The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “Rothhaven’s request came through Lord Stephen, by letter.”

  “Why would…?” Jane stared hard at the tulips gracing the tea tray. She could smell them, and in her present condition, the fragrance was too sweet, even a little rotten.

  “His Grace would only ask a favor of another solicitor if he needed assistance his own attorney could not provide,” she said slowly, wishing Quinn hadn’t jaunted off on social calls. “Do I have that right?”

  All charm fled Sir Leviticus’s expression, leaving only astonishment. “I cannot confirm the particulars of a matter entrusted to me in confidence.”

  “Then allow me to conjecture: You’ve seen something, heard rumors, or otherwise come across alarming information of the sort the duke’s lawyers would not hear, and time is of the essence.”

  Sir Leviticus remained standing, his posture militarily straight. “Your Grace, while I would never want to offend—”

  Jane waved him to silence. “Lord Nathaniel Rothmere and Lady Althea Wentworth are to wed. Rothhaven might have enemies, but he also has allies, will he, nill he. You either tell me what you know, or I will have the footmen keep you here, stuffing you with sandwiches, until Walden, Lady Althea, and Lord Nathaniel return from their outing.”

  A tense silence ticked by, during which Jane’s belly chose to inform her that she was hungry. She’d just eaten, and she was abruptly famished.

  “My wife would get on well with you,” Sir Leviticus said. “I don’t suppose you like rabbits?”

  “To eat? Actually, no. I don’t care for most game.”

  “Rabbits as pets,” he said, gaze on a drawing Constance had done of Septimus, the house cat. “I refuse to violate a confidence, Your Grace, but I can tell you that I and my clerks move in less rarified legal circles than does Rothhaven’s man of business, and I can discuss with you the law of guardianship as it relates to mental incompetence.”

  Jane sent out a silent plea for Quinn to gallop home, though he’d be gone for hours yet.

  “You are telling me—or rather, not telling me—that you have evidence of somebody scheming against Rothhaven, and he’s to be brought before a commission of lunacy examiners.” Quinn had explained that process to her, one his banks occasionally became entangled in when a customer grew dotty. “Worse yet, you are telling me this plot is already afoot, and Rothhaven isn’t even on hand to begin preparing his defense.”

  Constance would be devastated, Quinn would be furious, and Stephen would be plotting violent felonies. As for Althea and Nathaniel, Jane could not guess how they would react, and Rothhaven…If anything ought to cause an epileptic duke to succumb to seizures, a scandalous lawsuit should suffice.

  “I can see why Lord Stephen holds you in such esteem, Your Grace,” Sir Leviticus said, “but I cannot confirm your conjectures.”

  “You don’t deny them either. I hardly know Rothhaven, but I would pit his sanity against that of any peer. His tenancies thrive, his investments prosper, his only sibling has nothing but respect for him. This petition cannot be allowed to go forward, Sir Leviticus.”

  He subsided into his chair. “I have not admitted to the existence of any petition, Your Grace.”

  His very posture, now that of a tired, unhappy man rather than a lancer preparing to charge, was admission enough.

  The front door slammed and heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer.

  Thank God. “Walden will demand to speak with you.”

  Sir Leviticus sat up. “I thought you said His Grace was from home?”

  “He’s back, and not a moment too soon.”

  “You’ll want a tray for your guests, Reverend,” Mrs. Hodges said, once she’d taken Constance’s parasol and Robert’s hat.

  The tiny foyer was crowded, and the house smelled slightly of lye and tallow. The floors were nonetheless clean, the aging rugs recently beaten, and the corners free of cobwebs. The cleanliness would probably be a relief to Constance, though it meant little to Robert.

  Soames’s prison had been spotless.

  “A pot of tea will do,” Shaw said. “The everyday, Mrs. Hodges.”

  The housekeeper looked ready to mutiny at that blatant insult to newly arrived guests, but she bustled off toward the back of the house, while Ivy remained near Constance.

  “Ivy,” Shaw said, “to your room.”

  “But, Uncle…”

  “To your room, and don’t come down until you’ve copied at least an entire chapter of Matthew.”

  Constance patted Ivy’s shoulder. “Do as your uncle says, Ivy. He and I have matters to sort out.”

  Ivy ran up the steps, and Shaw scowled after her. “Not a quarter hour after meeting you, and the girl is already inspired to further rebellions.”

  Constance swiveled a glittering gaze to Shaw. “Perhaps if Ivy had been allowed to spend more than a quarter of an hour with me, she might be more biddable.”

  Shaw bristled, clutching his prayer book to his chest as if it were his moral targe, deflecting arrows of disrespect.

  “Might we continue this discussion someplace more private?” Robert asked.

  Shaw marched down the corridor. “I cannot spare you much time. I am to lead a prayer group that meets every market day at the inn. I had allotted the remainder of the morning for quiet contemplation, the better to prepare for that solemn responsibility.”

  Robert would have bet his best microscope that the prayer group would be two venerable grannies and a gouty great-uncle dropped at the inn for safekeeping while their minders enjoyed the market and caught up over a pint of ale.

  “My parlor is humble,” Shaw said, “but you are welcome, despite interrupting my schedule and poor Ivy’s peace.”

  “We apologize for that,” Robert said, before Constance could raise a battle standard about the peace of a mother who had searched for years to find her daughter. “We want only what is best for the child.”

  “Pleased to hear it.” Shaw settled his bulk into a reading chair near the hearth. That left a small, lumpy sofa opposite his chair, into which Robert assisted Constance. He took the place beside her, honestly grateful to get off his feet.

  The night had been long, the day thus far fraught, and worry for Constance gave Robert’s fatigue an edge of tension.

  “You mustn’t think that I don’t love the girl,” Shaw said, putting his prayer book on the low table beside his chair. “She is not to blame for the circumstances of her birth, and poor Etta was overjoyed when she and James took Ivy in. The girl has had a loving, Christian upbringing, and my sisters dote on her.”

  “I would like to dote on her too,” Constance said, sitting forward. “Not spoil her, of course, but provide her some of the benefits I wish I could have provided in years past.”

  “Wealth,” Shaw snapped. “Trappings of vanity, and sops to your conscience. You conceived her, my lady, but you didn’t want the shame of raising her. You turned your back on her, and for that I do indeed judge you.”

  “I was fifteen,” Constance began, in low, hard tones. “Not even out of the—”

  “Well past the age of reason,” Shaw retorted. “Old enough to grasp the consequences of your actions.”

  Well, damn. Robert cast around for a means of sending the combatants to neutral corners before Shaw ordered his guests off the property.

  “Old enough to know right from wrong,” Robert said, “but not old or wise enough to know a lying scoundrel when he made empty promises, and certainly not old enough to care adequately for a child, not without the support of family. Lady Constance’s older brother, as head of her household, made the best provision for Ivy he could at the time, and placed the child with the Wilsons. He meant well, but I understand why his decision troubles you, Reverend.”

  “Troubles me? Sir, you refer to the fate of a child as if it’s some…some mere trifle. Lady Constance’s family has always had the means to provide for Ivy. The lady’s elder brother acquired one of the highest titles in the land five years ago, and yet, her ladyship shows up only now, when Ivy must turn her sights to faraway lands and new opportunities. I will not have it.”

  Constance’s hands were fisted in her lap. “I started searching for Ivy as soon as I had the pin money to undertake that effort.”

  “Why not simply ask your brother what had become of his niece? He’s rumored to be as rich as three nabobs. He could have waved his hand and located Ivy within a fortnight.”

  “If you knew the torment my brother went through,” Constance began, “the risk my behavior caused to his business at a time when a fledgling bank was all he had, if you had any inkling how fragile a bank’s reputation is regardless of how exalted its owner becomes…If you knew how vile the peerage can be when they believe somebody of high station has faltered…His Grace of Walden did what he thought was best for Ivy at the time. When I had the ability to act on my own initiative, I took it. I do not expect my brother to fight the same battle for me twice, much less at peril to his own interests.

  “Moreover,” Constance went on, rising to pace the faded carpet, “a small army of investigators and more than a little luck were required to find Ivy, because you have taken no legal steps to assume guardianship of her.” Constance rounded on Shaw and came to a halt. “She’s my daughter. Finding her was my responsibility, and now that I have found her, I don’t intend to let her go.”

  Oh, blast and bedamned, that was the absolute wrong thing for Constance to say.

  “And there,” Shaw replied, shoving out of his wing chair and grabbing his prayer book, “is the headstrong, disrespectful, self-centered nature that I vow I will not allow Ivy to develop. A worse influence on the girl I could not imagine than an arrogant aristocrat who swans across the village green, no respect for the family who has raised Ivy from birth. You assume that pretty dresses and silver teapots should mean more to a young woman’s well-being than a chance to serve God.”

  Constance sent Robert a desperate look, as if she knew she’d taken a sharp wrong turn but could not find her way back to the right path.

  Shaw glowered at Robert, as if he too expected mediation, placatory gestures, something, from the duke who sat like a useless clod on the lumpy sofa.

  The peculiar, half-asleep, pins-and-needles sensation skipped down Robert’s arms and across his nape.

  Say something. Do something.

  “You abet this woman,” Shaw snapped. “What have you to say for yourself, Your Grace?”

  Robert heard the words. He deduced from Shaw’s tone that he was supposed to reply. He perceived Mrs. Hodges coming through the open parlor door, a tray in her hands, and he knew that he was having a staring spell at the worst possible time.

  “Yonder duke disdains to answer me,” Shaw said. “You may return the tray to the kitchen, Mrs. Hodges. My apologies for putting you to the trouble. His Grace and Lady Constance will be leaving.”

  Shaw crossed his arms, barely possible given his rotund girth, and jerked his chin toward the door. Had Robert been capable of clapping, he would have applauded the reverend’s sheer arrogance. A man who’d dismiss a duke so summarily was either brave or sorely misguided, possibly both.

  And a man who’d disrespect Constance deserved transportation.

  “Your Grace?” Constance said, resuming the place beside Robert. “Are you well?”

  “Of course he’s well,” Shaw said. “In the prime of life and thinking his consequence would be enough to blind me to my Christian duty. I have asked you both to leave, and as Ivy’s uncle, I warn you that further meddling in the girl’s life will not be permitted.”

  Say something. Do something.

  Constance put a hand on Robert’s arm. “Rothhaven?”

  Robert managed a nod, but from the worry in Constance’s eyes, he knew his lapse had been obvious to her.

  “Must I toss you from the premises bodily?” Shaw asked. “Our discussion is at an end.”

  Stand. Stand on your own two feet, and say something sensible. With Constance’s aid, Robert rose.

  “Matthew, chapter 22, verse 39,” Robert said. “…and thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. Lady Constance seeks a chance to show her daughter the love of a mother who is far from perfect, but who has never faltered in her attempts to do the right thing by her only daughter. Who or what is it you love, Reverend, when you keep a mother and daughter apart, and drag that child away to someplace she doesn’t want to go, the better to further your own ambitions?”

  Robert had spoken slowly and carefully, his voice flatter than normal, and the result was a tone more arrogant than he’d intended.

  Shaw lowered his arms. “How dare you? How dare you both? I could demand coin of you, I could threaten you with scandal, I could have called the magistrate on you for even approaching Ivy, and this is how you respond to reasonable reservations on my part? You insult me in my own home, and I have had enough. Mrs. Hodges, show them out. Now.”

  Constance was as pale as funeral lilies, though she appeared composed. “Rothhaven, let’s be going, shall we?”

  She kept her hand on Robert’s arm, though she was escorting him more than he was escorting her. Constance was at the front door tying her bonnet ribbons when Ivy came thundering down the steps.

  “You can’t leave like this!” she said, throwing her arms around Constance. “I don’t want to go to blasted Australia, and Uncle is wrong to toss you out.”

  Mrs. Hodges passed Robert his hat. “You’d best leave, Your Grace, my lady. The reverend might eventually calm down, but not if he thinks you’ve provoked the young miss to outright disobedience.”

  Robert braced one hand on the newel post and used the other to tap his hat onto his head. “If her ladyship writes to Ivy, can you see that the letter reaches her?”

  “I will try, Your Grace. Ivy, for the love of God, get back to your room.”

  Mother and child hugged each other, for what might be the only time, and Robert had to force himself not to dwell on memories of his own mother hugging him desperately tight before he’d been packed into a traveling coach headed for “school.” He hadn’t seen the duchess again for more than a decade.

  His mother had been overcome with tears, while Constance was dry-eyed and coherent, but he had no doubt their heartaches were of equal measure.

  “Please, Ivy,” Mrs. Hodges whispered. “You must not anger the reverend. Once he digs in his heels, there’s no moving that man.”

  Constance stepped back. “I will write to you, I promise. This battle is not over, Ivy Wentworth.”

  The battle might well be over, and be resoundingly lost too, but use of the Wentworth family name had the girl smiling.

  “Miss Ivy, a pleasure to have met you.” Robert bowed over the girl’s hand and then offered his arm to Constance.

  She left Shaw’s rickety little house, head held high, and walked beside Robert with all the dignity of a duchess.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I let you down. I should have disarmed Shaw’s growing ire, and I did not.”

  “You could not. I know that.”

  I warned you this would happen. Robert kept those pointless, petty words behind his teeth. “I am still sorry.”

  “I met my daughter,” Constance said, emotions roiling and seething beneath her words. “For years, that was the sum of my ambitions, and had you not spurred Miss Abbott’s efforts, I might have never even seen Ivy.”

  The busy green came into view, and a wave of physical fatigue washed over Robert. “You could follow her to Australia.” Those words needed to be said.

  “Not without you,” Constance replied, “and I won’t ask that of you.”

  I’m sorry for that too. “I see Lord Stephen, trying to look harmless and bored. Shall we have him up to our sitting room?”

  “That will cause talk. I will shop for a bit and then join you upstairs soon. You should probably rest.”

  Constance was being remarkably perceptive and considerate, though Robert felt dismissed. He felt, in fact, humiliated, inadequate, and unworthy.

  “I do need a nap.” He risked a buss to her cheek, and she caught him by the hand.

  “I failed, Rothhaven. Me—Lady bloody Constance, mother without portfolio or daughter. I failed to heed common sense when a young man flattered me shamelessly. I failed to speak up when Quinn assumed I would not want to raise my own daughter. I would hate myself for that, but what did I know? I was fifteen, panicked, and ashamed. I failed to find Ivy when the whole situation might have been resolved years ago. I failed to approach Whitlock Shaw appropriately and then made a bad situation worse. Your staring spell is not to blame.”

  How he loved her, and how she broke his heart. “My staring spell did not help, and there will be others.”

  “I knew you had staring spells, seizures, and a lovestruck brother when I agreed to be your duchess. I have not changed my mind, Rothhaven, and I shall not.”

  “I will try to buy the ship Reverend Shaw has booked passage on. That might slow him down for a short time. Passage to New South Wales isn’t arranged in a moment.”

  Constance stroked his knuckles. “I adore you. You think like a Wentworth. Ivy calls the reverend Uncle Witless when she’s wroth with him.”

  “We must not make the mistake of thinking him witless. I believe that is his worst fear, to be thought a fool rather than a conscientious man of God.”

  “You could well be right. I will report to Stephen, and you will rest.” She kissed his cheek and strolled away, her every step conveying determination and courage.

  Robert probably had another staring spell as he watched Constance’s retreat, or perhaps he’d simply become lost in thought, as the saying went. He was too tired to care, but he would most assuredly ascertain whether passage for an additional female with an appropriate companion could be booked on the ship Ivy would take in a few short weeks.

  And if so, he would make those arrangements as quickly as possible, before selfish ends obliterated his more honorable inclinations.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Constance pretended to read Byron under the enormous oaks of the green. When she could no longer support that farce, she examined hair ribbons, particularly the bright green satins and rich brown velvets that would flatter a girl with Ivy’s coloring. When Constance had endured that torment as long as possible—Rothhaven needed quiet to rest—she wandered to the bench nearest the alewife’s stall.