“You are the Duke of Rothhaven.” But who was he really? Rothhaven looked more at ease than he had the night of Althea’s ball, though he’d said little at lunch. Jane had begun probing around the edges of Nathaniel’s plans for married life, and Constance had been taken aback to learn that Althea happily anticipated moving to some property twenty miles distant.

“And if I disapproved of Nathaniel’s choice of wife,” Rothhaven said, “do you think he’d reconsider marrying your sister?”

“Not for an instant.” Nor would Althea reconsider her choice of husband. “One feels a bit dismayed by such confidence. Althea is no Puritan, but her experience of men has been limited mostly to ballroom flirtations, fortune hunters, and idle speculations. Now she is engaged to a fellow I hardly know, and soon they’ll take up residence someplace I’ve never been. I had thought they’d bide here at Lynley Vale or with you at Rothhaven Hall.”

Rothhaven stopped before the next picture, an informal rendering of the previous Duke of Walden in his youth. His Grace had apparently been an approachable sort, for the artist had captured him leaning on a fence, his hand outstretched toward a leggy bay colt. The Dales in all their green glory undulated to the horizon, and a sky worthy of the Low Country masters billowed with fluffy clouds.

The image should have been one of bucolic joy, but Constance saw menace in the dark tree line bounding the pasture, and loneliness in the young duke’s hand, outstretched to a wary beast.

“Might we continue this conversation someplace less…empty?” Rothhaven asked.

“Empty?” The gallery was full of light and quiet as well as of pictures and elegant conversational groupings.

“Your ancestors stare from their gilt frames,” he said, gaze on Constance’s hand resting on his arm. “A different pair of eyes regards us every few feet, and yet the room echoes. The windows let in abundant light, but they also allow anybody with a spyglass and access to the fishing cottage to peer in. I would rather be someplace else.”

“You were serious when you said being out-of-doors makes you uncomfortable.”

“And I assure you, my lady, I am serious now.”

He was also avoiding looking at any of the paintings. “You were watched, at the hospital.” Constance turned toward the door, her arm still linked with Rothhaven’s.

“I was observed. I wasn’t supposed to find the spy-holes the good doctor had bored all over the walls of my chamber. When I did find them, I could not cover them up or he’d simply drill new ones and chide me for being ungrateful. I learned to tarry behind my privacy screen and drape towels in unusual locations.”

“You were ungrateful, to want the smallest measure of privacy?” Constance forgot to allow her escort to hold the door for her.