The Truth About Dukes Page 29

  A great loss, indeed.

  What would Rothhaven and Wentworth relations think if they learned that Soames’s name had been passed along to Neville by no less personage than Lord Stephen Wentworth, and that his lordship’s motivation had been to prevent a mésalliance between the Wentworths and not merely a family afflicted with madness, but the madman himself?

  “And why did you purchase Dr. Soames’s establishment?” Weatherby asked.

  None of your damned business. Robert couldn’t say that, but ye gods, he wanted to. What prevented him was the sight of Constance in the gallery, pale, composed, and doubtless ready to do Weatherby a grievous injury at the slightest provocation.

  The truly relevant questions—What day is it? What is your name? Who sits upon the throne of the United Kingdom? What is the sum of 23 plus 42 plus 4?—had been dispensed within the first two minutes of Robert’s testimony.

  “Not all of my memories from the years in Soames’s care were bad,” Robert said. “I formed fast friendships with the other residents, and I met my wife there.”

  Weatherby sent a sly smile toward the jury. “Are you married, then, Your Grace?”

  “As it happens, I am.”

  The jury looked uncertain, while Weatherby appeared to have found a gold sovereign among his legal notes.

  “Has the queen of the fairies accepted your proposal? Perhaps you married a madwoman while you were still a minor? Do favor us with the details, Your Grace.”

  Sir Leviticus rose and aimed a disdainful look at Weatherby. “I ask the commission to instruct Mr. Weatherby regarding his duty of civility toward the witness. Mocking one alleged to be disabled should be beneath the dignity of any decent person, and mocking a witness worse yet.”

  “Weatherby,” Drossman growled, “stop baiting the witness. The noon hour approaches.”

  Weatherby merely smiled. “To whom are you married, Your Grace?”

  “To the former Lady Constance Wentworth, who is present in the gallery. We met while I resided with Dr. Soames. Her ladyship briefly joined the domestic staff years ago. We renewed our acquaintance as our siblings courted, and her ladyship did me the great honor of accepting my proposal.”

  Her ladyship wasn’t looking very honored at present, or rather, Her Grace wasn’t. She looked ready to murder Solomon Weatherby.

  “How is it you come to be married when we’ve heard of no ceremony, Your Grace? You must admit an invisible wedding is hard to credit.”

  Weatherby’s tediousness would drive Robert daft in truth. “Dr. Pietr Sorenson married us by special license when we had occasion to request a letter of introduction from him. We did not want to detract from the attention due our siblings, who were also planning to wed and who have now done so.”

  Robert and Constance had also needed to travel to Fendle Bridge as a married couple, though the outing had made a poor wedding journey.

  The gallery was abuzz, pointing at Constance, who bore that rudeness with enviable serenity.

  “Well, congratulations on your nuptials, Your Grace.” Weatherby sounded jovial, but his gaze had narrowed, “and on distracting the commission from my original question: Why buy, then give away, a prosperous property where you had been hospitalized for half your life?”

  “Dr. Soames never called it a hospital, did he?” Robert replied. “Never had any of his guests certified as insane or incompetent, never had to comply with the legal requirement to have an independent physician evaluate the people forced to bide in his house. I gather he was solving embarrassing problems for well-to-do families, and my epilepsy—my very existence—was exactly such a problem for my father. What would you call Soames’s establishment?”

  Sir Leviticus had said that Weatherby polished his glasses when he needed time to think, and he was polishing his spectacles to a high shine now.

  “I will ask the questions, Your Grace, and ancient history isn’t what concerns me or the jury. Why buy a madhouse, for surely we can agree Soames was running a madhouse.”

  “I do not agree, Mr. Weatherby. He was operating a profitable venture of some sort, but entirely outside the laws pertaining to care of the mentally enfeebled. I bought the place to ensure that my friends there were freed to pursue more meaningful lives, and to that end, I aided them in their ambitions. I also met my duchess at Soames’s establishment. Until she and I were reunited by recent circumstances, that property was my sole connection to her. She became dear to me years ago, and I thank benevolent Providence that we are reunited.”

  Elspeth Weatherby leaned over to whisper something in Lady Phoebe’s ear, and her ladyship looked ready to smack Mrs. Weatherby with her reticule.

  Constance, however, was smiling sweetly.

  “So you are an epileptic?” Weatherby said. “You admit to that terrible infirmity?”

  “I have epilepsy, much as Caesar, Napoleon, various European monarchs, Leonardo da Vinci, and Michelangelo were rumored to have epilepsy. As my own father certainly did.”

  A murmur coursed through the gallery, and looks were exchanged among the three men on the commission of lunacy.

  “Is it your sworn testimony,” Weatherby said, “that your own father, the previous duke, was an epileptic? On what do you base that claim?”

  Thank heavens Sir Leviticus had demanded that Robert rehearse this as well as dozens of other lines of questioning.

  “The times were less enlightened years ago,” Robert said. “My father was made to feel ashamed of his condition, and feared that he would be exploited by unscrupulous parties if his seizures became public knowledge. He nonetheless managed his ducal responsibilities adequately, as we heard Mr. Cranmouth himself testify earlier.”

  Cranmouth was examining his pocket watch as if the secret to eternal life were written on its face. A few people in the gallery got up to leave, others took their seats, while Robert remained focused on Sir Leviticus. Robert’s sense was that the tide had turned, and the case was going against Weatherby. But legal proceedings were the province of the devious, among whom Robert had never sought to number.

  A clerk passed Sir Leviticus a note.

  “Then your unfortunate malady is inherited,” Weatherby said, his statement dripping with false pity, “and I’m sure Dr. Warner would tell us that what is inherited cannot be cured.”

  “My condition is not inherited, but rather, the result of serious head injuries sustained one after the other at the age of eleven. My brother, Nathaniel, has no symptoms of the falling sickness, as he would doubtless testify. He would further testify that I myself had no symptoms until after my boyhood riding accidents.”

  Robert offered this hearsay on behalf of his brother with an apologetic smile at the commission, who were at risk for missing their nooning, thanks to Weatherby’s ridiculousness.

  Sir Leviticus was re-reading the note in his hand, and that, along with a quiet and growing sense of dread, kept Robert from claiming a premature victory. Weatherby was not acting defeated, and Neville Philpot wasn’t looking ashamed.

  “Have you more questions, Mr. Weatherby?” Drossman asked.

  “Yes, I have more questions. I am far from done with my interrogation. Have you a physician in residence at Rothhaven Hall, Your Grace?”

  “I do not. I doubt any of the epileptic patients your friend Dr. Warner has treated have physicians in residence, and not one of those five people was declared mentally incompetent either.”

  A snicker went through the gallery. Nathaniel was trying not to smile.

  Weatherby grabbed his lapels and drew himself up. “I respectfully ask the commission to caution His Grace. He is under oath and bound to answer my questions, not expound upon whatever speculation seizes his considerable fancy.”

  Drossman waved a hand. “No gratuitous speculation, please, Your Grace. Weatherby, are you almost finished? I vow I’ve yet to see anything approaching lunacy in these proceedings, unless it’s the lunacy of lawyers alleging mental illness where it doesn’t exist.”

  The commission only oversaw the proceedings. The jury made the actual finding, and the jury appeared amused by Drossman’s observations.

  “To the contrary, sir, this matter deserves our utmost consideration,” Weatherby said, raising his voice to be heard over the whispers flying around the gallery. “We see here a man afflicted since his youth with seizures, and we have the unrefuted testimony of Dr. Warner that seizures can and do diminish reason.”

  Weatherby swept Robert with a pitying look. “His Grace was hospitalized for years, no matter the genteel fictions maintained to the contrary, and now we learn that despite these factors, a man of considerable means has no medical professional on hand to care for him. His family has provided no such medical professional, and some in attendance today regard this as a laughing matter.”

  Drossman dropped a pencil onto a sheet of foolscap. “I regard it as a serious matter, but that needn’t mean it must become a lengthy matter. I’m sure the jury would agree. Get on with it, Weatherby. Sir Leviticus must have his turn to call witnesses, and he has ever been one for thorough prosecution of his cases.”

  “How did you arrive here today?” Weatherby asked, swinging his gaze on Robert as if the question was somehow of great import.

  “I rode my horse. Revanche is a lovely fellow. Stands about seventeen hands, has a fondness for apples.”

  Lord Stephen smiled and saluted with two fingers, though his gaze remained watchful, as it had for the duration of the proceedings.

  “You didn’t take a closed carriage, one with all the shades drawn even on so fine a day?”

  Robert sat forward and spoke slowly and loudly. “I rode my horse.” Never had four words given a man more satisfaction, and yet, Robert had the sense he was being drawn into a trap.

  “And isn’t it true,” Weatherby went on, “that you eschew strong spirits, abhor cheroots, and seldom eat sweets?”

  “Quite true. I limit my tea and avoid coffee too. Those measures appear to reduce the frequency of my seizures, and my duchess cannot abide the stink of cheroots.”

  His duchess nodded graciously at the jury.

  And at that precise moment, the vague dread swimming around in Robert’s mind coalesced into certainty. He made it down the steps from the witness box and halfway to the counsel table before his knees gave out, and he commenced shaking on the hard, cold floor.

  The moment Rothhaven’s knees buckled, Constance bolted from the gallery, weaving past gawkers, bailiffs, and Quinn’s outstretched hand.

  “There, you see!” Weatherby said, pointing at Rothhaven on the floor as the last of the convulsions ceased. “The disease lays the poor man low before our very eyes. The infirmity in all its ruthless horror on display before this august commission and the good gentlemen of the jury. Can Rothhaven speak? Can he even sit up? Ask him who graces the throne of England now, and—”

  Constance marched past Weatherby and crouched beside Rothhaven. “What I see in all its horrid ruthlessness is a greedy, swinish lawyer. You long to take up where Soames left off, reaping an enormous profit while cloaking yourself in the virtue of false compassion. You are a parasite and a disgrace.”

  Weatherby looked gratifyingly startled by those passing observations. The jury looked positively delighted.

  Quinn joined Constance at Rothhaven’s side, as did Nathaniel.

  “Rothhaven,” she said, “we’ll help you to your seat.”

  Rothhaven met her gaze, and though she could read little in his expression, he did not seem afraid.

  “Ready?” Constance asked, as Quinn and Nathaniel each took an arm.

  Rothhaven nodded, and they soon had him in the chair next to Sir Leviticus.

  “Might we have a brief recess?” Sir Leviticus asked. “I’m sure His Grace will be prepared to resume his testimony shortly.”

  “Very well,” Drossman said. “A short recess. Mr. Weatherby, have you any other witnesses to call?”

  “I do not, sir. A few more questions for His Grace—if he can answer them—and I will rest my case.”

  The three members of the panel left the hall, and the hum and buzz in the gallery rose to a roar. Weatherby and Philpot began a whispered conversation on their side of the room, and Constance took the seat beside her husband.

  “Shall we offer him some water?” Dr. Warner had inserted himself into the small group around Sir Leviticus’s counsel table.

  “Are you daft?” Constance retorted. “For His Grace to try to consume food or drink this soon after a seizure would be most unwise. Be off with you and take your silly little black bag with you.”

  Warner had the good sense to simply bow and withdraw.

  “Fierce,” Rothhaven said, his hand landing clumsily on Constance’s arm. “My duchess.”

  “You surprised me with that announcement, Rothhaven.” They’d agreed to keep the news of their nuptials private until after the competency hearing, barring some exigent circumstance. “I’m glad you acknowledged me as your duchess. Weatherby’s shock was delicious.”

  “And what about my shock?” Quinn growled.

  “And mine?” Nathaniel added. “Althea suspected. I laughed at her speculations.”

  Jane and Althea soon joined the conversation, while Constance sat beside Rothhaven, his cool hand in hers.

  “Sir Leviticus,” Constance said, “might you call me as a witness rather than have Rothhaven return immediately to the witness box? The more time His Grace has to recover, the better.”

  “A fine notion,” Sir Leviticus said, “but His Grace is still Weatherby’s witness. Weatherby gets another go at him when the recess is over.”

  “Then you must delay the inevitable with an eloquent and protracted argument about some legal inanity.”

  Much of the gallery remained milling about, unwilling to give up their seats. Clerks, bailiffs, and Mansion House staff conversed in small groups, and Constance longed for a quiet room where Rothhaven might gather his composure.

  “I can offer a dilatory motion or two,” Sir Leviticus said, “but we run the risk of antagonizing the commissioners and the jury. Then too, if I admit that His Grace cannot answer simple questions now, I’ve all but made Weatherby’s case for him.”

  “We need time,” Constance muttered. “A half hour at least, an hour would be better.”

  “My lady—I mean, Your Grace—I’m very much afraid—”

  “Robbie!” a man called from the open door to the corridor. “Robbie, you old devil, is that you?”

  The fellow was youngish, lanky, and wore attire such as a clerk or tutor might wear. His boots were dusty and his cravat much in want of starch.

  “You came,” Constance said, popping to her feet and seizing the man by the arm. “You came. Thank God and Miss Abbott. You came. Sir Leviticus, may I present to you Mr. Alexander Fulton, maths instructor at the Greater Wilburn Friends Scholastic Academy, and friend to His Grace from years gone by. Did Mrs. Fulton accompany you?”

  “Helen’s in the gallery.” Fulton squeezed Rothhaven’s shoulder. “Robbie, my friend, what a pass, eh?”

  “You just missed a seizure,” Constance said. “His Grace is not at his best.”

  Fulton looked around the hall. “And the crowd doubtless gawked all the while.” He waved to his wife, a small, blond woman with vivid blue eyes. “Well, we’re here now, and we can tell the lot of them what you put up with for all those years. Bloody Soames, beg pardon for my language. Helly still has nightmares.”

  “Mr. Fulton,” Sir Leviticus said, “we haven’t much time to prepare if you’re to testify. A few questions, please?” They moved to the corner of the room, Mrs. Fulton joining them.

  Weatherby and Philpot were also exchanging whispers, sending curious glances in Mr. Fulton’s direction.

  “You sent for…?” Rothhaven gestured toward Mr. Fulton.

  “Alexander Fulton,” Constance said. “Yes. I had Miss Abbott track him down, but I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure she could find him in time. I only let Sir Leviticus know I’d done so after today’s proceedings began. Are you angry?”

  “Impressed.” Rothhaven kissed the back of her gloved hand. “Grateful.” He sat up as the members of the jury, one of them finishing a meat pie, resumed their places in the jury box. The bailiffs began chivvying the crowd to their seats, and Constance wanted to bellow at them to cease their foolishness.

  Rothhaven wasn’t ready to testify again, not nearly. Every minute of delay at this point would aid him, though Drossman seemed bent on hurry, and Weatherby doubtless sensed the advantage he’d just gained.

  “Where’s Stephen?” Rothhaven asked.

  “He’s…” Constance looked about. Stephen was in conversation with Lady Phoebe. Dear God, what could he be about? “He’s here, has been here for the whole proceeding.”

  “Good.”

  And then they were out of time, with the bailiff bidding everybody to rise, and Constance having no choice but to rejoin Quinn, Althea, and Jane in the gallery. The air had grown closer as the morning had progressed, and both Althea and Jane were wielding their fans before Constance resumed her seat.

  “He’s not ready,” Constance muttered, as the commissioners shuffled to their places, and Sir Leviticus began to prose on about the need to suspend the proceedings in fairness to the allegedly disabled duke. Weatherby was spluttering before Sir Leviticus had concluded his argument, and Drossman’s expression said he had no patience with the pair of them.

  “Jane,” Constance said. “Now, please.”

  “Very well.” Jane fluffed her skirts, waved her fan a few more times before her cheeks, then cast the fan out across the room to land with a clatter between the counsel tables.

  “Oh, dear heavens, the heat!” She raised her forearm to her brow, then fell into a dramatic heap at Constance’s feet.

  “My duchess has fainted,” Quinn bellowed, a credible note of dismay in his voice. “I want a sedan chair, smelling salts, and a glass of hock, and I want them now.”

  Assuming the nearest tavern stocked German wines, a glass of hock would take a good five minutes to produce. Sedan chairs were an outmoded means of transport, and finding one—even for a duchess—would take a good quarter hour.