Nathaniel moved his rook. “Would we appreciate them as much if they were ever-blooming? I think half of what gets Robert through the winter is planning his flower beds, inspecting the ground to see if the bulbs are coming up, and fretting that they’ll come up too soon. Our siblings have left the garden.”

The last time Nathaniel had looked out the window, Robert and Constance had been in a shocking embrace at Saint Valentine’s feet, which left a younger brother torn between relief—Robert was long overdue for some shocking embraces—and concern.

“You aren’t attending the game,” Althea said, shifting a bishop halfway across the board. “Check.”

Nathaniel had no interest in chess whatsoever. Althea was suffering the female indisposition. She’d announced this before he had bowed over her hand. That she’d share that information so baldly, and with such a disgruntled air, presaged an intimate and interesting marriage.

Though how was a doting fiancé to receive such news? “You have me,” he said, knocking over his king with one finger. “Where do you suppose Robert and Constance got off to?”

Althea caught him by that finger. “They are of age, courting, and sensible. I hope they are admiring the wonders of the potting shed.”

“As do I, but it’s an adjustment, to go from worrying every waking minute about my brother, and knowing he’s somewhere within a very narrow range of possibilities, to being dismissed by him as if I’m a nosy footman.”

Althea came around the card table to perch on Nathaniel’s knees. “I worry about my siblings. They aren’t eccentric to the same degree Robert is, but they have vulnerabilities. He’s making great strides, though, and Constance will be a ferocious ally.”

The feel of Althea in Nathaniel’s lap was already familiar and comfortable. She curled up like a large, contented cat, and some of Nathaniel’s anxiety ebbed.

“Constance was ready to plant Neville Philpot a facer,” he said. “Cranmouth was lucky she didn’t draw his cork.” The sight of somebody else ready to do battle on behalf of Nathaniel’s afflicted brother had been heartening and disconcerting. Even Althea’s participation in that drama had been an adjustment.

“And yet,” she said, “neither solicitor truly yielded Constance any authority over the situation, did they? When you showed up, matters began to sort themselves out.” Althea traced Nathaniel’s features with her index finger, her touch as soothing as birdsong on a summer morning.

“You are worried about Philpot?” Nathaniel asked. Lady Phoebe Philpot had taken Althea into extreme dislike, mostly because Lady Phoebe was perpetually bitter, and the daughter of an earl had to yield socially to the sister of a duke. Such a pity, that.