“If you wouldn’t mind, Douglas, I would like to remain out here. I value my solitude.”
Douglas didn’t respond to the obvious jibe: And your mother and your thieving brother and this child growing inside me have all conspired to see to it I have no solitude. He valued solitude as highly as anybody, so he bowed politely and took his leave of her. His most distasteful obligation dispatched—he had apologized to the woman—he was now free to return to his correspondence.
***
Andrew waited in the shadows until Douglas Allen had taken his stiff-rumped, proper self back into the house, then came down beside Astrid on the bench. “How did he take the news?”
“He was his usual inscrutable, composed self.” Astrid stayed right where she was, didn’t scoot over or even lean in Andrew’s direction. “He said the right things, but he is moving Lady Amery into the town house with me. She is not to be told my condition until the moment of my choosing, and I am to have as much time with Felicity as I desire. Finally, dear mama-in-law will not be the lady of the house, I will.”
“You got all that resolved in less than fifteen minutes?” And was dear mama-in-law female company, Douglas’s spy, or both?
Astrid had no rejoinder for him, which was worrisome. He’d fretted about her all day but didn’t think she’d appreciate hearing that.
“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked instead.
“Douglas told me my funds are gone.”
“That was bold.” Or conniving. “Also the only good move left to him.”
“How do you mean?” Astrid was good-hearted, and good-hearted people did not naturally anticipate the deviousness of their moral inferiors.
So Andrew, who was among that number, would explain it to her. “Douglas’s solicitors have told him by now that you and your brother went nosing around, and the files have been sent to Fairly’s town house. As far as Douglas is concerned, you would have found out the truth as soon as you returned to Town. He spiked your guns by offering his confession first.”
Somewhere out in the home wood, an owl hooted, an eerie, lonely sound Andrew hadn’t heard since he’d departed for Italy years before.
“Douglas has spiked my guns, and planted his mother under my roof, and now he knows for certain I am carrying Herbert’s child. Still, Andrew, I cannot attribute foul motives to the man. He is cool, aloof, and dispassionate, but I cannot feel he is evil.”
Andrew should be relieved Astrid had reached that conclusion, for otherwise, he’d be procuring a special license. He resisted the urge to take her hand.
“You have reached a Scottish verdict. Insufficient evidence—neither an acquittal nor a conviction.”
They sat together, alone in the shadows, the moon appearing to grow smaller as it drifted into the sky. When he could bear the distance between them no longer, Andrew slid an arm around Astrid’s waist. Astrid rested her head on his shoulder, and they stayed next to each other until the chill drove them inside.
***
Astrid woke up one brisk fall Tuesday morning and realized she was halfway through her pregnancy. That was a relief indeed, since it meant she’d passed the point where she’d miscarried the previous year. She still had occasional bouts of queasiness—or more than occasional. At some point in each day, her stomach would signal its ability to rule her life.
Skipping meals did not help, so she headed directly for the stairs rather than get drawn into the tête-à-tête she could hear going on between Lady Amery and her youngest son in the family parlor down the hall.
And Astrid still fainted, no matter how careful she tried to be.
This unfortunate fact was borne home as she regarded the cobwebs gracing the corners of the ceiling in the octagonal entryway to her residence.
“How could you be so careless?”
That clipped, controlled voice cut across the fog in Astrid’s brain like a bitter whiff of vinaigrette.
“Douglas.” Why must he choose now to make one of his duty calls to his dependent females?
“Girls just out of the schoolroom know not to let their hems get tangled on a staircase. Must I assign the footmen to escorting you about your own dwelling?”
The chandelier needed a good scrubbing. Astrid could reach this conclusion from her position sprawled on the rug at the foot of the staircase. Mortification joined nausea as Douglas helped her to sit on the bottom step.
“Stop yelling at me, my lord.”
“I have not raised my voice, though the notion appeals strongly. You could well be carrying the Amery heir, need I remind you, and tumbling down the steps is not responsible behavior given your condition. What have you to say for yourself?” He paced back and forth like Headmaster lecturing a class of unruly boys, his movements making Astrid’s head swim.