He scanned the pews covertly as he passed, in case she might merely have gone to sit down with friends, but received nothing save curious looks from the inhabitants. He reached the door to the vestibule again, and hesitated, unsure where to search next. Whether by heavenly intercession or luck, at this point he spotted a small wooden door set inconspicuously in the shadows beneath the organ gallery.

He tried the door, and finding it unlocked, pushed it cautiously inward—only to have it stick halfway. He was about to give it a healthy shove, when he perceived the foot just beyond it, clad in a lemon-yellow silk slipper.

“Olivia!” He thrust his head through the opening, and found his cousin seated on the bottom step of a small stairway, looking like an untidy heap of lemon-yellow laundry. Seeing him, she withdrew her foot, allowing him to open the door enough to sidle through.

“Olivia! Are you unwell?”

“No!” she hissed. “For heaven’s sake, keep your voice down, John!”

“Shall I fetch someone to you?” he whispered, bending down to look at her. There was not much light here, only what filtered down the stairwell from the loft above. As the light was coming through a window over the loft, it fell down the stairs in a wash of the most delicate hues, with watery lozenges of pink and blue and gold that made Olivia appear to be sitting at the foot of a rainbow.

“No, no,” she assured him. “I only felt tired and wanted to sit down for a bit.”

He glanced skeptically at their surroundings.

“And you decided to sit down here, rather than in a pew. Quite. Will I go and fetch you some water?” The nearest water to hand was likely the baptismal font, and the only vessel in which he could carry it was his hat, which he had inadvertently brought away with him. Still…

“I don’t need—” Her voice broke off and she arched her back a little, eyes and lips squeezing shut. She put one hand behind her, pressing a fist into her lower back. Her face had gone purple again; he could see that, despite the light.

He wished to rush back into the church and fetch a woman to her at once, but was afraid to leave her thus in mid-spasm. He’d been in the general vicinity of women birthing—soldiers’ wives and camp followers—but had never witnessed the process at close quarters. His impression was that it involved a good deal of screaming, though; Olivia wasn’t doing that. Yet.

She blew out air through pursed lips, relaxed, and opened her eyes.

“How long have you been doing…that?” He gestured delicately at her bulging midsection. Not that the answer would be of help; he hadn’t any notion how long this process was meant to take.

“Only since this morning,” she assured him, and put a hand to the small of her back, grimacing again. He wished she wouldn’t; she looked like nothing so much as one of the gargoyles on the pediment outside. “Don’t worry, everybody says first babies take ages. Days, sometimes,” she added, letting out held breath in a gasp.

“In your position, I think I would not find that an encouraging thought at the moment.” He turned, hand to the door. “I’m going to fetch someone.”

“No!” She sprang to her feet, surprising him extremely, as he hadn’t thought she could move at all, let alone so fast. She clung ferociously to his arm. “ Nothingis going to interfere with this wedding, do you hear me? Nothing!”

“But you—”

“No!” Her face was an inch from his, eyes bulging in a commanding stare that would not have disgraced a sergeant conducting drills on the square. “I’ve worked over these arrangements for six months, and I won’t have them undone now! Don’t you take one step out there!”

He paused, but she clearly meant it. And she wasn’t letting go of his sleeve, either. He sighed and gave in—for the moment.

“All right. For heaven’s sake, though, sit down.”

Instead, she clenched her teeth and pressed suddenly hard against the door, grinding her back against the wood. Her belly had firmed up in some indefinable fashion, so that it seemed even larger, if such a thing was possible. There was so little room at the foot of the stairs that the enormous swell of it brushed against him, and the air was filled with the smell of sweat and something sweetly animal, completely overpowering the feeble scents of powder and eau de toilette.

She was clenching her hands, as well as her teeth, and he found that he was doing precisely the same thing. Also holding his breath.

She relaxed and exhaled, and so did he.

“For God’s sake,Olivia!”

She was leaning against the door, feet braced, hands cupping her enormous belly, her eyes still closed, breathing. She opened one eye and looked at him.

“You,” she said. “Be quiet.” And closed it again.

He eyed her bulk. He couldn’t escape to fetch help, with her leaning against the door. In normal circumstances, he could have removed her, but the circumstances were anything but normal. She had wedged herself solidly into the doorframe, and he could see no convenient way of getting to grips with her.

Besides, she was panting like a bellows. What if she had another of those alarming spasms, just as he was in the act of dragging her from the—a draft of cool air struck the back of his neck, and he glanced up, startled.

Up. He glanced back at Olivia, whose eyes were still closed in a frown of the most ferocious determination, then wheeled and sprinted up the stair before she could stop him.

He popped up next to the child working the bellows, who gaped at sight of him and left off pumping. A hiss from the organist started him again, though he continued to stare at Grey. The organist, hands and feet poised over manuals, pedals, and stops, ignored him completely, peering instead into a small mirror mounted on the organ, which allowed him to see the proceedings at the altar below.

Grey went hastily to the railing, just in time to see General Stanley sweep his mother into an embrace of such exuberant and obvious affection that the congregation broke into applause. Frantic, Grey jabbed his hands into his pockets, looking for some small missile, and came up with a paper of the boiled sweets he had bought for Percy, who had a sweet tooth.

Who? Anyone, he thought. Any woman, at least. All heads were turned toward the altar, where the bishop was raising his hands for the final blessing. Taking a deep breath and commending his soul to God, Grey pegged one of the sweets into the congregation. He’d aimed to strike the pew near Lady Anthony, one of his mother’s close friends seated near the back. Instead, he struck her husband, Sir Paul, squarely in the back of the neck. The baronet jerked and clapped a hand to the spot, as though stung by a bee.

Sir Paul glared wildly round, looking in every direction but up. Grey picked another sweet and was searching for a better target, when a small stir toward the front made him look there. Percy Wainwright had made his way out of the pew, and was heading for the back of the church, nearby heads turning curiously to follow him.

Abandoning his strategy, Grey raced past the organist and down the stairs. Almost too late, he saw Olivia, collapsed again at the foot of the stairs. Panicked at the thought of help escaping, he put both hands against the narrow walls and vaulted over her, coming down with a thump at the foot of the stair. He snatched open the door, just in time to find Percy outside it, looking startled.

He leaned out, seized Percy by the sleeve, and yanked him into the tiny space.

“Help me get her out!”

“What? My God! All right. Where shall we take her?” Percy was sidling round Olivia’s feet, evidently trying to decide what to take hold of. A peculiar whooshing noise made him shy back.

“Oh, Jesus!” Grey said, looking in horror at the spreading pool of liquid at his feet. “Olivia, are you all right?”

“It isn’t blood,” Percy said dubiously, trying without success to keep clear of the puddle.