Stephen pushed away from the hitching rack to tip his hat and bow. “I’m off to befriend a lonely alewife, or at least sample her wares.” He paused, both hands resting on his walking stick. “You will have to fight for the girl, Rothhaven. I don’t know how to advise you regarding tactics. Charm won’t work, money won’t work. In court Shaw will be the poor, sincere preacher whose true vocation is thwarted by a bellicose duke.”

“Then what will work?” Constance asked, threading her arm through Robert’s.

Stephen tugged down his hat brim and surveyed the increasingly crowded green across the street. “I wish to hell I knew. Mrs. Elizabeth Hodges is over by the tinker’s cart, the tallish lady with the blue ribbon on her bonnet. She is Shaw’s housekeeper. I do believe that’s my long-lost niece at her side.”

Robert covered Constance’s hand with his own. “Shall I escort you to her?” He was tired from a night without sleep, tired from worry, tired from racking his brains for a solution. Constance would not march up to the girl and announce their relationship, but hiding that relationship from Ivy could be a greater error than announcing it.

That he was standing under the Yorkshire sun in a village square surrounded by strangers added to his burden, but if this was what Constance needed him to do, he’d do it willingly.

“She’s my daughter,” Constance said. “I’ll manage this part. Will you wait for me?”

“Always.”

She walked away, shoulders square, while Robert trailed behind more slowly. He’d keep a respectful distance, but like Lord Stephen, he was prepared to shorten the life expectancy of any who interfered with Constance in this most precious and fraught moment.

She was brave—God, was she brave—but courage cast out neither fear nor vulnerability. To stand as her champion, however imperfectly, was an honor. Once before, Robert had appointed himself her champion, and the decision had changed something in him for the better at a critical moment.

Across the green, Lord Stephen was keeping an equally careful eye on the proceedings.

He saluted under the guise of admiring the mighty oaks shading the green, and Robert returned the gesture. They might not secure a future for Ivy in the ducal home, but if the girl was willing, they would damned sure try.

Constance had grown up in a household where mortal fear was a frequent caller. Jack Wentworth had been a fiend, and his exalted authority as a father meant nobody intervened to keep his children safe from his violence. Spare the rod, the neighbors had said, smiling with pious resignation and shaking their heads.