The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “You are mistaken.” While Quinn was reeling. This Duke of Fits and Faints, this interloper who claimed to have met Constance years ago, was privy to a secret Constance had kept to herself for years?

  “She’s hired investigators? Without telling me? Why wouldn’t she tell me? Why not seek my aid? I’m a bloody duke, for God’s sake.”

  “A bloody duke—now—and a bloody banker then. Would the idle and titled of the realm have entrusted their fortunes to you if it became known you couldn’t even keep your sister safe? The blighter dallied with her for weeks while you were away in service to mammon. Then too, what if you’d said no? You refuse to lend coin to some of the most powerful families in the land when they are facing utter ruin, and your reputation for dealing exclusively in logic rather than sentiment precedes you. Had you known of Constance’s search and disagreed with its objectives, you could have thwarted her easily. Your forbidding nature aside, I suspect the whole business came down to Constance not wanting her past to reflect poorly on you or her other siblings.”

  Quinn didn’t bother taking offense at Rothhaven’s observation, for Quinn had failed to keep Constance safe.

  “You are saying that Constance has been trying to protect me with her discretion? Trying to spare me from gossip?”

  “From gossip, and—siblings are ever so well intended at the worst times—guilt, would be my guess.”

  Rothhaven sat there swilling his tea, as placid as a dowager at her tatting, while Quinn wanted to…What he wanted was to turn the clock back fifteen years and be a better brother to his siblings.

  “What Your Grace seems to be experiencing now,” Rothhaven said, “is very likely how a staring spell feels to me. The words make sense, the sentences all have meaning, but the internal fulcrum that meshes the gears of thought and action refuses to turn. One sits, mind agape, as it were, and gropes about for even a thought. Drink your tea. It’s a lovely blend.”

  Quinn needed to kick something—perhaps his own backside—and bellow profanities until he was calm enough to put this situation before his duchess.

  He picked up his teacup instead. “Constance has been trying to find the child?”

  “Searching for your niece, Artemis Ivy Wentworth.”

  The teacup shook slightly in Quinn’s hand, why he could not say. “She named her daughter Artemis?”

  “For the goddess who protects young girls. Ivy, as in ‘I will cling to her as ivy clings to the oak.’ If you are awash in self-recrimination, Walden, I will leave you to your guilt, but I will also tell you that the reason I alerted you to Constance’s whereabouts all those years ago is because I was falling in love with her. She was too young for me then, of course, but more significantly, I was also too young and had nothing to offer her. I was a prisoner of my father’s arrogance and my own self-pity. Do close your mouth.”

  Quinn’s teacup went clattering to its saucer. “You notified me that she was at that dreadful place? You sent that note?”

  “By that point, I was permitted to read a redacted version of the York newspaper. Dr. Soames carefully excised most social news, but he forgot how absorbing the personal advertisements could be. I saw your advertisement. I connected your description to the young woman responsible for preventing my starvation. I had no idea if she was your sister, but she fit the description and was clearly more educated than any chambermaid ought to be.”

  The cat climbed down from Rothhaven’s shoulders, stretched luxuriously, and crossed the sofa to sniff at Quinn’s knee.

  “You found her for me,” Quinn said. “You could have kept her there, but you sent her home. Does she know about this?”

  “Not yet. The revelations regarding Artemis were of greater moment. I will of course let Constance know the truth in due course. I recall his name now.”

  Whose bloody bedamned—? “The cat?”

  Rothhaven rose and swatted at his breeches. “Septimus, because he came from a large litter, according to Constance. I’ve prepared a draft of my proposal regarding her settlements. The arrangement takes particular care to leave all of Constance’s funds under your jurisdiction or Lord Stephen’s should anything untoward happen to you.”

  “Because you are a person who suffers from epilepsy?”

  “Because I am a reasonable man, and the less enlightened among us still regard my condition as evidence of demonic possession. I am in a mental fog after a bad seizure, and if my own father had me put away at the onset of my illness, somebody else might try to have me committed again, for my own good, of course.”

  Rothhaven stroked the cat’s head, which occasioned purring.

  “Not committed,” Quinn said. “I won’t allow that. You and Constance can live out your days in relative obscurity at Rothhaven Hall, and I will manage your property if necessary to keep the courts happy, but you won’t be exiled again.”

  Rothhaven withdrew a packet of papers from his coat pocket and set them on Althea’s escritoire.

  “Very kind of you, Walden, but if the courts become involved, the judge will appoint the guardian of his choice. With not one but two sisters married into the Rothmere family, your objectivity regarding my circumstances is questionable. The courts like to appear above petty influences like ducal consequence. Your attempts to meddle might actually make my situation worse.”

  Quinn rose before the cat could appropriate his lap. “It won’t come to that.”

  “It came to exactly that for nearly half my life. I’ll bid you good day.” Rothhaven bowed very correctly. “You need not see me out, and no, I didn’t omit a material term from the settlement agreement in some inane cat-and-mouse game between prospective family members.”

  That rebuke—for it was a rebuke—merited a riposte, but Quinn was still coping with the interview’s other revelations.

  “One question before you climb into your hearse and return to your mausoleum: Why tell me how to find my sister? You were confined under miserable conditions, she befriended you, and yet you sent her home. Why?”

  Rothhaven’s lips quirked. “I had nothing to offer her at the time, so let’s call it a fit of conscience, shall we?” He withdrew, leaving Quinn to the dubious company of the cat.

  “Am I allowed to be pleased that you attended services on Sunday?” Constance asked, twining her arm through Rothhaven’s outside the solicitors’ office.

  She had waited to raise the topic of Sunday services until after some legal papers had been signed for a youngish Mr. Cranmouth, nephew to the present senior partner in the firm of Cranmouth and Cranmouth. The documents had something to do with selling a patch of ground, and Rothhaven had been determined to see them signed.

  Althea and Nathaniel had strolled off, intent on sharing an ice at a shop around the corner. From thence, the plan was to meet at the livery in two hours, giving Constance time to introduce Rothhaven to Miss Abbott.

  “You are too easily pleased,” he replied, scowling at Lord Nathaniel’s retreating form. “The Almighty saw fit to leave the church roof in place, so we must conclude my presence in the family pew was a matter of indifference to Him as well.”

  What little conversation Rothhaven had offered today had been irritable, understandably so. The journey into York on a sunny morning had to have tried his nerves. He’d said little for the entire distance other than “Curtains down, please,” and “How much farther?”

  Now he stood on the walkway before the offices of Cranmouth and Cranmouth, looking ready to hurl thunderbolts.

  “Your neighbors bowed and curtsied out of respect, Rothhaven.”

  The duke had waited until the moment before the first hymn had begun to have his coach deposit him at the foot of the church steps. He’d stalked up the church aisle and taken his place beside his brother, but not before every person in the church had risen. For the yeomanry and laborers, no pews were provided, but for the gentry and the merchants, Rothhaven’s arrival had created a stir.

  Every soul present had acknowledged his arrival, and the singing had been glorious. A duke returned from the dead was cause for rejoicing, apparently. Vicar Sorenson’s sermon had been on the prodigal son, and some of the older ladies had sniffed into their handkerchiefs for most of the service.

  Rothhaven had darted right back into his waiting coach before the final notes of the recessional hymn had ended.

  No matter that he hadn’t stood about making small talk in the churchyard. Attending services at all was a start, a leap rather than a step in the right direction. Constance’s joy had been profound. Two days later he’d sent a note asking her about a trip into York to meet with Miss Abbott.

  What difference did churchyard pleasantries make, when a man so clearly understood what mattered most to his intended?

  “How far is Miss Abbott’s office?” he asked, scowling at a perfectly beautiful blue sky after he’d completed his business with the lawyer.

  “Several streets that direction,” Constance said, tipping her chin. “It’s a pretty day for a stroll, and she is expecting us.”

  Rothhaven pulled on his gloves—one did not wear gloves when signing documents—and tapped his hat onto his head.

  “Let’s be…” He shook free of Constance’s grip. “I need the coach. Now.”

  His tone was so abrupt, Constance mentally recoiled. “But we can walk, Rothhaven. I would like to stretch my legs, in fact, and I daresay—”

  “Get me the damned—” One moment, Rothhaven had been standing before her, muttering foul language, the next, he slipped downward, his hat tumbling into the street.

  “Rothhaven?”

  He curled onto his side, his limbs twitching spasmodically as passersby either stopped to gawk or hurried past as if appalled. His boots scrabbled against the cobblestones, his watch fell from its pocket, and his walking stick was trapped at an angle beneath his body.

  Constance knelt beside him, feeling helpless, angry, worried, and stupid. “Rothhaven?”

  The seizure took an eternity that in all likelihood consumed less than a minute. When he lay still, eyes closed as if he’d died, Constance looked up to find a circle of strangers staring down at her.

  “Lord Nathaniel Rothmere should be at the ice shop around the corner,” Constance said. “Somebody please fetch him.”

  Nobody moved.

  “Fetch Lord Nathaniel now,” she snapped, rising. “And please have the livery at the corner send the Rothhaven coach on the instant.”

  Mention of the family title sent a young man scurrying around the corner, while a small boy kicked at the sole of Rothhaven’s boot.

  “Be he dead?”

  Constance nearly swung her reticule at the lad, whose mother had yanked him up by the arm.

  “His Grace has the falling sickness. He will be better in a moment or two. Please stand back.”

  Rothhaven would never be better. He had tried to convey that to her, but the magnitude of the burden he carried was only now becoming real to her. To be unable even to walk down the street…

  “Your Grace,” Constance said, kneeling beside Rothhaven. “Can you sit up?”

  An older fellow in knee breeches and a worn brown jacket came down beside her. “He’ll come right soon enough. M’wife had the falling sickness, God rest her. We bled her and bled her, and nothing helped. There now, he’s waking up.”

  Rothhaven tried to push to a sitting position, his movements as clumsy as a drunk’s.

  “Easy there, Your Grace,” the older man said, helping Rothhaven to brace his back against a lamppost. “Don’t want a bump on the noggin in addition to your other woes. No need to hurry.”

  The crowd began to drift away as a nattily dressed fellow bustled out of the solicitors’ offices. “What’s this? Has His Grace been set upon by ruffians? What is the world coming to? Daylight robbery, of all the insults. You lot, move along. Miss, give the man some air, please. I am His Grace’s solicitor. I cannot believe—”

  Constance glowered up at him, and something about her expression must have penetrated the lawyer’s well-developed self-esteem, for he fell silent.

  “His Grace has had a seizure,” she said, standing between Rothhaven and his lawyer. “He will be well in a moment. You may return to your office.”

  The solicitor, who resembled the young Mr. Cranmouth, craned his neck to peer around her. “But if His Grace is in need of aid, then I must send for a doctor. Ebenezer Cranmouth, at your service, miss.”

  Another man came up on Cranmouth’s right. “Somebody get into a brawl right outside your office, Cranmouth? What sort of clients are you represent— I beg your pardon, Lady Constance.”

  Neville Philpot doffed his hat and bowed. Constance knew him only in passing from local assemblies. His wife, Lady Phoebe, was a notorious gossip and had been a thorn in Althea’s side.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Constance said, turning to help Rothhaven get to his feet.

  Philpot tried to intercede, but Rothhaven shied from him so violently as to nearly lose his balance again.

  Constance inserted herself between Philpot and the duke. “I have him, Mr. Philpot. It’s quite all right.”

  The man in the brown jacket was actually doing much to support Rothhaven’s weight, and just when Constance was about to tell Philpot to bugger the hell off, Nathaniel and Althea trotted around the corner.

  “Seizure?” Nathaniel asked, relieving the older gent.

  Constance nodded. “Of no great moment, but more than a little inconvenience. Mr. Philpot, if you would please excuse us.”

  “Yes, do,” Althea added, picking up Rothhaven’s walking stick and crumpled hat. “The situation is in hand. Thank you for your concern.” She swept a glance at Philpot and Cranmouth, who remained by his office door, looking ghoulishly curious.

  The coach pulled up before Constance could launch into a lecture about gawping imbeciles impersonating lawyers, and Nathaniel helped Rothhaven inside. Then they were pulling away, the last of the onlookers finally leaving the scene.

  As the coach rounded the corner, Constance caught a glimpse of Cranmouth and Philpot, heads bent in conversation as they disappeared into Cranmouth’s offices.

  “Sorry,” Rothhaven muttered. “Not very dignified.”

  Nathaniel looked like he’d speak, but Constance silenced him by taking Rothhaven’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, as long as you are unhurt. Perhaps you’d like to nap now?”

  For most of the distance home, Rothhaven slouched against Constance’s side, dozing quietly. She tried to sort out her feelings as the miles rolled by, but she got no further than admitting that the suddenness of the seizure had disconcerted her and the reaction of the crowd had angered her.

  Althea sat on the opposite bench, fingering the crumpled crown of Rothhaven’s beaver hat, and that added another emotion to Constance’s pile of feelings.

  Rothhaven had fallen on the walkway. Had he gone two more steps in the direction of the street, his head rather than his hat might have been crushed beneath the coach wheels. That realization was frightening, and explained, if only a little, why the old duke might have sent his son to an asylum on the moors, rather than watch day by day as one danger after another befell an innocent young man.

  Chapter Ten

  Neville Philpot waited until after supper to discuss the day’s events with his wife. Lady Phoebe’s sensibilities were refined, and the scene outside Cranmouth’s office had honestly been upsetting even to Neville, whose profession had inured him to human foibles.

  “I have never seen anything more pathetic,” he said, passing Phoebe a portion of elderberry cordial for her digestion. “A peer of the realm, a duke, a man who should be in his prime, twitching like an inebriate in the last throes on the walkway. Cranmouth was quite overset. Rothhaven is his client, and that unfortunate drama took place right outside the poor fellow’s office.”

  “I’m sorry you happened upon such a situation,” Phoebe said, settling into the wing chair by the fire. “You say the Wentworth sisters were on hand?”

  Neville poured himself a brandy—the subject called for it—and took the second wing chair. “Lord Nathaniel was present as well as Lady Althea and Lady Constance. Lady Constance was trying to manage the situation, but how could she? She’s merely a neighbor to His Grace, and a woman.”

  The brandy was good—illegally good, as it happened, as all the best brandy tended to be. Still, Neville would be an old man before he forgot the sight of Rothhaven, helpless and addled on the ground.

  “Lady Constance is a Wentworth,” Phoebe said, touching her glass to her lips. “They think only about money, and if Lady Althea has her hooks into Lord Nathaniel, then you can bet Lady Constance has set her sights on Rothhaven.”

  “God pity the woman if that’s the case.”

  “Pity her? Husband, your charitable sentiments do you credit, but Lady Constance was raised in the vilest of circumstances. Her concern for Rothhaven is doubtless motivated entirely by self-interest.”

  In Neville’s experience, self-interest was not limited to the lower orders, at least not among his clients.

  “Her ladyship was ready to gut anybody who interfered with Rothhaven,” he said. “Wouldn’t let Cranmouth near him.” Smart of her. Cranmouth was a notorious gossip, which in a solicitor was a fatal failing. Old Man Cranmouth had been the genuine article, to be trusted in all matters, a lawyer of discretion and tact. The nephew wasn’t a bad sort either.

  “Cranmouth says His Grace is selling off some property in the West Riding.” Hardly a sensitive matter, but still, Cranmouth ought to have kept his mouth shut.

  “If I owned property in the West Riding,” Phoebe said, “I’d sell it as well. God has created no drearier corner of the realm, particularly in winter.”

  Neville thought the Dales rather beautiful, but he was loath to contradict Phoebe. “Rothhaven cannot be long for this earth, my dear. He was in a terrible state when I saw him. Could not speak, could not stand unassisted.”

  Phoebe frowned at the crystal glass in her hand. “You weren’t attempting to pass the time of day with him, I trust?”