And that was not flattery, that was Rothhaven speaking the truth, as he invariably did. Constance finished her sweet as the toasting and laughter rose around her, and a trickle of worry managed to wash back over her joy.

She was not being entirely honest with Rothhaven. She absolutely did intend to spend the rest of her life as his duchess, painting away the seasons, running his household, and raising his children—and also, God willing, her daughter—but she did not trust Cranmouth to adequately defend that future.

Not in the least, and thus she’d taken steps without informing Rothhaven, steps he might well oppose. She lifted her glass yet again to the happy couple, and prayed that she and Rothhaven might also earn that appellation, sooner rather than later.

“I tell you, Sparrow”—Stephen tipped his hat to a pair of passing dowagers—“between true love, married love, and frustrated love, Lynley Vale should have a rose-colored miasma hovering over its roof. I had to get away.” Stephen had also been entrusted with a letter to deliver for Constance, one she hadn’t wanted anybody else to see. Miss Abbott had taken the missive, thanked Stephen, and he’d had no pretext for prolonging the encounter.

Regular constitutionals along the walkways of York had failed to produce another sighting of the lady, and perhaps that was for the best.

Sir Leviticus was doubtless slowing his usual gait, the better to accommodate Stephen’s pace. He was astute like that, or Stephen would have sacked him years ago.

“Has the petition been served?” Sir Leviticus asked. “It’s been a good week since I heard Weatherby’s clerks complaining of his latest project.”

Weatherby, along with Philpot, had apparently made a cottage industry out of guardianships for profit. If Stephen lacked patience with any variety of criminal, it was the criminal who preyed on the helpless and was paid to do it with the victim’s own means.

“The petition was served the day after Lady Althea and Lord Nathaniel’s wedding,” Stephen said. “Cranmouth has been alerted to the situation, and Rothhaven pretends all is in hand.”

“All is not in hand?”

“His Grace has staring spells,” Stephen said. “I had no idea such an affliction existed. I was introducing him to a mount I’m training for his use and in the middle of a conversation, Rothhaven just…He went as still as a deserted cathedral. I babbled on, not even noticing the difference until, when I concluded my eloquence, he made no reply. Damnably awkward.”

Sir Leviticus paused on the steps of his club. “More awkward than a shaking fit?”

“Yes, in a way, because he simply stares at nothing, says nothing, and generally comports with some people’s notions of imbecility.”

“Does Cranmouth know of this condition? If I were representing His Grace, I’d certainly find it relevant.”