She placed a hand on her abdomen. “My baby, do you mean?”
“Of course I mean that!” he cried. “Why was I not told of it? Why must I learn of it from this scurrilous newspaper?”
Lydia took a sip of tea before answering him. “First of all, Lord Levenhorne, I am not at all certain you have learned of my condition from a newspaper. Surely your wife knows very well that I have lost other babies. If I preferred not to make any announcement until I was more certain I might carry this baby to term, I cannot see how you can fault me.”
His face turned red and he bowed his head.
She went on. “I do appreciate that you have some interest in the information, sir.” If she produced a son within ten months of Wexin’s death, that son would inherit Wexin’s title and estate instead of Lord Levenhorne. “I would have told you as soon as I believed the baby had a chance to survive.”
Which was true, but it was also true that she’d wanted to keep the precious news to herself as long as possible.
Levenhorne grimaced as he lifted his head and met her eye. “You cannot tell me this—this—child is Wexin’s.”
She kept her gaze level, but her heart beat frantically inside her chest. “If my child is not born within the ten months, you have the right to make that statement to me, sir. Not before.” She stood. “Do you have anything else you must say to me?”
He rose to his feet, still looking as if he wanted to chew her for breakfast. “You have not heard the end of this.”
He might make all the accusations he wished. No matter what she knew to be true, the law stated that this child was Wexin’s if born within ten months of his death.
It was not a huge risk she was taking. She’d conceived the baby only a month after Wexin’s death; surely the baby would be born within the ten months. Her prayer was that she could hold the baby inside her long enough for the baby to live. Nothing mattered more to her than birthing a healthy child.
Levenhorne marched out of the room, and Lydia collapsed onto the settee.
“Well, that is done,” she murmured, touching her belly where the child that was not Wexin’s kicked inside her.
The baby that was Adrian’s.
Adrian chose a table in White’s coffee room with a clear view of the doorway. Should Levenhorne appear, Adrian would be the first person he encountered. There were very few gentlemen present at this hour, men who had no better place to eat breakfast and no better place to spend their time.
Like him.
He had checked the betting book on his way in. The wagering about which Lord C had been linked with Lydia seemed to have ended with the Queen’s death and the exodus from town. His name was still not among the suggested Lord Cs.
He finished two cups of coffee and read all of the newspapers. He read a great deal more than he wished to know about the state of herring fishing as reported to the House of Commons. He read of a terrible fire in corn mills in Chester and of the trial of a former soldier who had robbed the White Horse Inn. The only paper that printed anything about Lydia’s condition had been The New Observer, and the reporter had been Samuel Reed.
Adrian lifted his head every two minutes to see if Levenhorne had arrived. Eventually he glanced up, and Levenhorne indeed strode in the room, looking like thunder.
Adrian was ready for him. “Good God, Levenhorne. Come tell me what has happened.”
The man looked no further into the room, but sat down across from Adrian, a crumpled newspaper in his hand. “Have you read this?” He waved the paper in Adrian’s face.
“I’ve read several papers this morning.” This was obvious as they sat in a pile next to his coffee cup. “Which one is that?”
“The New blasted Observer.” Levenhorne signalled the servant who quickly took his request for coffee…and brandy.
“Ah, the gossip newspaper.” Adrian responded. “Was there something of you in it?”
Levenhorne shook his head and opened the newspaper, jabbing it with his finger. “Not of me. Of Lady Wexin.”
The servant brought his coffee and brandy, and Levenhorne downed the brandy in one gulp. Adrian waited for him to continue.
He added cream and sugar to his coffee and lifted the cup for a sip. “The newspaper said she was increasing. I have just come from calling upon her and it is bloody well true.”
“Increasing.” Adrian spoke in as non-committal a voice as he could.
“Increasing,” repeated Levenhorne. “And if she produces a son within the ten-month period, the title and property go to him.”
“And not to you.” Adrian made himself take a sip of coffee.
“Not to me.”
Adrian gave him what he hoped was a puzzled look. “But I thought you lamented this inheritance, saying Wexin had riddled it with debt.”
The man grimaced. “That was before Mr Coutts persuaded me to fund some rather substantial repairs to the buildings on Wexin’s estate and to finance the spring planting.”
“Ah,” Adrian said.
“Thing is, it is a good piece of property, worthy of the investment. Prime land. Could make an excellent profit.” Levenhorne shook his head in dismay. “I had no intention of providing for Lady Wexin’s brat, however. Let her father do that. I dare say he can afford it better than I.”
“Has her father returned from his tour?” Adrian asked.
Levenhorne shook his head. “Not that I have heard. God knows what has happened to them. No one has heard from them, it is said.” He bowed his head. “I’m afraid I was unforgivably rude to Lady Wexin. Said the baby could not be Wexin’s.”
Adrian took the creased newspaper in his hand and pretended to read it for the first time. “It says nothing of that here.”
“I know.” Levenhorne tapped his fingers on his coffee cup. “Besides, who else could have fathered the child? The lady is a recluse.”
But not by her desire. Because the society whose darling she once had been had turned its back on her. And Adrian knew precisely who else could have fathered the child.
Levenhorne’s eyes widened. “I say, Cavanley. You will say nothing of this, will you? I’d prefer no one knew I spent good money on that blasted estate. I probably ought not to have spoken so plainly.”
Adrian waved a hand. “I’ll speak of it to no one, you have my word.”
Levenhorne stared into his coffee for what seemed like a long time. “The more I think of it, the more I think that baby is not Wexin’s. Too much time has passed. Conception would have to have taken place in October before Wexin travelled to Scotland. She’d be six months along and, let me tell you, at six months, my wife’s belly was always bigger than this lady’s.”
Adrian frowned. He knew nothing of such matters, but he did know that it had been almost five months to the day that he’d lain with Lydia.
Levenhorne pounded his fist on the table. “She’s pulling a fast one on me, I’d wager on it, and she has my hands tied until the ten months is over. Crafty wench. There’s not a blasted thing I can do about it.” He sighed. “Except hope the baby comes late or she pushes out a girl.”
Adrian made himself sit very still lest he launch himself over the table and put a fist into the other man’s face.
This child, girl or boy, to which Levenhorne so scathingly referred, might be Adrian’s, and Lydia did not deserve to be spoken of in such a coarse manner.
Adrian stood. “Forgive me, Levenhorne. I must be on my way.”