“We’ll send him a message with the one going to Fairly,” Gwen replied, handing Anna a plate with a hot buttered scone on it.

“Send it in code.”

“I beg your pardon?” Gwen set down her cup and waited for an explanation.

“It’s the duke,” Anna said. “His Grace has spies everywhere, and if you leave a note to the effect that Westhaven is seriously ill, where somebody can read it, the duke will be on your doorstep, wreaking havoc and giving orders in no time.”

“He most assuredly will not.” Douglas spoke from the door of the parlor, and there was something like amusement in his expression. “This is one household where His Grace’s mischief gets him nowhere. May I have a spot of tea, my love?” He lowered his long frame beside his wife, draping an arm across the back of the couch.

“How is Westhaven?” Gwen asked, fixing her husband a cup of tea.

“Sleeping, but uncomfortable. I thought you must be mistaken, Mrs. Seaton, as he has no evidence of chicken pox on his face, but your diagnosis is borne out by inspection of the rest of him.”

“I had a rather severe case as a child,” Anna said. “I’m available for nursing duty.”

“I can assist,” the viscount said, “and I will do so gleefully. But you, my love, should likely avoid the sickroom.”

“I will,” Gwen said, “for the sake of the baby, and because having you see him in distress is likely enough penance even for Westhaven. He doesn’t need me gloating, too.”

Anna sipped her tea, watching the smiles and glances and casual touches passing between these two.

“Westhaven said it was a miserable betrothal.”

“For all three of us,” Gwen said. “But quickly ended. You did the right thing, bringing him here. He is family, and we don’t really hold the betrothal against him, any more than we delight in his illness.”

“His sickness is serious,” Anna said, “in adults, anyway. And he is… fretful about illness generally. I honestly would not let the doctors near him if it’s avoidable.”

“The man is too proud by half,” Douglas remarked, topping off his own tea cup. His wife watched, amused, but said nothing.

“It isn’t pride, my lord,” Anna said. “He is afraid.”

“Afraid.” Douglas pursed him lips thoughtfully. “Because of his brother Victor?”

“Not precisely.” Anna tried to organize her thoughts—her feelings—into coherent order. “He is the spare, and dying would be a dereliction of his duty. For all he does not enjoy his obligations, he would not visit them on Lord Valentine, nor the grief on his remaining family. Then, too, he has seen more incompetent doctoring than most, both with his brother, and early this spring, with His Grace.”

“Hadn’t thought of that,” Douglas said, flicking another glance at his wife. “Guinevere?”

“Send for David,” Gwen said. “He’ll know how to handle the earl and how to treat the chicken pox, too.”

“We speak of the Viscount Fairly,” Douglas explained. “A family connection of Gwen’s, and friend of mine. He is a skilled physician, and we trust him, as, apparently, does Westhaven.”

“He does,” Anna said. “And in Fairly’s absence, he would tolerate the attendance of…”—she struggled to recall the names—“Pugh, Hamilton, and there was a third name, but it escapes me.”

“Fairly will know,” Douglas assured her. “But how is it, Mrs. Seaton, you and the earl come to be on our doorstep at this hour? Surely Westhaven was not fool enough to venture from Town in this downpour?”

Gwen abruptly looked fascinated with her tea cup, while Anna felt like a butterfly, pinned to a specimen board by the viscount’s steady blue eyes.

“We traveled out to Willow Bend yesterday,” Anna said, knowing this man would not tolerate untruths. “And then the rain caught us unawares. I convinced the earl to come here this morning only when he realized he had fallen ill.”

“Nonsense,” Amery replied, crossing his legs at the knee. It should have been a fussy gesture on a man. On him it was… elegant. “Westhaven, being a man of sense and discretion, had you on our doorstep well before dark last evening, didn’t he, Guinevere?”

“He did.” Gwen nodded, swirling her tea placidly. “He was particularly quiet at dinner, though Rose was in transports to see him.”

The viscount sent Anna an indecipherable look. “The child has no sense with those she loves. None at all. Takes after her dear mama. More tea, Mrs. Seaton?”

He poured for her, his wife smiling tolerantly as he did, and Anna felt the love between them almost as strongly as she felt her own gratitude toward them. Someday, she thought, I want to love a man so thoroughly that even when he pours tea for my guests, it is merely one more reason to be pleased with him and with my life because he is in it.

“Fairly can’t attend you.” Douglas waved a missive at Westhaven. “He doesn’t know if he’s had the chicken pox or not.”