The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “He doesn’t fit in,” Constance said, running a finger around the rim of her wineglass. “Having a half-grown girl in tow might help him fit in. Ivy will give her uncle Whitlock a domestic authority he otherwise lacks. He will appeal to the widows and spinsters more strongly for being a conscientious uncle, and despite being unmarried, he will have common ground with any parents in his congregation.”

  Rothhaven watched her fingertip trail around the top of the glass. “What do we know of the rest of Shaw’s household, of his family members? Sometimes, a man will beggar himself for those he loves, when he won’t spend a penny to save himself.”

  Constance sent him a complicated, fulminating glance, one that promised something other than a delightful search for a missing book.

  “You said you doubt he can be bribed,” she murmured.

  “I doubt he can be bribed, for which I respect him, but I hope he can be reasoned with.”

  The food arrived, brought in by large, cheerful young women, one of whom managed to brush her breast against Stephen’s shoulder while putting the platter of sliced beef roast and potatoes on the table.

  “Perhaps I should give country life another chance,” Stephen said. “Rural folk are so friendly.”

  “I did notice a Brown Bess behind the innkeeper’s desk,” Rothhaven observed. “Looked to be in good repair too, but then, the poor fellow has four daughters.”

  Constance began serving the beef and potatoes. “What else did you learn about Reverend Shaw?”

  “I learned the name of the solicitor handling the sale of his house, learned that he’s been talking of emigrating for years, and learned that Mrs. Hodges is a well-liked widow of very limited means.” Nothing of real value, in other words, which was frustrating.

  Stephen had taken up his knife and fork, intent on filling his belly with proper food for a change, when a soft tap sounded on the door.

  “I’m not expecting anybody,” Stephen said.

  “Come in,” Rothhaven called.

  The young man who entered appeared somewhat familiar, though he was dusty and windblown and clutching a soft cap in his hands.

  “Beg pardon for intruding,” he said. “I’m Sample, from the Lynley Vale stables. I have a written message for Lord Stephen Wentworth and I am not to give it to any but he, posthaste.”

  “I am Lord Stephen.”

  “Can you stand, please, my lord?”

  Bloody hell. Stephen reached for his canes.

  “I am Lady Constance, and that is my brother. You may give him the letter.”

  “Does he limp?” Sample asked. “I was told his lordship is sore afflicted with a limp, but that he might not be dressed proper-like and lord-ish.”

  “You can see he’s using two canes,” Constance replied. “Please give him his letter.”

  Rothhaven remained silent, sipping his wine, or pretending to.

  Stephen accepted the letter. “From my York lawyer.” He slit the seal, foreboding making the wine in his belly roil.

  A coin flashed through the air, which Sample neatly caught.

  “Get yourself some food,” Rothhaven said. “If his lordship has a reply, he’ll find you in the common within an hour or so.”

  Sample bowed and withdrew, taking the scent of horse and road dust with him.

  “What does it say?” Constance asked. “The news has to be important if Althea’s groom came all the way from Lynley Vale.”

  Rothhaven patted Constance’s wrist, the gesture so casual Stephen nearly missed it. The news was bad, but not bad for Stephen, which was worse in a way.

  “Rothhaven asked for the use of the eyes and ears of my best lawyer,” he said. “Sir Leviticus has heard something alarming, but it doesn’t concern me.”

  He passed the letter to Rothhaven, and Constance was on her feet, reading over His Grace’s shoulder.

  “That vile, skulking, putrid parasite,” she said. “Who the hell does this Solomon Weatherby think he is, to question your competence?”

  “He’s a neighbor,” Rothhaven replied. “One who doubtless knows I had a full-on shaking fit at the church. He very likely heard of a similar episode in York right outside Cranmouth’s office. Both times I suffered my usual disorientation after such a spell, and—worst offense of all—I am wealthy. Thus I must be put under guardianship, lest I be taken advantage of.” He folded the letter and put it on the table. “I am sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”

  A beat of quiet ticked by, while Stephen resisted the urge to upend the table. “How can you sit there as serene as a bishop at a baptism when your very freedom is once more at issue? I am concerned for you, and I make it a point to never bother about anybody but family, which you might well not become. I am concerned for Constance and Althea, who will be caught up in your legal scandal even if you never speak your vows, and I am also selfishly disinclined to have a certified lunatic for a brother-in-law. Bad for business, Rothhaven. Very bad for business.”

  “Hush, Stephen,” Constance said, “or I will make you hush.”

  Constance had enormous self-control. Stephen had no wish to see that control snap in his direction. “I apologize,” he said, “but the situation is dire.”

  She sank back into her chair. “We have faced dire situations before.”

  Rothhaven’s reaction to a dire situation was apparently to enjoy his supper. “The difference this time,” he said, spearing a strip of roasted beef from the platter in the middle of the table, “is that a young girl also faces a dire situation. Her well-being must take precedence over my own.” He chewed his beef, then used the edge of his fork to portion off a bite of potatoes.

  “I wonder if you aren’t truly daft,” Stephen said. “Thirty miles away, a lawyer as crooked as he is determined is plotting your downfall. If that happens, you won’t be permitted to marry, you won’t be allowed to oversee your own finances while your so-called guardian bleeds you dry. All the while, you sit there eating god-damned potatoes rather than doing something.”

  Constance had gone silent, which was more unnerving than her display of temper.

  “My lord,” Rothhaven said, considering a forkful of buttery potatoes, “do I tell you how to handle your canes? When to exercise your game leg, when to rest it? Do I presume to know the best means of ameliorating the pain it causes you?”

  “My leg rarely hurts.”

  Rothhaven saluted with his potatoes. “If you say so. I, on the other hand, have epilepsy. Experience suggests I had best leave the tantrums to others.”

  Constance took a sip of her wine, her grip on the glass perilously tight.

  “I am not having a tantrum,” Stephen said. “When I have a tantrum, I destroy the room.”

  Rothhaven looked at him with faint humor leavened by a dash of pity, and Stephen knew he’d had his last room-destroying histrionic fit.

  “Here is how I suggest we proceed,” Rothhaven said. “Constance and I will finish our meal. You, my lord, will pen a reply to Sir Leviticus acknowledging receipt of his missive and thanking him for his diligence. I will return to Rothhaven Hall tonight and confer with my brother and His Grace of Walden to ensure that my financial affairs are in order, and my family well provided for. You, however, are needed here, for I suspect Constance will remain close to Ivy for the nonce.”

  Constance set down her wineglass. “I will go with you, Rothhaven. You shall not face this without me.”

  Rothhaven put aside his knife and fork and patted Constance’s hand. “My dear, I fear I must. You cannot fight this battle for me. When I lose, you must be at as great a distance from me as possible.”

  Constance turned her hand over and laced her fingers with Rothhaven’s. “You are saying that I must choose between you and my daughter?”

  Rothhaven kissed her knuckles. “There is no choice to be made, Constance. If Reverend Shaw took umbrage at an arrogant duke, he will have no dealings whatsoever with one declared mentally unfit, nor will he want Ivy associated with such an unfortunate wretch.”

  “But you aren’t unfit, Rothhaven. You are the most…” Constance fell silent, and a tear dropped onto the worn planks of the table. “This is so unfair.”

  Stephen had said the same thing, countless times, about an unreliable, aching leg. He would keep his miserable excuse for an appendage and be grateful rather than endure the pain Constance and Rothhaven were suffering now.

  “I’m off to write a note to Sir Levi,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet. “Rothhaven, I’m sorry.”

  He’d said that more today than he had in the previous five years, and the words grew more bitter with each use.

  “I am not sorry,” Rothhaven replied. “I have known more joy in recent days than any man deserves.” He saluted Constance with his wineglass, and Stephen moved toward the door.

  If Constance needed to cry, she also needed for her brother to leave the room. By the time Stephen closed the door, Rothhaven was at Constance’s side, his handkerchief already in his hand. Stephen stood outside the door as the sound of quiet weeping commenced.

  One of the buxom serving maids went by with two tankards in each hand. “Done so soon, sir?”

  “No longer hungry. Where can I find paper and ink?”

  “Ask the missus at the front desk. She’ll charge you dearly.”

  Stephen remained by the door, listening to his sister’s sorrow. Rothhaven’s voice was a low rumble punctuating the soft weeping, a stream of steady reason at a time when reason struck Stephen as obscene.

  Rothhaven’s calm put Stephen in mind of martyrs, unconcerned about their worldly demise, fixed only on the honor of sacrificing all for their beliefs. Such steadfast purpose, such clarity, nearly defied comprehension.

  And for a man facing a challenge to his mental competence, that selfless serenity could be a very great problem indeed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Constance wept until her sides ached and her face burned. She wept until her eyes stung, and she wept even more than that because once unleashed, her tears were limitless. Through it all, Rothhaven held her in his lap, stroked her back, and murmured platitudes.

  “You mustn’t take on so. This too shall pass. Perhaps this is for the best.”

  Though she doubtless looked hideous, Constance sat up and glowered at him the second time he mentioned that last bit.

  “This is not for the best, you dratted man.”

  “Perhaps not, ultimately, but better to face Weatherby now rather than after Ivy’s ship has sailed. You can go with her, Constance, and perhaps you ought to.” The actual threat, according to Stephen’s lawyer, was from Neville Philpot, whom Weatherby would put forth as Rothhaven’s proposed guardian.

  Lady Phoebe was likely the hand guiding this whole charade, an aspect of the situation Constance would discuss with Rothhaven later.

  She hopped off his lap before he could spew more sweet, selfless reason. “I gave Ivy up long ago, because I honestly never thought I had a choice. Quinn assumed I would be loath to bring down the scandal of an illegitimate child on my family, and he was right. I never questioned him, though, never asked for more time to think, never explored whether I might have lived quietly with Ivy somewhere on the Dales.”

  She paced away from the table, thoughts tumbling into one another. “I told myself the very sort of nonsense you’re spouting now: The hurt will fade in time. I did the best I could. Giving Ivy two loving parents is for the best. The lies we tell ourselves lest we go mad.”

  Rothhaven rose and came around the table. “As far as the world is concerned, I am mad, or the next thing to it on a bad day. I cannot control my fits, then I am nearly incoherent for some time afterward. My memory is unreliable at times, I cannot enjoy the usual pursuits of men of my station—no riding to hounds, no drunken bacchanals during the shooting season, no drunken anything, in fact.”

  He closed the distance between them. “We must also count up the results of my little sojourn in Dr. Soames’s care. I cannot dance, my French is provincial, I am uncomfortable in open spaces, I refuse to submit to the hovering intrusion of a valet. I never went to public school or to university and thus have no aristocratic associates. If Weatherby hadn’t brought suit, somebody else eventually would have, for I fail spectacularly as a duke.”

  Constance leaned against him. “You succeed splendidly as a man.”

  He embraced her, the sheer comfort of his arms bringing her near tears again. “We’ve met Reverend Shaw, Constance. He sets very great store by his own standing. He might allow you a place in Ivy’s life if you are Lady Constance, wealthy and penitent younger sister of a duke. If Shaw knows you willingly married a man at risk to be declared a lunatic, he will keep the girl from you. I cannot be Ivy’s guardian if I myself am subject to a guardianship.”

  “I hate you for your common sense. I love you for your honor.”

  “I love everything about you, especially your stubbornness, but I refuse to be the reason you lose the daughter you’ve searched for all these years.”

  Rothhaven would have held Constance for the rest of the night, and she was sorely tempted to let him.

  “I’m returning to Lynley Vale with you,” she said, stepping back. “We should finish our supper first.”

  “Madam, the less you’re associated with me from this point forward, the better.”

  She took her seat and poured Stephen’s serving of wine into her glass. “A bit late for that, Your Grace. Eat before the food gets cold. Stephen will fret if we tarry too long at our meal, and his fretting is not to be borne.”

  Rothhaven sat at the head of the table. “At least write Ivy a letter. Tell her you’ve returned to York the better to consider options, tell her where to write to you.”

  “Now that is a sensible suggestion. Would you care for bread?”

  “No, thank you.” He put a bite of beef in his mouth, chewed, then set down his fork. “Constance, are you sure you shouldn’t remain here? Lord Stephen would bide with you, and his charm might be able to do with Shaw what my consequence could not.”

  “Stephen has guile, a very different article from charm. I am coming back with you to Lynley Vale, and there’s an end to it. I will write to Ivy, you will have the horses put to, and by the time we’re ready to go, it will be dark enough to travel.”

  Rothhaven pushed his potatoes around. “I hate this. I hate that I am a burden to you.”

  “The man who made it possible for me to find my daughter before she sailed from England will never be a burden to me.” Those words weren’t helpful, but Constance was at a loss for what reassurances might serve. Rothhaven picked at his food, and the moment became unbearable.

  “Rothhaven, I’m sorry, but I cannot retrieve the last part of your soul from the moors. Some corner of you still believes that you deserved to be shut away for all those years. You suspect you might have earned Soames’s torments. You wonder in the privacy of your thoughts if perhaps a guardian isn’t the penance you’ve incurred for longing to be happy.”

  He frankly stared at her, his green eyes unreadable. That wary, guarded expression put her in mind of the much younger man she’d met all those years ago in Soames’s private madhouse.

  Constance ploughed on, before she lost her courage. “I did not realize I had choices where Ivy was concerned. I won’t make that mistake again. If I am to be your duchess, then I have choices and I am choosing to return to Lynley Vale with you. You have choices too, but please, please, never doubt that you are as entitled to happiness as any other man. More so, in fact.”

  “And if I consent to have a guardian appointed?”

  Good God, she’d never considered he might simply cede the field. “You think Philpot will be easier to deal with if you yield the battle without drawing your sword?”

  “Possibly.” Rothhaven poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table. “When the lawyers are involved, negotiation is always an option.”

  Constance rose, the food having lost anything approaching appeal. “Philpot is a solicitor, true, but he’s also a scoundrel, and his wife a greater scoundrel than he. I would not trust them to exhibit decency to an old stray dog.”

  Rothhaven took a sip of water. The wine was good quality and there was plenty of it, but he chose water and probably always would.

  “I’ll order the coach brought around,” he said, “but you must feel free to change your mind at any time, Constance. Ivy is your daughter, and if she were my daughter, I would want her mother to think of her first.”

  “Which is why I love you, and why I’m off to write her a brief letter.” Constance left the room while she could still resist the temptation to throw plates at the wall.

  Rothhaven remained alone at the table, sipping his water.

  Neville Philpot typically spent the week in York, returning to his country estate on Friday afternoon and spending the next two days enjoying the pleasures of rural life. The schedule deviated if Phoebe required him to serve as host at one of her gatherings, but she was quite capable of holding entertainments without him as well.

  The day’s developments were simply too promising for him to keep to himself, and thus Wednesday evening found him enjoying a glass of brandy while Phoebe presided over the after-dinner teapot and worked at her embroidery.

  “And how has your friend dear Elspeth been keeping?” he asked. “Weatherby is forever going on about his girls, but he never mentions his wife.”

  Phoebe threaded a needle with gold silk. “If she can help it, Elspeth Weatherby makes little mention of her spouse. I believe their arrangement more cordial than devoted. What of matters in town? Any interesting news?”

  Neville took a sip of his brandy, savoring the moment, for he so seldom felt of use to his wife. Of course, he provided well—a man ought not to marry if he couldn’t provide for his wife and offspring—but Phoebe could have had her pick of good providers.

  “What is that you’re working on?” he asked, which was naughty of him. Phoebe had requested his report, and he was being dilatory.