The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “He was the son of a wealthy York merchant. He died while at university.” More than that, Constance could pass along at another time—she hoped. “Are you happy, Ivy?”

  Ivy looked around, then stepped closer. “I am soon to be dragooned away to the Antipodes. Uncle Whitlock has quarreled with his bishop and his archbishop, and nobody in all of England wants him for a vicar or even a curate. The aunties despair of him. I don’t want to go to Australia, but Uncle sends me to my room to memorize Bible verses if I argue with him. I’m through the Gospels already.”

  Such a mild punishment was a relief to Constance. “I don’t want to see you go so far away.”

  “Mama Etta said you’d find me. She had a daughter when she was young, but the baby died, or so she was told. My aunties are scandalized that I know of such things, but they are easily scandalized, except for Aunt Flora. She says mendacity has no place in a child’s upbringing. Are you happy, Mama?”

  Mama. She called me Mama.

  And what a question. What a dear, insightful, fraught question. “I have found the man with whom I’d like to spend the rest of my life, and that is a significant, precious joy. I have been searching for you, though, for much of the last decade, and right now, I am the happiest woman on earth. When I think of you being forced to emigrate, much of that happiness fades.”

  Ivy regarded her, the girl’s expression puzzled. “You talk like a lawyer. Everything has a but. You are happy, but. You have found a good fellow, but. I am only happy to meet you, purely, entirely happy. Uncle Whitlock said you’d never come, and he was wrong. He’s wrong a lot, but one doesn’t tell him that.”

  “Ivy, if there were a way for you to stay in England rather than go to Australia, would you want me to pursue that opportunity?”

  The woman in the bonnet with the blue ribbon, Mrs. Hodges, was looking around as if in search of Ivy.

  “Stay? You mean like at a finishing school? Uncle hates finishing schools. He says they give young women airs and are not pleasing to the Lord.”

  I despair of Uncle Whitlock sight unseen. “I mean, would you prefer to stay, as in stay with me. In the household I will share with my husband. He is a lovely fellow and quite capable of supporting you.”

  Ivy considered the volume of Byron. “Uncle wants me to go to New South Wales and keep house for him. Mrs. Hodges says he’s daft, but my aunties say I’d best resign myself to that course. They don’t argue with Uncle either.”

  “I will argue with your uncle.” And he’s not your uncle.

  “Best not, Mama Constance. Uncle digs in his heels and gets all martyr-y if you disagree with him. Let the women keep silent and all that. He’ll pray at you and you can’t shout at a man who’s honestly praying. Nobody doubts Uncle’s vocation. They just all wish he’d pursue it someplace else.”

  The temptation to spirit Ivy away, to bundle her into the big coach and gallop back to Rothhaven Hall, nearly made rational thought impossible.

  Stephen, though, had set down his tankard of ale, and stood frankly staring at Constance, as if he were trying to communicate a warning.

  “I believe Mrs. Hodges is trying to get your attention, Ivy.”

  Mrs. Hodges was looking about worriedly, her basket laden with cabbages and carrots.

  “Well, drat,” Ivy said, shoving Byron at Constance. “Uncle Witless must have finished his morning prayers early.”

  A short, round man attired in brown from head to foot was bustling down the church steps and heading straight for the green. He slapped a low-crowned hat on his balding head and tucked a black leather-bound book against his chest.

  Why, he’s only a little man. That thought was quickly followed by a frisson of unease, for little men could still claim a towering sense of self-importance.

  “Will I see you again?” Ivy asked, gaze anxious.

  “I hope so. I have a letter of introduction for your uncle.”

  Mr. Shaw approached Mrs. Hodges, who had apparently spotted Ivy. She pointed in the direction of the bookseller’s stall and Shaw changed course.

  “He hates for me to read anything,” Ivy said. “Mrs. H sneaks me the newspapers when Uncle thinks they’ve been donated to the library. Don’t leave me, Mama Constance, for he looks ready to preach on original sin.”

  Don’t leave me.…The words tore at Constance’s heart and stiffened her resolve.

  She turned to Ivy. “Thank you so much, miss, for those directions, and how fortunate that Mr. Shaw is your uncle.”

  Shaw bustled up, coming to a stop beside Ivy. “That’s Reverend Shaw, if you please, and who might you be?”

  Good heavens. Had he no grasp of manners? “I am—”

  “Don’t bother telling me,” he said, flapping a Book of Common Prayer at her. “I can tell by looking at you that you’re the wretched creature who gave birth to Ivy. Ivy, you are to go directly home and straight to your room. I’ll speak to you later.”

  Ivy, stay. A touch on Constance’s arm kept those words behind her teeth. Rothhaven was at her side, all languid grace and pleasant smiles.

  “Reverend Shaw,” he said. “I apologize for the irregularity of this encounter, here before the whole village, but we had heard that you make a priority out of morning prayers and thought to respect your piety by putting off the introductions. I am Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. I have a letter of introduction from Dr. Pietr Sorenson, our vicar.”

  He passed along a folded and sealed sheet of vellum and offered a goggle-eyed Ivy a bow. “Miss Ivy, good day.”

  That was clever, to acknowledge her as if she was more than a child truant from the schoolroom.

  “I have little patience with dukes,” Shaw snapped, glowering at Rothhaven and then at Constance. “And even less with strumpets.” He spoke clearly, as if trying to make a spectacle in the middle of the market day.

  “I have no patience with hypocrites,” Rothhaven replied, pleasantly. “If our Lord can forgive Mary Magdalene for her failings, then who are we to cling to judgment when a young girl was taken advantage of by a worldly bounder?”

  Shaw blinked, then widened his stance. “Forgiveness is a virtue, I’ll grant you, but what of you, Your Grace. Easier for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle, than for a wealthy man—”

  Ivy closed her eyes and took a step back.

  “Excuse me,” Constance said, “but might we move this game of scriptural battledore someplace more private? I had hoped to avoid airing family business for the entertainment of greater Fendle Bridge.”

  Shaw glanced about, not an ounce of chagrin in his bearing. Mrs. Hodges stood nearby looking ready to smite him with her cabbages, though, and some of the wind dropped from his sails.

  “My home is humble,” he said. “I am willing to hear you out there, but don’t think you can waltz into Ivy’s life, your corrupting influence already on display, and expect to be granted any access to the girl. She is impressionable and headstrong, and it won’t serve for her to form attachments when she’s soon to depart for the Lord’s work in the colonies.”

  He strutted off, prayer book clutched in his pale hand, leaving Ivy to send Constance a miserable look before following in his wake.

  “Not an auspicious beginning,” Constance said.

  “But a beginning nonetheless,” Rothhaven murmured. “The whole village has remarked your resemblance to the girl.”

  “Ivy doesn’t want to leave England.”

  “Then let’s hope the reverend is willing to listen to reason.” Rothhaven offered his arm, and Constance took it, ignoring the stares of the curious, and pretending a composure she did not feel.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I am Sir Leviticus Sparrow,” the fellow said, bowing to Jane. “I apologize for intruding on the household without an appointment, but my business with Lord Stephen is pressing.”

  “You are in his lordship’s employ?”

  Sir Leviticus didn’t gawk, didn’t take surreptitious inventory of the appointments in Lynley Vale’s guest parlor. He was either exceptionally well bred or accustomed to commodious country houses.

  “Lord Stephen first retained my services several years ago, Your Grace. I have had the honor of representing his lordship’s interests here in Yorkshire since. His property and my wife’s are within neighboring distance, not that we see much of his lordship in these parts.”

  Stephen was, despite all appearances to the contrary, a good judge of people. If he trusted Sir Leviticus, then Jane would at least give the fellow the benefit of the doubt.

  “Please have a seat,” she said. “I’ve rung for a tray, and if you rode out from York, you’ll want some sustenance.” The morning was only half gone, meaning Sir Leviticus had left York at dawn on a fast horse to be at Lynley Vale this early in the day.

  Jane’s guest made no move to get off his feet. “Perhaps His Grace of Walden can join us?”

  “His Grace is away for the morning.” Quinn, grumbling and muttering, had ridden out with Althea and Lord Nathaniel to call on the Lynley Vale tenants. Jane would have joined them on such a pretty day, but she wanted to be home in case any news came regarding the expedition to Fendle Bridge.

  Constance might well be meeting her daughter at that very moment.

  “Your Grace, while I don’t wish to appear rude, I’m here on a matter of business.”

  Sir Leviticus had the look of a former military man. Lance-like posture, lean, tall, dark-haired, and exceedingly serious. He would take orders, but only from an authority he respected.

  “Sir Leviticus, whatever has brought you here is apparently both urgent and weighty.” Jane settled into a capacious wing chair. “All the more reason not to discuss your errand on an empty stomach. Please do have a seat.”

  He strode to the sofa, whipped out the tails of his riding jacket, and sat. “Perhaps I could leave Lord Stephen a note?”

  Althea’s butler, Strensall, appeared with an exquisitely arranged tray, complete with a vase of tulips. Consistent with Monsieur Henri’s usual standards, the offerings would have fed a regiment of epicureans. Jane filled a plate with sandwiches, orange sections, two chocolate drops, and slices of yellow cheese flecked with caraway seeds, and passed it to her visitor.

  “How do you like your tea, Sir Leviticus?”

  “Plain will do, Your Grace.”

  Well, of course. “Eat. I make it a point not to interrogate my prisoners until I’ve lulled them into misplaced trust.”

  Sir Leviticus smiled—he was attractive when he wasn’t being so serious—and Jane passed him a steaming cup of tea.

  “I cannot violate client confidences, Your Grace, not even for such glorious sustenance.”

  “I will overlook the insult implied in your observation, sir. You are weary, thirsty, and hungry.” He was also likely worried, and too much of a gentleman to burden a lady with his concerns.

  He sipped his tea and closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them, his gaze held lurking humor. “I meant you no disrespect, Your Grace.”

  “Of course you didn’t, but when you imply Lord Stephen would hire a lawyer of less than sterling ethics, you insult his lordship.”

  Sir Leviticus commenced demolishing his food. “His lordship said you were fierce. Said you’d had to be.”

  “And now you redeem yourself by complimenting me. Lord Stephen has had to be fierce too. If he’s being sued by some subcontractor or vendor, you could have informed him of that by letter.”

  Jane ought to have let the poor fellow finish eating before making that observation, but a lawyer riding hotfoot out from town did not bode well for Stephen’s interests. Not even a lawyer who was probably former cavalry and who doubtless enjoyed a good gallop.

  “Aren’t you having any tea, Your Grace?”

  Tell me why you’re here. Jane could not make that demand and hope to get anywhere with Sir Leviticus. Anybody who’d endured several years in Stephen’s employ would be a stout opponent in a battle of wits, and utterly loyal to Stephen. She considered strategy while she poured herself a cup of tea and stirred in a dollop of milk.

  “Stephen once pointed a loaded gun at me,” she said. “He thought he was protecting his brother. Mind you, at the time Stephen could barely stand unaided, he was years away from his majority, and his brother didn’t need protecting—not from me anyway. If I were sent to my reward tomorrow, I could die secure in the knowledge that Stephen will guard with his life anybody whom he loves.”

  Sir Leviticus paused between sandwiches. “As you would die to protect him. I would expect no less, given how his lordship rhapsodizes about his family. My errand does not involve any looming threat to Lord Stephen’s person or to his business interests.”

  Jane’s stomach ceased roiling. Stephen had a temper, and as a younger man, he’d not always had self-restraint sufficient to match his passions. He’d fought duels, a notion that gave Jane nightmares, and if anything happened to Stephen, Quinn would not recover.

  Jane would not recover. She had no sons, no brothers, not even male cousins, but she had Stephen whether he wanted her loyalty or not.

  “He needs a wife,” Jane muttered, and immediately hoped Sir Leviticus was too busy impersonating a plague of locusts to have heard her.

  “The men who need wives are often the last to marry. Your tea will grow cold, Your Grace, and you should try the sandwiches. They are quite good.”

  Breakfast had been hours ago, and everything Monsieur Henri prepared was scrumptious. Jane chose a butter-and-cheese sandwich, in deference to an expectant mother’s unreliable digestion.

  “I worry about Stephen, you know. He applies his considerable mental faculties to denying that the ducal title will become his, though all indications are that is exactly what will happen.”

  Sir Leviticus had the blue eyes of a man who hailed from the north, and they were trustworthy blue eyes too.

  “Lord Stephen won’t inherit that title anytime soon, Your Grace. You have years to find him a wife, and he has time to accustom himself to the notion of a spouse. He adores his nieces, as I’m sure you know.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” A comforting notion, despite the fact that Stephen was always careful to couch his affection in irascible tones. “The girls adore him too. He taught Hester how to pick locks and he’s showing her how to build clocks.”

  “A fine skill for a duke’s daughter to have.”

  “He reads to them,” she said more softly, “and he changes all the knights in the stories into warrior maidens, and makes the dragons l-limp.” Oh, drat the sentimentality that came with carrying a child.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Leviticus said, holding out a lawn handkerchief. “This is most unfair. I can battle opposing counsel on the most complex cases, recite the common law of contracts from end to end, and bear arms in defense of my country, but a lady’s tears render me powerless.”

  Jane dabbed at her eyes, while mentally cursing motherhood, charming solicitors, and complicated family situations. She could not tell this stranger that Constance had gone in search of a daughter soon to be shipped off to the ends of the earth. Could not convey to him that Rothhaven and Constance would allow only Stephen’s assistance on that errand.

  Could not tell him that Quinn hadn’t slept for most of the past two nights, and probably wouldn’t sleep until his siblings were back at Lynley Vale, and his prodigal niece under guardianship to a duke or two.

  “I apologize for burdening you with this display,” she said. “Lady Althea is soon to wed, and while we are overjoyed for her and for Lord Nathaniel, every change is an adjustment.”

  Sir Leviticus held up a plate of tea cakes. “My wife grows weepy from time to time. An occasional sweet seems to calm her humors.”

  Good Lord, how much had Stephen told him? Jane took a raspberry tea cake and found that it did taste particularly satisfying.

  “I have not met Lord Nathaniel,” Sir Leviticus said, topping up his tea. “I gather few people can claim that honor. Are the nuptials imminent?”

  The tea, the sandwich, and the sweet were fortifying. Jane was supposed to be conducting an interrogation, after all. Quinn would expect no less of her, and she expected no less of herself. Why would a lawyer ostensibly in Stephen’s employ come pelting out to Lynley Vale, when Stephen’s interests were not in jeopardy?

  “The happy couple has yet to set a date,” she said, “and neither are they having banns called. We will probably come down to breakfast some morning and find ourselves with a new brother-in-law. Wentworths can be impetuous in matters of the heart. Tell me, Sir Leviticus, did you grow up in Yorkshire?”

  “I did, Your Grace, but I was sent off to public school to get the accent beaten out of me. Headmaster was not entirely successful. Then it was off to Spain to chase Boney’s minions back to France. Another tea cake?”

  “No, thank you. Have you any legal dealings with the Rothmere family, Sir Leviticus?”

  He set his teacup down a bit too slowly. “Why would you ask that, Your Grace?”

  “Because I can think of no other reason for a well-to-do solicitor to race out from town, full of news about some matter involving Lord Stephen—or involving the family his sister is soon to marry into. I thus conclude that his lordship set you to spying, and your skulking about has borne fruit. If the evil tidings relate to the Rothmere family, I can assure you we are in His Grace of Rothhaven’s confidence regarding the family history and we regard it as just that: history.” She rose, more quickly than she should have. “In the past, of no moment. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sir Leviticus was on his feet as well. “Your Grace, may I be blunt?”

  “You shall be nothing but.”

  “Lord Stephen asked me to do a favor for His Grace of Rothhaven. I thought the request odd, but lawyers are often expected to handle matters requiring discretion. Might we sit?”

  He’d taken her elbow, which was fortunate, because the occasional fainting spell was always possible when carrying a Wentworth baby.

  “His Grace of Rothhaven’s favor is the motivation for your call?” Jane asked, sinking back into her chair.