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least three days, and any member of the well-meaning household staff would have reported her disobedience.
    Lady Duchamp was supervising two maids in packing her trunks.
    “You are really leaving us, then, Mama?”
    The countess dismissed her helpers. “We will easily finish this later. After all, I will not be needing most of my finery in Yorkshire.” Then she turned to Torrie. The fact that she did not immediately order her daughter back to bed was an indication of Lady Duchamp’s distraction. “Yes, I really am going away. I am quite looking forward to some time for solitary walks, to read my books, and of course to work on my gardens. You know I have not been feeling quite the thing these last few weeks. A sojourn in the country is sure to lift my spirits.”
    “As I cannot.” Waves of guilt were washing over Torrie as she realized how much of her mother’s time had been wasted dragging a finicky miss to Venetian breakfasts and waltzing parties. She never had an inkling that her mother so disliked the social whirl. Why, she was making herself ill while Torrie danced through her slippers and suitors. “You and Papa were right. I ... I should have wed years ago. Sir Eric—”
    “Would have made you a dreadful husband, as handsome and sweet-natured as he was. He was too young to know his own mind. Why, he still dangles after a different miss every Season.”
    “Then Lord Brondale.”
    “Who would have gone through your dowry in a year.”
    “Major St. Leger?”
    “Would have bored you in a week, reminiscing over his war experiences and recounting his wounds. No, you did right to refuse all of them.”
    “On your advice. Can you not stay and help me now, Mama? I truly need your wisdom. You do not have to accompany me anywhere you do not wish to go. Aunt Ann—” Torrie tried not to shudder at the thought of having the sharp-tongued spinster act as her duenna.
    “Marrying is a decision you have to make for yourself, my darling. Just use your heart, and not just that thick head you inherited from your father.”
    Torrie tried to smile, but she could not help feeling that she was being abandoned. “But how will we go on without you here?”
    “The same as you will when you have a household of your own to manage. This is good practice for you.”
    “Papa will miss you terribly.”
    “As I shall miss him. We have not been apart for more than a sennight since we wed over two decades ago.”
    “Then don’t leave, Mama,” Torrie pleaded, the rasp in her voice more from tears than the smoke’s effects. “I need you. I do not know what to do!”
    “Silly goose, you are three years older than I was when I wed your father, and I knew precisely what I was about. Your heart will give you the answers. And I have to leave town.”
    “You ... have to?”
    Lady Duchamp led Torrie to the chaise and drew her down, placing a blanket over her legs and pressing a cup of tea into her cold hands. “Yes, I shall tell you why if you promise not to tell your father.”
    Torrie’s mind was working furiously. Was Lady Duchamp being blackmailed? Could she have a lover back in Yorkshire? Had she gambled away her pin money at silver loo? No, none of those, not her mother. She nodded. “I promise.”
    The countess smiled. “I am breeding. I was feeling so down pin, I consulted a physician and he confirmed my suspicions. Do shut your mouth, dearest. Your tea is dribbling on my blanket.”
    “A ... a baby?”
    “Yes, and do not be so shocked. I have not yet reached my fortieth birthday, you know. Some women produce infants well later in life. I thought my chances of providing your father with an heir were long over, to my regret, but now there is a possibility. Or at least of another baby girl for him to cuddle and coddle.”
    “A baby brother or sister.” Torrie could not get over it. She jumped up and urged her mother to take her place on the chaise. “Of course you must rest, and naturally you would want to be home at the