Rumours in the Regency Ballroom. Diane Gaston

decided to head to White’s. With luck, Levenhorne would stop by there, and, when he did, Adrian would be present to hear all about his call upon Lady Wexin.

      A soft light diffused through the curtains of the morning room and illuminated the page of the newspaper.

      Lydia stared at the words. Could she perhaps be in an interesting condition?

      A wave of nausea overcame her, not morning sickness this time, but a sickness of another kind. “How could they have discovered this?”

      She’d secluded herself ever since the familiar symptoms emerged several months ago—aching breasts, inability to keep food in her stomach, heavy fatigue. Mary had noticed and knew from the start that Lydia was with child. Mary also had witnessed her last miscarriage and knew this child was not Wexin’s. The maid had not asked the baby’s paternity, though, and Lydia had explained nothing.

      Five months had passed and Lydia’s figure showed the telltale changes. The other servants now also knew her condition. Lydia trusted her servants had kept this secret. They had been as loyal and caring as a family, but perhaps one of them had slipped and said something to someone and someone had said something to The New Observer. Or perhaps that vile reporter, Mr Reed, had decided to make this up and accidentally hit upon the truth.

      She heard the murmur of voices outside. Tiptoeing to the window, she peeked through the gap in the curtains. They were out there again, the reporters. She’d been totally free of them ever since the poor Queen had died and had hoped never to see them cluster around her door again. They were back this morning, gathering around a gentleman who flailed at them with a newspaper in one hand and his walking stick in the other.

      Lord Levenhorne.

      Lydia pressed a hand protectively against the rounded mound of her abdomen. She had never carried a baby inside her this long.

      She ought to consider it a tragedy that she’d conceived a child from that one brief moment of making love with Adrian, but she could not. It was a miracle. A miracle. One last chance to have a baby. She did not expect to ever have another chance. She would certainly never marry again, even if some man wanted her. She would never again put her life and her future in a man’s hands. She pressed her belly again, thankful this child was not Wexin’s.

      Still, she mourned the loss of his babies, the three little lives she’d been unable to hold inside her long enough. Every morning now, she woke expecting to feel that cramping, that spilling of blood, but this baby still grew within her. She could feel it flutter, blessedly alive.

      She wished now she had written to her sister to give her the excellent news. Instead her sister would read it as gossip in the newspapers.

      After her money had been restored to her, Lydia had sent her sister a letter of thanks. She’d heard nothing in reply, and her sister’s maid told Mary there should be no more correspondence. Lydia still felt she ought to have written to her with the news of her pregnancy.

      She wondered if her sister would contact her if she heard from their parents or brother. Lydia had heard nothing, which distressed her greatly. Surely if they were safe, one of their letters would have reached her by now, even if her letters had not reached them.

      Lydia heard footsteps approach. She took in a deep breath. Lord Levenhorne could not upset her. Even the vile reporters could not upset her. Not when her baby moved inside her.

      “Thank you, Adrian,” she whispered to herself. “For such a gift.”

      Dixon entered the room, his expression distressed.

      Lydia saved him from having to inform her who had called. “I know who it is, Dixon. I saw him through the window.”

      Dixon cleared his throat. “I shall tell him you are not receiving callers if you wish it.”

      Lydia gave him a reassuring look. “I will see him.” She touched her abdomen. “This is no secret, is it, Dixon? He will have to know at some time.”

      Dixon’s features softened. “’Tis no secret, my lady, but we cannot allow his lordship to cause you distress.”

      She was touched by his concern. “Do not fear. I shall manage nicely.”

      She followed Dixon out to the hall where Levenhorne paced back and forth. The moment he saw her, he started towards her. “Lady Wexin—”

      She extended her hand to him. “How kind of you to call upon me, Lord Levenhorne.”

      He looked taken aback by the offer of her hand. He shook it, and belatedly gave her the bow politeness required of him.

      Lydia turned to Dixon. “We’ll have tea, if you please.” Levenhorne blustered, “This is not a social call—”

      She swivelled back to her guest. “I would still serve you refreshment, sir. Let us go to the drawing room where we might be more private.”

      She led him up the stairway into the more formal drawing room with windows so high no reporter could see into them. She settled herself on a sofa and gestured to her guest. “Do sit, sir.”

      His eyes flashed with impatience, but he lowered himself into the chair opposite her.

      “How is Lady Levenhorne?” Lydia made her tone polite, as if this were indeed a social call. “I have not seen her in an age. Is she in town yet?”

      “She is well,” he answered curtly. “She is in town.”

      Most of the ton would be in town. The London Season had commenced, as gay as always, since the Regent had ended official mourning for his mother after only six weeks.

      “And the children?” Lydia asked.

      Levenhorne waved a hand. “They are well. All of them.”

      “I am delighted to hear it.” Lydia made herself look Levenhorne in the eye. “I confess, I had thought to see Lady Levenhorne before this. I had thought perhaps she would call on me.”

      It was bad manners to point out his wife’s neglect—and his—but these people had hurt her. The Levenhornes were related to Wexin, after all. True, Lord Levenhorne had called after Wexin’s death, but, like today, only to speak of the inheritance and to ask if she were increasing. Indeed, the only person who’d reached out to her in kindness had been Lady Tannerton, but Lydia had refused to see her. How could she face the widow of the man her husband had murdered, the woman he had framed for the deed?

      Lydia felt her baby flutter inside her. She’d forgotten. One other person had called upon her and had been very kind.

      Adrian.

      Her butler accompanied the footman who carried the tea tray and set it on the table in front of Lydia. She knew Dixon had come out of worry for her.

      “Thank you so much.” She glanced at Dixon, hoping he knew she thanked him for his concern as well as the tea. “I shall let you know if I require anything else.”

      Dixon left the room and Lydia looked across at Lord Levenhorne. “How do you take your tea?”

      He squirmed in his chair. “With milk. One lump of sugar.”

      Lydia busied herself with pouring his tea and then handed the cup to him so he was forced to take it from her. She watched him until he took a polite sip before pouring her own cup.

      She was proud of herself. A few months ago she might have cowered in front of Lord Levenhorne. That had been when she’d had no money and no child to give her life purpose. He could not frighten her now.

      She sipped her tea quietly, not making it easy for him to blast her with what the newspapers implied and her waistline verified.

      He put down his tea cup and picked up the newspaper, now creased from having been folded in his hand. “Have you seen this?”

      She blinked at him, pretending to be confused. “A newspaper?”

      “Blast it,” he swore more to himself