The Truth About Dukes Read online

  “I understand your concern,” Neville said, “but we must think of our Sybil. Your niece is on the verge of making a very advantageous match thanks to your good influence. Lord Ellenbrook would hardly look with favor upon Sybil’s connections if I took up a suit against His Grace now.” And what would the cause of action be? Aristocratic eccentricity was hardly grounds for a lawsuit.

  The fire in Phoebe’s gaze dimmed, her lips pursed. “Ellenbrook would not break an engagement. You could sue him for breach of promise if he did.”

  “But he has not proposed, has he?” Ellenbrook had followed the proper steps in the proper order: impressing Sybil with his agreeable company, approaching Neville to ask if addresses might be paid, and then resuming the impressing-and-agreeable-company part.

  Last week, Ellenbrook had departed for his hunting box some miles to the west. He was due to return in a fortnight or so, and the household—the female part of the household—expected a proposal would follow.

  “You must trust me on this,” Neville said, taking Phoebe’s hands. “I have seen too many young people fall out of love once the settlements come under discussion. I can do my part for Sybil, and I’m sure her dear papa will do his, but Ellenbrook’s family might regard our efforts as insufficient.”

  Phoebe had such lovely hands. Graceful, soft, not so much as a freckle to mar their perfection.

  “I want to argue with you,” she said. “I want to shout and pace and behave in a most unladylike manner, but you raise a valid point. Ellenbrook looked kindly on Lady Althea—he very probably pitied her that harum-scarum family of hers—and now she is to marry Lord Nathaniel.”

  Phoebe’s gaze became speculative. More than once she had seen how to settle a difficult case on the basis of social standing, family pride, or some other non-legal consideration. She had a streak of guile, did Phoebe, and Neville truly admired that about her.

  “Missing heirs have seven years to challenge an inheritance,” Neville said. “The previous duke died less than six years ago. That means the older Rothmere son still has time to officially challenge his younger brother for the title.”

  “Lord Nathaniel—I don’t like even speaking his name—made it clear at Lady Althea’s ball that he has no interest in keeping the title. Had himself announced with only the courtesy title, presented his brother to us all as the duke. I suspect that dreadful woman is to blame for this scandal.”

  The current dreadful woman was Lady Althea Wentworth. A succession of similarly unfortunate females had suffered Phoebe’s opprobrium over the years, including, occasionally, her closest acquaintances.

  “Let’s take some time to reconnoiter the situation,” Neville said, kissing the backs of his wife’s hands. “You excel at that, and Ellenbrook must come up to scratch before your concerns draw any public notice. I will set the clerks to researching missing heirs, while you make the appropriate overtures to the new duke.”

  She withdrew her hands and he let her go. Phoebe was not an affectionate woman by nature, which was appropriate, given her breeding, but she was loyal and shrewd and Neville loved her dearly. His business had prospered in large part because she knew everybody in the local surrounds worth knowing and knew their secrets as well.

  He would never burden her with a declaration of his sentiments—she’d be horrified at such vulgarity from her own husband—but he also knew she blamed herself for their lack of children.

  A complicated woman, his wife, much like the law was complicated.

  “We must not wait too long before we act, Neville. The shock of this great deception will wear off, people will go on with their lives, and a significant injustice will become so much old gossip.”

  The significant injustice was that Phoebe had been forced by circumstances to marry into an untitled family for money. She’d been denied children, and she’d ended up presiding over the squirarchy of rural nowhere. Now the further injustice of advancing age approached, and of all things, not one but two ducal families were usurping Phoebe’s limited consequence.

  “Tell me, my lady, who exactly will be made to pay for the deception that sits so ill with you?” Neville asked. “Are you wroth with the false duke? The real duke? The lady who is marrying into the Rothmere family? With the Wentworth family members for so badly overstepping their humble origins? Who is the opposing party in this case?”

  Phoebe should have been a general, leading troops into battle on the strength of her military posture alone. “The lot of them, Neville. I want the lot of them to pay.”

  He bowed. “Then pay they will.”

  This earned him a smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “Always, my dear.”

  He meant to leave her in the library, among the rare books, precious porcelain, and venerable landscapes he’d purchased in an effort to provide for his wife in the style she deserved. If fate were kind, Phoebe would become absorbed in preparing for Sybil’s wedding to Lord Ellenbrook, and this vengeful impulse would join the numberless indignities her ladyship could summon into a conversation at will, like lines of memorized poetry.

  By the time Ellenbrook and Sybil had spoken their vows, some other little intrigue or taradiddle would have arisen to affront Phoebe, and Neville would be spared the distasteful challenge of bringing suit against—God have mercy, was Phoebe daft?—a duke, on grounds that would make Neville a laughingstock among his peers.

  “When your clerks are doing their research,” Phoebe said, her tone once again merely conversational, “have them look up that bit about impersonating a peer.”

  Neville paused, turned, and regarded his wife. “I beg your pardon?”

  Phoebe gazed around the library, as if puzzled as to how all those books had collected on all those shelves.

  “I had some time on my hands, so I did a little reading. Anybody who thinks to ape his betters by pretending to hold a title is committing a criminal act. The peerage has significant privileges over the common man, and as a spare impersonating the titleholder, Lord Nathaniel has clearly broken the law. The current duke apparently conspired in this crime, wouldn’t you say? Your cousin is the magistrate, and I trust he won’t tolerate such wrongdoing simply because the offenders are members of a ducal family.”

  “I will task the clerks accordingly,” Neville said, before he all but bolted out the library door.

  He paused in the corridor and took a substantial nip from his pocket flask in the vain hope of calming himself. There was no calm to be had, for—damnation and doom—Phoebe had been reading law again.

  Chapter Four

  “We must help Rothhaven become accustomed to his new situation,” Althea said, tying her bonnet ribbons beneath her chin. “He is family now, and Nathaniel will fret endlessly if Rothhaven doesn’t reconcile himself to holding the title.”

  Constance plunked a straw hat on her head and opened the front door, earning her a slight lowering of the brows from Strensall, Althea’s butler.

  “Sorry, Strensall.”

  “No apology needed, my lady. Of course you are eager to call upon Lady Althea’s intended.”

  The staff was obnoxiously pleased with Althea’s betrothal to Lord Nathaniel. Monsieur Henri could be heard singing from the kitchen and Althea’s companion, Millicent McCormack, was planning an extended visit to Paris “after the happy event.” Nathaniel’s mother was already visiting old friends in France, though she would doubtless hurry home in time for the nuptials.

  If this tidal wave of joy was occasioned by a marriage, what would the reaction be when Althea conceived a child? When she bore her husband a son and possible ducal heir?

  Constance descended the front steps and scraped those thoughts from her mind, as she’d scrape paint from a failed attempt at a landscape.

  “Come along, Althea,” she said, climbing into the gig, “or Lord Nathaniel will think you were carried off by Vikings.”

  “Not Vikings.” Althea came down the steps at a more decorous pace. “Jane, intent on shopping for my trousseau. She has an eye for well-made goods, also for a bargain. The merchants in York will long recall her in their prayers.”

  Engagement to Lord Nathaniel had lightened Althea’s spirit in some intangible way. She laughed more, she smiled almost constantly, like a woman who knew a delicious secret.

  She glowed, dammit, and Constance—who had spent years observing people and rendering their likenesses on paper and canvas—knew that glow would be impossible to catch in anything but oils.

  “Is it hard for you,” Althea asked as she took the place beside Constance and gathered up the reins, “being back in Yorkshire at this time of year?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Being in Yorkshire at any time of year was hard. Being away from Yorkshire was harder.

  “Crofton Ford is lovely, Con. Nathaniel has kept it up and the staff is wonderful. I’ve always wanted a little cottage of my own.”

  “A cottage with twelve bedrooms?”

  Althea clucked to the horse. “Compared to Lynley Vale, it’s a cottage. Compared to Rothhaven Hall, it’s a farmhouse, but we will be happy there.”

  Lovely, wonderful, happy…these terms peppered Althea’s speech like cheerful colors dotting a still life.

  “I am glad you have found a man who deserves your affection, Thea. I will miss you.”

  Althea bumped her shoulder against Constance’s. “I’m going a mere twenty miles away, not far at all.”

  No, but in a significant sense, Althea, who was Constance’s closest ally, had already departed, never to return.

  Time to change the subject. “Has Nathaniel heard anything from the solicitors?”

  “Yes. They are optimistic that Robert need only present himself as a missing heir, one who did not realize until recently that the old duke had gone to his reward. The letters patent can be reissued to ensure the title remains in his hands.”

  Was that what Robert wanted? Had anybody thought to ask him what his wishes were? But then, as Constance well knew, titles were unruly beasts, rampaging across family trees like famished dragons obedient exclusively to the terms of the documents giving them life.

  “You’re wishing we had walked,” Althea said, as the walls of an old orchard came into view.

  “Of course I wish we’d walked. The distance isn’t but a mile and the countryside is beautiful.”

  “You cannot be trusted under a sunny sky, Con. You’ll get out your pencil and sketch pad, and neither hunger nor thirst will pluck them from your hands. You will be agog at Robert’s walled garden. He’s spent years there, and his plots are magnificent.”

  Constance would have to sketch the duke in his garden to wrap her mind around that notion. She could still picture him as a younger man, gaunt and deathly pale from years indoors, his drapes always closed, the candles in his room always lit. He’d put her in mind of a hibernating wolf, except that wolves never hibernated, no matter how cold and dark the winter.

  “His Grace enjoys gardening?” Constance asked.

  Althea turned the horse up a long, weedy drive. “I don’t think Robert loves the flowers so much as he loves creating patterns and watching them emerge. You seem to have an easy acquaintance with him, considering he hasn’t moved in society.”

  So that was what this invitation to pay a call on the Hall was about. Rothhaven had sensed family would pry, while Constance had been confident that nobody would dare allude to her youthful mistakes.

  “His Grace is restful company,” Constance said, which was the absolute truth. “He doesn’t put on airs, he’s exceptionally well read, he is tolerant of human failings, and a good conversationalist.”

  The gig hit a rut, tossing Constance against her sister.

  “Is he, Con?” Althea said, when the horse was again trotting along. “Yours might be the minority opinion in that regard. Rothhaven can be unreasonably stubborn. Nathaniel says he’s had to be.”

  Nathaniel says, Nathaniel thinks, Nathaniel, Nathaniel, Nathaniel…who did not know the half of his own brother’s past.

  “Stubborn?” Constance replied. “Imagine that, a stubborn duke. I know of only six or seven others, our brother among them. Good heavens, could this façade be any more bleak?”

  Gray stones could be made cheerful by flowers, greenery, gracefully curving arches, or pretty mosaics, but Rothhaven Hall was devoid of those touches. Lichens encroached on the wall supporting the front terrace, weeds added to the neglected air, and moss climbed the corner where the north and west walls joined. Every curtain was pulled closed despite the fine weather, and the brass lamps on either side of the front door were tarnished.

  “The neglect served a purpose,” Althea replied. “A bleak façade discourages callers. The past five years have not been happy at the Hall. That can change now.”

  She drew the carriage to a halt, and no groom appeared to take the horse.

  “Let’s drive to the stables,” Constance said. “The staff is apparently out of the habit of watching for guests.”

  The day was sunny, but Constance’s mood was increasingly dark. How could anybody thrive in surrounds like this—negligent staff, desolate grounds, no beauty or grace to be seen? Especially for a man burdened with a chronic affliction, such a setting was all wrong.

  Althea gave the reins a shake. “I know you are entitled to your privacy, Con, but I have to ask: If you are acquainted with Rothhaven from some previous situation, does that make him unfit company for you now? I can say something to Nathaniel—something vague—and you need not deal with Rothhaven again.”

  Protective family was a blessing—also a curse. “His Grace and I are cordially disposed toward one another, as people with a prospective family connection should be. Stop worrying, Thea. Spinsterhood is almost within my grasp and I will be fine.”

  Much to Constance’s surprise, she was looking forward to seeing Rothhaven again. He’d taken the sketch she’d left for him after their previous encounter and sent a polite thank-you note. That note was in her jewelry box, the first thank-you note she’d ever received.

  An older fellow of diminutive stature shuffled out of the stables as Althea drew the horse to a halt.

  “Mornin’, your ladyships. Fine day, is it not?”

  “A fine day indeed, Mr. Elgin,” Althea replied, climbing down. “We will stay for luncheon, and we might walk home.”

  “I’ll await your orders, your ladyship.” He touched the brim of his cap and led the horse away.

  The stable was in better condition than the Hall, the whitewashing fresh, the ground raked. Half barrels of heartsease sat on either side of the barn doors, and the earthy smell of equine wafted on the breeze.

  “You will not stay here and sketch,” Althea said, taking Constance by the arm. “You do know if Quinn ever finds out that you ran away to elope with some man, and that man broke his word to you, Quinn will see the fellow held accountable?”

  Perhaps for Althea to move twenty miles away was not entirely a bad thing. “Ancient history, Thea. I will say this once, and not speak of it again: I did not run away to elope with anybody. Nobody need be held accountable.” Not quite the truth, but as good as.

  Althea remained silent all the way to a door set into a high wall at the back of Rothhaven Hall. “If you ever—”

  “Cut line, Althea. It’s old business, and you are starting a new life. I am fine, I will be fine.” Fine being a relative term.

  “But, Con, I’ve been thinking, and—”

  “No thinking. My past is not yours to think about.” Constance shoved the door open harder than necessary and stepped through ahead of her sister. She stopped after two strides, Althea crowding her from behind.

  “This is heaven,” Constance murmured. “This is absolute, perfect, eternal heaven.”

  Before her stretched a sea of fragrant, bobbing flowers, mostly irises and tulips. Colors blended, white to pink to red to purple, and then a contrasting bed—vibrant yellow—drew the eye. Everything, from the height of the blooms to the planted patterns of the beds, showed a loving hand and a lively imagination given freedom to experiment and indulge.

  A statue of Saint Valentine presided over the whole, with two stone Cupids shouldering ceramic clamshell birdbaths. White walkways of crushed shells brought more geometry and light into the garden, and old wooden benches added the perfect final touch.

  I could be happy here. The thought was unexpected and far from rational, but it made Constance smile. I could be so happy here.

  “Lovely, isn’t it?” Althea said. “Nathaniel claims as the season progresses, the garden becomes spectacular. I cannot imagine anything more spectacular than this.”

  Across the garden, Rothhaven stood on the terrace. He was bareheaded and coatless, his cuffs turned back at the wrists, his waistcoat of blue paisley another dash of color in this luscious retreat.

  He waved. He did not smile—no grin, no flash of teeth—but his eyes, oh, his eyes…Even at this distance, Constance could tell he was pleased to see them.

  Pleased to see her. “The garden is impressive,” she said, moving forward so Althea could join her on the walk. But I see a sight more impressive than all these lovely flowers.

  “Nathaniel informed me that I must expect callers,” Robert said, shrugging into his coat. “He did not warn me that you and Lady Althea would lead the procession today.”

  Lady Constance had again dressed for comfort rather than to impress. She wore a plain rose walking dress, a discreet swath of purple velvet facing at the collar. The hem was decorated with a bit of purple and green stitchery, and the whole ensemble had not a single flounce or ruffle. Her shawl was a simple white crocheted affair, and on her head sat a plain straw hat with a wide, floppy brim.

  “Why must you entertain callers?” Constance replied, taking his arm as Lady Althea went in search of her intended. “I want to bide endlessly in this garden. The fragrance alone…” She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose. “You will be besieged with visitors once word of this garden reaches the village.”

  This prospect apparently annoyed her. It moved Robert close to panic. “As long as you are among their number, I will bear up under the strain. Let’s gather a bouquet, shall we?”