The Truth About Dukes Page 26
“Do you suppose His Grace of Rothhaven will make another attempt to attend services?”
Phoebe knotted her thread and began stitching. “One hopes divine services bring comfort to the afflicted, but I will never forget the sight of that poor man, utterly overcome, nearly frothing at the mouth. The memory will give me nightmares. That his family put him on display in such a manner is a shame and a disgrace. When, I ask you, did advertising bad blood become proper behavior?”
As best Neville recalled, Rothhaven had put himself on display, charging up the aisle after his brother had taken his place in the family pew.
“Perhaps Lord Nathaniel couldn’t talk him out of attending,” Neville said, “or perhaps his lordship knew the conversation would be fruitless. You will be relieved to know that Solomon Weatherby is drafting a petition to have Rothhaven declared mentally unsound.”
Phoebe’s needle stilled. “Mr. Weatherby is a conscientious man of the law. We must commend him for an effort to protect a vulnerable peer from further embarrassment. Have you offered to serve as guardian if the court should see fit to appoint one?”
“You know I have, my lady.”
“Good of you. Your task will be thankless and burdensome, I fear, when His Grace apparently cannot leave the Hall without suffering a fit. And did you know, there’s no physician in residence at the Hall?”
“No physician?”
Phoebe’s smile would have done the cat in the cream pot proud. “I overheard old Everett Treegum complaining to the apothecary that his rheumatism had lingered longer this spring than last. If a man suffers rheumatism, he’ll go to a physician for treatment if a physician is on hand, won’t he?”
Treegum was the Rothhaven steward. Ergo, no physician at Rothhaven Hall. “My lady, you should have been a barrister.”
“What duke lacks a personal physician, Mr. Philpot? What duke afflicted with a potentially fatal disease eschews the aid of those best positioned to abate his misery?”
She was the picture of womanly grace, plying her needle in the quiet hours of the evening, and yet, her brilliance blazed brightly for anybody with the sense to appreciate it.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to read Weatherby’s draft petition if I can get hold of it?” Neville asked, refilling his brandy glass. “I know your days are already quite full, but you have an eye for detail that Weatherby’s clerks are sure to lack.”
“I am always happy to help, Neville—you know that—and I do thank you for coming all the way out from town to keep me apprised of these developments. I fear for His Grace, I truly do. It’s a wonder he hasn’t come to grief already, racketing about a crumbling pile, nobody to look out for his best interests.”
“Your generosity of spirit does you credit, my dear. I don’t suppose generosity of the marital kind might extend to a husband who has missed you sorely of late?”
He always asked before visiting her bed. Phoebe was still regularly indisposed, and he would not impose unwanted attentions on her for the world. Weaker vessels were available for casual pleasure, and a considerate husband made frequent, discreet, use of them.
“I’ve missed you too, Neville. I know your clients must come first, but I do miss you.”
That was a yes. That was a gracious, smiling yes, and Neville silently thanked whatever god had imbued the Duke of Rothhaven with an unsound mind. Perhaps the same god would grant Phoebe a child, and as long as miracles were under discussion, why not a boy child?
Robert felt as if he’d been caught in a whirlpool, a force that would drag him relentlessly to the darkest depths no matter how hard he struggled against the current.
A wheeler had come up lame on the journey back to Lynley Vale and what should have been a four-hour ordeal was taking all night. Constance dozed in Lord Stephen’s capacious coach, while Robert held her and battled demons.
She had stated the blunt truth: He felt in some corner of his soul as if he deserved punishment. Perhaps not for having the falling sickness, but for being unable to fool the world into believing him hale and whole, as his father had fooled the world.
The falling sickness had taken the lives of royalty, people who’d surely had the best, most conscientious care available. The malady was not a sign of God’s disfavor any more than crossed eyes or a stammer indicated celestial judgment.
And yet…Robert hated every mile spent in even the most luxurious traveling coach imaginable. Hated the anxiety that dogged him whenever he left Rothhaven’s walls, hated having to limit his sweets, his spirits, even the amount of tea he consumed in the course of a day.
“I cannot smoke a damned cheroot,” he muttered, “cannot get drunk, cannot ride hell-bent on the most sure-footed mount. Cannot waltz, cannot enjoy a pipe of hashish, cannot go for a swim in the river on the hottest summer days.”
“You’re awake,” Constance said. She lay on her side facing him as the coach rocked along in the gray mists of dawn.
“So are you.” The sight of her, even rumpled and tired, made him smile. “Did you rest, or did you feign sleep in hopes that I’d rest?”
She pushed the hair off his brow. “I promise you this, Rothhaven: I am a poor hand at dissembling. I slept some. You?”
“No sleep that I’m aware of.” Which was bad, because regular rest was the foundation upon which all Robert’s strategies for coping with his malady relied.
“You can sleep at Lynley Vale,” Constance said. “I will deal with the family, or put them off until you are feeling more the thing.”
She was so confident of her course, or perhaps—contrary to her own words—she was good at appearing confident.
“Before I find a bed,” Robert replied, “I will send for Cranmouth. He must be alerted to what’s afoot.”
“Mr. Cranmouth made an unfavorable impression on me.” Constance sat up and rested against the seat back. “I met him on only the one occasion, and he managed to be both unctuous and dismissive.”
Robert could recall little of that incident, except a towering sense of humiliation. “I don’t care for Cranmouth much myself, but Nathaniel has never had a problem with him. Cranmouth’s father either kept the old duke’s secrets or didn’t pry enough to learn them, which also weighs in Cranmouth’s favor. I have contemplated changing solicitors, but wanted the marriage settlements tidied up first.”
“The marriage settlements are quite tidy, Your Grace.” She patted her thigh. “Get comfortable. We’ve a few miles to go yet. Can you sack Cranmouth?”
Robert laid his head in her lap, and something about that position was more restful than trying to make do with thin pillows and wadded-up blankets.
“If, immediately before a very serious legal proceeding, I sack the solicitors who have represented my family for generations, I will look somewhat foolish, won’t I? Foolish or daft.”
Constance stroked his ear, a peculiarly soothing caress. “If Cranmouth has never defended a client from a competency petition, isn’t that a strong reason to turn elsewhere for at least this one case?”
The accumulated aches of thirty miles’ jostling eased under Constance’s touch, and even some of Robert’s mental tumult quieted.
“I might hire additional counsel,” he said, “but I ought not to break ranks with Cranmouth. You are putting me to sleep.”
“Fatigue is putting you to sleep.”
Rather than argue, he let himself drift and had almost reached the sweet oblivion of true slumber when the coach swayed around a sharp turn.
“We’re nearly there,” Constance said, patting his shoulder. “Time to wake up and be ducal.”
The near-occasion of sleep left Robert groggier than simply soldiering on through fatigue would have. He nonetheless assisted Constance to put the coach to rights. He was sitting beside her, properly attired and trying to mentally compose a note to Cranmouth, when the coach rocked to a halt at Lynley Vale’s front door.
Robert descended from the carriage, feeling ancient, exhausted, and none too optimistic.
“You’re home,” Althea said, rushing past Robert to take Constance’s arm before he could offer that courtesy. “Breakfast is waiting, and Quinn and Jane are most anxious to discuss matters.”
“Matters must wait,” Robert said. “Lady Constance is fatigued from her exertions, and our sortie to Fendle Bridge was not entirely successful.”
Nathaniel, who was apparently already stepping into the role of host at Lynley Vale, waved the coach off to the carriage house.
“Did you meet the girl?” he asked.
Constance stopped her sister from dragging her into the house. “We met my daughter, your lordship. Ivy is in every regard a lovely young lady, though her circumstances are less than ideal. Thank you for asking.”
The ladies continued on their way, heads close together.
“You deserved that,” Robert remarked. “Constance is delightfully fierce when her protective instincts are aroused.”
Somewhere down the drive, birds took up their matutinal songs. The sun hadn’t yet cleared the horizon, but daybreak was imminent.
“Does Constance know what Lord Stephen’s solicitor had to say?” Nathaniel asked.
“Of course, and her opinion on the matter would make a sailor blush. Let’s walk a bit, shall we? After being cooped up all night, I find some fresh air welcome.”
Nathaniel sent him a brooding look. “You want to wander down the drive, under the open sky, no fog, no mist, to obscure the horizon?”
A line of Shakespeare came to Robert: This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, / To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
“Yes, Nathaniel, I do. I want to enjoy a pretty sunrise in the company of my soon-to-be-married brother. I want to clear my head with the fresh Yorkshire air. I want to give Constance a rest from fretting about me, and I want to put off, for a few moments, the ordeal of conferring with Walden and his duchess. Any more questions?”
“That woman is turning you into a duke.”
Robert ambled along the crushed shells of the drive, enjoying the sound of his own footsteps, enjoying the birdsong, enjoying the golden light shining over the land rolling away to the east. So precious, this freedom, and he might soon have to part with it.
“That woman is becoming a duchess, but she will always also be a mother who regrets bidding her firstborn child farewell. Ivy is in the care of a bachelor uncle, a man of God who is determined to move his household to Australia. He has booked passage for himself and the girl on a ship due to leave next month.”
“And this weighs on your mind more heavily than what Philpot and Weatherby are cooking up?”
Robert wandered over to a stone wall bordering a sheep pasture. Lynley Vale’s flocks had yet to be shorn, though that work would start soon. He found a smooth patch and used the wall as a bench, the better to watch the sun come up.
“You have the right of it: The situation with Ivy weighs on my mind more heavily than the lawyers intriguing against us. A child who feels abandoned by her family exceeds what my conscience can bear. I have all but begged Constance to set herself apart from me, to emigrate to bloody Australia without me if that will reunite her with her daughter, but she refuses to go. My duchess will not abandon me, and I cannot make myself abandon her.”
“Have you considered simply allowing Philpot to become your guardian?” Nathaniel shoved back to sit on the wall and posed that question casually—too casually.
“I did. You would prevent Philpot from his worst excesses, as long as you were extant. Walden would take a hand in matters, and my life would remain tolerable, at least in the opinion of most people. I would likely be confined to the Hall and its grounds, and some doddering old physician would suggest I be regularly bled, which would do exactly nothing to reduce the incidence of my seizures.”
“You know that?”
“Soames bled me every day for a fortnight at one point. The seizures grew markedly worse the longer he persisted with his experiment. Alexander threatened to notify an uncle of what was afoot—an uncle who was a member of the Royal College of Physicians—and the experiment ended.”
“And you would risk going back to that sort of life?”
“I am at risk for being sent back to that sort of life.”
“No, you are not. You appear before the commission of lunacy, tell the examiners good King George sits on the throne. Identify yourself as Alaric Gerhardt Robert Rothmere, eleventh duke of Rothhaven. Tell them your date of birth, and that you dwell at Rothhaven Hall, and what day of the week it is. They dismiss the petition and there’s an end to it.”
Nathaniel, a brave, determined, tough-minded man, was afraid.
Robert was afraid too. Terrified, in fact. “And if I have a seizure in the midst of the festivities?”
“They suspend the proceedings until you’re recovered, the same as they would if a lady witness swooned in the middle of her testimony.”
A lamb rose from the grass and shook itself from head to tail. Another leapt up a few yards away and pronked and gamboled over to the first.
Such a sweet, happy scene. “A lady is permitted a fit of the vapors, Nathaniel. A duke is held to a different standard. I am honestly not as concerned about a seizure as I am about a staring spell. When Constance and I met with Ivy’s uncle, the discussion was difficult. He is a man who craves respect, and at the height of one of his diatribes, I failed to respond sensibly. I failed to respond at all, in fact, and he took offense.”
“Then he’s a fool.”
“He is the fool in authority over Ivy, and if I am declared a lunatic—and possibly even if I am not—the fool will sail away with her, perhaps never to be seen again.”
The first slanting beams of morning sun crested the hill to the east, the gentle warmth palpable on Robert’s face. Another benediction, like the birdsong, like the pleasure of a private conversation with Nathaniel, like the scent of lush spring grass and the sound of Lady Althea’s fountain, splashing a few yards up the drive.
Life was so beautiful, given half a chance. For years, Robert had not seen the beauty, not tasted it or smelled it, not allowed it to touch his body, much less his heart.
Nathaniel pushed off the wall, and in the bright morning sun, Robert realized his brother was tired. He’d likely been up all night, holding a vigil not for the Duke of Rothhaven or for the Rothmere family patriarch, but for a brother he’d die to protect.
“Have I ever thanked you for all you’ve done for me?” Robert asked, hopping off the wall and dusting the seat of his breeches. “Ever told you how much I appreciate the years you managed the impossible without a word of complaint?”
“No, but feel free to embarrass us both with your effusions now.”
Robert punched Nathaniel’s arm, hard enough to convey affection, not hard enough to bruise. “If I fight this petition, Nathaniel, it won’t be for your sake. You needn’t feel guilty on that score.”
Nathaniel strolled toward the house, though doubtless, in his mind he was strolling in Lady Althea’s direction.
“Please tell me you have found some reason to fight Weatherby. I cannot bear to see you lose your freedoms now, Rothhaven. You have come too far, achieved too much—and oh, by the way, you are as mentally competent as any other peer, if not more so.”
“There is that,” Robert muttered, falling in step beside his brother. “There is also the fact that Constance is depending on me. A lunatic duke cannot aid a lady to establish a relationship with her daughter. He is a flaming liability to her, in fact. A duke in full possession of his faculties might be able to help.”
As one dark, uncomfortable mile had followed another, Robert had gradually settled on this conclusion. He might be able to tolerate the gilded cage of Philpot’s guardianship, but what of Nathaniel, forced back into the role of champion but fighting Robert’s battles without the weapons of familial authority?
What of Ivy? Sent to the ends of the earth when a mother with considerable resources longed to resume a place in her daughter’s life, but could not—because Robert refused to contest a legal petition.
And what of Constance? Yoked to a half-duke, a man with all the standing of a peer and no more authority than a toddler confined to the nursery.
“I will fight the petition to the best of my ability,” Robert said, “while planning for the possibility of defeat.”
Nathaniel scooped up a few pebbles as he came to the fountain. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“Marry Althea at the first opportunity. My signature must appear on the settlements, before my authority to commit family resources is legally invalidated.”
Nathaniel nodded and tossed his pebbles, one by one, into the splashing water. “Anything else?”
“I’ll summon Cranmouth out to Rothhaven for a meeting. The sooner he starts preparing my defense, the more effective he’s likely to be.”
“Good thought. Walden will approve.”
“Walden’s duchess will approve. For now, I would approve of some food and a soft mattress.”
Nathaniel resumed walking toward the house, which was bathed in morning sunshine. “You truly have become the duke, you know. Calm in the face of battle and all that. Wellington enjoying his breakfast steak while the French cannon pound away in the distance.”
The worry in Nathaniel’s voice broke Robert’s heart. He seized Nathaniel by the arm and wrapped him in a hug.
“It will be all right, Nathaniel. I will manage, and you will be happy. Our womenfolk will allow no other outcome.”
For a brief, wonderful moment, Nathaniel let himself be comforted, then he thumped Robert on the back and stepped away.
“Walden is a bit under petticoat government,” he said. “Have you noticed?”
“I suspect all the best dukes are thoroughly under petticoat government, and a happier bunch of fellows—and governesses—you never did meet. Shall I ask Cranmouth to join us this afternoon?”