Phoebe’s smile would have done the cat in the cream pot proud. “I overheard old Everett Treegum complaining to the apothecary that his rheumatism had lingered longer this spring than last. If a man suffers rheumatism, he’ll go to a physician for treatment if a physician is on hand, won’t he?”

Treegum was the Rothhaven steward. Ergo, no physician at Rothhaven Hall. “My lady, you should have been a barrister.”

“What duke lacks a personal physician, Mr. Philpot? What duke afflicted with a potentially fatal disease eschews the aid of those best positioned to abate his misery?”

She was the picture of womanly grace, plying her needle in the quiet hours of the evening, and yet, her brilliance blazed brightly for anybody with the sense to appreciate it.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to read Weatherby’s draft petition if I can get hold of it?” Neville asked, refilling his brandy glass. “I know your days are already quite full, but you have an eye for detail that Weatherby’s clerks are sure to lack.”

“I am always happy to help, Neville—you know that—and I do thank you for coming all the way out from town to keep me apprised of these developments. I fear for His Grace, I truly do. It’s a wonder he hasn’t come to grief already, racketing about a crumbling pile, nobody to look out for his best interests.”

“Your generosity of spirit does you credit, my dear. I don’t suppose generosity of the marital kind might extend to a husband who has missed you sorely of late?”

He always asked before visiting her bed. Phoebe was still regularly indisposed, and he would not impose unwanted attentions on her for the world. Weaker vessels were available for casual pleasure, and a considerate husband made frequent, discreet, use of them.

“I’ve missed you too, Neville. I know your clients must come first, but I do miss you.”

That was a yes. That was a gracious, smiling yes, and Neville silently thanked whatever god had imbued the Duke of Rothhaven with an unsound mind. Perhaps the same god would grant Phoebe a child, and as long as miracles were under discussion, why not a boy child?

Robert felt as if he’d been caught in a whirlpool, a force that would drag him relentlessly to the darkest depths no matter how hard he struggled against the current.

A wheeler had come up lame on the journey back to Lynley Vale and what should have been a four-hour ordeal was taking all night. Constance dozed in Lord Stephen’s capacious coach, while Robert held her and battled demons.

She had stated the blunt truth: He felt in some corner of his soul as if he deserved punishment. Perhaps not for having the falling sickness, but for being unable to fool the world into believing him hale and whole, as his father had fooled the world.