” Anne paused. “I have one other condition.”

Susan tensed. So far, this was an arrangement she could live with if she had to. And she had to. “What is it?”

“James must never know. This baby will be his grandchild, and he must never even suspect anything else.”

Susan nodded. “If it is left to me, he will never know a thing, and I will do my best to make sure Oliver never gives us away. But now I have a condition.”

Anne was surprised. “Are you in a position to make conditions?”

“I think I can make this one. Oliver must never suspect that you know the truth. The child’s beginnings will be our secret, Oliver’s and mine. Only then will he be able to protect his dignity.”

Anne nodded. “I see that. Yes. You have my word.”

“Your word on what?” James’s voice startled them, but Anne was always in control of her own reactions.

“That they will have Glanville for their use. A child should grow up in the country. Did you find the champagne?”

“I’ve asked for it at the end of dinner.”

How easily she could distract him. Before James could make any further comment, the door opened and Oliver came in. He had changed and splashed some water on his face, which seemed to have sobered him up, much to Susan’s relief. Although strange thoughts assailed her as she looked at her husband. By the time she slept tonight, her future life would have been decided, one way or the other.

As his son entered the room, James let out a spontaneous cheer. “Hurrah! My dearest boy!” he shouted, grinning from ear to ear. “Many congratulations!” He was hugging the young man so tightly he couldn’t see the look of bewilderment on his face.

Oliver looked over at his mother and opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she talked firmly across him. “This is wonderful news, Oliver. Susan and I have been discussing things, and I might as well say it now: You are to have Glanville. You must give up your London work and retire to Somerset.”

“What’s this? You never said he’d have to retire.” James broke loose from the embrace, but Anne silenced him with a gesture of her hand.

“There’s plenty of money. Why not? What are we trying to prove? Oliver was born to be a squire, not a businessman.” Anne looked at her husband. She knew this was one of those moments in a marriage when a key decision is taken, almost by chance, that will change everything. James had wanted his son to follow in his footsteps ever since Oliver was a boy, and it had led to failure and resentment and to the pair of them falling out to the extent that they could barely speak. “Wouldn’t you rather admire him than feel disappointed all the time?” she murmured into his ear. “Do your business with Charles. Let Oliver go his own way.”

James looked at her and then nodded. It was faint, but he nodded.

Anne smiled. “Thank you, God,” she whispered under her breath, though whether she was addressing her Maker or her husband she hardly knew.

“What is happening? Why are you talking like this?” Oliver was entirely bemused. It seemed that all his dreams were being made true in an instant, but why?

James sighed. He had accepted Anne’s decision. “Perhaps your mother is right. A child should grow up in the country.”

“A child?” Once again, Oliver could not believe that his ears were working properly.

“We don’t have to keep it to ourselves any longer, my dearest one,” said Susan. “I’ve told them.” Her voice was calm and firm. “They’re so happy for us, and Mother wants to give us Glanville. So we can live there as a family.” Now she began to gush, like a girl on her way to a first ball, deliberately creating a wall of sound behind which Oliver could gather his thoughts. His face darkened, so she jabbered even more. “Isn’t it wonderful? Isn’t it what you’ve always wanted?” Her eyes were boring into his, holding him like Dr. Mesmer in a hypnotic trance. She drew close, taking him in her arms and bringing her lips to his ear. “Say nothing.” She squeezed him as she spoke. “We’ll talk later, but if you speak now we may lose everything, and we will never have another chance like this. Be silent now.” His body stiffened, but for once he heard her words and he stayed quiet. He would think before he wielded the ax.

Mr. Turton was a very angry man. He’d served this family for more than two decades, and now he was to be turned out into the streets like a dog. He’d been told to leave in the morning by the master just before dinner was announced, and he’d been sitting in the servants’ hall ever since. The rest of the staff were avoiding him, but Miss Ellis was there with her own tale of dismissal, and now they were sampling a bottle of the best Margaux he could find in the cellar. “Drink up,” he said. “There’s more if we want it.”

Ellis sipped the delicious wine carefully. She enjoyed good wine, but she did not like to be drunk. Being drunk meant losing control, and that was something she would never allow if she could help it. “Where will you go?” she said.

“I’ve a cousin in Shoreditch. I can stay there. For a few days, anyway.” Turton was seething. “While I look around and see what’s going.”

Ellis nodded. “We’ve Mrs. Oliver to blame for this. If she hadn’t poked her nose in where it wasn’t wanted, we’d be high and dry.”

The butler was surprised. “I don’t see what she’s done. Miss Speer said a boy just pushed the papers into her hands in the street. What was she supposed to do?”

“Don’t give me that.” Ellis raised her eyes in exasperation. “Mrs. Oliver’s no better than she ought to be. How do you think she’s pregnant after ten years of sleeping with Mr. Oliver and nothing to show for it?”

Turton was astonished. “How do you know she’s pregnant?”

“Never ask a lady’s maid a question like that.” Ellis finished her glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. “Just take my word. Mrs. Oliver and Mr. Bellasis have been playing games not fit for children.”

“Mr. Bellasis?” Turton felt as if he must have been asleep and missed everything.

“I saw her. When I took the papers to him. Just as I was leaving. She dodged out of sight, but I knew it was her.” Ellis nodded wisely. “There was no boy. She took those papers to punish him, I shouldn’t wonder. She’ll have wanted him to stand by her, but Mr. Bellasis wouldn’t bother with a tradesman’s daughter like her. Not him.” She threw her head back with a harsh laugh.

“I see.” Turton thought for a moment. “Is there anything there for us, Miss Ellis? Anything that might prove useful?”

She stared at him, the same thought gradually dawning. “I don’t think we could get anything from him, Mr. Turton. What would he care if all the world knew her for a slut? But she might pay to keep it quiet. If we leave it a while, until the baby’s born—”

“I don’t think so.” The voice made them start. They’d both thought themselves alone. Speer stepped into the doorway.

“What are you doing there, Miss Speer? Are you spying on us?” Turton’s voice was sharp, as if he could take command of the situation, as he had always taken command for so many years.

“Excuse me, Mr. Turton, but you’re not the butler here now. You’ve been sacked.” Speer’s voice rapped out the words so they almost seemed to echo around the walls. “And don’t think I’ll take your orders any more, ’cause I won’t.” This was a side of Speer neither of them had seen before. She came toward them and took a seat at the table. She was quite casual in her manner, more at home than they, and when she spoke again, her voice was like the soft purr of a cat.

“If you ever approach Mrs. Oliver again, either of you, by letter or by word, I will report you to the police for theft. I will testify against you and you will serve a term in prison. After which you will find no further work as servants, not for the rest of your lives.”

For a moment, there was complete silence between them all. Then Ellis spoke. “What have I ever stolen?”

“Items from Mrs. Babbage’s kitchen. The pair of you stole them together. Wine, meat, general supplies. Why, over the years you must have stolen hundreds of pounds’ worth and sold them for your benefit.”

“That’s not true!” Ellis was angry now. She’d done enough bad things, she’d spied and even lied, but she was never a thief.

“Maybe,” said Speer. “But Mrs. Babbage will testify against you. If they make inquiries they’ll know that stuff went missing while you were both here, and do you think she’d testify against herself?” She smiled, eyeing her own fingernails. It was the first moment Turton fully realized that, along with his job, he had lost his power.

After a moment, he nodded. Of course the cook would never incriminate herself, he could see that, not to save him or to save Miss Ellis, who had always treated her as a lower species of being.

“I’m going to bed,” said Turton, getting to his feet.

But Speer wasn’t finished. “I must have your word, both of you. We will never hear from either of you again, once you have left this house.”

Ellis stared at her, this taut, composed figure who was queening it over them from the security of her position. “She’ll get rid of you, Miss Speer. You know too much. She won’t want that hanging around her in years to come.”

The maid thought for a moment. “Perhaps. But if she asks me to go, I’ll only do it with the kind of references that would get me a job at Buckingham Palace.” Of course this was true, so Ellis did not attempt a rejoinder. Miss Speer hadn’t finished. “For the moment, she is my mistress, and my job is to protect her from the likes of you.” Ellis glanced at Mr. Turton. How little attention they’d paid to her, this nobody who, all of a sudden, was telling them what to do.

The butler spoke first. “Rest easy, Miss Speer. You won’t be hearing from me at any point in the future.” With a slight bow, Turton left the room.

“You win, you bitch,” said Ellis. And with that, she rose and followed him out. Speer didn’t mind the insult. She was made of sterner stuff than that. She wondered how to let Mrs. Oliver know what she’d done for her. There must be a way. She knew there was truth in what Miss Ellis had said, and that Mrs. Oliver would want to see the back of her eventually, so she could hire a maid with no memories of Mr. Bellasis or of that time in her life. But, as she had said, whenever that hour came, she, Speer, would be the winner. For now, Mr. Turton and Miss Ellis had left the story, and she was in charge.

Susan came up to bed first. The evening had continued on a note of jollity, mainly driven by James since he was the only innocent in the room. The others—Susan, Oliver, and Anne—knew the truth, so it was rather a draining business to have to listen to James’s ramblings while toasting each other with champagne, and Susan retired as soon as she decently could. She knew what was coming, and she did not have long to wait.

“Whose is it?” Oddly, dinner seemed to have sobered Oliver up even more, which was against all logic, but it was so.

Susan looked at her husband, who was standing half in, half out of the room. This was the final hurdle that faced her. If she could clear this one, then the road ahead was open. She had sent Speer downstairs earlier and was already in bed when he appeared. Now he shut the door carefully and approached her. Clearly, whatever he thought about the matter, he did not want to be overheard.

She was ready for him. “It doesn’t matter whose it is. Your wife is pregnant. Your parents are happy. The life you have always wanted to live has been offered to you.”

“You mean I’m to accept it?”

“Aren’t you?”

He was restless, wandering about the chamber, looking at the books on her shelves, at ornaments on her desk, thinking aloud. “How do I know this mystical figure, the absent father, will not be part of our life from now on? Am I to tolerate that? Am I to be a mari complaisant?”

She shook her head. “No. I will not reveal his name because he is of no importance. I will never see him again—well, not if I can avoid it.”

“I suppose I should have expected something like this. Sooner or later. You’re always flirting, always making a fool of yourself. I’ve seen you. A dozen times.”

Normally, she would have lashed him with her tongue for such an accusation. She was cleverer than Oliver and could always get the better of him. But this time she stayed silent, instinctively sensing the pace at which she should travel. After a few moments, Oliver sat down heavily by the fire, turning his chair to face the bed. The flames cast a flickering light over him, making him seem almost ethereal. “Aren’t you at least going to say you’re sorry?” he said.

Susan braced herself for the boldest part of her argument. She’d had time to think. She was ready. “I am not sorry, because I have done what I set out to do. I am pregnant with our child. That was my purpose, and that is what I have achieved.”

Oliver snorted. “You’re surely not telling me that this was deliberate?”

She stared at him. “Have you ever known me to do anything without a purpose? Have you ever known me to act impetuously?”

She knew from his expression that he was starting to listen to her in spite of himself. “You mean, you thought I could not make you pregnant?”

“You’ve been trying for almost eleven years.”

“But we thought the fault was yours.”

She nodded. “And now we know it was not.” Had she succeeded in deflecting the jealous rage and tantrums that she had been dreading? She continued carefully. “You see, I wanted to be sure it was me and not you, because it had to be one of us.”

“And this is the result.” His face was quite opaque.

“Yes. This is the result. I am pregnant with our child. Whether it’s a boy or a girl, you have an heir. Would you really want to devote your life to Glanville, to the house, to the estate, if you had no one to hand it over to? Is that your ambition?”

“I want my own child.”

“And you shall have it. That is what I want, too. And that is what I shall give you. If I had not done what I’ve done, you would be childless to the end of your days.”

At this, Oliver was silent. On either side of the chimney breast were two oval portraits in chalk of himself and Sophia as children. She must have been about six and he was three or four, wearing a frilly collar over the top of his little woolen jacket. He stared at his long-ago self. He had a vague memory of the artist and of being bribed with an orange to keep still. Susan continued to talk behind him. “We’ll reopen the nurseries at Glanville that have been closed since your mother bought the house. You can teach the child to ride, to swim, to fish, to shoot, if it’s a boy. If you ever want to be a parent, Oliver, this is the only way.”

When he turned back to her, she was almost shocked to see that his eyes had filled with tears. “Are you saying you’ve done this for me?”

“I’ve done it for us.” She felt she now had the reins of this exchange firmly in her hands, and she could steer it as she wished. “We were growing tired of each other, tired of our life together. Our childlessness made us sad every day. I knew it would only be a matter of time before we separated, and what would lie ahead then? For either of us?”

“Why didn’t you tell me your plan?”

“For two reasons. I might truly have been barren, in which case nothing would have come of it, and it would have driven you further away.”

“And the other reason?”

“You would have forbidden me. But, as it is, we are going to be parents.”

He said nothing, but she saw that he reached up quickly to wipe his eyes. The truth was, she had found something buried in Oliver; she had released a man who had been hidden from her for half their marriage. She waited, almost motionless, her hands resting on the counterpane, as he walked back and forth, up and down the embroidered rug at the foot of her bed. There was a noise of a dogfight in the street below, and he went to the window to see if he could make it out.

He was going to forgive her. He knew it by then. He wasn’t sure if she had done all this for him or for herself, but either way, he was now convinced she hadn’t simply taken a lover and been caught out. That’s what he couldn’t have borne. And she was right. The life he had wanted for years was now within his grasp, and it was a good life…

“One thing.” He did not move but spoke with his face still turned toward the windows.

“Name it,” she said, starting to feel relief flooding through her.

“After tonight, we will never again mention that it is not my child. Not even between ourselves.”

Susan felt her breath come more easily. Her shoulders loosened and she leaned back among the lace-edged pillows behind her. Then she spoke with the voice of a lover. “Why would I ever say otherwise? It is your child, my darling. Who else could have a claim to it?”

Then he came to her and took her hands, and bent to kiss her mouth. Initially, the idea was rather revolting to her, but Susan was nothing if not disciplined. She did not feel attracted to this man. Indeed, she wondered if she ever had been. She did not even like him, or enjoy his company. But his affection was essential if she were to make a success of this life on earth. Very well. She would learn to like him. She would even conquer her revulsion at the idea of their making love. After all, she must have liked him once, at least a bit. He was quite wrong, of course. She had absolutely taken a lover in John Bellasis and been caught out, just as her husband had suspected; but that version was gone now, lost in the ether, and she would learn to adopt her own story of personal sacrifice to bring about a child for them to love and bring up together. She reckoned that it would not take her much more than a year to believe it implicitly. If she tried hard enough, she knew she could forget the truth. And with that thought, she opened her mouth to kiss him as passionately as she knew how. His tongue felt unpleasantly large in her mouth at first, and it still tasted of sour wine, but Susan didn’t care.

She was in the clear.