Rothhaven draped his arms across her shoulders and kissed her nose. “Our marriage began years ago, Your Grace. When we were both feeling angry and helpless. Look at us now.”

The hearing had been three days past, and since then both Constance and Rothhaven had slept a fair amount, wandered the grounds of the Hall hand in hand, and shared simple, quiet meals. The reality of life free from lawsuits, intrigues, and family dramas was seeping into Constance’s soul by slow degrees.

“Will you let me paint you this afternoon?” she asked. “You did commission a portrait from me, if you’ll recall.” And she could paint him for hours. He had the gift of a stillness that was yet vibrant, the lively intellect and observant mind evident even in his contemplative silences.

“If you must paint my likeness,” he said, “I will bear up manfully under the strain. I might require a short nap at some point.”

“I do adore our short naps.”

A maid appeared on the terrace steps. Harris was young, new to the staff, and had the falling sickness. Her brother had signed on as a footman.

“Excuse me, Your Graces. You have a caller.” She passed over a silver tray with a single card on it. The Reverend Whitlock Shaw.

“Oh, dear.” Constance had given herself one week to rejoice in vanquishing Philpot’s scheme. She had promised herself to hold the sorrow of Ivy’s impending departure at bay for seven days, and then she would face the next ordeal squarely. That promise was neither consistently nor easily kept.

“Put our guest in the family parlor,” Rothhaven said. “Send up a tray with all the trimmings. Some of Monsieur Henri’s pear torte wouldn’t go amiss.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and withdrew.

“I am nervous,” Constance said, resting her forehead against Rothhaven’s chest. “Why is he calling on us?”

“I invited him to, more or less.”

“You did? Just told him to drop ’round for tea?”

“In so many words. I told him that family ought not to be divided by a child’s circumstances, as my family had been divided by mine. Perhaps he’s here to toss our money back in our faces.”

“Oh, God.”

Rothhaven took both of her hands and kissed her knuckles. “If Shaw is in a taking we will hear him out, apologize for overstepping, and try again. Family doesn’t give up, Constance. Our family doesn’t, not over a silly thing like pride. You certainly didn’t give up when you were searching for your daughter.”

Constance leaned into her husband, drawing strength from his sheer rationality. “Right. Family doesn’t give up. I am terrified, and I don’t know what to do.”