“We likely will, in time. I can tell you this: Nathaniel’s version of playing the duke, rarely leaving Rothhaven property, never socializing, neglecting his seat in the Lords, looks a lot like brotherly devotion to me. I suspect brotherly devotion is also why Rothhaven himself supports this match. I don’t think anything less than a strong fraternal bond would drag that man from his estate even to take a meal with his nearest neighbors.”

Jane laid her head on Quinn’s shoulder. “Is that why you asked Constance to show His Grace the portrait gallery? Because Rothhaven has a retiring nature?”

“Not retiring, Jane, reclusive. Nathaniel claims the falling sickness is most of the explanation for Robert confining himself to the Hall for years on end. No man wants an audience when he has a shaking fit.”

“And the rest of the explanation?”

“I can only speculate.”

Jane sat up and peered at him. “You know something you’re not telling me. Constance and Rothhaven appear to have a prior acquaintance. How can that be, when he’s a recluse, and she has been tucked safely under your wing since Jack Wentworth’s death?”

Early in the marriage, Quinn had deceived Jane. Out of misplaced consideration for his new wife’s delicate sensibilities, he’d kept a few plans to himself—and nearly got himself killed in the process. Death would have been an acceptable result of such foolishness, but disappointing Jane had been nearly unbearable.

She had forgiven him. Quinn did not make the mistake of presuming he would be granted such clemency twice.

“Constance hasn’t always been tucked safely under my wing, Jane.”

“You worked,” she said, patting his arm, “as a youth. I know. You took any paying job, and you were a footman for a time, though you sent wages home for your siblings.”

As dearly as Quinn loved his wife, as much as he trusted her, this tale was still difficult to recount.

“After Jack Wentworth died, I became a clerk at a bank in York. The owner of that bank bequeathed me some means and many useful connections. My situation began to improve, partly because I was willing to travel—to Scotland, to London, to the ports, and thus I left my siblings in the care of tutors and governesses from time to time. When Constance was fifteen, I came home from negotiating a loan to a Birmingham gunsmith and found my sister had fled the premises.”

“Fled the premises? Fled, Quinn?”

Leave it to Jane to seize on a telling detail. “That was my sense. I searched for her everywhere, hired runners, questioned every neighbor, offered a reward, took out advertisements, posted spies at every coaching inn and quay, but she had vanished. We knew her flight had been premeditated because she took some old clothes and a bit of money.”

“Did she elope with a tutor? A curate? A connection from her former life?”