“Lord Devereaux wishes to know what you believe he thinks has been happening, and…” John hesitated, and Charles glared at him. “He wishes to know why you…”
Charles gestured again, and Olivia recognized, once again, the sign forwife. Then he nudged John, almost knocking him off balance.
The valet let out a huff. “Lord Devereaux wishes to know what you and his wife have been up to, spending large sums of money, having led the bank to believe that the expenditure had his approval.”
Olivia’s apprehension turned to indignation.
“Lord Devereaux, your wife and I—” Carlton began, but Olivia interrupted.
“It’s my money to spend as I see fit, husband, or do you think me incapable of managing my money due to my sex?”
Charles’s eyes widened, then he shook his head.
“Not my sex, then,” she said. “Perhaps it’s my birth that gives you cause for concern? Perhaps you believe I’m not entitled to my own money, given that I’m a bastard.”
He slammed his fist into his palm, then gesticulated with sharp, angry movements. Olivia’s stomach heaved and she clapped her hand over her mouth. But her attempts to stem the swell of nausea were in vain. Her body convulsed and she darted to the side of the house.
“Lady Devereaux, come back!” John called. “Lord Devereaux wants you to—”
“I care not what he wants!” she cried. “I want him to leave me alone! I want youallto leave me alone!”
She darted around the side of the building into a secluded part of the garden, then bent over and retched. She lost her balance and stumbled into the dirt, convulsing with nausea until her body ached. But her stomach was empty—there was nothing left to expel. At length, the nausea subsided, but a sharp pain throbbed behind her temples, and she groaned in pain.
Footsteps approached and she cringed, willing whoever it was to pass by. But they stopped.
“Leave me be,” she whimpered.
“Why would I do that, my dear?” Mrs. Brougham said.
“I-I can’t be seen like this. What will he think of me that he doesn’t already think?”
The housekeeper let out a huff. “He ought to be more concerned about what we all think ofhim.”
Olivia struggled to her feet, then burst into tears as she spotted a smear of mud on her skirts.
“Oh, Lady Devereaux! It’s only a little dirt. That’ll wash out, no trouble.”
“I-it’s not that,” Olivia said. “I-I can’t stop crying. Even when I think I’m happy, I find myself crying over nothing…when the pastry for that pie split yesterday, when I spilled my tea… And back then, I wanted to cry so badly, though it would make him angrier than he already is. What’s the matter with me?”
Mrs. Brougham placed her arm around Olivia’s shoulders. “Sweet girl, did your mother never tell you?”
“M-my mother died giving birth to me. I was brought up by the schoolmistress. She taught me to read and write.”
“But not about marriage?”
Olivia shook her head. “Sh-she said I’d never find a husband because of my birth, so I’d have to work hard to support myself. Am I always to be blamed for how I came into the world?” She caught her breath to suppress a sob. “M-my brother took me in, tried to turn meinto a lady, but I wish he hadn’t. It would have been better if I’d not been born.”
“Hush, my dear, you don’t mean that,” Mrs. Brougham said, drawing Olivia into her arms. “You’re just a little overwhelmed, that’s all. Some sweet tea and a rest will set you right.”
“B-but it’s happening all the time.”
The housekeeper stroked Olivia’s cheek. “The late mistress was just the same, you know. It was how she could tell.”
“Tell what?”
“That she was with child.”
Olivia drew in a sharp breath.
