The Truth About Dukes Read online

  She passed over another folded piece of vellum, also watermarked with a coat of arms.

  “We are abruptly awash in ducal correspondence.”

  “Read it,” Mrs. Hodges said, “and then I will convey it to Ivy. She apparently asked her mother for coach fare so she can escape you once and for all. This is the duchess’s reply. It’s not the reply I would have penned to my only child, but then, I’m a penniless housekeeper.”

  She rose with none of her customary energy and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Whitlock let his tea grow cold, and sat with the letter in his hand, mentally vowing that he would find a way to tell Elizabeth Hodges that she was much more than a penniless housekeeper.

  That discussion would take some thought and planning. A lot of thought and planning in fact, given that Whitlock was supposed to take ship in little more than a fortnight.

  He smoothed out Her Grace of Rothhaven’s letter and began reading.

  “I want you to know something,” Rothhaven said, as he and Constance were shown to a private dining room at the Duck and Goose.

  “I want the jury to know many things,” Constance replied. “For instance, if they find against you, I will have Quinn and Jane ruin the lot of them unto the nineteenth generation.” She would do no such thing, of course. Reverend Shaw detested high-handed aristocrats for reasons, and a tendency to abuse wealth and power for personal satisfaction was probably at the top of his list.

  And in that much, oddly enough, Constance agreed with him.

  Rothhaven held her chair for her as the serving maid closed the door. Luncheon was already laid out on the table, but Constance had no appetite.

  Her husband leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I loved being able to tell the world that you are my duchess. I love that you sent for Alexander and Helen. I love that you put that vile excuse for a physician in his place. I love you.”

  Constance rose and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you too, so very much, and I am furious on your behalf.”

  He stroked her hair, and some of the ire drained out of her. “We shall contrive, Your Grace,” he murmured. “That business with Her Grace of Walden fainting was splendid.”

  “I think Jane enjoyed using the fiction of female frailty to control an entire courtroom. She was very convincing, wasn’t she?”

  “Walden was convincing. Let’s eat, shall we?”

  He was so calm, so at ease when Constance was ready to rip up at all of York, and most especially at Lady Phoebe Philpot, who had no doubt authored this entire drama.

  “I could manage some bread and butter,” Constance said, resuming her seat. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss either.”

  “This is not the prisoner’s last meal, Constance.” Rothhaven sounded amused, which exceeded the bounds of savoir-faire by several leagues.

  “Today has been far more than merely trying, Rothhaven.”

  He poured himself a glass of water, poured her a glass of ale, and sat at the head of the table. “It has been a challenge. Nonetheless, please recall that certificates of lunacy can be overturned, and if Weatherby prevails, Philpot will have to deal with you, Nathaniel, Walden, and my own efforts to limit his schemes. Speaking of schemes, I have taken a measure of which I doubt you’ll approve.”

  “Say on. I have also taken a measure that I doubt will merit approval.” Another measure.

  “I sent a modest sum to Reverend Shaw while I still had control of my assets.”

  Constance paused, a piece of bread in one hand, the butter knife in the other. “Why would I disapprove of such generosity?”

  “Because Shaw could take offense at my hubris, because funds make it easier for him to decamp to New South Wales, because I did not consult you before I sent him the bank draft.”

  Rothhaven grasped that a failure to consult his wife could be a transgression. That such a man stood accused of incompetence was an injustice of mythic proportions.

  “We haven’t exactly been in each other’s pockets this past week,” Constance said.

  He touched her arm. “You are not wroth with me for my high-handedness?”

  “Eat something, Rothhaven. I can sustain myself on anger and determination, but you haven’t that luxury.”

  He served himself some beef and barley soup, which—now that Constance got a whiff of its aroma—looked tasty.

  “Shaw might well return the money,” Rothhaven said. “I might have made matters worse.”

  “Then he returns the money, but I don’t know as matters can get much worse. I wrote back to Ivy and told her that under no circumstances was she to quit her uncle’s protection.”

  Rothhaven filled a second bowl with soup and set it before Constance. “Did you, now? Told her to stay put when she’d all but begged you to rescue her?”

  The best part, the very, very best part of loving Rothhaven was that he had from the first been Constance’s friend. An honorable, kind, decent, tolerant friend. He greeted her announcement as pleasantly as if she’d informed him of a decision to have some new dresses made up.

  “This whole legal mess,” Constance said, “with Weatherby and Philpot, is driven by Lady Phoebe’s mean-spiritedness.”

  “Very likely. Philpot does not need my money, but he needs to keep his wife happy. Sir Leviticus made it plain that Philpot married up, and his bride has never let him forget it.”

  The soup was good. Being able to air these thoughts with Rothhaven was wonderful. “Lady Phoebe has been denied children.” Constance had only worked this out on the coach ride back from Fendle Bridge. “She is angry and ashamed because she has been denied motherhood.”

  “My guess is, she would find reasons to be angry and ashamed if she had ten handsome, healthy children.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Lady Phoebe feels entitled to have children, and she has been thwarted in that regard. I feel entitled to march into Ivy’s life and be her mother. There is no such entitlement.”

  “Go on.”

  “I am responsible for heeding the flattery of a scoundrel, for allowing him liberties, for trusting him.”

  “You were little more than a girl yourself, Constance. Very much at sixes and sevens, and your brother was not as mindful of you as he should have been.”

  Rothhaven set aside his empty soup bowl, and buttered two slices of bread. He fashioned a sandwich from the sliced beef and cheddar on the plate at his elbow, and passed Constance half.

  “All true, which is why I can forgive myself, but from Ivy’s perspective, Etta Wilson was the woman who loved her and raised her. If Etta Wilson were alive, would I be dreaming of Ivy coming to live with me?”

  “Etta Wilson has been gone for some time.”

  “But Whitlock Shaw stepped in—a bachelor of modest means—and provided for Ivy. He’s seen her reasonably well educated, and he clearly cares for his niece. His siblings look up to him. I love Ivy, I would cheerfully die to protect her, but I don’t actually know her anywhere near as well as Reverend Shaw does.”

  “So what did you tell her?”

  “What somebody should have told me when I was meeting an arrogant varlet in the mews, and thinking myself misunderstood and ignored by my family: Ivy should respect that her family has her best interests at heart. She should speak with her uncle honestly from that place of respect. She should realize that her whole life stretches before her, and many girls would envy her the adventure of seeing new lands. I told her that fleeing the safety of her uncle’s home is patently foolish and ungrateful. If she doesn’t like New South Wales, she can return to England in a few years, but for now, she must…I am about to cry.”

  Rothhaven was on his feet and around the table in an instant. “Cry, then. You are entitled to that much at least.” He squeezed her shoulders and passed her his handkerchief.

  “I want to be a good mother, not a pathetic, empty-hearted, selfish g-grasping harpy. Being a good mother is hard.”

  “But you are my dear duchess,” Rothhaven said, returning to his seat, “and you are bound by honor to do the right thing. Unlike many people, you have the courage to act on your convictions. Setting that example for Ivy will stand her in good stead for the rest of her life.”

  Constance dabbed at her eyes. “You always know what to say. Thank you.”

  “Eat your sandwich. This difficult day isn’t over, but I am so proud of you that I could post a notice in every newspaper in the realm. Promise me, though, that you aren’t giving up on having Ivy share our home because your husband is the subject of a lunacy petition?”

  “I am not. I am trying to protect my daughter from yielding to dangerous and foolish impulses. Perhaps that’s why I’ve finally found her, because she needs me now for that very purpose.”

  Rothhaven made another sandwich. “An interesting perspective. Do you truly think Lady Phoebe is driven by frustrated maternal ambitions?”

  “Among other afflictions of the spirit. She is very proud, more than a bit vain, and no longer young. One can almost pity her.”

  Rothhaven saluted with his glass of water. “I commend your generosity of spirit, but the sad truth is, Lady Phoebe can see me declared an idiot, plunder much of my fortune, and bring scandal down on both your family and mine, and that will not relieve what afflicts her.”

  “I suppose not. She has a sort of falling sickness of the heart—no known cure—but perhaps that’s justice, for she has certainly inflicted substantial grief on others.”

  Rothhaven drained half the glass and waited for Constance to finish her second half sandwich. “Duchess, you will have reason to remonstrate with me.”

  “I will?”

  “I have been a naughty duke, but like certain young ladies, I find myself faced with circumstances that prompt me to act with less than strict prudence. You asked about Neville Philpot’s whereabouts, and it happens I can answer that query with some degree of certainty.”

  “Rothhaven, explain yourself.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “We need to wrap this up quickly,” Sir Leviticus said. “Drossman wanted the whole business finished before noon.”

  “In other words,” Robert replied, “I inconvenienced him with my seizure.” How very inconsiderate of me.

  The gallery was filling with journalists and spectators. Clerks and bailiffs bustled about, and across the room, Weatherby sat at his table, pretending to read a treatise. Constance was once again ensconced in the gallery between Lady Althea and Her Grace of Walden, while Walden himself, looking like the Wrath of Yorkshire, stood near the door of the gallery.

  “Your Grace,” Sir Leviticus said softly, “where is my witness?”

  “Weatherby is probably wondering the same thing.” And where was Lord Stephen?

  A commotion at the back of the gallery suggested both questions were about to be answered. Lord Stephen, cane in one hand, the other wrapped through Neville Philpot’s arm, made a gradual progress through the milling crowd.

  He stopped just short of Weatherby’s table, handed Philpot into a chair, then found a seat near a back corner.

  “Your witness, Sir Leviticus,” Robert said. And not a moment too soon. Drossman and his confreres resumed their seats, the jury filed into the box, and the room was called to order.

  “Sir Leviticus,” Drossman barked, “call your final witness.”

  “I call Neville Philpot, proposed guardian of the person and property of Robert, His Grace of Rothhaven.”

  Philpot rose, tugged down on his waistcoat, and marched for the witness box. Something about his air was overly determined, as if the box lay across snowy moors and boggy fens rather than ten feet away.

  Philpot swore to tell the truth, then let out a stentorian belch. “Sorry, Pet.” He offered a little wave in the direction of the gallery. “Nothing like good French brandy and good Yorkshire ale, aye?”

  The gallery appreciated that remark, and the jury looked amused.

  Drossman looked anything but. “Get on with your interrogation of the witness, Sir Leviticus. We don’t have all day.”

  Because a man’s future should be decided as hastily as possible?

  Sir Leviticus rose. “Mr. Philpot, what day is it?”

  “How should I know?” Another belch. “I’m a solicitor, not a bloody calendar.”

  “So you don’t know what day it is?”

  “It’s a fine day to down a few pints, that’s what day it is.” He beamed at the gallery, impressed with his own cleverness.

  “Who sits upon the throne of England, Mr. Philpot?”

  “Not me. Mad George, or one of them Georges. Bloody idiots the lot of them, and expensive. England could set up a whorehouse in every village for what we’re spending on the royal foolishness.”

  Weatherby had dropped any pretense of reading his treatise. The two commissioners on either side of Drossman were frankly grinning, and Drossman’s brows had lifted nearly to his hairline.

  “Philpot, are you drunk?” he asked.

  “Never say it, Dross, old boy. Pet would lock me out of the bedroom for a year if I were disord…disorb…hang it, drunk in public.” Philpot pulled a face and the gallery erupted into laughter.

  Sir Leviticus seemed the only attorney who did not regard the situation as amusing. “Mr. Philpot, do you believe yourself competent to handle the finances of an entire dukedom if His Grace of Rothhaven should be in need of a guardian?”

  “Me? I’ll handle those finances right into m’pockets, good sir. I adore a fat pigeon, and know exactly how to pluck ’em. Keeping Pet in the style she deserves ain’t cheap. No, t’isn’t.” He winked at his wife, blew her a kiss, and emitted yet another fume-y burp.

  “So it’s your practice to fleece your wards?”

  “Not fleece, exactly. Help myself to a bit of the extra. I do my dooty by ’em, but I take a wage for myself, so to speak. I say, a man could use a chamber pot, if one’s handy?”

  Sir Leviticus sent the jury a pointed look. “Mr. Philpot, please tell me the sum of 23 plus 42 plus 4.”

  “Say again?”

  Sir Leviticus spoke slowly. “Add 23 plus 42 plus 4.”

  “In my head?”

  “If you please.”

  Philpot sketched figures in the air with his fingers. “How about 93? I always did fancy 93. A very good year.”

  “Divide 66 by 11.”

  “Divide it yourself. I need a chamber pot, another pint, and some rum buns. A wench or two wouldn’t go amiss either. Sorry, Pet.”

  Drossman folded his arms. “Sir Leviticus, I believe you’ve made your point.”

  “Pet’s mad at me,” Philpot informed the room at large. “Look at her. Spittin’ mad but always a lady, that’s my Pet.”

  Lady Phoebe rose and departed, while Philpot blew her kisses and waved. “Might I have another ale now?”

  Drossman heaved up a sigh. “You may step down, Philpot. Mind you do so carefully.”

  The warning was lost. Philpot exited the witness box, neglected to recall that two steps were involved, and went sprawling onto the floor. He lay there for a moment, then rolled to his back.

  “Damned fine ale, it was,” he murmured. “I think I wet myself.”

  Sir Leviticus spared him not a glance. “I move to dismiss with prejudice the complaint brought against Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. In the alternative, I ask the jury for a verdict denying the petition. A man afflicted with the falling sickness might be slow to answer a few questions immediately following a seizure, but under no circumstances would justice be served by entrusting that man’s welfare and fortune to an admitted criminal parading about as a guardian.”

  “Hear, hear,” the jury foreman called.

  The gallery was whispering, laughing, and pointing, while Philpot began gently snoring on the floor.

  Drossman conferred briefly with the other commissioners, then motioned the bailiff to call for order.

  “As chair of this commission, I hereby dismiss with prejudice the petition brought concerning Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. Your Grace, the falling sickness cannot be used as grounds to question your competence again. This commission is adjourned.”

  The commissioners left, Weatherby packed up his books and tried to slink away, though a journalist or two was already calling his name.

  “You lot,” Robert said, gesturing to Weatherby’s clerks. “Get Philpot off the floor, find his coach, and send him home.”

  The older clerk grimaced. “Perhaps he ought to tarry in town for a bit, Your Grace. Lady Phoebe might do for him if we send him home now.”

  “Get him home,” Robert said, “before my duchess takes a notion to have him sent to prison.”

  Lord Stephen watched as one clerk took Philpot by the boots, and the other under the arms.

  “I have a hard head,” Lord Stephen said, “but drinking that man under the table challenged even my considerable abilities. Devious of you, Rothhaven, and a marvelously effective strategy.”

  Sir Leviticus tidied up law books and treatises as Philpot was hauled away. “I can have him criminally charged. At the least he ought to be forbidden to do any further legal work.”

  “Yonder solicitor won’t fare well in prison,” Lord Stephen observed. “Perhaps that’s the fate he deserves.”

  “Philpot will be in a prison of his own making at home with Lady Phoebe,” Robert said. “His punishment will be to stare at the locked bedroom door every night, knowing he’s been a fool for love.” Or for some version of love.

  Lord Stephen propped a hip on the counsel table. “And what is Lady Phoebe’s punishment, for much of this mischief can be laid at her dainty feet.”

  “Philpot will stare at the locked door,” Robert said, “and her ladyship’s penance is to be on the other side of it, with only her incurable pride for a bedfellow. None of this had to happen, but she would not reconcile herself to her lot. They must forgive each other and themselves, or bitterness and regret will drive them mad.”