The Truth About Dukes Page 28

  Were Robert not on horseback, idly circling the arena, had he not just had a spectacular staring spell, Stephen would very likely not be sharing these confidences—these frustrations.

  “So why haven’t you made a date with the surgeon’s knife?”

  “I have, twice. Canceled both times. The surgeons, fellows who learned a lot on the battlefield and were confident of their craft, talked me out of it. Infection is inevitable, and even a severed limb can cause pain. One of them opined that the problem is not my shinbone—he had some Latin name for it—but rather my knee. What a cheerful topic this is. You’d best canter him the other direction, and then I’ll fetch my mount so we can hack about the park.”

  The riding out had started two days ago, at the walk, with short stretches of trot. “I want to canter up the drive,” Robert said.

  Stephen resumed his perch on the barrel at the center of the arena. “Do you really?”

  “The worst that can happen is apparently that I will have another staring spell, in which case, if you don’t instruct Revanche to halt, he will carry me back to the stable yard and halt himself.”

  They tested the theory, with Stephen instructing the horse to halt mid-canter in the second direction. Revanche nearly sat on his tail, so attentive was he to Stephen’s command.

  “Why aren’t you quaking in dread?” Stephen asked when a groom had been sent for his horse. “Why aren’t you leaving this arena, never again to return? You had a staring spell and didn’t even know it.”

  The question had deeper significance, relating to Bath chairs, death, and tomorrow’s looming ordeal.

  “Constance has had a letter from Ivy,” Robert said. “You will not interrogate her about it.”

  “A letter from Ivy is good, isn’t it?”

  “Not if the letter asks Constance to send coach fare, so the girl can run away again and this time run so far her uncle can’t find her.”

  “And Jane wonders why I will never marry,” Stephen said, opening the gate so Robert could ride through. “Marriage leads to children, and any fool can see what a lot of nonsense children are.”

  Stephen was the most devoted, doting uncle a niece ever had, and no sibling claimed a more loyal brother.

  “Marriage per se does not lead to children,” Robert said, leaving the arena, “and I venture to guess that you are not a monk.” Nor was Stephen a coward, but he was terrified of the very sort of intimacy Robert so cherished with Constance.

  “I am not a monk. That is an accurate observation.”

  The next few minutes were taken up with arranging his lordship in the saddle and stowing his canes. Then Robert and Stephen sent their mounts ambling down the drive.

  “So why are you still determined to ride?” Stephen said. “That little staring spell frightened me nearly witless. Sorry. Frightened me half to death.”

  “Why aren’t you living out your life in a Bath chair?”

  “Because I am a fool? Because I am too stupid to exercise prudence? Because my family would hate to see me in such a reduced circumstance any more than they already do?”

  Because you are brave, and you yet cling to hope. “It’s not enough to placate a commission of examiners with regard to my competence. I hope that exercise is the formality Cranmouth claims it will be. I must be in a position to accept Ivy into the household I will share with Constance, and that means I walk, talk, ride, and comport myself as a man worthy of being entrusted with the welfare of a child.”

  Stephen’s horse came to a halt, though nobody had given that command. “Bloody Jack Wentworth haunts us all.”

  Well, no. Jack Wentworth haunted his children, apparently. Robert was haunted by an entirely different sort of incompetent parent, and that too was a reason to persist with horseback riding.

  “You do know this examination will be more than a formality?” Stephen asked, sending his horse forward again.

  “I am aware of that. Sir Leviticus has schooled me thoroughly, at least in terms of the examiners’ questions.” While Cranmouth, may his traitorous soul rot in whatever hell specialized in crooked lawyers, continued to make reassuring noises while doing nothing.

  “What will you do about Ivy’s threat to run away again?”

  “I trust my duchess to address that situation in the manner she deems most appropriate.”

  “She’s not your duchess yet.”

  “Yes, she is.” Robert settled his hat more firmly on his head and sank his weight into his heels. “Canter.”

  “How gracious of the Lord Mayor to offer use of the Mansion House for the hearing,” Constance muttered. The crowd outside the York Mansion House had parted for Quinn’s coach, but by agreement, the ladies would wait in the vehicle until the gentlemen rode up on horseback to hand them down.

  “Rothhaven knows the spectacle he’ll face,” Althea said. “He won’t face it alone.”

  “Neither will you, Constance,” Jane said, pushing a shade aside to peer out the window. “I do believe our escorts approach.”

  A clatter of hooves on the cobbled street presaged Quinn, Nathaniel, and Rothhaven trotting around the corner. They made a fine picture, but Constance alone knew what it cost Rothhaven to travel even a few streets in a saddle devoid of extra straps and buckles.

  Rothhaven dismounted easily and a groom from the coach came forward to take his horse.

  “Where’s Stephen?” Constance asked. Stephen hated to have an audience when he mounted or dismounted, but the occasion warranted a show of solidarity.

  “He might already be inside,” Jane said. “Crowds and canes are not a good combination.”

  “And yet,” Constance retorted, “he manages to attend the theater fairly often.”

  She was being difficult, but then, she was furious. Weatherby had known when he’d petitioned for the Lord Chancellor to appoint this commission of lunacy that the hearing would be public. A jury of six local worthies had been impaneled, and all the witness testimony would be so much entertainment for them and for the good folk of York.

  “Courage,” Althea muttered as a footman opened the coach door and let down the steps.

  Jane descended first, followed by Althea and, finally, Constance.

  Rothhaven smiled at her, a private, sweet smile that she would have sworn was not for show. Rothhaven had no notion of theater, no use for farce or intrigue, and that thought inspired Constance to smile back.

  “My dear, good day.” He bowed and offered his arm.

  “Your Grace.” She curtsied, unwilling to be rushed, unwilling to deny Rothhaven one jot of the deference his station was due.

  They processed into the Mansion House as if Rothhaven regularly parted unruly, staring crowds under a bright spring sun. Constance wanted to stop before the door and turn to raise her fist at the lot of them.

  “Any more letters from Ivy?” Rothhaven asked.

  “No.”

  “That worries you.”

  “Everything worries me.”

  “When this is over, Constance, we will turn our considerable resources to her situation.”

  Those resources had not been sufficient to buy the ship Ivy was to sail on. The owner, a widow, refused to part with the vessel that she and her merchant captain husband had traveled together on for years. Even Constance hadn’t been willing to press her on the matter.

  The Mansion Hall was the public residence of the Lord Mayor, often used for ceremonies of state and large social gatherings. On this occasion, what looked like a ballroom or banquet hall had been fitted out to accommodate the commission proceedings. A makeshift jury box sat off to one side, and a minstrel’s gallery opposite the witness box provided seating for spectators.

  The ladies were handed into the front-row seats in the gallery. The general public and the press would crowd in behind them and even hang about outside the open windows. Witnesses, members of the bar, and other worthy local gentlemen were permitted to sit in the banquet hall proper, rows of chairs having been set up facing the commissioners’ table.

  Rothhaven took his place at the counsel table, Cranmouth beside him, a quantity of bound volumes arranged on the table along with paper and pencils. At the opposite table, Weatherby pretended to read a law book, while a clerk at his side arranged ink and writing paper.

  “Are you expecting somebody, Con?” Althea asked. “You keep watching the gallery doorway.”

  Blast all perceptive siblings to perdition. “Why would I be expecting anybody?”

  “Because normally, you’d have your sketch pad out of your reticule by now, and yet, you’re fidgeting instead.”

  Jane smiled pleasantly at Lady Phoebe Philpot, who’d arrived with Mrs. Elspeth Weatherby. Neville Philpot was conferring with Solomon Weatherby at the counsel table, and neither man’s expression reflected the solemnity of the occasion.

  “Where is Stephen?” Constance asked, quietly, because the gallery was growing crowded and journalists were everywhere.

  “Stephen and Rothhaven were conferring late into the evening,” Jane said. “I think they have common ground of a sort, and it’s wonderful to see Stephen embarking on a friendship.”

  “Wonderful of Rothhaven,” Constance replied, “to make the effort of forming a friendship with a contrary, self-absorbed in-law. I think I’m about to be sick.”

  Jane passed over a peppermint. “Duchesses do not get sick, not in public.”

  Althea took a mint too.

  A slight commotion behind the counsel tables ensued as Stephen emerged from the corridor and offered a nod to Neville Philpot. A word or two might have been exchanged between Stephen and Weatherby, but then Stephen was moving across the room to take a seat beside Quinn.

  “What was that about?” Jane murmured.

  “I don’t know,” Constance said, the upset in her tummy growing worse. “I don’t like it.”

  She stole another glance over her shoulder. The gallery and banquet hall were packed, the bailiffs were closing the doors to further spectators, and still Miss Abbott was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Twenty

  The trial was off to a splendid start, in Neville’s opinion, in part because Lord Nathaniel Rothmere, as the Duke of Rothhaven’s next of kin, had announced that Ebenezer Cranmouth would be called as a witness.

  The result was, Cranmouth could not represent His Grace.

  The duke sat through this development looking bored. He’d muttered his consent when asked if he waived the confidentiality every lawyer owed his clients, which was proof everlasting that His Grace’s wits had taken wing. With His Grace’s waiver noted in the record, Cranmouth could be questioned on any topic that bore a passing relation to Rothhaven’s competence.

  The three commissioners conferred for a moment to debate whether Rothhaven’s waiver was valid in such a proceeding. When Lord Nathaniel added his waiver as well, they concluded that Rothhaven wasn’t yet legally incompetent, so the waiver of confidentiality must be allowed to stand.

  Lord Nathaniel offered Sir Leviticus Sparrow as counsel for the alleged disabled party, alas for the brave knight. Sir Leviticus had never once touched a competency case.

  As Mr. Able Drossman, head of the panel of examiners, droned on to the jury about the differences between lunacy, idiocy, and imbecility, Neville risked a glance over his shoulder at Phoebe. Drossman was white-haired, fleshy-jowled, and smarter than he looked, though he was fond of his port and harbored judicial ambitions.

  Phoebe smiled down at Neville with particularly gracious warmth, and he resisted the urge to blow her a kiss. Weatherby suggested that Cranmouth testify first, as the court’s witness, and old Drossman was so pleased with that notion that he allowed Weatherby to start the questioning.

  And wasn’t that just lovely? Cranmouth droned on about the ducal books—for the most part quite tidy—though he did slip in the fact that never once had he been called to Rothhaven Hall until the last week or so. As a witness, Cranmouth struck a balance between wanting to aid the court and wanting to protect his client’s privacy, despite any dubious waivers of solicitor-client confidentiality.

  “And did there come a time when His Grace visited you at your office?” Weatherby asked.

  Cranmouth darted a glance at the ceiling, then looked down, and then over at Drossman. The great Mr. Garrick, late of Drury Lane, could not have presented a more convincing show of hesitation.

  “He did.”

  “And the nature of that call, Mr. Cranmouth?”

  “His Grace signed the documents required to divest himself of a commodious estate some distance to the northwest of York.”

  “Was there anything unusual about the transaction?”

  Yes. Yes, indeed there had been, as Weatherby, Neville, and soon the whole of York would know. The Duke of Rothhaven had given away an entire functioning estate with a sizable manor house and home farm.

  “Had the previous duke made any similar transactions?” Weatherby asked.

  “I should say not. The previous duke was quite mindful of his assets.”

  “And after your appointment with His present Grace, can you relate when you next saw your client?”

  The coughing, throat clearing, and foot shuffling in the room stopped, as if everybody knew exactly what damning testimony would follow.

  “I next saw my client…” If he’d had a handkerchief in his hands, Cranmouth would have twisted it to shreds. “Is this really necessary?”

  A splendid touch.

  Drossman looked over his glasses at the witness. “As Mr. Weatherby has brought a petition, and the Lord Chancellor has decided the case has merit on its face, yes. This is necessary. Answer the question, Mr. Cranmouth.”

  “When next I saw His Grace, he was sitting on the walkway. His hat was in the gutter, his watch dangled from its pocket. His walking stick was on the ground. He appeared not to be himself.”

  Weatherby waved a plump, pale hand. “Elaborate for the benefit of the jury.”

  “His Grace did not greet me, did not say much of anything. He appeared confused and frightened, and when others approached to offer aid, he scuttled away. He would not allow me to help him to his feet; he would not speak to me. He relied on strangers to assist him and on Lady Constance Wentworth, who is no relation to him at all. He acted as if he had no idea who I was.”

  “Had he perhaps stumbled and hit his head?” Weatherby asked.

  “I saw no sign of bruising. Lord Nathaniel and Lady Constance Wentworth both confirmed His Grace had suffered a seizure. Her ladyship and his lordship are present, if the commission would like to question them directly.”

  “The commission,” Drossman said, “would like to conclude this matter in time to enjoy a noon meal at home. Get on with your questions, Weatherby.”

  “You said that His Grace’s books were mostly in order. Did aspects of the Rothmere finances give you cause for concern?”

  “Not recently, no.”

  “During the present duke’s tenure?”

  “Well, that is hard to say. The present duke, Robert, that is, was least in sight at the time of his father’s death and for many years before. We all believed that Robert had pre-deceased his father, didn’t we? Lord Nathaniel, in fact, believed himself for a time to be the duke.”

  The members of the commission on either side of Drossman were sitting up and looking interested.

  “Are you implying that the present duke allowed his family to believe him dead?” Weatherby asked.

  “I cannot say that, sir. I believed the present duke dead, and I assume Lord Nathaniel did as well. We were happily mistaken.”

  Such a sickly smile. Cranmouth truly belonged on the stage.

  “Have you any idea where His Grace might have been for all those—”

  Sir Leviticus was on his feet. “I must object. The query before the jury relates to the duke’s present mental state, not the faculties he possessed years ago or where his father sent him to school.”

  “I withdraw the question,” Weatherby said, “because I assume the panel can ask His Grace directly to account for his whereabouts. A man who imposes on his family the very great grief of his death as a jest in poor taste is not a fellow of sound mind.”

  Drossman put his glasses back on. “You will confine your role to that of counsel, Mr. Weatherby, and spare us your opining. Sir Leviticus, your witness.”

  Another lawyer rebuked, and that pleased the gallery and the jury.

  Sir Leviticus established that the Rothhaven dukedom under the present titleholder prospered handsomely enough to make a charitable gift of even a large, remote estate. He also got Cranmouth to admit that Robert’s father had appeared quite sound of mind in all regards, sound enough to vote his seat, oversee multiple estates, and supervise the upbringing of his children. The old duke had not, alas, been as proficient at managing the family’s wealth. Cranmouth was convincingly reluctant to part with that confession.

  Dr. Warner, looking handsome, calm, and helpful, testified next. Seizures, in his expert opinion, were difficult to treat, and if they appeared in childhood, they seldom admitted of a cure. Repeated seizures often resulted in diminished capacity over time. Confusion, hostility, and loss of the faculty of speech, such as Cranmouth observed in His Grace, were sadly common in persons cursed with epilepsy.

  All very tragic.

  Sir Leviticus forced Warner to admit that he’d treated a grand total of five cases of epilepsy in his two decades of practice, and further, that seizures could result from many causes other than the falling sickness. Warner was therefore not in a position to diagnose His Grace with the falling sickness, much less do so by innuendo.

  The gallery liked seeing the doctor put in his place as well, more’s the pity.

  Weatherby rallied, though, asking Warner if he was professionally familiar with the late Dr. Obediah Soames. As it happened, Warner had read the many august treatises on mental derangement Soames had penned, and had heard Soames’s private madhouse described as a model of compassionate care for the insane. Soames’s death had been a great loss to the medical community.