Rothhaven’s calm put Stephen in mind of martyrs, unconcerned about their worldly demise, fixed only on the honor of sacrificing all for their beliefs. Such steadfast purpose, such clarity, nearly defied comprehension.

And for a man facing a challenge to his mental competence, that selfless serenity could be a very great problem indeed.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

Constance wept until her sides ached and her face burned. She wept until her eyes stung, and she wept even more than that because once unleashed, her tears were limitless. Through it all, Rothhaven held her in his lap, stroked her back, and murmured platitudes.

“You mustn’t take on so. This too shall pass. Perhaps this is for the best.”

Though she doubtless looked hideous, Constance sat up and glowered at him the second time he mentioned that last bit.

“This is not for the best, you dratted man.”

“Perhaps not, ultimately, but better to face Weatherby now rather than after Ivy’s ship has sailed. You can go with her, Constance, and perhaps you ought to.” The actual threat, according to Stephen’s lawyer, was from Neville Philpot, whom Weatherby would put forth as Rothhaven’s proposed guardian.

Lady Phoebe was likely the hand guiding this whole charade, an aspect of the situation Constance would discuss with Rothhaven later.

She hopped off his lap before he could spew more sweet, selfless reason. “I gave Ivy up long ago, because I honestly never thought I had a choice. Quinn assumed I would be loath to bring down the scandal of an illegitimate child on my family, and he was right. I never questioned him, though, never asked for more time to think, never explored whether I might have lived quietly with Ivy somewhere on the Dales.”

She paced away from the table, thoughts tumbling into one another. “I told myself the very sort of nonsense you’re spouting now: The hurt will fade in time. I did the best I could. Giving Ivy two loving parents is for the best. The lies we tell ourselves lest we go mad.”

Rothhaven rose and came around the table. “As far as the world is concerned, I am mad, or the next thing to it on a bad day. I cannot control my fits, then I am nearly incoherent for some time afterward. My memory is unreliable at times, I cannot enjoy the usual pursuits of men of my station—no riding to hounds, no drunken bacchanals during the shooting season, no drunken anything, in fact.”