“I learned the name of the solicitor handling the sale of his house, learned that he’s been talking of emigrating for years, and learned that Mrs. Hodges is a well-liked widow of very limited means.” Nothing of real value, in other words, which was frustrating.

Stephen had taken up his knife and fork, intent on filling his belly with proper food for a change, when a soft tap sounded on the door.

“I’m not expecting anybody,” Stephen said.

“Come in,” Rothhaven called.

The young man who entered appeared somewhat familiar, though he was dusty and windblown and clutching a soft cap in his hands.

“Beg pardon for intruding,” he said. “I’m Sample, from the Lynley Vale stables. I have a written message for Lord Stephen Wentworth and I am not to give it to any but he, posthaste.”

“I am Lord Stephen.”

“Can you stand, please, my lord?”

Bloody hell. Stephen reached for his canes.

“I am Lady Constance, and that is my brother. You may give him the letter.”

“Does he limp?” Sample asked. “I was told his lordship is sore afflicted with a limp, but that he might not be dressed proper-like and lord-ish.”

“You can see he’s using two canes,” Constance replied. “Please give him his letter.”

Rothhaven remained silent, sipping his wine, or pretending to.

Stephen accepted the letter. “From my York lawyer.” He slit the seal, foreboding making the wine in his belly roil.

A coin flashed through the air, which Sample neatly caught.

“Get yourself some food,” Rothhaven said. “If his lordship has a reply, he’ll find you in the common within an hour or so.”

Sample bowed and withdrew, taking the scent of horse and road dust with him.

“What does it say?” Constance asked. “The news has to be important if Althea’s groom came all the way from Lynley Vale.”

Rothhaven patted Constance’s wrist, the gesture so casual Stephen nearly missed it. The news was bad, but not bad for Stephen, which was worse in a way.

“Rothhaven asked for the use of the eyes and ears of my best lawyer,” he said. “Sir Leviticus has heard something alarming, but it doesn’t concern me.”

He passed the letter to Rothhaven, and Constance was on her feet, reading over His Grace’s shoulder.

“That vile, skulking, putrid parasite,” she said. “Who the hell does this Solomon Weatherby think he is, to question your competence?”

“He’s a neighbor,” Rothhaven replied. “One who doubtless knows I had a full-on shaking fit at the church. He very likely heard of a similar episode in York right outside Cranmouth’s office. Both times I suffered my usual disorientation after such a spell, and—worst offense of all—I am wealthy. Thus I must be put under guardianship, lest I be taken advantage of.” He folded the letter and put it on the table. “I am sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”