The Truth About Dukes Page 16

  “How is Rothhaven’s steed coming along?” Quinn asked, swinging into the saddle. From long habit, he made a production out of straightening the horse’s mane, adjusting the reins, and otherwise averting his gaze while Stephen clambered onto a solid gray gelding.

  “We’ll see,” Stephen said, sliding his canes into the scabbard on the right side of his saddle. “Revanche is a good fellow and he’s up to Rothhaven’s weight. So far, he’s been quick to grasp what’s expected of him, but this will be our first outing beyond the paddock. What have you learned of Neighbor Rothhaven since he made off with Constance’s common sense?”

  Her common sense and apparently her heart. “We know he has the falling sickness.”

  Stephen tugged on his hat brim and kneed Revanche away from the mounting block. “Yesterday’s incident was apparently nothing short of spectacular. What of his finances?”

  Mungo fell in step beside Revanche without Quinn having to steer him. “Rothhaven’s skill when it comes to investing is spectacular as well. Apparently when a man has little to do other than read newspapers from every corner of the realm and as far away as Boston and Rome, his investment decisions bear abundant fruit.”

  “High praise from you.”

  The horses clip-clopped along, and while part of Quinn was enjoying an outing with his brother, another part was concerned for Jane. She’d managed little more than dry toast at breakfast.

  Again.

  “Rothhaven is a thinker, Stephen. He ponders and conjectures and sees connections that only emerge when a situation is studied with equal parts insight, information, and imagination. His father was apparently a plodder, and Lord Nathaniel did what he could with the estate finances. Rothhaven took on the investments five years ago and has worked miracles.”

  “Miracles?” Stephen turned Revanche left at the foot of the drive, in the direction of Rothhaven Hall and the village.

  “Fortunes can be won or lost when a nation is at war,” Quinn said, “as you well know. Rothhaven has made several fortunes, and in a very short time. He knows when to buy corn and where to sell it. Knows what the Americans want before they want it. He grasped exactly what France would need to rebuild—seed, seed drills, ploughs, bullocks, brick molds, paintbrushes, for God’s sake—and set about quietly buying it up and cheaply shipping it. He could open a bank and do very well for his customers.”

  “You are saying he’s brilliant with money.”

  The day was lovely, a harbinger of summer, though by tonight—this being Yorkshire—the sky could be hurling down sleet. Had Stephen not asked Quinn to join him, Quinn would probably have spent the afternoon indoors, poring over some damned ledger. That was a recipe for premature aging, also foolish, and Rothhaven had been kept away from fresh air for years.

  What did that do to a man?

  “I get the sense,” Quinn said, “that Rothhaven isn’t even trying when it comes to money, Stephen. He was cooped up indoors day after day. He amused himself with investing based on voracious reading and prodigious mental speculation. He’s some sort of investing savant. Whatever else is true, Constance and Althea will be lavishly provided for.”

  “This is not particularly good news, is it?” Stephen asked, urging his horse into the trot.

  “What could possibly be wrong with abundant settlements?”

  “If Rothhaven is fabulously wealthy, his fortune could lure the unscrupulous into scheming against him. I will now imitate a man having a fit.”

  Stephen shook the reins first, then wobbled his body, then made his limbs tremble as the horse slowed from a trot to a walk, then shuffled to a halt.

  “Is that what Revanche is supposed to do?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” Stephen said, sitting up and patting the horse’s neck. “He was supposed to come to an immediate stop and stand like a statue, but I purposely did not practice in the arena first, nor did I give him any verbal command to stand. We practiced this morning, then I put him away. This was an unannounced exam. He did well, he needs to do better. How’s Jane?”

  Jane was expecting, a situation in which Stephen took an inordinate interest. Never had a man longed as fervently for a ducal nephew as Lord Stephen Wentworth apparently longed for one.

  “She will be intermittently miserable for the next five months. I will be unrelentingly worried.”

  “I know not what inspires more dread in me: Jane’s condition or the ongoing courtships of our sisters. Evidence of present or impending marital bliss faces me on every hand.”

  Stephen, who was obnoxiously intelligent, sounded genuinely dumbfounded.

  “It might be contagious, that bliss,” Quinn said. “Constance succumbed almost as soon as Althea brought Lord Nathaniel up to scratch. You’d best return to London posthaste, lest the ailment afflict you too.”

  Stephen shot him a peevish look. “Hilarious, but if you think I will abandon our sisters before they are securely ensconced in the state of holy matrimony, you have spent too long impersonating a bear in the nursery. Neville Philpot saw Rothhaven’s seizure yesterday, and I beg leave to doubt that Philpot’s solicitude was motivated entirely by Christian charity. Philpot has something of a reputation.”

  “You are, as usual, creating drama where none exists. Philpot will gossip with his confreres, and Lady Phoebe will loudly remember His Poor, Infirm Grace in her endless prayers and small talk, and nobody will take any note of either of them.”

  Stephen remained silent, urging his horse back up to the trot. That Stephen would let the matter drop proved nothing. Rothhaven might be a genius at spotting lucrative investments. Stephen, of a certainty, could smell trouble in the wind. That he would subject himself to not one but two courting swains and a duchess on the nest suggested trouble was indeed approaching.

  “His Grace of Rothhaven is no more insane than you are, Philpot,” Cranmouth said. “One doesn’t accuse a duke of mental incompetence and come away unscathed.”

  “One does not,” Neville replied, taking a sip of excellent claret, “unless the duke is incontrovertibly afflicted. Then one is taking on a thankless and necessary public duty.” Phoebe’s words, though they had sounded more convincing when she’d spoken them.

  Neville had chosen to have this discussion with Cranmouth over a superb rare steak at the club frequented by most of the solicitors and men of business in York. The Dalesmen premises weren’t as busy at midday, and thus the conversation was private.

  “Rothhaven is my client,” Cranmouth retorted, leaning across the table. “I cannot be seen to betray the interests of my client.”

  Neville refilled Cranmouth’s wineglass and topped up his own. Reasoning with Cranmouth was thirsty work.

  “Now there you raise an interesting question, Cranmouth. Is your client the man—Robert Rothmere—or the duchy of Rothhaven as embodied in that man? If your client is the duchy, then a duke who cannot manage his own affairs is a threat to his own duchy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You know nothing,” Cranmouth muttered. “The old duke—Duke Alaric—nearly ran the whole business into the ground. Mistresses, hunting parties, royal court pomp, and Paris fashions. He was old-school, if you know what I mean. Papa used to dread his summonses, and not because it meant a journey into the countryside. The old duke had no head for business, and he wasn’t willing to be educated.”

  “True of most dukes, from what I gather.” Not that Neville truly knew any dukes.

  “The old duke died, and the surviving son—the fellow we thought was the only surviving son—Nathaniel, stepped into his shoes. Immediately, matters began to come right. Expenses slowed to a trickle, the foolish investments stopped, the books were brought up to date.”

  Neville took another bite of excellent beef and made a do-go-on gesture with his fork.

  “Shortly thereafter, a year or two at most, I began to receive more detailed guidance regarding the investments. Sell this, buy that, ship the other. Some of the instructions were quite odd—buy nails, in quantity, tons of them, for example. After Waterloo, the Birmingham gunmakers stopped consuming every available ton of iron and steel. The nail manufactories were thrilled to have a bulk order from any quarter, and the Continental markets were eager to buy those nails at very competitive prices.”

  Nails? Who would have thought something so simple could rebuild a fortune, but then, most of Europe needed rebuilding, and nails were necessary to that undertaking.

  “All quite enlightening, but what does this have to do with a man twitching on the street in broad daylight?”

  “I suspect,” Cranmouth said, lowering his voice, “the guidance regarding the rebuilding of the Rothhaven fortunes came from Robert, not Nathaniel. Nathaniel let the house go to ruin. Busied himself tending the estate, and seldom bothered to call on me. How would he have come across a scheme to enrich the family coffers by brokering nails, lumber, and the like?”

  “Lumber?” Lumber, especially hardwood, was scarce in England. The ever-growing cities and towns wanted quick construction, not the more expensive stone variety, and what didn’t end up in housing had long since been impressed into service in the Royal Navy.

  “Rothhaven bought lumber in America,” Cranmouth said, “where they literally have trees to burn, and let the wood finish seasoning as it traveled across the sea, thus reducing the time the inventory needed to be stored at its origins. These are not the behaviors of a lunatic.”

  “But until recently, Nathaniel was the duke of record, so the cleverness must be attributed to him. Of Robert, we know only that he grew up away from his family, likely in a madhouse, and only recently returned to Rothhaven Hall.”

  Cranmouth glanced around. “Lunatics do not amass fortunes in only a few years’ time.”

  “You have no proof that the investments were Robert’s doing, Cranmouth. Sensible people are not relegated to madhouses.”

  Cranmouth sat back, wineglass in hand. “Sensible people are sent to madhouses every day, Philpot. You know that as well as I do. Inconvenient wives, carping aunties, simpletons with no harm in them whatsoever…They can all be quietly incarcerated for a modest sum, and if they aren’t barmy when they arrive at those places, they will be by the time a doctor comes around on an annual visit.”

  If any such visit was ever made. “As best I can determine, Robert Rothmere would have spent at least a decade in a private madhouse. He was sent off somewhere as a boy, we know that much, and if you did a very thorough review of the old duke’s ledgers, you could probably ascertain where. Add the falling sickness to his afflictions, and you doubtless have a man of very frail mental faculties. You saw him, Cranmouth. When his fit was over, he couldn’t speak, and he could barely stand. Anybody could have served him a bad turn in such a state or made off with him bodily.”

  Cranmouth grimaced and took a sip of his wine. “It was awful, no denying that. One can’t help but feel sorry for the poor fellow. He’s a duke, an extraordinarily wealthy duke, and he looked like a gin drunk twitching in the gutter. Pathetic. This is an excellent vintage.”

  “Have some more.” Neville refilled Cranmouth’s glass yet again and signaled the waiter for another bottle. “I’m not asking you to bring the petition for a competency review, Cranmouth, merely to continue to serve in the capacity you always have. You are the legal conscience of the Rothhaven estate, the loyal servant of the family’s interests. If Rothhaven is declared incompetent, you would simply carry on, though your direction would come from a guardian rather than from some difficult aristocrat in bad health.”

  Cranmouth didn’t have to be told that the guardian would be Neville himself. Neville had been appointed guardian in several other cases, and was known to the court to be conscientious in the execution of his duties.

  “You will bring the petition?” Cranmouth asked quietly.

  “Of course not. I’ll have Weatherby handle that part. He and I have cooperated on similar cases in the past. He brings the petition and asks to have me appointed guardian because I’ve shown myself to serve in that role effectively on other occasions. I also have a family connection to the Rothmeres.”

  Cranmouth’s brows drew down. “You do?”

  “My lady wife’s sister had a liaison with the old duke. Our niece Sybil was the result, though a handy groom was found for her mama in time to prevent outright scandal. That makes my wife a relation to the Rothmeres of sorts.”

  “Not a close relation, Philpot, and not in any sense a court would recognize.”

  “Cut line, Cranmouth. My niece is a half sister to His Grace. That’s family connection enough for benighted Yorkshire and you know it. When I am in charge of Rothhaven’s affairs, I will take very good care of His Grace, you may be sure of that. I expect your fees will necessarily increase, because so much more of the estate work will be thrust onto your shoulders.”

  Neville was unwilling to be more obvious than that in a discussion with another solicitor.

  Cranmouth studied his wine. He peered around the dining room, which was decorated with portraits of venerable judges in their robes and wigs, interspersed with various goddess-looking ladies. Justice and Victory, perhaps. The deities who truly ruled over the lives of solicitors were Hard Work and Whining Clerks.

  Though an unhappy wife could make both of those afflictions look paltry by comparison.

  Across the room, a waiter showed Sir Leviticus Sparrow to a table. Sir Levi was a conundrum, having married a very significant pot of money, and yet continuing his legal practice. He wasn’t in York proper as often as he had been previous to his nuptials, and that was generally a source of relief in the legal community. Negotiating a contract with Sir Levi was a challenge. He was not merely conscientious, but rather, punctilious to a fault and took the job of zealous advocacy more seriously than most.

  He nodded cordially to Neville and Cranmouth and conferred with the waiter.

  “I’m doing well enough as it is,” Cranmouth said. “I don’t like the notion of standing back while you bring scandal down on a ducal family, Philpot. It’s not the done thing.”

  Neville had not expected Cranmouth to fall in with a daring scheme at first mention. Phoebe had cautioned patience and persistence, and as usual, Phoebe had been correct.

  “Nobody undertakes such a course enthusiastically,” Neville replied, as a second man joined Sir Levi across the room. “For the present, all I suggest you do is have a glance at the old duke’s ledgers and accounts. If you can find proof that regular payments were made to a private madhouse during the years corresponding to Rothhaven’s absence, you will have evidence that supports my case. Does that sound reasonable?”

  Evidence was dear to any lawyer’s heart, objective proof that absolved a man of the distasteful uncertainty of—and responsibility for—a personal opinion.

  “That makes sense,” Cranmouth said. “And my father kept meticulous records for the old duke. Nothing less would do. Exactly how much extra work do you see my office taking on, should the present titleholder be found unfit?”

  The bait had been taken, as Phoebe had known it would be.

  “The additional work would be enormous, Cranmouth. A very great burden indeed.”

  “A notion worth contemplating.” Cranmouth smiled and lifted his glass. “A health to your lady, Philpot.”

  “I am happy to share such a toast. When shall we revisit our earlier topic?”

  “Give me a fortnight. The ledgers will have to be retrieved from the attics.”

  “Excellent.” Within a week, Sybil’s handsome swain should have proffered his proposal, and Neville could have a petition drafted to bring His Grace of Rothhaven before a board of competence examiners.

  Truly, marrying dear Phoebe was the smartest thing Neville had ever done.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rothhaven as a lover was like a marching army: unstoppable, resolute, and—for Constance—liberating. He hadn’t conquered her so much as he’d overwhelmed her with consideration. Even as passion had rendered her nigh insensate, he’d still been gauging her reactions and attuning his lovemaking to her responses.

  And oh, the sensation of his voice, whispered in her ear…

  “More, my lady?”

  “Tell me if it’s too much, Constance.”

  And the words that had sent her over the edge: “Let go. I have you, Constance. You can let go.”

  All of this, while their bodies were joined in a slow, relentless rhythm, and pleasure stalked Constance from within.

  She had let go, of control, self-doubt, fear, fatigue, everything, except the man in her arms. Holding Rothhaven was like holding the sun in her heart. The darkness that had weighed upon her for years was supplanted with light, warmth, joy, brilliant colors, and—most of all—with hope.

  When he’d loved her witless, he eased to her side and drew her against him. Constance cuddled closer, her head on his shoulder and peace in her heart.

  “I want a special license, Rothhaven.”

  He hugged her with the arm he’d looped around her shoulders. “Robert, please, considering the circumstances.”

  Constance’s circumstances included a pattern of blooming plum trees against a backdrop of blue-and-white Yorkshire sky, a sprinkling of fallen blossoms on the lush grass surrounding the blankets, and a joy so profound she finally understood why Quinn and Jane looked at one another as they so often did.

  She smoothed a hand over her lover’s chest. “A special license, please. Robert.”

  “Of course.”

  “Where?” Constance asked, fumbling about on the blanket to locate Robert’s coat, then dragging it over her.

  He tucked the coat around her shoulders. “Where shall we hold the ceremony?”

  “And when? I want Althea’s nuptials out of the way, but I don’t want her to have to put off her wedding journey while we fuss about ordering flowers and waiting for Quinn to make another copy of the settlement agreements.”