I must risk offending you by hastening to address a matter that by rights ought to be handled with respectful delicacy. I suffer the falling sickness, and an attack has been mounted on my legal competence. The enclosed bank draft is made out to you, though I trust your judgment regarding to what extent and how the funds can better Ivy’s situation. I know you will exert yourself to the utmost to safeguard her well-being. My only request is that you keep her mother, now my duchess, apprised of Ivy’s general situation to the extent your conscience allows you to do so.

By the time you receive this, I might no longer have the authority to provide for Ivy or to aid you in your travels, so please deposit the sum as quickly as may be. If you or any member of your family is ever in difficulties, please apply to myself, Lord Nathaniel Rothmere, or His Grace of Walden. If you wish at any time to call at Rothhaven Hall, you will of course be most welcome. A child should unite a family rather than occasion division. To my sorrow, I speak from personal experience. I wish you the best, and I remain your obed serv,

Rothhaven

“The sum was considerable,” Whitlock said. “Enough to see me well established in New South Wales and to dower Ivy handsomely.” More than enough. Far more.

Mrs. Hodges set the letter on the desk. “And you don’t know what to do, because this duke asks for nothing in return, save that you keep Ivy’s mother informed of her situation.”

“The blasted man is clearly competent, and woe to him who thinks otherwise. Rothhaven was polite to a fault with me—except that odd bit, which is probably a symptom of his illness. I, on the other hand, was not my most gracious toward him or toward his lady wife.”

Mrs. Hodges poured two cups of tea. “His duchess.”

And that was the real conundrum. Ivy’s mother was a duchess, not only willing but eager to acknowledge her illegitimate daughter. Such women did not exist in Whitlock’s experience, and yet…

“Have some tea,” Mrs. Hodges said, adding two lumps of sugar to Whitlock’s cup. “You will not send that bank draft back, Mr. Shaw.”

“I won’t?” He’d considered doing just that.

“The money isn’t yours to reject. By rights, that money belongs to Ivy, and heaven knows she might need it.”

Mrs. Hodges added a dollop of milk to her tea and took a sip. How a woman could do housework all day and still have such lovely hands was a mystery.

“I am being arrogant,” Whitlock said. “Dukes are supposed to be arrogant. Rothhaven is disappointing me terribly when he denies me the opportunity to scorn him. Still, Ivy has no need of fripperies and furbelows. Such indulgences only lead to vanity.”