He withdrew the torte and let the lid to the hamper fall closed. “So there’s Miss Price, marrying a viscount, and her papa was an adulterous, dishonest duke. You could easily present Artemis as my offspring and not a soul would question that story.”

“But that would be a falsehood bruited about to spare me from shame.”

Robert kissed her, holding the pear torte aside. “The purpose of the falsehood would be to spare the child the worst repercussions regarding her origins, and to spare your family the admission that they’d failed to keep you safe. Your brother might appreciate the gesture, because his banks are built in part on his good name.”

“I have been all too aware of the impact my past could have on my brother’s business, which is most of the reason I’ve limited my search to very discreet inquires. This will grow complicated.” More complicated than Constance had realized.

“For others, perhaps, but not for us,” Robert said, holding up the slice of pear torte for Constance to take a bite. “We will offer the child whatever resources will ease her way in the world, on whatever terms you and she choose.”

“She may not want anything from me, may not know I exist, or may hate the thought of me. She’s still a minor. She will have family through the couple who took her in, and be very attached to them.”

“Then she will acquire more family when we find her.”

He was so confident, so unruffled in the face of complications, that some of Constance’s anxiety where Artemis was concerned abated. She would find a way to discuss the situation with Quinn—eventually—and they would do what was best for the girl.

Constance spent most of the afternoon in the orchard with Robert, eating and drinking, talking and kissing, and sometimes falling silent to lie by his side and contemplate the glory of Yorkshire in spring. When they left to wander down the hill hand in hand, Constance knew that whether she ever found her daughter, she’d found the man she was meant to love for all time, and the sooner she married him, the better.

“Nobody would blame you if you declined to attend services henceforth,” His Grace of Walden said, “though your gawking neighbors would doubtless miss the spectacle your convulsions provide.”

“Doubtless,” Robert replied. He occupied the forward-facing seat in his own coach, Constance beside him. He recalled leaving his coach to take his place in the family pew, recalled indifferent singing, and then Sorenson reading the banns for Miss Sybil Price and William, Viscount Somebody.

Then, more swiftly than it had in York some two weeks past, the damnable peculiar feeling had risen up as Robert had reached for Nathaniel, who was goggling in Lady Althea’s direction. The next thing Robert remembered was Walden and Nathaniel helping him to his feet and assisting him back into his coach.