“Here is how I suggest we proceed,” Rothhaven said. “Constance and I will finish our meal. You, my lord, will pen a reply to Sir Leviticus acknowledging receipt of his missive and thanking him for his diligence. I will return to Rothhaven Hall tonight and confer with my brother and His Grace of Walden to ensure that my financial affairs are in order, and my family well provided for. You, however, are needed here, for I suspect Constance will remain close to Ivy for the nonce.”

Constance set down her wineglass. “I will go with you, Rothhaven. You shall not face this without me.”

Rothhaven put aside his knife and fork and patted Constance’s hand. “My dear, I fear I must. You cannot fight this battle for me. When I lose, you must be at as great a distance from me as possible.”

Constance turned her hand over and laced her fingers with Rothhaven’s. “You are saying that I must choose between you and my daughter?”

Rothhaven kissed her knuckles. “There is no choice to be made, Constance. If Reverend Shaw took umbrage at an arrogant duke, he will have no dealings whatsoever with one declared mentally unfit, nor will he want Ivy associated with such an unfortunate wretch.”

“But you aren’t unfit, Rothhaven. You are the most…” Constance fell silent, and a tear dropped onto the worn planks of the table. “This is so unfair.”

Stephen had said the same thing, countless times, about an unreliable, aching leg. He would keep his miserable excuse for an appendage and be grateful rather than endure the pain Constance and Rothhaven were suffering now.

“I’m off to write a note to Sir Levi,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet. “Rothhaven, I’m sorry.”

He’d said that more today than he had in the previous five years, and the words grew more bitter with each use.

“I am not sorry,” Rothhaven replied. “I have known more joy in recent days than any man deserves.” He saluted Constance with his wineglass, and Stephen moved toward the door.

If Constance needed to cry, she also needed for her brother to leave the room. By the time Stephen closed the door, Rothhaven was at Constance’s side, his handkerchief already in his hand. Stephen stood outside the door as the sound of quiet weeping commenced.

One of the buxom serving maids went by with two tankards in each hand. “Done so soon, sir?”

“No longer hungry. Where can I find paper and ink?”

“Ask the missus at the front desk. She’ll charge you dearly.”

Stephen remained by the door, listening to his sister’s sorrow. Rothhaven’s voice was a low rumble punctuating the soft weeping, a stream of steady reason at a time when reason struck Stephen as obscene.