The Truth About Dukes Page 18

  In his present mood, Quinn ought not to be trusted with a round of darts.

  “You feel inadequate as a brother,” Nathaniel Rothmere said as he prowled about the room opening cupboards and drawers like a snooping parlor maid. “At least you didn’t leave a sibling stranded on the moors for years, dependent on a physician whose notions of good care included starvation, restraints, whippings, purges, and ice baths. Where the hell do you keep your playing cards?”

  “In the drawer of the card table,” Stephen said.

  “Your card table has no drawers.”

  Quinn crossed to the table in question. “It’s a puzzle table, with all sorts of hinges and hidden compartments. Stephen designed it.”

  “Press on the fleur-de-lis,” Stephen said, from the depths of a comfortable reading chair. “The drawer will open. To see you feeling helpless simply breaks my heart, Quinn. Must be terribly frustrating.”

  That comment should have provoked at least a thunderous scowl. Quinn merely sank into a chair at the card table.

  “You are not helpless, Stephen, but I take your point. Rothhaven’s reserves of patience doubtless approach biblical proportions. To be afflicted with seizures, having no idea when they will strike, no control when they do…and to simply carry on. I am as impressed with his fortitude as I am worried for our sister.”

  Nathaniel slapped a deck of cards on the table. “Rothhaven will spoil Constance within an inch of her life. He will dote and fuss, he will build her a palatial dower house, he will kit out the Hall to accommodate her every whim and fancy. Are we playing cards or not?”

  Stephen voted not, because weighty matters required discussion.

  Quinn picked up the deck. “If Jane looks in on us, we must appear to be enjoying one another’s company, or trying to.”

  Nathaniel angled a chair away from the table. “Jane or Althea.”

  Stephen shoved to his feet, collected his canes, and took the proffered seat. “I am an uncle again,” he said. “Nobody thought to acquaint me with the details of Constance’s situation. I can understand withholding the information from a moody boy, but I am more than of age and in a position to aid my sisters. The family continues to ignore the resources I could have brought to bear on the problem.”

  Stephen staged this pout in part to distract Quinn from his fraternal guilt, and in part because Nathaniel needed to become acquainted with his in-laws. For better or for worse and all that.

  Wentworths didn’t engage in polite sniping, they came out with fists swinging, verbally.

  “What resources do you have that I lack?” Quinn asked, taking up the deck and shuffling.

  “Tact, subtlety, a devious mind, charm, a sense of humor. What are we playing?”

  Nathaniel took the third chair. “What are we drinking?”

  “Help yourself to the brandy.” Quinn finished shuffling and began dealing. “I wouldn’t mind a tot. Stephen?”

  “None for me.” He’d cut back since coming to Yorkshire. Achieving true inebriation had honestly become difficult, requiring an alarming quantity of spirits. Jack Wentworth’s fate suggested that less drinking, not more, would be a prudent choice.

  “I longed to get drunk,” Nathaniel said, retrieving the decanter from the sideboard and pouring two glasses. “I would dream of that mellow, semi-coherent benevolence, but didn’t dare indulge because Robbie—Robert, rather, or Rothhaven—could not get drunk with me. And what if he had a fit while I was three sheets to the wind?”

  Quinn passed out seven cards to each player and set the balance of the deck in the center of the table. “Your staff could not manage without you in even that situation?”

  “I didn’t want to find out, and then too, Robert does not drink but a single glass of ale or one serving of wine with a meal. I would have felt disloyal.”

  Quinn saluted with his glass. “Here’s to sibling loyalty. What do you suppose Miss Abbott has to say that could not be said to the family members involved?”

  “Constance is the girl’s mother,” Stephen replied. “Even if all Miss Abbott has to say is that the young lady has brown hair and a good singing voice, Constance deserves to hear that in private.” Though Miss Abbott had driven out from York on a Sunday likely to impart more than such simple details. “Did either of you happen to notice Neville Philpot’s reaction to His Grace’s seizure?”

  “Philpot’s reaction to everything is usually to assess Lady Phoebe’s reaction,” Nathaniel said. “And Lady Phoebe is consumed these days with ensuring all goes well between Viscount Ellenbrook and Miss Price. What game are we playing here?”

  “Quinn is a father,” Stephen replied. “He forgets how to play anything but matching games.”

  Nathaniel arranged his cards. “We could play three-handed cribbage.”

  Quinn hadn’t even glanced at his cards. “Stop being a barrister, Stephen. What do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything, but I suspect trouble is afoot. Lady Phoebe has the pew across from and immediately behind ours, and she thus had a fine view of the duke’s difficulties. Vicar Sorenson confirmed that she was an irregular attendee. Rothhaven starts going to services, and lo, Lady Phoebe does too, dragging her devoted solicitor-husband with her.”

  Nathaniel drank half his glass of brandy at one go. “The entire congregation had a fine view of Robert’s seizure, and I must tell you both, the situation bothers me.”

  “Bothers you how?” Quinn asked.

  “Robert can go a month without so much as a staring spell, particularly in high summer, when he spends the most time in his garden. He’s had three seizures that I know of in the space of little over a month. The other day, I’m fairly certain he had a staring spell as well.”

  Stephen didn’t bother picking up his cards. “Are you implying that Constance has a bad effect on your brother’s health?”

  “Stephen,” Quinn said, a note of quiet warning in his voice.

  “No,” Nathaniel replied. “But change can affect Robert adversely, and he’s dealing with a lot of change lately. If I go through with my nuptials and remove to my own property, he’ll have yet more change to deal with, and if he marries Lady Constance…”

  “When he marries her,” Quinn said, “she will aid him to adjust. Stephen, pick up your cards.”

  Stephen obliged, because Quinn was right: If Jane peeked in on them, they must appear to be passing a genial hour banished from the ladies’ company.

  “About Neville Philpot,” Stephen said. “He bears watching. He and Lady Phoebe were not exactly aghast to see a peer of the realm shaking and twitching in the church aisle.”

  “Few people have seen an epileptic seizure,” Nathaniel said. “One doesn’t want to gawk, but it’s hard to look away.”

  “They were gawking,” Stephen said, “and, having been gawked at any number of times myself, I know the difference between compassionate gawking, curious gawking, and malicious gawking.”

  Quinn paused, his drink halfway to his mouth. “Theirs was malicious?”

  “Delightedly so,” Stephen said, “and I would put that down to small-minded evil, except that my man of business met me in York the other day to discuss some changes at my estate. He knows Philpot and had little good to say about him.”

  Nathaniel tipped his chair back onto two legs. “Philpot is successful.”

  “Philpot’s family had money,” Stephen said, “hence the union between Lady Phoebe and a mere solicitor. The wealthiest uncle on Philpot’s side grew dotty, and dear Neville stepped in to have his uncle declared incompetent. Neville was appointed guardian of the old boy’s means, and the family was all for that. By the time the uncle’s will was probated, the means had largely disappeared. Citizen Philpot has made something of a cottage industry off of guardianships. An auntie here, a former business associate there.”

  “What has that to do with us?” Nathaniel asked.

  Quinn’s scowl said he grasped the connections, as Stephen had known he would.

  “Rothhaven ended up convulsing on the walkway in York a fortnight ago,” Quinn said, “and, as you know, Philpot witnessed most of it. Philpot saw today’s display as well. Lady Phoebe carries a grudge against any who challenge her dominion over local society. You and Althea have done that, and now Rothhaven has found a duchess.”

  No announcement had been made, but anybody with eyes could see Constance and Rothhaven were besotted.

  Nathaniel raised his glass, then set it down without drinking. “This explains a mystery that was costing me significant sleep.”

  “Say on,” Quinn said. “The ladies won’t leave us unsupervised indefinitely.”

  “Robert recently transferred to me and to my mother enormous sums of his personal money. The estate proceeds remain untouched, for they belong to the title, but he passed much of his private wealth into our keeping, asking only that we ensure his dependents are well cared for at the time of his death.”

  “Is he planning to die soon?” Quinn asked.

  “Likely not,” Stephen replied. “I suspect he’s planning to be legally emasculated. If the money isn’t in Rothhaven’s possession at the time a guardian is appointed for him, Philpot won’t have the opportunity to steal it. Has Rothhaven signed the marriage settlements yet?”

  Quinn nodded. “For both Althea and Constance, and the funds remain in my hands. If anything happens to me, management devolves to you, Stephen, then to Cousin Duncan, and if all else fails, His Grace of Elsmore manages the money.”

  “The money is safe,” Nathaniel said, “but what of my brother? A guardian could send him back into the keeping of some private madhouse, and none of us would be permitted to see him.”

  “He likely knows that,” Stephen said, “and he’s taking defensive measures, but defensive measures are insufficient to secure victory.” Footsteps sounded in the corridor, so Stephen studied his cards and slapped a bored expression on his face. “Quinn, do you have any sevens?”

  The door opened to reveal Jane and Althea, both looking happily intent on intruding on male pastimes.

  “Alas no,” Quinn said, mildly. “Rothmere, any threes?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “She goes by Ivy,” Miss Abbott said. “That threw us off the scent. I’d told all my contacts to scan the records for an Artemis Ivy, or Artemis, but her parents thought a pagan name less suited to the offspring of clergy than a common English name.”

  “Go on,” Constance said.

  To Robert, she sounded calm, but her grip on his hand was desperate. The tea tray sat before her untouched, so Robert poured out for the ladies.

  “We knew she would not be a Wentworth,” Miss Abbott said, “despite whatever name you gave her at her christening. James and Etta Wilson took her in, so we searched for Wilsons in every direction.”

  “And you found them.” Robert poured three cups of good China black. “This being Yorkshire, and Wilson being an exceedingly common name in these parts, you found Wilsons in every village. How do you take your tea, Miss Abbott?”

  Miss Abbott moved through life with an air of unshakable confidence. She did not walk, she marched, a stout cane in her hand, though she appeared to be free of every infirmity. She had tossed a glorified nod in Robert’s direction when most women would have curtsied to an obsequious depth. Constance had asked that he remain present for this interview, and Miss Abbott had drawn her employer aside and held a whispered exchange first.

  Very likely Miss Abbott had ensured that Robert’s company was, in fact, what Constance truly sought, and not a capitulation to domestic tyranny. He held out the tray of tea cakes and the lady looked at him as if he were a stuffed canary that had started singing.

  “You are a duke, sir.”

  “Lamentably so, and yet, I am able to manage a tea tray.”

  She considered the sweets and considered him. “A touch of honey will do, Your Grace. Thank you.”

  Never had thanks been more grudging. Robert rewarded her skepticism with a double serving of tea cakes.

  He fixed Constance a cup of tea, plain, because later in the day she preferred it that way, and then prepared his own, also with just a drop of honey. Miss Abbott watched all of this, her expression unreadable.

  “You were saying,” Constance prompted. “The Wilsons had the raising of Artem—of Ivy—for seven years.”

  “But Mrs. Etta Wilson was not, of course, born a Wilson. I’d thought she was born a Brown, another common Yorkshire name, and she was, but in other regards I was in error.”

  A peal of thunder should have accompanied that admission, so portentous was Miss Abbott’s tone.

  “Etta’s mother, Daphne Shaw, was the second wife of Mr. Abel Brown,” Miss Abbott went on, “but Etta was born only four months after the wedding. Her mother had been widowed after conceiving Etta, and by agreement, Etta took her stepfather’s name. Etta was thus born a Brown, though her full siblings are Shaws.”

  Constance ignored her tea. “You were looking for an Artemis Wilson, but you found an Ivy Shaw?”

  “Exactly so. My apologies that it took this long, but as His Grace has pointed out, all of the names involved—Brown, Shaw, Wilson—are exceedingly common in the northern counties.”

  “And how,” Robert asked, “did you eventually find her?”

  “The past two weeks have been nigh frenetic, because I was able to put all available hands to her ladyship’s project. Some of my agents are Americans, though most are from other parts of Britain. They have been inquiring at vicarages and posting inns as if searching for relatives on this side of the Atlantic or in this part of England.”

  Clever and plausible. “Your agents are female?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, most of them. Fewer people suspect a female of being an inquiry agent. I also find women tend to notice what men miss and are more inventive and subtle about the job.”

  Said with the merest suggestion of condescension.

  “Tell me,” Constance said. “Is she well? Is she happy?”

  “Ivy appears to be in blooming good health.” Miss Abbott opened a satchel that could have doubled as a traveling valise. “She goes to market in Fendle Bridge every Wednesday with her uncle’s housekeeper and attends services regularly. She is being raised in the home of the Reverend Whitlock Shaw, her nominal uncle, where she appears to be well cared for.”

  Appearances, as Robert knew, could be devilishly deceptive.

  Miss Abbott withdrew a piece of paper from the depths of her satchel. “I thought you’d like to see this.” She passed over a sketch, a thorough likeness of a girl who might well have been a very young Constance Wentworth.

  “Did her hair stay red?” Constance asked, handling the page as if it were a holy relic. “She was born with bright red hair.”

  “Her hair is quite red.”

  Something about Miss Abbott’s tone caught Robert’s ear. “You never did answer Lady Constance’s question: Is the child happy?”

  The unfaltering Miss Abbott peered at her teacup. “She’s at a difficult age.”

  “I am at a difficult age,” Robert replied. “I’m at the age where I’d rather deal in plain speech and uncomfortable truths than endure polite dithering.”

  “Just tell us,” Constance said. “If now is not the time to make myself known to her, I can be patient, but surely some funds, a finishing school, a governess, a competence—there must be something I can do.”

  The girl portrayed in the sketch had a bleak expression. She was pretty enough, though she would be prettier in a few years’ time, and yet, her gaze suggested she did not look forward to whatever those years held.

  “My agent chatted with the curate,” Miss Abbott said. “Curates tend to be more forthcoming than vicars, happier to pass the time. He said Ivy has been a trial to her uncle, who is not the vicar in Fendle Bridge. Mr. Shaw is preparing to emigrate to New South Wales, where he hopes to have a congregation in one of the settlement colonies. Ivy has run away twice in an effort to avoid joining her uncle on his travels, but he is the guardian the family has chosen for her, the oldest Shaw brother. She is bound to go with him.”

  Constance pitched into Robert, her forehead against his shoulder. “Oh, God. New South Wales is full of felons, and she’s just a girl.”

  Robert looped an arm around Constance’s shoulders. “Can the reverend be persuaded to place his niece with other parties here in England?”

  Miss Abbott closed the snaps of the satchel and set it aside. “He’s the patriarch on that side of the family, which is how Ivy ended up with him. She is difficult, according to the curate, and her aunts and uncles were hoping Mr. Whitlock Shaw would be able to curb her headstrong tendencies.”

  Constance made a sound of inarticulate misery.

  “Can the reverend be bought?” Robert asked. “If a sponsor were to step forward offering to generously fund his mission, would he be willing to see reason where his niece is concerned?”

  “I don’t know, Your Grace. His vocation is regarded as sincere, and he’s been planning this journey for years. He might well not need a sponsor.”

  Constance wasn’t in tears, but Robert could feel the emotions reverberating through her. Tremendous relief that somebody she’d long loved was still hale and whole. He’d felt that same relief when Nathaniel had finally fetched him home to Rothhaven Hall.

  Dismay, because the situation was so fraught.

  Anger, that Ivy’s adoptive family should be a poor fit for her, at least at present.

  “We must not despair,” Robert said, kissing Constance’s fingers. “You have never faltered in your determination to find your daughter, and now your persistence has been rewarded. Drink your tea before it gets cold.”

  He issued that order in part to provoke a flash of resistance, but Constance saw through him. “Drink your own tea, Your Grace. Miss Abbott, does Ivy know of her origins?”

  “I’m afraid she does.”

  If Miss Abbott was afraid, matters were dire. “Please explain.” Robert did not admonish Miss Abbott to drink her tea, lest he suffer injury to his person.