“You don’t deny them either. I hardly know Rothhaven, but I would pit his sanity against that of any peer. His tenancies thrive, his investments prosper, his only sibling has nothing but respect for him. This petition cannot be allowed to go forward, Sir Leviticus.”

He subsided into his chair. “I have not admitted to the existence of any petition, Your Grace.”

His very posture, now that of a tired, unhappy man rather than a lancer preparing to charge, was admission enough.

The front door slammed and heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer.

Thank God. “Walden will demand to speak with you.”

Sir Leviticus sat up. “I thought you said His Grace was from home?”

“He’s back, and not a moment too soon.”

“You’ll want a tray for your guests, Reverend,” Mrs. Hodges said, once she’d taken Constance’s parasol and Robert’s hat.

The tiny foyer was crowded, and the house smelled slightly of lye and tallow. The floors were nonetheless clean, the aging rugs recently beaten, and the corners free of cobwebs. The cleanliness would probably be a relief to Constance, though it meant little to Robert.

Soames’s prison had been spotless.

“A pot of tea will do,” Shaw said. “The everyday, Mrs. Hodges.”

The housekeeper looked ready to mutiny at that blatant insult to newly arrived guests, but she bustled off toward the back of the house, while Ivy remained near Constance.

“Ivy,” Shaw said, “to your room.”

“But, Uncle…”

“To your room, and don’t come down until you’ve copied at least an entire chapter of Matthew.”

Constance patted Ivy’s shoulder. “Do as your uncle says, Ivy. He and I have matters to sort out.”

Ivy ran up the steps, and Shaw scowled after her. “Not a quarter hour after meeting you, and the girl is already inspired to further rebellions.”

Constance swiveled a glittering gaze to Shaw. “Perhaps if Ivy had been allowed to spend more than a quarter of an hour with me, she might be more biddable.”

Shaw bristled, clutching his prayer book to his chest as if it were his moral targe, deflecting arrows of disrespect.

“Might we continue this discussion someplace more private?” Robert asked.

Shaw marched down the corridor. “I cannot spare you much time. I am to lead a prayer group that meets every market day at the inn. I had allotted the remainder of the morning for quiet contemplation, the better to prepare for that solemn responsibility.”

Robert would have bet his best microscope that the prayer group would be two venerable grannies and a gouty great-uncle dropped at the inn for safekeeping while their minders enjoyed the market and caught up over a pint of ale.

“My parlor is humble,” Shaw said, “but you are welcome, despite interrupting my schedule and poor Ivy’s peace.”