But this was too fine an occasion to spoil with sighing. The thought of Baby’s boots led to thoughts of Baby, safe at home with Amelia’s mother, and the thought of her precious daughter sweetly smiling in her sleep chased the more anxious thoughts from Amelia’s mind. She extinguished the light and smiled herself to sleep in the quiet darkness, awakening twice: once at her ladyship’s return at midnight from her evening with Lord Charles, when she got up to make sure that nothing was wanted; and again later, at the sound of a male voice, definitely not that of the Prince of Wales. Amelia had heard that voice at Easton Lodge, and she knew she would never forget it.

Now it was morning, and after her mistress had gone to breakfast, Amelia went down the back stairs to seek out Margaret, who was in the laundry, overseeing the ironing of Mrs. Langtry’s fresh sheets.

“I’ve got nothing to do,” Amelia said. “I’d be glad to ’elp.” She was rewarded with a grateful smile and an armload of fresh towels. Margaret brought the sheets, and the two women went back up the stairs to tidy Mrs. Langtry’s bedroom.

As they made the bed, Amelia said, with a little laugh, “It’s ’ard not to think ’oo slept ’ere last night.” She gave Margaret a significant glance. “I ’eard ’em talkin’ in the ’allway.”

“Well,” Margaret said tartly, “if ye’r thinkin’ it wuz ’Is Nibs ye ’eard, ye kin think agin. ’E don’t just come an’ go when ’e comes-’e comes and stays, ’im and ’is flock of servants, all proud as peacocks and just about as useless. So it wuzn’t ’im, ’cause none of ’em was ’ere to breakfast.”

Taking her place on the opposite side of the bed, Amelia arranged her face in a creditable imitation of bewilderment. “Oh, my,” she said. “You don’t mean, she ’as another-” She stopped, to give Margaret the opportunity to finish her sentence.

Margaret obliged. “That’s eggsac’ly wot I mean,” she said grimly. “And not just one, but lots. Why, last night at nine o’clock, on ’er way to dinner wiv the Prince, she ’ad a ren-dez-vooz wiv another man, in ’er carriage. Would yer believe it? Three in one night!” She flapped the sheet in Amelia’s direction, stern disapproval written in every line of her face.

“Another man?” Amelia asked, widening her eyes in disbelief. She grasped the sheet, clean and sweet-smelling, and straightened it across the bed. “But ’oo? I mean, ’oo’s important enough to put before the Prince?”

“ ’Er bookmaker, that’s ’oo,” Margaret said, tossing her head disdainfully. “The one she cheats.” She grasped the end of the sheet and raised one corner of the mattress at the foot of the bed. “Come now, tuck it in.”

While Amelia tucked in the sheet on her side of the bed, she frowned, thinking of poor Esther Waters, who had married a bookmaker. “ ’Ow does she cheat?”

Margaret picked up the heavy gold and purple coverlet and tossed it onto the bed. “She’s got one of those newfangled telly-phones in the drawing room. Just when a race is finished, somebody at the course phones ’er with the winner. She gives ’er bet to a boy ’oo rides ’is bicycle straight to the bookie wiv it, like she’d laid it on before the off. Or sometimes she telegraphs ’er bet to London. Either way, it’s a cheat.”

Pulling the spread even on both sides, the two women tucked it under and over the pillows. “But doesn’t the bookmaker get onto ’er?” Amelia asked, straightening up. “Seems like any ninny could figure it out.” She turned to the fireplace, where the cinders of last night’s fire remained in the grate. “Would you like me to do the fireplace, Marg’ret?”

“That’ud be a ’elp.” Margaret picked up the feather duster and went to the dressing tables. “I s’pose she doesn’t get found out ’cause she doesn’t do it so very often to the same bookie.” She flicked the duster lightly over the surface. “I know ’ow it’s done,” she added, “ ’cause I ’eard ’er talking on the ’phone, and then to the boy.”

Amelia began to shovel cinders and ashes into the ash bucket. “That’s clever.” She paused. There was a piece of crumpled paper lying loose among the cinders, the edges scorched. It had apparently been saved from burning by virtue of having had wine spilled on it. Quick as thought, Amelia scooped it into the pocket of her apron.

“Clever? Mebbee.” Margaret’s voice was thick with scorn. “But she wa’n’t clever enough to think it up. That American jockey ’oo sleeps ’ere sometimes-’ee showed ’er ’ow to do it. Americans are smart when it comes to cheatin’.” She went to dust the other dressing table.

Amelia cocked her head. “I wonder why she was meeting ’er bookmaker last night. D’ye think she wanted to lay a bet?”

“Don’t be a goose,” Margaret said, picking up the towels and going into the bathroom. “If ye ask me, she ’ad other business with ’im, and it wa’n’t wagers.”

Amelia finished cleaning out the fireplace and swept the hearth. She set the bucket outside the door and went into the bathroom, where Margaret was polishing the faucets with a towel. “I just don’t see,” she said, frowning, “ ’ow any woman ’ud be daft enough to fancy a bookmaker before the Prince.”

“It’s true,” Margaret said shortly. She gave the faucet one last disgusted swipe and threw the towel on the damp heap on the floor. “She sent ’im a note by Richard, the footman, askin’ ’im to meet ’er at nine in St. Mary’s Square. I know, ’cause Richard read the note and told me about it.” Shaking her head, she hissed through her teeth. “The goin’s-on in this ’ouse are enough to make a good Christian girl ’ang ’er ’ead in shame, Amelia. And ’er a parson’s daughter, too.”

Taking her cue, Amelia patted Margaret’s hand. “It’s too bad ye ’ave to be privy to such terr’ble things, Margaret,” she said piously. “But ye’re to be praised fer ’oldin’ yerself above it all and stickin’ to yer standards. Ye’ll ’ave yer reward in ’eaven. The Bible says so.”

“Thank ye, Amelia,” Margaret said with a smile, her good humor partially restored. She picked up the damp towels. “Rose is doin’ yer mistress’s room. Let’s go down to the kitchen and fix ourselves a spot of tea.”

“Won’t Cook mind?” Amelia asked doubtfully. Discipline wasn’t overly strict at Bishop’s Keep, but the servants took their morning cup in the servant’s hall, where they didn’t distract the kitchen maids or get in Mrs. Pratt’s way.

Margaret shook her head. “Cook likes ’er bit of gossip, same as us. We’re safe so long as Mr. Williams don’t catch us. Come on.”

The kitchen was a large, gloomy room with damp stone walls and a stone-flagged floor, under the old part of the house. Only a little natural light was let in by the windows high up on the walls, at ground level, and gaslights burned around the room. Although it was only midmorning, the room was already quite warm, heated by the monstrous Royale range, a black iron giant that took up almost all of one wall. On the other walls were bins and shelves and cupboards that held dishes and cooking pots, and a solid deal table sat in the middle of the floor, its surface marked by years of vegetable-chopping and bleached white with many scrubbings.

The kettle was already boiling on the back of the range when Amelia and Margaret came into the kitchen. Margaret put tea in a china pot, while Mrs. Redditch, the cook, dropped a lid on the copper kettle on the stove and joined Amelia at the table. She was a large, jolly-looking woman whose good humor seemed to extend to everyone but the kitchen maid, who was sulkily washing up the breakfast dishes in the scullery.

Margaret was pouring tea into three thick china mugs when Mr. Bowchard, the gardener, came in with a bucket of fresh-dug carrots. With a nod to Amelia, who had been introduced to him at lunch the day before, he pulled out a chair and sat down.

“Well, Bowchard,” Mrs. Redditch said genially, as Margaret fetched a fourth mug, “ye sart’n’ly look glum enough, and it’s not noon yet.” She chuckled. “Is the missus makin’ life ’ard fer ye agin?” Mrs. Bowchard, as Margaret had told Amelia the day before, was the laundress at Regal Lodge, as well as several other neighboring establishments, and was known to be a harridan.