The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,82

asked, threading her arm through Robert’s.

Stephen tugged down his hat brim and surveyed the increasingly crowded green across the street. “I wish to hell I knew. Mrs. Elizabeth Hodges is over by the tinker’s cart, the tallish lady with the blue ribbon on her bonnet. She is Shaw’s housekeeper. I do believe that’s my long-lost niece at her side.”

Robert covered Constance’s hand with his own. “Shall I escort you to her?” He was tired from a night without sleep, tired from worry, tired from racking his brains for a solution. Constance would not march up to the girl and announce their relationship, but hiding that relationship from Ivy could be a greater error than announcing it.

That he was standing under the Yorkshire sun in a village square surrounded by strangers added to his burden, but if this was what Constance needed him to do, he’d do it willingly.

“She’s my daughter,” Constance said. “I’ll manage this part. Will you wait for me?”

“Always.”

She walked away, shoulders square, while Robert trailed behind more slowly. He’d keep a respectful distance, but like Lord Stephen, he was prepared to shorten the life expectancy of any who interfered with Constance in this most precious and fraught moment.

She was brave—God, was she brave—but courage cast out neither fear nor vulnerability. To stand as her champion, however imperfectly, was an honor. Once before, Robert had appointed himself her champion, and the decision had changed something in him for the better at a critical moment.

Across the green, Lord Stephen was keeping an equally careful eye on the proceedings.

He saluted under the guise of admiring the mighty oaks shading the green, and Robert returned the gesture. They might not secure a future for Ivy in the ducal home, but if the girl was willing, they would damned sure try.

Constance had grown up in a household where mortal fear was a frequent caller. Jack Wentworth had been a fiend, and his exalted authority as a father meant nobody intervened to keep his children safe from his violence. Spare the rod, the neighbors had said, smiling with pious resignation and shaking their heads.

Perhaps that’s why Constance had been so determined to thwart Dr. Soames, not because she’d seen oppression firsthand, but because she detested oppressors and all who ignored the oppressor’s evil. Jack had delighted in terrorizing his children, just as Soames had flattered himself that he was engaged in science rather than tormenting the afflicted people in his care.

And that—the ghost of Jack Wentworth, of his violence toward and disgust with his own children—had sent Constance into the arms of the first man to show her any personal regard.

How stupid she’d been, and how vulnerable. Seeing Ivy—tall, healthy, ready to enjoy a morning out on a pretty spring day—the last of Constance’s sorrow over her childhood faded to mere sadness. Jack Wentworth’s children had learned how to fight, to think for themselves, and to face any foe with head held high.

No matter the sheer terror they might be experiencing within.

The emotion Constance felt upon beholding her daughter had something of dread in it, and even touched the boundary of fear, but the overwhelming sentiment was profound joy. While Constance pretended to fish about in her reticule, she watched Ivy confer with Mrs. Hodges, point to a bookseller’s stall, and pat the older woman’s arm.

Mrs. Hodges nodded and strode off in the direction of a greengrocer’s wagon, and the moment arrived for Constance to move her feet and make her daughter’s acquaintance.

Rothhaven was ten yards off, admiring some sketches displayed by a caricaturist who’d set up his booth near the inn. Stephen was flirting with the alewife, a woman who looked to be twice his age and at least twice his weight.

Still Constance could not make her feet move. Ivy wound through the growing crowd to cross to the bookseller’s, her stride confident, more than a few people smiling and nodding to her.

Move. Constance could only stand in the shade of an oak and gape in wonder at her daughter. A sensation like faintness welled, but no shortness of breath or weakness of limb accompanied it.

Rothhaven appeared at her side. “I’m in the mood to look over the bookseller’s offerings.” He put her hand on his arm. “Care to join me?”

She managed a nod.

“Breathe, my dear. You need not even speak to her, though she is a younger version of you to the life.”

“She is?”

“Your hair was more reddish when you were younger.”

That Robert could offer this conversation in such a nonchalant