“Shouldn’t he have found one by now, then?”

Louisa shook her head. “He almost married Mariel Willingham.”

“Who?” Annabel blinked, trying to place the name.

“Exactly. You’ve never heard of her. She died.”

Annabel felt her eyebrows rise. It was really a rather emotionless delivery of such tragic news.

“Two days before the wedding she took a chill.”

“She died in only two days?” Annabel asked. It was a morbid question, but, well, she had to know.

“No. Lord Newbury insisted upon delaying the ceremony. He said it was for her welfare, that she was too ill to stand up in church, but everyone knew that he really just wanted to make sure she was healthy enough to bear him a son.”

“And then?”

“Well, and then she did die. She lingered for about a fortnight. It was really very sad. She was always very kind to me.” Louisa gave her head a little shake, then continued. “It was a near miss for Lord Newbury. If he’d married her, he would have had to go into mourning. As it was, he had already tried to wed scandalously soon after his son’s death. If Miss Willingham hadn’t died before the wedding, he’d have had another year of black.”

“How long did he wait before looking for someone else?” Annabel asked, dreading the answer.

“Not more than two weeks. Honestly, I don’t think he would have waited that long if he thought he could have got away with it.” Louisa looked about, her eyes falling on Annabel’s sherry. “I need some tea,” she said.

Annabel rose and rang for it, not wanting Louisa to break the narrative.

“After he returned to London,” Louisa said, “he began to court Lady Frances Sefton.”

“Sefton,” Annabel murmured. She knew that name but couldn’t quite place it.

“Yes,” Louisa said animatedly. “Exactly. Her father is the Earl of Brompton.” She leaned forward. “Lady Frances is the third of nine children.”