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“Did he give any account of himself?”

“None that satisfied me. A well enough spoken sort of man, decently dressed, but there was something about him I did not care for. He kept looking at the children, Your Grace. Not the way a gentleman looks who means to give money. More the way a man looks who has lost something and thinks he might find it in a crowd.”

A small cold finger traced its way down Phillipa’s spine, though she could not have said why. “If he comes again,” she said slowly, “please take his card this time, and do not let him near the children unaccompanied.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It was likely nothing. A disappointed suitor, perhaps, or some distant relation of one of the children come to make trouble. London was full of men with vague grievances and no better use for their afternoons. She turned her mind, with some effort, back to Joan and her fiercely guarded crusts, and by the time she took her leave an hour later the unease had, if not vanished, at least receded to a small, manageable corner of her thoughts.

She came home to find Gregory crossing the front hall, and something in her chest lifted at the sight of him.

“You look pleased with yourself,” he said, pausing.

“Oh?” she took a step towards him. “I wonder how are you able to tell.”

“I am more perceptive than what you give me credit, Duchess,” he said to her. “Have you been plotting something?”

“I have been at St. Anthony’s, so naturally, I suppose. There have been many improvements,” She fell into step beside him, unable to keep the warmth from her voice.

“Would you like to tell me?”

“I’m not surprised that you want to hear them,” she replied.

He gave her a look.

“But I will gladly tell you, of course. The roof is mended, Gregory. Properly mended, not merely patched. There is meat in the larder that does not need explaining to the children, and a doctor who comes when he is asked rather than when someone finally troubles to send for him twice. You did all of that with a single stroke of your pen, and you have not once let me thank you for it properly.”

“I did what I promised,” he said, with the particular restless discomfort he always seemed to bring to being thanked, as though gratitude were a coat cut slightly too small for him. “Nothing more, and there is no need to make a big deal out of it.”

“It is a great deal more than nothing, whatever you tell yourself,” she replied.

“You’re the one who is doing all the efforts, not me.”

“Oh, please,” she waved her hand in the air. “It would not be possile without your support, and you know this.”

He took a step closer to her, and she found herself getting nervous.

“I think you don’t give yourself enough credit for things,” he said like it was a fact. “While it’s an admirable quality, I would tell you to take up more space than you do.”

Oh.

“But I wouldn’t mind if my husband gets the credit...”

“Your husband doesn’t need it,” he insisted. “I’m serious. You don’t need to thank me for anything. It’s your money, as much as it is mine. You married into it, and I inherited it. That is the only difference.”

She was surprised at this. Surely, men did not think like this usually. If anything, she had heard the opposite stories.

It occurred to her that she had gotten lucky with him.

“You’re very kind.”

He inclined his head, not quite agreeing, and made to continue past her toward his study, and Phillipa, emboldened by the good humor of the afternoon, caught at the moment before it could slip away entirely.

“Will you take tea with us? With the baby and myself, I mean. This afternoon, if your correspondence permits it.”

In earnest, she just didn’t want the moment to end with him. She wanted it to continue on, in whatever small way possible.

Something shuttered, very quickly, behind his eyes. “I am afraid I cannot today.”