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Simple.
True.
Real.
And if there was one thing he’d learned from his studying divinity and the Bible, it was the power of the truth.
It set you free.
Joan’s eyes shifted to his, a myriad of emotions shifting through their mossy green depths before her lips bent into a welcoming expression. “I arrived home earlier only in time to see your carriage depart, Your Grace.”
“Ah, a disappointing revelation.” His own lips lifted in an answering grin.
“And my brother”—her eyes shifted toward him, then back to Rowles—“was exceedingly tight-lipped about your social call. A pity, that.”
“Joan, do you think it possible to get through dinner before you begin raking me over the coals? It’s harder to endure with an empty stomach,” Morgan drawled, shooting his sister a warning glare.
“Rake you over the coals? And they say women are the ones who exhibit theatrics.” She shook her head, a teasing glint in her eyes.
“We all have our moments,” Morgan replied with a heavily sarcastic tone.
Rowles bit his lip to keep from chuckling at their interaction. Regardless of Joan’s frank question, it had served a purpose, breaking the tension. Morgan’s posture was far more relaxed, and a ghost of a smile, wry as it was, appeared on his lips.
Joan turned to him, her eyes dancing with amusement. Her lips parted, but before she could speak, the butler arrived to announce dinner.
It wasn’t till they were seated at the table that Joan turned back to him. “And how was your day, Your Grace?”
Rowles waited for the footman to set a bowl of soup in front of him before he answered. “It wasn’t nearly as exciting as this evening has turned out to be,” he replied. “How was your day, Lady Joan?”
She took a delicate sip of soup. “I was assisting at the Foundling Hospital today. It was research on a child who possibly had kin associated with the hospital nearly two decades ago, so I was looking through the archives. It was an interesting name, Agneau. French, I believe. I think it was a baby girl.”
“Lamb,” Rowles translated.
Morgan’s spoon dropped into his soup with a splash. Muttering a curse under his breath, he made a quick apology while the footmen cleaned the splattered soup. “Slipped,” Morgan said to Rowles, then to Joan before lifting the new spoon given by a footman and beginning to take another bite.
Joan studied him, not disregarding his quick words but staring, as if willing for him to meet her waiting eyes.
And Morgan studiously avoided doing so.
It was a tense moment, and Rowles waited to let it play out between the siblings.
Joan spoke clearly, her attention still fixed on her brother. “Is the name familiar?”
Morgan gave his head a shake and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “No.” But still he didn’t meet his sister’s inquiring look.
“Did you find her?” Rowles asked after another tense moment.
“No, she wasn’t ever admitted into the Foundling Hospital. Miss Vanderhaul believes her mother or kin took her in. And it’s possible there was no familial connection to begin with, but they always check. They are very thorough, which I find is very honorable.”
“Indeed. In that we are in agreement. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble to research.”
“No, it was quite fascinating, but I can see why they wished for a volunteer to assist them. It took some time.” There was tension that belied her relaxed expression.
The footmen removed the soup and replaced it with the next course.
“Are you enjoying your time at the Foundling Hospital?” Rowles asked.
Joan’s tone was answer enough as she enthusiastically described the way the hospital operated and provided information concerning the building and its patrons. “It’s quite fascinating and they truly have the children’s best interests at heart.”
