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And farting. There was a noxious aroma in Caroline’s parlor from which she was anxious to escape. Leaving poor Hazlett to find a pillow, a blanket, and a bucket, she climbed the stairs to her lonely bed, wondering what the morning would bring.
     
    The morning brought disaster. Ned had been sick in the night. Although his aim had been more or less on target, Caroline’s parlor smelled even worse than it had earlier. A ghost-white Ned lay on his back on the divan clutching his belly, his long legs dangling off to the carpet. At regular intervals he’d spasm and gasp, “Knew it. The oysters were off.” At first she thought he’d helped himself to her dinner’s leftovers, but he explained—between vomiting and a manly form of crying—that he and his friends had ordered two platters of oysters in an alehouse as they discussed the vicissitudes of their wicked yet dull fathers. Between bad seafood and worse drink, Ned was suffering, and Caroline was suffering right along with him. Food poisoning could be deadly, although she hoped the worst of it had wound up in the bucket. Hazlett had already summoned the doctor, and she had most reluctantly written a note to Edward, trying to explain in the very vaguest of terms why his son spent the night on her sofa.
    Dr. Turner arrived first. He shooed her out of the room, so she gratefully went to her little garden for fresh air. It was an oasis of peace to her, although at the moment she needed to deadhead the spent flowers. Sometimes she held her weekly teas there when the weather was fine, or sat by herself even when the weather was not. The sky was sufficiently cloudy, promising a storm. When Edward marched outside, she knew the storm had arrived a few hours early. She tossed her gardening gloves on the bench and sat down in resignation. She’d barely slept, and knew she did not look her best. A glance in the mirror had her wanting to put a sack over her head to spare the public.
    But Edward looked worse. Apart from his fury, his hazel eyes were sunken in between gray smudges and his full lips were bloodless. She hoped he’d lain awake all night in torment realizing he’d never have her body again.
    “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.
    Caroline stared up at him, nearly cracking her neck—he was so awfully tall. He would make a perfect fire and brimstone preacher, she decided. One look at him and all the commandments would be obeyed instantly without question. But she’d never been much of a rules-follower.
    “I wrote to you. Neddie turned up late last night, and he was ill. Surely you’ve spoken to the doctor.”
    “He’ll be fine,” Edward snapped. “The young fool. Why didn’t you send him directly home?”
    “I tried to, but there were no cabs to be had at that hour.”
    He pointed a long finger at her. “If this is some sort of trick to get me back here, Caroline, you’ve misjudged badly. I won’t have you in collusion with my children again.”
    “A trick? Do you think I planned to get Neddie drunk and throw up and defecate all over my house? I suppose I paid off all his stupid friends to make him eat bad oysters to make my grand plan even more diabolical. Go round to Lord Carmichael’s house and see how his son Rory is faring. I have no reason to lure Carmichael here—I don’t even know him.”
    “What the devil are you talking about?”
    “I don’t even know.” Caroline decapitated the head of a bright pink pelargonium, crushing the petals between her fingers. “Go home, Edward, and take Neddie with you. And stop lecturing him so. He doesn’t like it. And furthermore,” she said, tossing the flower to the ground, “let him pick out his own wife.”
    Edward looked at her, his pale face glacial. “Don’t you dare tell me how to raise my children.”
    “And don’t you come to my home and tell me what to do! I’ve kept my end of the bargain—I never once tried to see your children these past five years. Your children, not ours,