“Is the duchess receiving?” Stephen asked, gathering up his canes. Some women still observed the tradition of forty days lying in. With previous confinements, Jane had begun short excursions from the house in less than half that time.

“Jane will want to see you,” Quinn said. “Give us half an hour, and join us in our private parlor.”

“You will allow me to buy that child a pony,” Stephen said, trying for a light tone. “If I can’t teach her to shoot or smoke or drink, I must be permitted at least that boon.”

“You can teach her all of those things, but it still won’t make her or any of her sisters male, Stephen. Reconcile yourself now to the fact that you will be the next Duke of Walden.” Quinn opened the door, and who should be on the other side but Duncan.

“Another man seeking to call upon my daughter,” Quinn said. “Alas, her mother has summoned her. You can keep Stephen company as he contemplates his gloomy fate. He’ll be a wealthy and powerful duke one day, poor sod.”

Quinn left, closing the door quietly in his wake. Stephen remained in the rocking chair and Duncan took the seat Quinn had vacated.

A silence ensued, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth. Jane ordered wood burned in the nursery, declaring that wood fires were better for the children’s lungs than coal. That was only one of the myriad decisions required of her as a parent, and Jane made them with the confidence of an experienced general bivouacking over familiar terrain.

Duncan had powers of contemplation that rivaled the sagacity of the ancients. He and Matilda had traveled to Town from their Berkshire estate in honor of the nursery’s newest arrival. For years, Duncan had been Stephen’s constant companion, first as a tutor, then as a traveling companion. Matilda had come along and spoken for all of Duncan’s waltzes, as it were.

“You haven’t been out to see us for months,” Duncan said. “Are you in love again?”

Another man might have asked how the crops were faring, how the harvest went on at the Yorkshire properties. Duncan had faced demons that made Jack Wentworth look like a passing inconvenience. Prying into Stephen’s non-existent personal life thus passed for small talk with Duncan.

“I gave up falling in love when I turned five-and-twenty. Put away my childish things, as it were. When will you and Matilda have a son?”

“Never.”

Et tu, Duncan? “The Almighty has given you those assurances?”

“I am older than Quinn, and Matilda has a year or two on Jane. We are well blessed with our two girls and refuse to court disaster by asking for more. You will make a fine duke.”

Nothing frightened Duncan. His sangfroid was equal to highwaymen, irate dukes, squalling infants, and self-destructive adolescents. He’d studied for the church and drew on a well of moral fortitude Stephen could only envy. Duncan had taught a surly, adolescent Quinn to read. When Stephen’s mind had been caulked shut with rage and despair, Duncan had pried it open with books and riding lessons.