When he woke, however, Lenox received a note from McConnell begging his pardon and asking him to delay his visit until he was bidden come. Lenox didn’t like the tone of the note, and visiting Lady Jane for his lunch, asked her about it.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said, worried. “Shall I visit Toto?”

“Perhaps, yes,” said Lenox.

She had stopped eating her soup. “Despite his request?”

“You and Toto are awfully close, Jane.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Will you tell me what happens?”

“Of course.”

After she finished eating, she called for her carriage and in time went to her relation’s house. Lenox was in the midst of a biography of Hadrian and sat back with his pipe to read it. He was an amateur historian and, without a case, devoted at least a few hours of each day to study of the Romans. His monographs on daily life in Augustan Rome had been well received at the great universities, and he had a wide, international correspondence with other scholars. That day, however, all his thoughts had been on Pierce and Carruthers.

Jane returned sometime later, looking ashen. “It’s bad news,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Toto fell ill in the middle of the night.”

“Good God,” he said, sitting by her on his red leather couch.

“They called the doctor in just past midnight. Thomas is worried to the point of utter exhaustion and blames himself for poor-what did he say?-poor medical supervision of his wife.”

“She has a dozen doctors.”

“So I told him.”

“Is it-” He could scarcely ask. “Have they lost the baby?”

A tear rolled down Lady Jane’s cheek. “It seems they may have. The doctors can’t say yet. There’s-there’s blood.”

With that she collapsed onto his shoulder and wept. He held her tight.

“Is she in danger?”

“They won’t say, but Thomas doesn’t think so.”