The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “Thank you,” Constance whispered, gently patting Jane’s hand.

  Jane’s eyes remained closed, but she squeezed Constance’s fingers before Quinn scooped his duchess into his arms and recommenced making a fuss worthy of an upset duke.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Her Grace of Walden has suffered a grand faint,” Sir Leviticus whispered. “Walden is putting on a performance worthy of Mrs. Siddons when the royal box is occupied. I suspect your duchess is directing the play.”

  “I’m sure of it,” Robert said, resisting the temptation to smile. The same wily determination that had prompted a young maid to slip a wedge of cheese between clean sheets was still much in evidence, and thank God for it.

  For her.

  The morning had had a low point—the moment when Robert had realized he was about to have a shaking fit before half of York and the commission of lunacy itself—but a high point had been granted him too, when he’d announced, before the entire room, that Constance had become his wife.

  “Are you ready to testify?” Sir Leviticus said.

  “Best not. Not yet. Soon.”

  The sight of Alexander, full of his usual energy and cheer, Helen clearly as devoted to her husband as Alexander was to her, was another high point. They’d met at the madhouse, as Robert and Constance had.

  Robert let his thoughts drift, as they were inclined to do after a seizure, and eventually tried a sip of water. That went down easily, an encouraging sign. A sedan chair was eventually procured for the Duchess of Walden, and that good lady left the Mansion House, her duke at her side.

  The time gained had been precious, but not enough.

  Sir Leviticus moved to have Alexander testify out of turn, claiming that the witness had traveled some distance, and could not tarry long in York. Moreover, his wife was with him, also prepared to testify, and she was in a delicate condition. Weatherby had no credible reason for opposing the request, though he snorted and pawed about irregular proceedings and inordinate deference to certain parties.

  Alexander was sworn in, and Sir Leviticus had the first opportunity to question him.

  “Help us?” Alexander said, as the topic turned to the care Soames had provided for his guests. “Nothing could be farther from the truth. Dr. Soames needed to keep us alive, because we were a source of enormous income for him, but he was keen to use His Grace and me for his little experiments.”

  “Explain,” Sir Leviticus said.

  Weatherby popped to his feet. “I must object. What went on years ago at some obscure facility is of no moment to the instant inquiry.”

  Drossman peered over his spectacles. “You were happy to characterize this place as a madhouse not thirty minutes ago, Mr. Weatherby. Let’s hear what Mr. Fulton has to say.”

  Alexander went through the whole litany. The ice baths, the purges, the bleedings, the electric shocks—Robert had mercifully forgotten about those—the strange diets, and sleep deprivation. The whippings—one of Soames’s early investigations—and the isolation.

  “Soames needed us alive if he was to reap his filthy profits under the guise of medical care,” Alexander said, “but animals in a menagerie are treated with more dignity than we were. I suspect he was trying to drive us insane in truth.”

  Interesting theory.

  “And yet, you appear before the commission today,” Sir Leviticus said, “articulate, sound of limb, and in possession of your faculties. How did you resist the lure of insanity?”

  Alexander braced both hands on the front of the witness box and nodded toward the counsel table.

  “Him. Rothhaven. He figured out how to thwart Soames’s worst impulses and how to make us a family rather than a collection of rejected oddities. Things changed about the time Her Grace joined the staff. She and Rothhaven formed a team, and the rest of us joined on as best we could.”

  “What sort of team?”

  “If Soames decided somebody had to go a week without food, the rest of us would save a bit back and find a way to share it. If Soames had somebody locked in their room as a punishment—or simply because he pleased to inflict that misery on the unfortunate party—we found ways to slip his victim books, a deck of cards, a newspaper. The diversion itself didn’t matter half so much as the notion that we cared for each other.”

  “Go on.”

  “We developed a code, a tapping code. If somebody was confined to quarters, they could tap on the wall at certain hours, and we’d hear them and tap back. We had signals for food, water, and so forth, and to alert each other to one of Soames’s unannounced room inspections.”

  “You describe a very difficult existence, Mr. Fulton.”

  “One that should have driven us mad, but did not.”

  “Thanks to His Grace?”

  “In large part. And then his brother came and fetched him, but Rothhaven promised us—we only knew him as Robbie then—promised us he’d see us freed, and he did.”

  Sir Leviticus glanced around the room. “Was this some dramatic rescue in the dark of night?”

  “Dramatic to us, but pure common sense to His Grace. Soames was entirely motivated by greed, so His Grace simply dangled a sum of money before Soames, and Soames sold up and took the bait. Just like that, we were free. Greedy people are far easier to manipulate than the principled kind.”

  That salvo apparently went straight over Weatherby’s head. Robert searched the room for Neville Philpot, but he, along with Lord Stephen, was nowhere to be found.

  Thank God.

  “Mr. Weatherby,” Drossman asked. “Have you questions for this witness?”

  “Of course not,” Weatherby replied. “This witness is the next thing to a dilatory tactic, providing no insight into the Duke of Rothhaven’s present state of mind.”

  “Not quite true,” Alexander said, pleasantly. “His Grace and I are regular correspondents. He wrote me a character to help me find my present post. He gave his violin to my wife, and she became proficient enough to teach music at the same academy where I’m employed. Both of my boys have modest trusts thanks to His Grace, and I will use those funds to see them educated as gentlemen. His Grace of Rothhaven is not only sane, he’s entirely decent.”

  “The witness,” Weatherby said, “is opining about matters he is not qualified to testify to. The commission may excuse him with my blessing. I next call—or recall—Robert, His Grace of Rothhaven.”

  “Mr. Weatherby.” Drossman crossed his arms and leaned forward. “I am cautioning you in advance that time is of the essence. Make your inquiries brief.”

  Robert rose on slightly unsteady legs. Constance had bought him precious time, but more time would have been better. He took his place in the witness box and decided not to ask for a chair.

  “Now, Your Grace,” Weatherby said. “I remind you that you are still under oath. Tell me, who sits upon the throne of England?”

  The schoolboy answer came immediately to mind. “Good King George.”

  “Ah, but which King George?”

  The question was simple. Just as the French throne had been occupied by one King Louis after another, England for more than century had been ruled by a succession of King Georges. German George, Farmer George, Mad George…Robert’s mind refused to sort out the details.

  “The royal one.” That produced a snicker from the jury. “He’s stout. He likes art. He spends like the entire national exchequer is his privy purse.”

  “Right about that,” somebody called from the gallery.

  “Would that be George the Fifth, then?” Weatherby asked, smoothly, too smoothly.

  George the Fifth for some reason conjured an image of a mule. “George, to the best of my recollection. Not the fifth.”

  Weatherby aimed a jovial smile at the jury. “Please note that His Grace thinks some random fellow named George sits upon the throne. Tell me, Your Grace, what is your name?”

  “Robert.”

  “But that’s not actually your name, is it? You were baptized Alaric Gerhardt Robert Rothmere. Why don’t you use your given name?”

  There was a reason. Robert glanced at Nathaniel, who was looking stoic. “My father was Alaric,” Robert said, though that wasn’t the whole answer. “My mother preferred to call me by a name that would not result in confusion with the previous duke.”

  Weatherby made a face conveying that the slow top had made a lucky guess. “And what day is today?”

  “The day of my lunacy trial.” Someone in the gallery guffawed, and Robert cast around for the right day. A trial would not be held on Saturday or Sunday, meaning he had a one-in-five chance of guessing correctly.

  “What day of the week is it, Your Grace? Surely you know the day of the week?”

  The silence that followed started small and patient, then grew dismayed, and eventually tragic. Robert did not want to guess incorrectly—he was fairly certain the day was Friday, but it might be Thursday—and he was absolutely convinced a wrong answer would seal his fate.

  Sir Leviticus rose. “Mr. Weatherby himself must grow forgetful, for this question was asked and answered by this very witness. Today is Friday, as His Grace recently informed us. Perhaps Mr. Weatherby intends to repeat his entire examination of the witness?”

  Robert honestly could not recall answering the question previously, but Sir Leviticus’s ploy had reminded Drossman of the passing of time.

  “Sir Leviticus has the right of it, Weatherby. You are repeating yourself. Have you any more questions that you haven’t asked previously?”

  “Rothhaven knows not who sits on the throne of England. He knows not what day it is. I rest my case.” Weatherby made a sweeping bow in the direction of the jury.

  Robert clutched the front of the witness box. “George the Fourth,” he said, a bit too loudly. “George the Fourth sits on the throne of the United Kingdom.”

  That late answer—accurate though it was—only reinforced that Weatherby had succeeded in seizing the momentum of the trial, and God alone knew what the jury would make of a duke who could not recall the day of the week.

  “Your Grace,” Drossman said, “you may step down. Sir Leviticus, you aren’t putting on any additional witnesses, are you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sir Leviticus said, as Robert took his place at the counsel table. “I anticipate the testimony will be brief.”

  “See that it is. The commission is in recess for the noon hour. The proceedings will resume at two of the clock precisely.”

  Robert knew exactly whom Sir Leviticus intended to call, but he doubted it would make any difference. The last five minutes had decided the case, and the next two hours were all the time that remained to him as a free man.

  “All is not lost.” That came from Constance, who strode across the room as though she herself were the Lord Mayor of York. “Far from it. I need some sustenance, Your Grace. You will please escort me back to the hotel.”

  Robert rose, fatigue dragging at him. “I would be honored. Sir Leviticus, my thanks for your efforts thus far, but it’s not looking good, is it?”

  “It’s not looking bad, either, Your Grace. Juries exist precisely because laws require interpretation, and juries do not like greedy lawyers.”

  “Speaking of greedy nodcocks,” Constance said, “where is Philpot?”

  That was an answer Robert could give her, but not here. “I’ll explain. Let’s take some air, shall we?”

  Whitlock Theodophilos Shaw was in a quandary, and praying hadn’t relieved his puzzlement. From long experience, he knew that on the rare occasions when the Lord seemed to be turning a deaf ear, He was in fact instructing Whitlock to put pride aside and consult a nigh infallible earthly authority.

  “Mrs. Hodges, will you join me for a cup of tea?”

  She set the tray on Whitlock’s desk and stepped back. “I have much to do, sir, though I appreciate the gesture.”

  Her tone was deferential, as always. Still, Whitlock knew a silent scold when one was aimed his way every hour of the day.

  “I am in your bad books, madam. I know that. You don’t think I should drag Ivy off to New South Wales.”

  Mrs. Hodges gazed around the study, which she kept immaculate without disturbing its sense of masculine comfort.

  “Ivy doesn’t want to be dragged off to New South Wales, and girls her age can cause a great deal of upheaval when their sensible wishes are repeatedly ignored. I know. I was a stubborn young miss once upon a time.”

  Whitlock could imagine her as a very young lady. She’d probably been quiet, observant, industrious, and too wise too soon.

  “Please do have a seat, Mrs. Hodges. You might think I took Ivy’s attempts to run away lightly, but she scared me witless. My sisters were good girls, biddable, never a moment’s trouble. Ivy…I fear Ivy takes after the woman who gave birth to her.”

  “Ivy is a good girl.” Mrs. Hodges sank onto the very edge of the chair opposite Whitlock’s desk. “The only trouble she gives you is when you insist she part from everything dear and familiar, and travel thousands of miles so you can do the Lord’s work. Has it occurred to you that the Lord might have given Ivy an assignment that differs from your own?”

  Mrs. Hodges never raised her voice, and because she spoke quietly, her words had all the more impact.

  “As a matter of fact, it has. Read this.” He passed her a single sheet of folded vellum, watermarked with the Rothmere family coat of arms.

  Reverend,

  Greetings and felicitations to you and Miss Ivy.

  I must risk offending you by hastening to address a matter that by rights ought to be handled with respectful delicacy. I suffer the falling sickness, and an attack has been mounted on my legal competence. The enclosed bank draft is made out to you, though I trust your judgment regarding to what extent and how the funds can better Ivy’s situation. I know you will exert yourself to the utmost to safeguard her well-being. My only request is that you keep her mother, now my duchess, apprised of Ivy’s general situation to the extent your conscience allows you to do so.

  By the time you receive this, I might no longer have the authority to provide for Ivy or to aid you in your travels, so please deposit the sum as quickly as may be. If you or any member of your family is ever in difficulties, please apply to myself, Lord Nathaniel Rothmere, or His Grace of Walden. If you wish at any time to call at Rothhaven Hall, you will of course be most welcome. A child should unite a family rather than occasion division. To my sorrow, I speak from personal experience. I wish you the best, and I remain your obed serv,

  Rothhaven

  “The sum was considerable,” Whitlock said. “Enough to see me well established in New South Wales and to dower Ivy handsomely.” More than enough. Far more.

  Mrs. Hodges set the letter on the desk. “And you don’t know what to do, because this duke asks for nothing in return, save that you keep Ivy’s mother informed of her situation.”

  “The blasted man is clearly competent, and woe to him who thinks otherwise. Rothhaven was polite to a fault with me—except that odd bit, which is probably a symptom of his illness. I, on the other hand, was not my most gracious toward him or toward his lady wife.”

  Mrs. Hodges poured two cups of tea. “His duchess.”

  And that was the real conundrum. Ivy’s mother was a duchess, not only willing but eager to acknowledge her illegitimate daughter. Such women did not exist in Whitlock’s experience, and yet…

  “Have some tea,” Mrs. Hodges said, adding two lumps of sugar to Whitlock’s cup. “You will not send that bank draft back, Mr. Shaw.”

  “I won’t?” He’d considered doing just that.

  “The money isn’t yours to reject. By rights, that money belongs to Ivy, and heaven knows she might need it.”

  Mrs. Hodges added a dollop of milk to her tea and took a sip. How a woman could do housework all day and still have such lovely hands was a mystery.

  “I am being arrogant,” Whitlock said. “Dukes are supposed to be arrogant. Rothhaven is disappointing me terribly when he denies me the opportunity to scorn him. Still, Ivy has no need of fripperies and furbelows. Such indulgences only lead to vanity.”

  Mrs. Hodges set her cup down silently. “Ivy might need that money to eat, to buy passage home from whatever colonial backwater you drag her to. She might need that money to avoid a very sorry end. You are mortal, Mr. Shaw. You are no stripling, and your ambitions could well result in Ivy being stranded halfway around the world in a place where women are too few in number.”

  Mrs. Hodges rose and braced her hands on the desk. “If she has some money of her own, she will enjoy a measure of safety in this wicked world, safety women without means lack. Toss that sum back at the duke’s feet, and if Ivy is lucky, she might end up keeping house for a shortsighted fool who thinks only of his own ambitions. If she’s unlucky…you will have guaranteed her doom with your righteous, masculine pride, and she herself might soon be a mother without benefit of matrimony.”

  Mrs. Hodges sat, lifted her teacup, then set it back on the saucer untasted. “I will not apologize for speaking my mind when Ivy has nobody else to talk sense to you. If you would allow me to stay on until you take ship, I would appreciate it. I won’t ask you for a character.”

  “I have upset you.” That realization qualified as a revelation, a glimpse into a vast, dimly perceived array of possibilities, for Elizabeth Hodges was as stalwart a soul as ever donned an apron and cap.

  “Ivy’s situation upsets me.” This time the teacup made it to Mrs. Hodges’s lips. “She’s writing to her mother, you know.”

  “Writing to…her mother?”

  “To Her Grace of Rothhaven. You did not forbid her from doing so, and Her Grace writes back.”

  If Whitlock had boarded a ship and put out to sea in stormy weather, he could not feel more unbalanced.

  “Ivy is corresponding with the Duchess of Rothhaven, and you are only now informing me?”

  Mrs. Hodges finished her tea and put the cup and saucer on the tray. “You are a good man, Whitlock Shaw, but you need a wife to curb your excesses and explain to you the human side of life. Her Grace was here little more than a week past. It’s not as if Ivy has been penning her letters in secret for years. Read this.”