Lydia allowed herself to be herded into the house. Fimberry flattened himself against the wall to allow them to pass. He was wearing a raincoat and carrying his hat and umbrella so he had obviously been on the verge of going out. Nevertheless he shut the door and pretended to be examining the circulars on the hall table. Marcus towered over him-indeed he towered over everything-and the hall shrank because he was inside it. He sniffed, and Lydia wondered whether there was still a trace of Mr. Serridge’s rotten heart in the air.

She climbed the stairs, conscious that Fimberry was watching and listening and that Marcus’s heavy footsteps were ascending behind her. She led the way into the sitting room. He put the basket on the table and pushed the door shut with his foot.

“You can’t live here,” he said in a voice that sounded more surprised than anything else. “It’s no better than a slum.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Lydia said. “This is where my father lives. How did you find me?”

He dropped his hat on the table and peeled off his gloves. “You’ve no idea how worried we’ve been. How could you, Lydia?”

“We?”

“Your mother and I. No one else knows about this…this escapade of yours. We’ve told the servants you were suddenly called away. That a friend was very ill and had summoned you.”

Lydia burst out laughing. “It sounds like something out of a penny novelette. Anyway, the servants won’t believe you. Servants always know. I don’t know how, but they do.”

Marcus took out his cigarette case. “I don’t find this very amusing.”

“Nor do I.”

“And then there’s Pamela-she tried to phone you and was quite put out when I said you were away.”

“You should tell her the truth.” She paused but Marcus said nothing. “You still haven’t said how you knew.”

“About your news, or about where you were?” He held out the cigarette case to her, and she shook her head. “There was a letter from that chap in Harley Street. Enclosing his bill, of course.”

“You opened my letters?”

“What else could I do? I was worried. Your quack wanted to recommend some diet or other that is good for pregnant women, so it was damned obvious what was in the wind. I just wish you’d told me.”

“I tried. But you wouldn’t let me. You remember?”

Marcus turned away to light a cigarette. “All right-I’m sorry. It’s just that you came in at an awkward time, and I didn’t want to queer my pitch with Rex Fisher.” His face reddened. “But let’s forget that now. The important thing is the baby. It changes everything.”

“Everything?” she said quietly.

He waved his cigarette. “Of course. The main thing is, of course, it will mean an heir. Even these days, that’s important.”

“An heir to what?” she snapped. “Nine hundred acres in darkest Gloucestershire? A house you can’t afford to live in that leaks like a sieve when there is the slightest drop of rain? And the lease on Frogmore Place only has another twenty years to run, and you’ll probably have to let it in any case because you’ve already spent all my money trying to hang on to everything. What’s it all for, Marcus? I wish you’d tell me.”

For a moment she thought he was going to hit her again. “I happen to believe that some things are worth hanging on to,” he said. “People like us, we’ve a duty to maintain standards. If we don’t, nobody else will. The landed classes are the backbone of this country, any fool can see that. This socialist rot is all very well-I know some of those chaps are well-meaning enough-but it’s leading this country down the road to ruin. Ramsay MacDonald couldn’t run a butcher’s shop. He’s completely out of his depth.”

“And my having a baby would somehow drag the country back from the brink?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he said coldly. “The point is, families like ours stand for continuity. You should listen to Sir Oswald on the subject.”

“I don’t want to, thank you. Anyway, I’m not having a baby.”

“What? But your quack said-”

“You’ve added two and two and made five. The gynecologist said he could see no reason why I shouldn’t conceive. He promised he’d send me details of a diet that’s meant to be good for women’s fertility and when you’re pregnant. That was my good news. I was happy, Marcus, because it means I’m probably not infertile after all. Except I no longer want to get pregnant. But I do want to know how you found out where I am.”

Marcus sighed. “I went through your bureau.”

“It was locked.”

“I had to force it.”

“First you open my letters, then you break into my bureau.”

He ignored this. “I found a letter from your father, written from this address. I thought he was in America.”

“He came back last year.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows. “And you didn’t see fit to mention it?”

“I didn’t think it would interest you. You hadn’t shown any signs of interest in him before. Or I thought you’d get angry. Just as you are now.”

“Have you been seeing him all this time behind my back?”

Suddenly she felt weary. “Until two days ago I hadn’t seen him since I was a toddler.”

“But you wrote to him?”

“Yes. I sent him a little money.” She hesitated. “That was what he wanted. If you’ve read the letter, you’ll know that. Does my mother know?”

“I told her everything. It was she who advised me to come here. She is as shocked as I am. You must understand-you must come home. Lydia, I-”

Marcus broke off. There were footsteps on the stairs and on the landing. The door opened, and Captain Ingleby-Lewis came in.

He stared at Marcus. “Who’s this?” he demanded.

“My husband,” Lydia said. “Marcus Langstone. Marcus, this is my father.”

Marcus held out his hand. “How do you do, sir.”

Ingleby-Lewis shook his son-in-law’s hand vigorously. “Delighted to meet you, dear boy.” His bloodshot eyes slid from Marcus to Lydia and then back again. “Not quite sure why we haven’t managed it before. Still, better late than never, eh?”

“Marcus was just leaving,” Lydia said.

“The thing is, sir, there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding,” Marcus said. “I came here to smooth things over and take Lydia back home.”

“Splendid,” Ingleby-Lewis said.

“I’ve a taxi waiting outside.”

“I don’t want to go back with you,” Lydia said. “I’m staying here.”

“Darling, be reasonable. You can’t stay here. It’s not fair to anyone.”

“I want to stay here.”

Marcus took a step toward her. “Now look here, Lydia-you must see sense.”

Ingleby-Lewis cleared his throat.

Marcus turned to him. “I’m sure you agree, sir. A woman’s place is with her husband, and all that.”

“I must admit, it’s not something I’ve noticed from personal experience.”

“Father, please. I’d prefer to stay here. Anyway, I’m not going with Marcus.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Ingleby-Lewis shuffled over to the sofa, sat down heavily and closed his eyes. He sighed and said slowly, “If Lydia wants to stay here for a few days, it’s up to her.”

Marcus glared at her. “This is ridiculous.”

“Go away,” she said. “Just go away. Please.”

“We’ll discuss this later. You’re making a great mistake.”

Her temper flared. “Has it occurred to you that if it’s not me who’s infertile, then perhaps it’s you who should see a doctor?”

His lips were bloodless. He turned on his heel and left the room, leaving the door open. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs. The front door banged. Her father’s eyes were still closed and he was breathing heavily. The air smelled of whisky and tobacco.

She went to the window and looked down on Bleeding Heart Square. It was quite absurd, so Victorian. Her fate had apparently been in the hands of two men, her husband and her father, a young bully and an old drunk. Marcus was walking across the cobbles to the taxi. From this angle he looked like a dwarf.