A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(72)

“You know I would never lie. There is danger, for both you and the child. But when has a bit of danger prevented you from doing anything?” Hetta squeezed Lucy’s hand. “Lucy, you’re the most stubborn, foolhardy woman I know. Your friends love you despite it. Your husband loves you for it. Lord Kendall believes you can do anything. Don’t make me go down there and tell him otherwise. Don’t let him suspect you’ve given up, or you know as well as I, you’ll never know the end of it. If he’s overprotective now …”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a cold woman, Hetta Osborne.”

“He’ll place more restrictions on you than ever,” Hetta threatened. “He’ll treat you like a plate of glass. He’ll be so afraid of getting you with child, he’ll—”

“Never touch me again?” Lucy scoffed. “Not likely. If he were that strong-willed, we’d have never married in the first place.” She sighed up at the ceiling. “But he might hold out for a year, or two.”

“Exactly,” Hetta replied. “Lucy, you can do this. If you concentrate and work hard, and most difficult of all, follow directions, both you and your baby will survive. But if I go down to Lord Kendall right now, your pride will never recover.”

Lucy closed her eyes and lay still, breathing steadily in and out through her nose. Her dry, pale lips thinned to a line, then curled into a grimace.

“It’s all right, Lucy,” Sophia said. “We’re all here to help.”

“You can’t help me,” Lucy bit out. “No one can.”

Hetta released her hand. “Very well, then. I’m going downstairs.”

“Over my dead body.” Lucy struggled to her elbows and gritted her teeth. “No one can help me, but I’ll do it myself. I’m going to push this baby out, if it kills me.”

The supper trays went untouched. As the evening wore on, Lucy’s cries grew louder. And then fainter. The poor girl must be exhausted, Toby reckoned. He certainly was, and he hadn’t done a damn thing beyond sitting in this salon all day, talking himself into a stupor and watching his best friend in agony. He envied Isabel her manual tasks. Why couldn’t he have been put to work boiling linens?

Gray apparently shared his feelings. He prowled the room like a caged animal. “God. How much longer can this go on? I can’t take much more of this.”

Still holding down the same armchair he’d occupied all evening, Jeremy raised his head. “You think it’s difficult for you? Imagine how I feel.”

“Oh, he is imagining it,” Toby said to Jeremy. “That’s precisely why he’s so agitated. It’ll be his turn soon enough.” He raised his head and called to Gray. “When’s Sophia expecting? Late November, I’d guess.”

“December.” Gray stared at him. “How did you know? Unless… Surely she didn’t tell you?”

“No, she didn’t have to,” Toby said. “I’ve three older sisters, with ten nieces and nephews between them. I can just tell. Congratulations.”

“Can we please speak of something besides breeding?” Joss asked, propping his boots up on the side table. He leveled a gaze at Toby. “Surely there is some topic left untouched in that prodigious lexicon of yours. Think of it as practice for your career in Parliament.”

“There’s a topic. Let’s hear about the campaign,” Gray said. “How is it progressing?”

“It’s … progressing.” Toby shifted in his chair.

“Last I heard, the polls were running dead even between you and Yorke.”

“They are. But most of the electors have yet to cast their votes. They’re waiting, I expect.”

“For what?” Joss asked.

“For bribes.” Gray flicked a glance at Toby. “They want to see which candidate will pay the highest price. Am I right?”

Toby scratched his neck. “Perhaps. But they’ll wait in vain. Mr. Yorke is unlikely to engage in bribery, and you know as well as I how Isabel would react to the idea of my buying votes.”

Gray and Joss chuckled.

“Exactly,” Toby said.

Some topic of shipping or tariffs took the Grayson brothers on a separate branch of conversation.

Jeremy rose from his chair and went to the window. Toby followed him. Lowering his voice, he said, “Can I ask your advice on something, Jem?”

Jeremy grunted in assent.

“You’re in the House of Lords, obviously,” Toby continued. “Tell me, with regards to this election … what do you think is the surest way to lose?”

“To lose? Don’t you want to win?”

“No, not especially. I mean, Yorke’s served our borough for years. Parliament is his life. Doesn’t seem right to take that away from him. The man’s a friend.”

“Then why are you running in the first place?”

“Because I promised Isabel, before we were married.” Toby sighed. “She’s got this idea that if I’m an MP, she’ll have more influence in society.”

Jeremy gave a half shrug. “She likely will. And from what I hear, Yorke’s influence is waning. He’s ready to retire. Seems like a beneficial arrangement all around.”