get ye…”
Lizzie looked up at her maid, got another whiff of chocolate, and bent over the chamber pot again.
“I think it’s best if you just take the cup away.”
“Yes, Miss Meg. I’ll do that right quick. I’m sorry—”
“Just a moment.” Lady Beatrice’s strident voice cut through Betty’s apologies.
Lizzie groaned. She leaned her head against her bedpost. Lud! The woman looked like an old bruise in her puce and pomona green dressing gown.
“How long has this been going on, miss?”
“Uh?” Why did Lady Beatrice have to speak so sharply? And she was scowling at her. “What?”
Lady Bea’s nose wrinkled, and she pointed at the chamber pot. “That. How many times have you cast up your accounts?”
What an odd question. “Twice.” Lizzie felt her stomach lurch. “So far.”
“That is not what I meant.”
Lizzie’s head felt as if a blacksmith were hammering horseshoes against the inside of her forehead, her mouth tasted like a barnyard floor, and her stomach…. She gripped the chamber pot more tightly. Best not to think about her stomach. Suffice it to say, she was completely incapable of playing guessing games this morning. She looked to Meg for help.
“What do you mean, Lady Bea?”
Lady Bea put her hands on her expansive hips.
“What I mean is how long has this been going on? How many days has Lady Elizabeth been sick?” She frowned at the chamber pot and turned to Lizzie’s maid. “Betty? Can you give me an answer?”
“It was the chocolate, my lady.” Betty held up the cup in her hand. “The smell set her off. She was fit as a fiddle last night.”
“Really? She is sensitive to odors?” Lady Beatrice puffed up like her cat, Queen Bess, did when faced with a canine intruder. “The smell of chocolate made her…” She grimaced.
“Yes, my lady.”
“I see. Then let me rephrase my question yet again.” Lady Beatrice bit off each word. “How many mornings has Lady Elizabeth greeted the day hunched over that, that receptacle?” She gestured at the chamber pot. “This type of malady usually manifests itself in the morning, does it not?”
“My lady!” Betty drew in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what ye mean.”
Lizzie didn’t know either, but she wished Lady Bea would take her riddles elsewhere—along with the increasingly offensive chamber pot. She looked hopefully at Betty. For some reason her maid’s cheeks were bright red.
“So your mistress has not been shooting the cat regularly before breakfast?”
“Of course not, my lady.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. I sincerely doubt Lord Westbrooke is a eunuch.”
“What?” Lizzie sat up abruptly, causing the contents of the chamber pot to slosh dangerously. Robbie a eunuch? She didn’t completely understand the specifics but—the image of Robbie as he had appeared the night before flashed into her mind. No sultan would put such a man in charge of his harem.
Betty’s face had turned a dark purple, rivaling the puce in Lady Bea’s gown.
“Ye can’t mean—”
“I most certainly can. Surely the rumors flying through this house party have reached your ears—wherever those ears were resting last night.”
An uncomfortable silence greeted this statement. Lizzie squeezed her eyes shut. Lady Bea could not be suggesting…
Her stomach twisted again. Sarah had been queasy in the mornings with her pregnancies.
The room started to spin. Someone—Meg?—took the chamber pot from her hands and pushed her head down between her knees.
Surely she could not be with child? There must be more to the process than merely touching hands or the entire female populace would be increasing. True, Robbie had not been wearing gloves….
A slightly hysterical giggle bubbled up in her chest. No, he had not been wearing gloves.
“Lizzie!” Lizzie cringed as Meg’s voice hissed in her ear. “What have you been up to?”
Lizzie grunted. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and kept them closed, everyone would go away. She buried her face in her hands for good measure. This was a dream, that was it. A bad, bad dream. She would wake up in a few moments, shudder, and get on with her day.
“Don’t think you can hide from me.” Meg’s voice was still buzzing in her ear like an annoying insect. “I mean to find out exactly what happened in here last night.”
“Mmphft.”
Meg laughed. “And don’t think you can hide from Lady Bea, either. She looks very determined.”
She sounded very determined also.
“You may go, Betty, but I shall have more to say to you later. And take that disgusting chamber pot away—far away—and dispose of it.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Lizzie kept her face in her hands. She heard Betty leave the room. There was a long pause. She began to wonder if the gods had smiled on her and she’d been left to suffer in solitude. Well, not complete solitude. Meg had not left her place on the bed next to her. But perhaps Lady Bea had departed?
She lifted her head cautiously. No. Lady Beatrice was still there, scowling at her.
“Would you like to explain what exactly is going on, Lady Elizabeth?”
Oh dear. She felt as if she were fourteen, being called on the carpet by her brother for some infraction.
No, that was ridiculous. She was twenty years old, a woman grown. This was her fourth Season. A lady of her age and experience did not need a chaperone, and certainly should not be cowering in fear of a dressing-down. Lady Bea was more of a companion really, an older woman to satisfy society’s strict notions of propriety.
Lizzie straightened her spine, took a sustaining breath, and looked Lady Bea in the eye.
Her stomach clenched immediately. She dropped her gaze to stare at her hands.
“Uh. I think…I believe…I’m just not accustomed to…”
“I should hope you are not accustomed to such activities, miss. I can’t imagine what your brother will say. The least you could have done was gotten Westbrooke’s betrothal ring on your finger before you got his—”
“Lady Beatrice, I believe you are laboring under a misapprehension.”
“Oh? And what would that misapprehension be? Are you
