Rowles had expected the words. However, the searing pain to his chest as those words settled in was utterly unexpected.

Was he already so invested himself? How had it gotten so far? And only to meet such a tragic fate.

“Your words are nothing but an echo of my own convictions.” Rowles sighed. “My mother is being moved, as we speak, to a separate house with a full and competent staff, but even that doesn’t give me peace of mind that she won’t harm herself or others. I… It would not be fair…to subject anyone to such a family as mine, at least currently.”

Morgan released a tense breath. “Your family is not my concern—”

“I know, and you’re a better friend for it, but it is my concern.” Rowles leaned back in his chair.

Morgan studied him, then gave a curt nod. “I thank you.”

“It is a difficult position, shepherding one’s sister in the season.”

Morgan looked heavenward. “Tell me about it. I don’t resent it, but I do feel unequal to the task at times.”

“You’re doing well, and I do not resent that you are having this conversation with me.”

“You’re a better friend than I deserve, Rowles.” Morgan stood. “And I’m grateful for that.”

“As am I grateful for you.” Rowles stood as well. “It goes without saying that I’ll be giving my regrets to Lady Rathbone concerning tonight’s event.”

“A loss.”

“It is always a boon to have a duke in attendance, but I think she shall recover.” He gave a chuckle, but it was sad, mournful in nature. “Give my apologies to Joan. Please, I’ve already had one miscommunication with her, and I do not wish for this to be an additional one.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Morgan promised. “Until later.” He bowed and took his leave.

Rowles watched his friend’s retreat and sighed deeply, his bones weary as if sensing a hopelessness that threatened to overtake him.

It was for the best.

He knew it.

Didn’t he?

Fourteen

The poor folk gladly came to me, for I did them no unkindness, but helped them as much as I could.

—Joan of Arc, from The Trial of Joan of Arc by W.S. Scott

Joan had received no fewer than five callers that afternoon, but the one caller she sought did not appear. Lord Goodman was attentive, and his light-blond hair was combed in the utmost fashion, but as she conversed with him, he kept reminding her of someone else.

Only lacking the conversational skills of said person.

One could only talk about the weather and hounds for so long.

And her disappointment continued when her brother conveyed the news that the duke wouldn’t attend the evening’s ball. He assured her it was nothing to do with their escapade that afternoon at the park.

Yet she couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps it did.