“All is not lost.” That came from Constance, who strode across the room as though she herself were the Lord Mayor of York. “Far from it. I need some sustenance, Your Grace. You will please escort me back to the hotel.”

Robert rose, fatigue dragging at him. “I would be honored. Sir Leviticus, my thanks for your efforts thus far, but it’s not looking good, is it?”

“It’s not looking bad, either, Your Grace. Juries exist precisely because laws require interpretation, and juries do not like greedy lawyers.”

“Speaking of greedy nodcocks,” Constance said, “where is Philpot?”

That was an answer Robert could give her, but not here. “I’ll explain. Let’s take some air, shall we?”

Whitlock Theodophilos Shaw was in a quandary, and praying hadn’t relieved his puzzlement. From long experience, he knew that on the rare occasions when the Lord seemed to be turning a deaf ear, He was in fact instructing Whitlock to put pride aside and consult a nigh infallible earthly authority.

“Mrs. Hodges, will you join me for a cup of tea?”

She set the tray on Whitlock’s desk and stepped back. “I have much to do, sir, though I appreciate the gesture.”

Her tone was deferential, as always. Still, Whitlock knew a silent scold when one was aimed his way every hour of the day.

“I am in your bad books, madam. I know that. You don’t think I should drag Ivy off to New South Wales.”

Mrs. Hodges gazed around the study, which she kept immaculate without disturbing its sense of masculine comfort.

“Ivy doesn’t want to be dragged off to New South Wales, and girls her age can cause a great deal of upheaval when their sensible wishes are repeatedly ignored. I know. I was a stubborn young miss once upon a time.”

Whitlock could imagine her as a very young lady. She’d probably been quiet, observant, industrious, and too wise too soon.

“Please do have a seat, Mrs. Hodges. You might think I took Ivy’s attempts to run away lightly, but she scared me witless. My sisters were good girls, biddable, never a moment’s trouble. Ivy…I fear Ivy takes after the woman who gave birth to her.”

“Ivy is a good girl.” Mrs. Hodges sank onto the very edge of the chair opposite Whitlock’s desk. “The only trouble she gives you is when you insist she part from everything dear and familiar, and travel thousands of miles so you can do the Lord’s work. Has it occurred to you that the Lord might have given Ivy an assignment that differs from your own?”

Mrs. Hodges never raised her voice, and because she spoke quietly, her words had all the more impact.

“As a matter of fact, it has. Read this.” He passed her a single sheet of folded vellum, watermarked with the Rothmere family coat of arms.

Reverend,

Greetings and felicitations to you and Miss Ivy.