Anthony topped off his teacup and stared at his plate. “I know you feel you must marry, Deene, but you’re hardly at your last prayers, and if need be, I can stick my neck in the marital noose. If nothing else, we know I can get children. Mary Jane will raise ten kinds of hell, but sometimes a little liveliness has enjoyable results.”

“You’d marry to spare me the effort?”

Anthony’s gaze when he met Deene’s eyes was hard to read. “I am your heir. I am your only adult family. I am your cousin. Yes, I would marry if you asked it of me. I don’t like to think I’ve spent most of my life laboring in the Denning vineyards so Prinny can get his fat fingers on all our wealth should the title go into escheat.”

Something eased in Deene’s chest, a doubt, a worry, something he was relieved not to have to name.

“You cannot know how grateful I am to hear it, Anthony, because our situation might come to such a pass.”

They spent more than an hour in the breakfast parlor, dissecting each rumor, tracing its likely impact.

“Kesmore isn’t a gossip, but he lurks in the usual places—at the clubs, in the card rooms, and at Tatt’s. I trust his information.”

Anthony’s expression was thoughtful. “What about his motives?”

“In what sense?” While it was good to have a sounding board, Deene could not like the direction of Anthony’s thoughts.

“He’s married to a Windham, and there are at least two of those yet available for marriage. If he’s not in favor of your courting his countess’s sisters, he’ll want to discredit you—all’s fair in love and war, right?”

Eve had brought up the same point. “I served with him in Spain, Anthony, and as far as I can see, the man would simply tell me to take my business elsewhere. He does not lack for courage or suffer an excess of delicate sensibilities. Moreover, it makes no sense he’d start a number of rumors and then be the first to inform me of them. I say we’re back to Dolan.”

Anthony winced and rearranged his cutlery on his empty plate. “What’s his motive?”

“Spite. The same motive he has for keeping Georgina from us.”

When there was no reply, Deene lifted the pot to refresh their tea, only to find it empty.

“What aren’t you saying, Anthony?”

“I, of all men, have a reason to hate Dolan. Marie and I…” Anthony looked away, out the windows toward the pastures rolling beyond the gardens. “That is ancient history, but I cannot help but wonder from time to time about what might have been. I should know better, but memory is not always the slave of common sense.”

This was tricky ground. Deene did not interrupt.

“But even I, who cannot stand to hear Dolan’s name, am not entirely comfortable ascribing this behavior to him. For one thing, if there is a scandal to be brewed regarding unsound health or finances, the scandal will eventually devolve to Georgina’s discredit. Whatever else he is, Dolan is not stupid.”

Valid point—an aggravatingly valid point, and yet Deene did not want to acquit Dolan of mischief he’d clearly delight in.

“Dolan is cunning, I’ll grant you, but he’s an upstart. He will not know that ten years is nothing when it comes to Polite Society’s recall of scandal and gossip. He might very well think he can topple my expectations now, and when Georgie makes her come out, there will be no association between my ruin and her fortunes. It makes one worry for the girl.”

“Worry for the girl will not redress the reality that insufficient worry was devoted to her mother, though to the extent that I can, Deene, I appreciate your sentiments regarding Georgina’s welfare.”

On that sad note, Anthony took his leave while Deene remained at the table for another half hour, staring at the empty pot.

* * *

Her Grace, the Duchess of Moreland, was looking adorable. Her husband of more than thirty years closed the door to his private study and took a moment to appreciate the privilege of seeing her thus.

She was curled on the end of the sofa closest to the windows, her feet tucked under her, a lurid novel in her hand, and a pair of His Grace’s reading spectacles on her elegant nose. As the door clicked shut behind him, she looked up and smiled at her spouse.

When he’d suffered a heart seizure two years past, His Grace had lain amid all the ducal splendor of his household, praying with abject fervor to be allowed to live for a just few more years—even a few more months—basking in the warmth of that smile.

“Percival Windham, you shouldn’t have.”

He glanced down at the yellow tulips in his hand. “I spared the roses, and it’s my own damned garden. I can pick a few posies for a pretty girl when I jolly well please to.”

He crossed to the sideboard, poured some water in a glass, and stuck the flowers on the windowsill. His wife would pass by the bouquet, move a couple of blooms about and rearrange the greenery, and instead of looking ridiculous in a ducal study, the flowers would look exactly right.

He adored this about her as well.

She set her novel aside—reading one by daylight was a sure sign none of the children were in residence—and patted the place beside her on the sofa. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does love need an occasion?”

She cocked her head and studied him. “Give me a hint.”

“It is the anniversary of our third kiss.”

The smile blossomed again, a trifle naughtier to a doting husband’s eye.

“The Scorcher.”

She had named many of their earliest romantic encounters.

The Scorcher. The Ambush. The Ravishment of My Reason. The Obliteration of My Resistance.

He particularly enjoyed recalling that last one and thought she did too. Nothing had pleased a young husband more than to hear a catalogue of his wooing as categorized in Her Grace’s intimate lexicon.

“Yes, the Scorcher.” He took a seat beside her, and when he reached for her hand, she was already reaching for his. “Such an occasion is not to pass without a token of my esteem.”

“And we have the day to ourselves.”

“My love, though I know you enjoy my company without reservation, you do not sound particularly happy to find us home alone without a single child underfoot.”

She blew out a breath, her expression suggesting His Grace’s marital intuition had scored a lucky hit. “I worry about the girls.”

She worried about all the children, their spouses, the grandchildren. Her husband.

“They’ll look after one another. How much trouble can they get into with the entire Morelands staff ready to peach on them should they get up to mischief, and Kesmore close at hand?”

“Peaching is all well and good, but better yet they should be prevented from getting up to mischief in the first place.”

His Grace did not entirely agree with his wife on this point. Children needed to err and stumble and right themselves early and often, in theory. In practice, he knew he had the luxury of assuming such a posture—for it was a posture—only because Her Grace was indulging a rare spate of fretting.

They took turns at it, truth be known.

“You are concerned for our Evie,” His Grace observed. “Or am I mistaken?”

“Mostly for her. The Season hasn’t even started, and the proposals have already begun, haven’t they?”

How did she know these things? “Trottenham asked for a private audience last week. I’m hearing noises at the club from some other directions as well.”

“Trottenham.” Her Grace heaved out a sigh that spoke volumes of maternal frustration. “Percy, she’s begun the year riding with the third flight. What if one of them takes advantage? Another mishap would be her undoing.”

The third flight. An apt term referring to the riders at the back of the hunt, the cautious, the unskilled, or—in His Grace’s experience—the ones too drunk and uncaring of the sport to keep up with the real hunting.

As for Her Grace’s reference to Eve’s mishap… It must go unremarked. “Evie has acquired wisdom since her come out, my love. I have faith in her.”

“My faith in her has never wavered. It’s my faith in the company she’s keeping that fails to inspire.”

Trottenham was above reproach, but those other fellows… “I think her sisters will chaperone her more effectively than anyone else. They’re very protective of our Evie and recruit their husbands in the same cause.”

They all were—now, when it mattered a great deal less than it would have seven years ago.

“Maggie told me something.”

He patted her hand. Her Grace and Maggie had become thick as thieves since Maggie had married the Earl of Hazelton—and about damned time.

“Don’t keep me in suspense. Hazelton would never betray the girl’s confidences.” Well, hardly ever. Women apparently thought gentlemen’s clubs were only for cards, beefsteak, and reading the newspapers.

“She said having her own establishment was the only thing that kept her sane in recent years because of the privacy it afforded, the sense of control over her domain. I think Eve needs that too.”

This was Her Grace, easing into one of her radical notions. Her radical notions had a way of working around to occupying spaces near to common sense by the time she was done with them, but still…

“Evie is far too young to have her own establishment, my love. If we allowed that, it would be like, like… giving up. On her. Or casting her aside. You cannot ask that of me.” The idea of Evie, their baby girl, all alone and growing older without family around her—it was enough to provoke something almost as bad as a heart seizure.

Her Grace patted his hand, which was coming to resemble the calloused paw of an old soldier, while hers remained as pretty as the rest of her.