The Truth About Dukes Page 27

  “That will suit. I never did much like him. Althea isn’t too keen on him either, though I suppose needs must.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Althea and Nathaniel’s nuptials were held on Friday morning in the Lynley Vale formal parlor. Stephen had been summoned back from Fendle Bridge, and it was agreed by some process to which Constance was not privy that a council of war would gather after the wedding breakfast.

  “You aren’t eating,” Rothhaven said. “One must keep up one’s strength, I’m told.”

  Constance fiddled with her wineglass, though for the first time in her memory, the siren call of alcohol had gone silent.

  “One must rest too, sir. I find that activity best pursued when you and I share a bed.”

  At the end of the table, Jane raised an eyebrow at that remark, the gesture so subtle that Vicar Sorenson, seated at her elbow, likely hadn’t noticed.

  “And I,” Rothhaven said very softly, “sleep better under the same circumstances. Patience, my love. The settlements have been signed, Cranmouth has been dispatched to research the legalities, and today is an occasion for joy.”

  Rothhaven’s thoughts reminded Constance of a cabinet with many drawers, and when he closed the drawer marked Construction of the Gatehouse and opened the drawer labeled Legal Incompetency Claim, the gatehouse might as well be on an estate owned by some other duke in some other county.

  Perhaps that was another legacy of time in Dr. Soames’s care. “I wrote to Ivy again,” Constance said. “Not knowing if she’s receiving my letters is driving me barmy.” Wrong word. Wrong, wrong word.

  “Write to her anyway. Mrs. Hodges struck me as an individual blessed with a strong practical streak. If she can see a way to get your letters to the girl, she will. Keep copies.”

  “Because if the original never reaches Ivy, someday, the copy might.” What a bilious notion. “Althea and Nathaniel look besotted.”

  “Are you as happy for Althea as I am for Nathaniel?”

  Rothhaven’s gaze as he beheld his brother—who at the moment was kissing the back of Althea’s bare hand—was an expression Constance would have to paint to understand. Tender, wistful, proud, perhaps loving was the best way to describe it, but also a touch sad.

  “For Althea, I am overjoyed. She and Nathaniel suit, and she was resigned to never suiting anybody, to settling. I am glad she didn’t settle.”

  “Did you settle, Constance?”

  Quinn heard that remark. He and Stephen were engaged in a lively discussion about exporting birds’ nests to China, but a slight pause between Stephen’s question and Quinn’s reply suggested no privacy was to be had among family. Ever.

  “Yes,” Constance said, spooning up a bite of pear compote in cinnamon and clove sauce. “Yes, I did compromise. When I chose to believe Ivy’s father’s flattery and refused to tell Quinn the varlet’s name. When I fled the protection of my family, when I took up the most menial and obscure occupation I could find. I compromised, and the result would have been tragic, had I not met you.”

  Rothhaven took her hand, and that gesture fortified Constance sufficiently that she could finish her declaration, even though the table had gone silent, and Jane looked quite severe.

  “I compromised,” Constance went on, “when I allowed Quinn to arrange for Ivy to be raised by the Wilsons. I most assuredly compromised when I sat like an agreeable statue in one Mayfair ballroom after another. I compromised and compromised and compromised, but no more. No more compromising, Rothhaven. I will have my duke, I will be the duchess who happily paints away her seasons on the Yorkshire moors, and I refuse to compromise.”

  God in heaven. Constance’s entire family, plus Nathaniel and the vicar, were looking at her as if she’d sprouted horns and a tail. She put down her spoonful of compote and wanted to slither under the table. An apology tried to muddle forth, something about not meaning to air sad linen on such a happy occasion. She looked up and happened to catch Quinn’s eye.

  He was smiling, and Quinn smiled so seldom that Constance had forgotten the breathtaking warmth he could display. His daughters and his duchess were the usual recipients of his rare smiles, but he aimed the full-on version at Constance now.

  He lifted his glass. “To not compromising on important matters, and if Rothhaven is to blame for your newfound sense of resolve, then I suppose we must thank him and welcome him—him too—to the family.”

  Heat stole up Constance’s cheeks, even as a measure of joy pushed aside the worries plaguing her so sorely. Quinn had started the toasts that invariably accompanied any wedding breakfast, and as Jane stood to offer felicitations to the newlyweds, Quinn rose to fetch a fresh bottle of wine from the sideboard.

  He passed behind Constance’s chair and bent low enough to whisper in her ear, “Welcome home, my lady,” then sidled on by with all the savoir-faire to which a bank nabob turned duke was entitled.

  “What did he say?” Rothhaven asked.

  “He said he loves me.” Said he’d always loved her, and said he blamed himself for the whole sad business all those years ago. Silly man. Silly, dear, dear man. “You were right, Rothhaven.” Constance took a taste of an exquisite dessert.

  “I am frequently right. To which occasion do you now refer?”

  “You said today is a joyous occasion.”

  “When I am with you, the occasion is always joyous.”

  And that was not flattery, that was Rothhaven speaking the truth, as he invariably did. Constance finished her sweet as the toasting and laughter rose around her, and a trickle of worry managed to wash back over her joy.

  She was not being entirely honest with Rothhaven. She absolutely did intend to spend the rest of her life as his duchess, painting away the seasons, running his household, and raising his children—and also, God willing, her daughter—but she did not trust Cranmouth to adequately defend that future.

  Not in the least, and thus she’d taken steps without informing Rothhaven, steps he might well oppose. She lifted her glass yet again to the happy couple, and prayed that she and Rothhaven might also earn that appellation, sooner rather than later.

  “I tell you, Sparrow”—Stephen tipped his hat to a pair of passing dowagers—“between true love, married love, and frustrated love, Lynley Vale should have a rose-colored miasma hovering over its roof. I had to get away.” Stephen had also been entrusted with a letter to deliver for Constance, one she hadn’t wanted anybody else to see. Miss Abbott had taken the missive, thanked Stephen, and he’d had no pretext for prolonging the encounter.

  Regular constitutionals along the walkways of York had failed to produce another sighting of the lady, and perhaps that was for the best.

  Sir Leviticus was doubtless slowing his usual gait, the better to accommodate Stephen’s pace. He was astute like that, or Stephen would have sacked him years ago.

  “Has the petition been served?” Sir Leviticus asked. “It’s been a good week since I heard Weatherby’s clerks complaining of his latest project.”

  Weatherby, along with Philpot, had apparently made a cottage industry out of guardianships for profit. If Stephen lacked patience with any variety of criminal, it was the criminal who preyed on the helpless and was paid to do it with the victim’s own means.

  “The petition was served the day after Lady Althea and Lord Nathaniel’s wedding,” Stephen said. “Cranmouth has been alerted to the situation, and Rothhaven pretends all is in hand.”

  “All is not in hand?”

  “His Grace has staring spells,” Stephen said. “I had no idea such an affliction existed. I was introducing him to a mount I’m training for his use and in the middle of a conversation, Rothhaven just…He went as still as a deserted cathedral. I babbled on, not even noticing the difference until, when I concluded my eloquence, he made no reply. Damnably awkward.”

  Sir Leviticus paused on the steps of his club. “More awkward than a shaking fit?”

  “Yes, in a way, because he simply stares at nothing, says nothing, and generally comports with some people’s notions of imbecility.”

  “Does Cranmouth know of this condition? If I were representing His Grace, I’d certainly find it relevant.”

  The lawyers’ club was the usual dark, carpeted, wainscoted bastion of male self-importance, the majordomo as pretentious as any at Stephen’s clubs in London.

  “A quiet table, if any you have,” Sir Leviticus said.

  “Very good, sir. Follow me.” The fellow collected two leather-bound menus and minced off with more dignity than the director of a state funeral. The scent of tobacco wafted from one of the reading rooms, while cooked beef perfumed the air nearer the dining room.

  The whole place was tediously predictable, and Stephen’s appetite for steak and ale abruptly fled. He didn’t exactly miss London, and he certainly didn’t miss Love Nest Vale, but he missed something and someplace.

  Or someone.

  “Oh dear.” Sir Levi hesitated at the door of the dining room. “I suppose one ought not to jump to conclusions.”

  “Jump,” Stephen said, remaining in the corridor and peering over Sir Leviticus’s shoulder. “What do you see?”

  “Weatherby, Philpot, and Cranmouth, all at the same table. Again.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes, now that I see them together I’m reminded that they shared a meal a week or two ago. That made an impression at the time because they aren’t typically social, at least Weatherby and Cranmouth aren’t. Cranmouth takes his consequence from his ducal client, you see, and limits his associations accordingly. I am permitted to break bread with him by virtue of my knighthood, but I rarely do.”

  Stephen withdrew into the corridor. “Do lawyers opposing one another typically confer this early in the litigation?”

  “Not in the usual course. Negotiations as the hearing approaches are common, but one needs guidance from a client before taking that step.”

  Rothhaven would not have guided Cranmouth to settle anything. Cranmouth’s marching orders were to fight the petition by any and every legal means. Steak and ale did not qualify as courtroom weapons.

  “Can you have somebody with acute hearing take a table near them?” Stephen asked. “I do not like what I’m seeing, and I suspect Rothhaven would hate it.” While Constance would rid the world of a crooked solicitor or two. Or three.

  The majordomo hovered a few feet away, tapping the menus against his palm. “If I might make a suggestion, sir?”

  “Please,” Sir Leviticus said. “I trust your discretion, Monmouth.”

  “Judge Framley takes his midday meal here without fail by one of the clock. I can seat him at the table next to Mr. Cranmouth’s. I believe you and His Honor are on amicable terms.”

  “He’s a retired judge,” Sir Leviticus said. “We play the occasional hand of cards, and he is godfather to my eldest.”

  “And here is His Honor,” Monmouth said. “Punctual as usual.”

  Sir Leviticus and the judge conferred, Stephen pretended to examine the portraits on the walls—why did half-naked goddesses appeal to a gaggle of staid lawyers?—and then Monmouth was leading the judge into the dining room.

  “Why would the majordomo do that for you?” Stephen asked.

  “You’re asking if Monmouth is trustworthy, and he is. His loyalty is to the club, and if I had to guess, I’d say that Cranmouth, Philpot, and Weatherby are behind in their dues, rude to the staff, and parsimonious with their vales.”

  “Bad form,” Stephen said, accepting his hat and coat from a footman. “Mortal sin, that. Have you ever defended a client accused of mental incompetence, Sir Leviticus?”

  “No. Am I soon to have that honor?”

  “You are soon to ride out to Rothhaven Hall with me and explore the possibility.”

  “So Cranmouth is telling you not to worry?” Lord Stephen asked, patting the gelding’s neck. “Claiming you’ll be home by supper following a pleasant chat with the commission members?”

  After a week of riding lessons, Robert was still both amazed and terrified to find himself back in the saddle. The project had been necessary, both to provide an excuse to call at Lynley Vale every day, and to keep Lord Stephen from descending into a grand pout.

  “Cranmouth tells me that I should be more concerned over a meeting with my steward than I am over this mere formality.” Robert gathered up the reins as Lord Stephen took two steps back. For a man who professed to care about only his close relatives, his lordship certainly did hover near his riding student.

  “If the lawyer tells you not to worry,” Lord Stephen said, “then you should be very worried indeed. Though I have every faith in Sir Leviticus, I am worried, which is no credit to my masculine dignity.”

  “Walk on.” Robert nudged Revanche with his calves. The beast obligingly shuffled forward, and the little boy who dwelled deep in memory gave a shout of joy.

  “You have the natural seat of a damned cavalry officer,” Lord Stephen said, backing away another two steps. The footing in the arena was sand, which had to be hard going for a man who relied on a cane.

  “I am all but trussed into the saddle.” The leather straps went over Robert’s thighs, beneath the flap of his riding jacket. They had taken getting used to, for they prohibited rising from the saddle at the trot. His lordship had fashioned a mechanism that made the straps simple to get into and quick to release, and yet they held Robert snugly on the horse’s back.

  His lordship took another few steps back. “Some people trussed into the saddle bounce about like rabbits in a pillowcase. You must have ridden frequently as a child.”

  “Every chance I could. To the trot, Revanche.” Another nudge, and the horse lifted into a steady, smooth trot. “I don’t know where you found this fellow, but he’s worth his weight in oats.”

  “Found him outside a knacker’s yard, more or less. How is Constance managing?”

  Robert rode a figure eight, which Revanche executed at a marvelous steady tempo. “Halt.”

  Just like that, motion ceased. Four hoofs remained planted in the sand, until Robert gave another nudge with his calves.

  “If you are concerned for Constance,” Robert said, executing a line that moved both forward and to the side at the same time, leaving a diagonal track in the sand, “you should ask her.”

  Lord Stephen perched upon a barrel in the center of the arena. “I hope to live to see my next birthday, Rothhaven. Con has that come near me at your peril look about her.”

  And yet, she clung to Robert whenever they found a private moment. “She is concerned for her daughter. Halt.” Again, Revanche heeded the command, even though it had been buried behind normal speech. “Good lad, walk on.”

  “Con has been concerned for her daughter for years, apparently. What has changed?”

  The challenge of navigating between Wentworth siblings was new, and Nathaniel was of no help regarding its perils. He was as puzzled by the Wentworth family dynamics as Robert was, though at least Nathaniel could cuddle up with his wife of a night for an occasional consultation.

  “Constance cannot approach Reverend Shaw to renew negotiations until my situation is resolved.”

  “Your situation will be resolved by this time tomorrow, barring last-minute lawyerly posturing.”

  “Which one should never bar. Canter.”

  The horse lifted into a scrumptious, cadenced canter, circling the arena as gently as a breeze. The motion was magic, banishing worries and doubts with sheer bodily joy. Dear God, I have missed this. Missed this freedom and pleasure…

  The next thing Robert knew, the horse was once again standing motionless, and Lord Stephen was hobbling over from the center of the arena.

  “Your usual calm has deserted you, my lord. Is something amiss?” Robert patted Revanche soundly, for such joy should be rewarded.

  “Rothhaven, you stopped listening to me.” Lord Stephen spoke carefully, as if Robert held a loaded gun casually pointed at a live target.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You went around the entire arena three times at the canter, while I admonished you to sink your weight in your heels, and relax your elbows and all manner of whatnot. You ignored me.”

  The joy vanished like a candle snuffed by a stiff breeze. “I did not hear you.”

  Lord Stephen leaned against the horse, who was puffing slightly. “A staring spell?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Robert sat atop his horse as a chorus of emotions tried to join him in the saddle: Terror galloped at the front of the pack, eager to drag him back to a boy’s helplessness and confusion. Worry followed close behind, because this development must be conveyed to Constance, who had enough burdens already. Resentment—never far away—prepared to shove aside even the terror of falling, because the bloody illness had to taint every joy and hasten every sorrow.

  “Well, then,” his lordship said, fiddling with Revanche’s mane, “I suppose we know the harness works.”

  “You are uncomfortable,” Robert said. “I am sorry for that, but this is who I am. I have staring spells, I have seizures, and they are only the visible parts of my illness. The memory lapses, muddled thinking, the fatigue…they are equally burdensome. That others have to deal with any of it vexes me exceedingly. Walk on.”

  A horse recovering from exertion should not stand. That commandment welled up from childhood, and Revanche was apparently happy to saunter forth.

  “I’ve considered having my leg amputated,” Stephen said, both hands resting on the top of his cane. “You must not tell my family I said that, or they will haul me before a board of examiners.”

  I am your family now. “If you can’t end your life, you’ll at least end your leg’s life?”

  “The bloody thing hurts, Rothhaven. All the time, and it will only grow worse as I age. I can delay the inevitable by living in a Bath chair, but would you rather have twenty years shuffling around with your canes or forty years in a Bath chair?”