“I will send my groom, Thomas Goodman, Yorkshire born and bred, riding a mule named George, whom Tom will stable at the livery because the poor beast will be tired after a long day’s trot. Tom will put up at the drovers’ inn outside the village, but stop by the church to give thanks for safe travels.

“Thomas will bump into the curate,” Stephen continued, “then he’ll enjoy a pint or two at the posting inn. If all else fails, he’ll stop by the apothecary to buy a patent remedy or two for the severe rheumatism that so clearly plagues him. If market day in Fendle Bridge is Wednesday, Thomas will arrive on Tuesday afternoon, and tarry to enjoy the market. He will take particular care to flirt with the alewife, because all the friendly young fellows hang about her stall, and he will allow as how he’s bound for Liverpool, and thinking of taking ship for the Antipodes. Need I go on?”

“You don’t have a groom named Thomas Goodman,” Althea said.

Because a sister’s sworn duty was to un-horse her younger brother just as that good fellow had secured control of the conversation reins.

“I like that part about the mule named George,” Miss Abbott murmured, brows knit. “A jackass or mule named for the king would be a winning touch in most livery stables, and certainly in the drovers’ inns. I must remember that.”

“A jackass named for the king would go over well in most London gentlemen’s clubs too,” Stephen said. “As for the villagers, the apothecaries hear all the sickness and sorrow in the neighborhood. They know who cannot have children as well as who has conceived inconveniently.”

Stephen was gambling that Miss Abbott’s sense of fair play would allow her to take a bit of pity on her hosts. She would not betray confidences, but in exchange for a few worthy ideas freely offered, she might relent a little.

“One must approach the apothecary as a supplicant needing aid,” he added, “not simply as a nosy interloper.”

Having patronized apothecaries since childhood, Stephen was intimately acquainted with the breed. Miss Abbott appeared to be considering his offering.

“You give me something to think about, my lord.”

Quinn looked like he was about to drop ducal consequence on the discussion at the exact wrong time. Stephen thus decided to entrust Miss Abbott with the truth—a risky tactic, and not one he often used.

“Constance was bitterly unhappy as a young girl and made terrible choices as a result. She put herself at risk for serious harm, endured many hardships, and still has not entirely recovered from her youthful miseries. We would spare Ivy those same miseries if we possibly can, and spare ourselves the guilt of having failed yet another Wentworth relation when she desperately needs the support of people who mean well by her.”