“I did. Shameful, is it not?”
He slipped his arms around her and drew her back against him. She smelled of silk and lavender and herself, and for a moment the upswelling of emotions within him was so powerful that he had to squeeze his eyes shut. “Perhaps. But nevertheless understandable. The man is a pompous, pedantic ass.”
She shook her head. “Croft may be an idiot, but he means well. He truly believes in what he prescribes.”
When Sebastian remained silent, she said, “I take it he told you the child will in all likelihood be breech?”
“He said it might still turn.”
“It might.”
He brought his hands up to rest them on the swell of her belly. He hoped she didn’t notice that they weren’t quite steady. He said, “We need to find a new accoucheur—preferably one who is not an idiot.”
“They’re all idiots.” She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her lips curving into an odd smile. “If you ask me, the child’s position is the real reason Croft bowed out. He’s afraid.”
What accoucheur in his right mind wouldn’t be afraid of attending Lord Jarvis’s daughter in a difficult delivery? thought Sebastian. But he didn’t say it.
“What about Gibson?” she suggested.
“Gibson is a surgeon, not a physician or accoucheur,” he reminded her.
“You think I care for that? You know as well as I do that he’s delivered babies. Surely he could at least recommend someone.”
“Unfortunately, I believe he shares your opinion of the profession. But I can ask.”
He was silent for a moment, his thoughts crowded again with the memory of all the babes her mother had lost. Why had she lost them? he wondered. Were they breech? Or did they die for some other reason entirely? Some abnormality that had in the end come close to taking Lady Jarvis’s life, as well.
“I know what you’re thinking,” said Hero. “But I am not my mother.”
She turned in his arms, her hand coming up to cup his cheek as she kissed him on the mouth. “Everything will be fine.”
He speared his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head and holding her close as he let his gaze drift over the familiar line of her cheeks, the soft curve of her lips. He wanted to tell her that the thought of losing her terrified him, that he could no longer even imagine a life without her in it. Yet he’d never said these things to her, never even whispered those three simple words, “I love you.” To say them now would seem to suggest that he feared she might die. And so he kept silent.
She was braver than he. “I don’t intend to die, Devlin.”
He rested his forehead against hers. But he still said nothing, for she knew as well as he that the hour of our death is rarely of our own choosing.
? ? ?
By the time Sebastian reached Tower Hill, the snow was falling thick and fast, big flakes that stung his face and rapidly covered the city in a blanket of white.
“Good God, Devlin,” said Gibson as Sebastian came in stomping snow off his boots. “What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing out in this?”
Sebastian shrugged out of his wet greatcoat. “I need the name of a good accoucheur, Gibson.”
Gibson paused in the act of leading the way to his small parlor to look back at him in surprise. “I was under the impression the esteemed Richard Croft would be attending Lady Devlin.”
“He resigned. He would have me believe it is because Lady Devlin is not the most meek and cooperative patient—which I will be the first to admit she is not. But if truth be told, I think it’s because he’s afraid of Jarvis. The babe is lying breech, Gibson.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much at this point; it’s early days, yet. The babe’s not due until April. It will turn when it’s ready.”
Sebastian met his friend’s gaze. “I’m afraid that’s a polite fiction, told to still the tongues of Society’s gossips. The child is expected in a week or two.”
“Ah.” The expression on the Irishman’s face confirmed every one of Sebastian’s worse fears, and then some. “Mother Mary,” he said softly, and turned away to pour two glasses of burgundy.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” said Sebastian, watching him.
Gibson held out one of the wineglasses. “Sometimes a babe will shift at the last minute.”
Sebastian took his glass and drank long and deep. “The name of a good accoucheur, Gibson; I need one. Quickly.”
Gibson pushed a tumbled lock of hair off his forehead. Sebastian noticed that his friend had not only shaved, but also put on a clean cravat and evidently bullied Mrs. Federico into ironing one of his shirts too. “Let me think on it a bit. I’ll ask around tomorrow.”