Joseph had found his father apparently restored to health. He was certainly quite well enough to grumble about the insipidity of the card games and other entertainments with which he was expected to amuse himself and at the enraptured enthusiasm with which he was greeted wherever he went, especially at the Pump Room. The duchess, on the contrary, was placidly enjoying just the things about which her husband complained. Joseph suspected that she was enjoying herself more than she normally did in London at this time of year. His father insisted that he was not quite as robust as he would like to be, though. In a private conversation, he had told his son that he suspected his heart had been weakened by the prolonged chill, and his physician in Bath would not contradict him, though he had not actually confirmed his fears either. However it was, the duke had begun to set his affairs in order. And at the very top of his list was his son and heir. Joseph was thirty-five years old and unmarried. Worse—and a direct result of the latter fact—he had no sons in his nursery. The succession had not been secured. The Duke of Anburey had taken steps to supply the lack. Even before summoning his son he had invited Lord Balderston to come down from London, and the two of them had discussed the desirability of encouraging a match between their offspring—the Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Portia Hunt. They had agreed to share their wishes—really a euphemism for commands—with their children and expect a happy outcome before the Season was over. Hence Joseph’s summons from London. “I will certainly keep it in mind, sir,” he said now as he emerged from his mother’s embrace. “I cannot think of any lady better suited to be my wife than Miss Hunt.” Which was certainly true when he considered only the fact that his wife was also to be his marchioness and the future Duchess of Anburey—and the mother of a future duke.