They started down the center aisle together as the choir sang its departing hymn. Her gaze landed on Mr. Butler for a heartbeat. He wore an impatient expression, as though he could not wait to be free of this church. Imogen sniffed in disdain and snapped her gaze forward.

She and Papa took their positions just outside the double doors. Pasting a smile on her face, she nodded and smiled and greeted the denizens of Shropshire. Papa managed this part of his duties quite well. He still loved the social aspect of his role. That had not changed. He had always been a marvelous listener. He smiled and nodded and appeared wholly invested in conversations flowing around him—even if he was not quite the loquacious speaker he once was. Even if it took him a long time to arrive at his words. That did not mean he failed to appreciate the community around him.

Imogen likewise nodded and smiled and said all the right and usual things as congregants exited the church.

Thank you for coming. Have a lovely day. How is your dear grandmam? We would love to join you for tea this week. Oh, my what a splendid bonnet! My compliments on your freshly painted fence. It is the highlight of Shropshire.

The banalities ended as the last family passed through the doors and moved on. Imogen and her father turned to face the bustling churchyard.

As with every Sunday, members of the congregation lingered and mingled. There was nothing unusual with such a sight. The duke—blast it! Mr. Butler—in their midst, however? That was unusual, and highly suspect as far as Imogen was concerned.

In the last year since his disinheritance, he had not accompanied his mother to church. It was a curious thing. What brought about this development now? Why was he here? Should he not be in London leeching off his friends now that he found himself without rank and funds? At least she assumed he was without funds. She was not privy to the nature of his finances. Or perhaps now that the truth of his birth had been revealed those friends wanted nothing to do with him.

She tugged down on the brim of her bonnet so that she might survey him more inconspicuously.

He stood beneath the shady drape of a tree, adjusting his hat, looking resplendent in his blue frock coat and brocade waistcoat, his cravat impeccable beneath his chin. He still dressed in the height of fashion. At least he was fashionable by Shropshire standards. Evidently it would take more time for his state of penury to become perceptible to the outside world.

“Come, daughter.” Papa patted her gloved hand and together they stepped down the front stone walk of the church.