Page 102 of The Truth About Dukes
“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.”
