To Constance’s delight, Rothhaven made an actual list—took pencil and paper from an inside pocket and jotted down notes as she strolled with him to the foot of the drive and back. At some point between bickering over the need for a gatehouse and arguing over the best place to install a ladies’ mounting block, Constance began enjoying herself.

Organizing a painting was all well and good. An image full of accurate renditions and appealing colors could still fail as a work of art for lack of sound composition. Organizing the approach to a stately home was a more compelling challenge. One couldn’t simply scrape away the paint and start over. The project had to be thought through down to every detail first.

“What about goats?” Rothhaven said, scowling at the weeds separating the parallel ruts of his driveway. “If I run goats through here for a few weeks, the groundsmen will have much less work to do scything the verges and breaking sod for the plantings.”

The longer they talked, the less His Grace glanced at the sky, the more his stride had relaxed. He’d fairly jogged up the steps of the terrace, and he stood outside the front door, hands on hips as he surveyed marble steps besieged by weeds, lichens encroaching on his balustrade, and flagstones heaving as a result of winter frosts.

“Althea uses sheep to keep her lawns in trim,” Constance replied, as Rothhaven made another note and tucked the pencil and paper back into his pocket. “Goats would do a more thorough job.”

“Would goats be an eccentric choice, though?”

Constance was framing a response along the lines of efficiency being more important than appearances when a coach-and-four trotted over the hill a half mile from the foot of the drive. She turned to Rothhaven to inquire whose carriage that might be and found herself standing quite alone on the sunny front stoop.

“I scarpered,” Robert said, regarding the fool in the mirror. “Dodged straight in the front door and closed it behind me. Lady Constance will never call here again.”

Beside him, Nathaniel was still lathering his hands over the breakfast parlor’s washstand. “You decided you’d had enough of a pretty spring day and took yourself back inside?”

Robert pulled a yellow leaf from Nathaniel’s sleeve. “I ran. I heard the wheels of a heavy coach off in the distance and bolted like a cat dodging under the porch when a dog trots across the yard. I am not ready for this. Not ready for callers, not ready to wander around out of doors, casual as you please, making a complete, utter, absolute, hopeless jackass of myself.”

“So why did you do it? Why make the attempt?” Nathaniel batted at his hair, which a trip to the potting shed had put in even worse disarray.