That seemed to satisfy Quinn for the moment. He slipped through the door, closing it quietly, leaving Constance to the company of the sleeping baby. She was tempted to pick up the child and steal a snuggle, but waking a sleeping baby was never well advised.

Instead Constance put a question to her small, dreaming niece. “How did Quinn know that Jane was awake?” Because he had known. Somehow, he’d known.

The cat, a long-haired black monstrosity named Monteverdi for his operatic tendencies, was acting oddly. This did not bode well for Robert’s plans, but Monteverdi often acted odd when the lady cats in the stable were feeling amorous.

“I am feeling amorous,” Robert muttered, scratching the cat’s furry shoulders.

Monty yawned and padded across the library desk to lick Robert’s chin.

“My, what foul breath you have.”

Another lick. Then a chin-butt. Robert gently pushed the cat to the side of the desk and, for the fortieth time in twenty minutes, consulted his pocket watch.

“She’s late.” Though only by five minutes, which was nothing, but was Constance more likely to be late when she was accepting a proposal or when she was rejecting that proposal? Robert rose to admire the view of the garden—not to pace—and Monty leapt from the desk to nearly trip him.

“Go to the stables, you wretch.”

The cat batted gently at Robert’s boot and let out a yowl.

“None of that.” He’d picked up the beast, intent on turning it loose in the garden, when Thatcher tapped on the open door.

“Company, Your Grace. Lady Constance Wentworth to see you.”

Robert held the cat away from his body in the vain hope that no black cat hair would find its way to his attire. Lady Constance appeared at Thatcher’s elbow before this awkward posture could be remedied.

“I told Thatcher he needn’t announce me. What a splendid kitty.” She sidled past Thatcher, whose stoic expression hid the pain of a man too long denied the office of announcing callers. Lady Constance wore her old straw hat again today—Robert was becoming fond of that hat—and dropped her gloves on the sideboard.

“The splendid kitty is demanding attention,” Robert said, opening the terrace door and nudging Monty out of doors with his boot. “He’ll enjoy a call on the stable. Thatcher, that will be all.”

“No tray, Your Grace?”

Constance put a sizable reticule down on the blotter. “No tray, and His Grace and I do not wish to be disturbed.”

Was that good news or bad news?

Thatcher bowed and drew the door closed behind him as he left.