“How gracious of the Lord Mayor to offer use of the Mansion House for the hearing,” Constance muttered. The crowd outside the York Mansion House had parted for Quinn’s coach, but by agreement, the ladies would wait in the vehicle until the gentlemen rode up on horseback to hand them down.

“Rothhaven knows the spectacle he’ll face,” Althea said. “He won’t face it alone.”

“Neither will you, Constance,” Jane said, pushing a shade aside to peer out the window. “I do believe our escorts approach.”

A clatter of hooves on the cobbled street presaged Quinn, Nathaniel, and Rothhaven trotting around the corner. They made a fine picture, but Constance alone knew what it cost Rothhaven to travel even a few streets in a saddle devoid of extra straps and buckles.

Rothhaven dismounted easily and a groom from the coach came forward to take his horse.

“Where’s Stephen?” Constance asked. Stephen hated to have an audience when he mounted or dismounted, but the occasion warranted a show of solidarity.

“He might already be inside,” Jane said. “Crowds and canes are not a good combination.”

“And yet,” Constance retorted, “he manages to attend the theater fairly often.”

She was being difficult, but then, she was furious. Weatherby had known when he’d petitioned for the Lord Chancellor to appoint this commission of lunacy that the hearing would be public. A jury of six local worthies had been impaneled, and all the witness testimony would be so much entertainment for them and for the good folk of York.

“Courage,” Althea muttered as a footman opened the coach door and let down the steps.

Jane descended first, followed by Althea and, finally, Constance.

Rothhaven smiled at her, a private, sweet smile that she would have sworn was not for show. Rothhaven had no notion of theater, no use for farce or intrigue, and that thought inspired Constance to smile back.

“My dear, good day.” He bowed and offered his arm.

“Your Grace.” She curtsied, unwilling to be rushed, unwilling to deny Rothhaven one jot of the deference his station was due.

They processed into the Mansion House as if Rothhaven regularly parted unruly, staring crowds under a bright spring sun. Constance wanted to stop before the door and turn to raise her fist at the lot of them.

“Any more letters from Ivy?” Rothhaven asked.

“No.”

“That worries you.”

“Everything worries me.”

“When this is over, Constance, we will turn our considerable resources to her situation.”

Those resources had not been sufficient to buy the ship Ivy was to sail on. The owner, a widow, refused to part with the vessel that she and her merchant captain husband had traveled together on for years. Even Constance hadn’t been willing to press her on the matter.