The maid brought Laura her chocolate in bed as usual the next morning, but at her first sip, Laura's stomach gave a violent lurch. She managed to get to the washstand before she threw up — bile, foul-tasting and clear.

Her fingers shaking, she wiped her face and gingerly sipped some water. When the maid returned, Laura told her to tell Richard that she wouldn't be down for breakfast that morning, then lay back down in bed, her hand over her leaping stomach, her mind racing.

She approached the matter circuitously. How long had she been feeling ill? She could not be quite sure — a few weeks at least. And was it getting worse? By the bile still drying in her sink, it certainly was. Well there. There was definitely something different about her. Now what might the cause of this difference be? It might be cancer. Yes. That was a lovely, friendly possibility. She might be dying. She made herself acquainted with the notion. It had to be a possibility after all. But there were other possibilities too, weren't there? Her hand slid down to her belly, soft and flat.

She didn't feel like she had cancer. She didn't feel like she was dying. She felt tired and nauseous and her dresses were too tight in the chest. She'd felt this way once before.

But Richard could not have children.

In which case, she could not be pregnant.

But she rather thought she was.

In which case, Richard could have children.

Was going to have one.

She was out of bed in an instant, her heart racing, to tell him. But at the door that led to his room she stopped herself. What if she was wrong? What if she really was just sick? No. Before she told him, she had to be absolutely sure. She went back to bed where she sat counting the weeks on her fingers, trying to remember when she'd last bled and when the nausea had started. It had been shortly after Edwina was born — in April then? March?

It was the second week of May already. Laura's heart skipped a beat. Not cancer, she hoped. The other thing.

There was a knock on her door and Richard came in, still half-dressed.

"No breakfast today?" he asked.

"No. I— I'm not very hungry."

"Hm."

He sat down at the edge of her bed and narrowed his eyes at her. She blushed, feeling as though he was reading the thought she dared not yet tell him.

"It's because of Neil, isn't it?" Richard said finally.

Laura breathed a sigh of relief. "No. I— I just drank too much champagne last night at Lady Harriet's. I don't feel very well."

He raised his eyebrows. "So it is because of Neil."

"Richard."

"You never drink too much," he said, poking her gently in the ribs. "I don't want you to be afraid of Neil."

"I'm not afraid of him."

"Then why are you avoiding him?"

Laura opened her mouth to argue, then realized it was better to let Richard believe it. She shrugged.

"Perhaps we shouldn't inflict ourselves on each other first thing in the morning. In the afternoons, I think we might get on better."

Richard pressed his lips tightly together then released them. "Well. If that's how you feel."

He leaned in for a kiss, but Laura pushed him away, still uncomfortably aware of the taste of bile on her lips.

Richard looked surprised. "Have I done something wrong?"

"No. No, darling." She stroked his hand. "But I think I need to brush my teeth."

He gave her a narrow look then leaned forward and kissed her hair. "I won't be back until late tonight. Try not to let Neil try your patience while I'm gone."

She gave him a weak smile, her heart beating fast. When he was gone, she got up and carefully drank more water and brushed her teeth, swallowing back the impulse to vomit again. After that she went back to bed, feeling tired, weak, and unwell. There was nothing she wanted more than to run downstairs and tell Richard how she really felt and what she hoped the cause was, but caution kept her in her room, alone and silent: she was not sure, barely more than suspicious, and it would unfathomable cruelty to give Richard such a hope and then snatch it away from him again.

It was past eleven before she felt well enough to get up. Downstairs, she found Neil was home, sitting in the morning room and flipping through a newspaper with such an impatient lack of attention that Laura didn't think he was reading any of it at all.

Laura took up her work basket and sat down by the window. There was no conversation between them, no sound but the flick of his newspaper or the snip of her scissors. Eventually, Neil dropped his newspaper to the table next to him and leaned back, shutting his eyes. Laura watched him guardedly. He looked a little better this morning, less tired, and someone —probably Richard's valet— had pressed his suit. But worry still creased his brow.

"Richard told me about your son," Laura said, before she even knew what she was saying. "I'm sorry."

Neil opened his eyes a slit. "It's not your fault. Don't apologize for it."

Laura wondered if his gruffness hid anger or awkwardness. He shut his eyes again and she returned to her sewing. Her fingers moved slower and slower, and eventually she stopped altogether, put her work into her lap, and stared through the window into the small garden outside where it was raining. If she was right, and there was going to be a baby, then she needed to make a friend out of Neil. It would be unfair to bring a child into a family where one half did not trust the other. It wasn't like with her father who she had cut off without a backwards glance; Neil wasn't evil or cold or cruel. He was obstinate and rather vain, blunt and sometimes cutting, but he was also principled and decent, and Richard loved him.

"Richard hasn't been happy this past year, with the way things have been between the two of you," Laura said, turning to Neil.

He opened his eyes and slowly sat up. "I think I'd rather hear this from Richard."

"He won't tell you. He's afraid of making things worse. No, don't go!"

For Neil had got up and was heading to the door. He stopped, considered it a moment, and then turned back.

"I'll hear you out," he said. "But I really think this is between Richard and me."

It was something. Laura put her work aside altogether and pointed to the chair near her. Neil sat back down.

"I want you and Richard to be friends again," she said. "I want him to be happy."

"So do I," Neil said after a pause.

"I think for that to happen, we have to be friends."

Neil's jaw played in and out.

"He loves both of us," she said. "It's not fair on him for us not to get on. Or for you to avoid him for the sake of avoiding me. Neil, for him, can we friends?"

Neil's lips pressed into a thin white line. "Friends? Laura, no. I'm sorry, but I can't become friends with you just like that. I can't become friends with anyone like that."

"But especially not me." Her heart sank. "You really hate me that much."

"I don't hate you." He met her eyes. "I don't. But after everything you did to Richard last year, I can't trust you. And I can't be friends with anyone I can't trust."

"Everything I did?" Laura echoed. "Neil, what did I do? I made one mistake."

"Which nearly cost him his life." Neil's voice rose and Laura flinched, but he lowered it again immediately. "How long until you make another mistake, Laura?"

"Giles Fordham is gone," she said. "He's in France. He's not coming back. And I had no idea he hated Richard, he would hurt him. I couldn't have known."

"It's not about the consequences alone. You betrayed Richard's trust when you alerted the world he was your lover. If you can do it once, you can do it again. You can hurt him, again."

Laura found tears in her eyes and blinked them back. "I won't."

"Don't cry," Neil said, exasperated. "I'll be civil to you. I can be that. But I can't be your friend. And we're going to have live with that. Richard too."

He left before she could say another word. Laura patted at her eyes. That was another thing, tears came easily to her these days. But still she couldn't be sure.

To take her mind off both problems, she picked up the newspaper Neil had left behind. It was a business paper, of little interest to her, but a name she knew caught her eye.

Bankruptcy of Percival's Factories - Manchester factory owner Jonathan Percival ruined after his last factory fails. The son of Edward Percival, who inherited twelve factories and a fortune, has lost it all...

She let the paper fall to the floor and put her head in her hands. Poor Percival — he wasn't suited to the world of business. But it explained why his card had been on the hall table. He must have swallowed his pride and come to ask her for help — but it was far too late to help him now.

* * *

Giles didn't know how it had happened, but the whore had become a habit. Perhaps it was because she looked like Diana — the same long, soft fluff of black curls, the same sky-blue eyes. And it was nice to talk to someone — in English, that was. Giles could speak French well enough, but it wasn't the same.

She seemed to like hearing him talk too. Having learned he was the son of an earl, she was forever plying him with questions about the dinners he had eaten, the people he had met, and the houses he had lived in.

"I used to live in a grand 'ouse," she told him one night as they lingered in bed. "But they never let me go abovestairs, see, so I never got to see any of it."

Despite himself, Giles was intrigued. "You were in service then?" he asked. "I thought you were born into this trade."

"No one's born into this trade." She grinned at him. "Yeah. In service, I was."

"Why'd they fire you?"

"'Ow do you know they did?"

"Because you're a whore, in a brothel, in Paris." He pinched her nipple until she yelped. "Tell me why they fired you."

"Weren't my fault," she grumbled.

"It never is, with your type."

"Oh? And you're in Paris through no fault of yer own either?"

This time he slapped her, but not hard enough to bruise. She sat up on the mattress, rubbing her face. "Be nice," she said. "Or I'll tell Madame on you."

"Fine." He went to pour her a glass of wine — that always placated her. No doubt she'd be a drunk by thirty. "Why'd they fire you?"

"I got the chickenpox," she said. "Me little brother gave't to me, and Lady F thought I'd gived it to 'er brats — nursery maid I was." She drank wine and then laughed, colour coming to her cheeks. "Eh, well, probably I did, but there weren't no 'arm done. They none of 'em died. Anyway, Lady F sent me packin' without reference. Didn't 'ave much choice but to try the streets, and I'd rather Paris than Lunnun. Don't want me mam to be 'shamed of me."

Giles didn't think she'd tried very hard to avoid it. She seemed to enjoy their rooting, at least judging by the cooing and moaning she gave during it.

"She almost forgot about it though," the whore added regretfully. "What with the fuss of the sick babes and 'er brother getting married, weren't til after she came back from Albroke that Lady F 'membered to send me off.

At the name, a sort of cold fire exploded within Giles's heart. "Albroke?" he demanded. "Your mistress's brother is Albroke — he's married?"

"Yeah." The whore drained the glass. "Talk o' the town that was. Married 'is mistress. Lady F was pretty mad about it. Come to think of it, maybe that's why she remembered to fire me." The whore mused on the matter. "Lawd, but weren't she a toity piece o' work. Sometimes I think I'm better off 'ere. Least no one 'ere preaches at yer."

Giles was no longer listening. Then that little gimp Albroke had married Laura Maidstone — then Albroke got all the happiness a man could wish for and more, and Giles — a tuppeny whore in a dirty Parisian brothel, and exile from his home.

The anger, never far at bay with Giles, burned higher and closer.