Quinn glanced back in the direction they’d come, though Stephen had raised this topic early in the ride, before Quinn could challenge him to a homeward gallop.

“Constance and Rothhaven shared supper, Stephen. They appeared to chat amiably. Given that Rothhaven has all but hidden from polite society for who knows how long, I don’t see how he and Constance could be acquainted. She was merely being sociable.”

“Constance is never sociable, Quinn. She is polite, she is agreeable, she is so unrelentingly well mannered she could be wallpaper in some vicar’s guest parlor.”

Quinn glanced over at Stephen. His Grace was the taller sibling by at least two inches, but Stephen had the taller mount and the better seat, thus putting him at eye level with his brother.

“That is an unkind thing to say about your own sister, Stephen.”

“Bugger kindness, I speak the truth. Althea tried very hard to gain society’s approval and got a lot of gossip and spite for her efforts. Constance has perfected the art of being ignorable. Two nights ago, she all but monopolized the company of a man every matchmaker in England will be fascinated with. Why? Rothhaven is a dry stick who apparently suffers a serious unwillingness to leave his own property.”

And that version of events glossed over the more titillating facts. As best Stephen could pry the tale from Althea, the current duke—Robert—had been declared dead in his minority by his own father, who dreaded the notion of an heir with the falling sickness. The younger brother—Nathaniel—had taken up the title without realizing his older sibling was not only alive, but housed in some private madhouse out on the Yorkshire moors.

That Robert, as firstborn, was now willing to take on the title and the station of a duke would occasion attention from the sovereign himself—surely the king would have to formally reinstate the correct duke in place of the younger brother?—and talk at all levels of society.

“You fail to note,” Quinn said, “that a connection between Rothhaven’s house and ours has formed through Althea and Nathaniel. Constance’s cordiality toward Rothhaven makes sense. He has a retiring nature; she has learned to be unassuming. A crooked pot needs a crooked lid, if only to endure a long and difficult evening.”

Beowulf shied at nothing at all, a dodge sideways that might have unseated a lesser rider.

“Steady on.” Stephen gave the horse a nudge with his knees. I’m still here, lad. I’m not ignoring you.

“Steady on to the knacker’s yard,” Quinn muttered. “If that horse causes you further injury, I will shoot him myself.”

I love you too. “Rather how I felt about your duchess when it became apparent she had married you in earnest.”

“You felt murderous?”