“One shilling,” Cranmouth said, banging the table. “He accepted one shilling in payment for the lot of it, furnished, as is, with all fixtures, livestock, appurtenances, and stores, in fee simple absolute. An uncomplicated property sale like this one is normally handled by my younger cousin. Had he alerted me to the peculiar terms, I would never have allowed such a failure of consideration to pass unremarked.”

Weatherby picked up another crab leg. “The quality can be generous, and navy pensioners are a worthy charity. What else have you got?”

Neville peered into his tankard rather than let his interest in the question show, for there had to be more. There had to be.

Cranmouth was not given to smiling, but he smiled now. “Oh, yes, Weatherby. There is more. Given the recent upheaval with the ducal title, I was prompted to review some of the family’s older files and ledgers. The property His Grace most recently sold has a very interesting provenance, one that goes back to His Grace’s boyhood.”

Thank the merciful powers. “Do tell,” Neville said, “and shall we order you some sustenance?”

“Please. The tale is long and sad, and the ending, I fear, will be none too happy for my unfortunate client.”

Rothhaven rapped his knuckles on the coach roof, then settled beside Constance on the forward-facing seat. “The courtesy of a night journey is appreciated, your ladyship.”

“That sounds very formal, Your Grace. Perhaps I wanted to arrive at Fendle Bridge after dark to ensure we create the least possible stir.”

Constance turned her head to gaze out the window, but of course, the shades had been drawn before Rothhaven had handed her up into Stephen’s traveling coach. Rothhaven had given orders to have the crests turned, and the grooms and coachman were not in livery.

“We will create a stir nonetheless,” Rothhaven replied, taking off his hat and setting it on the opposite seat. “The quality of the horses alone will draw notice.”

Matched blacks, not a white hair upon them, the leaders full of fire, the wheelers bristling with muscle. Stephen knew his horseflesh.

“We’ll change at a posting inn,” Constance said.

“The inn, recognizing the coach, will put a Wentworth relief team in the traces.”

Rothhaven’s argumentative mood put Constance in mind of his behavior on the way into York. “Do you feel a seizure approaching?”

“No.”

“Has the prospect of a coach journey out onto the Dales put you in such a foul humor?”

He swiveled his gaze to regard her, and by the dim light of the single coach lamp, Constance could see that her beloved was in a foul humor indeed. He might have been Quinn attempting to quell a sibling insurrection, so glacial was his expression.

“Constance, we might well fail.”