Page 14 of The Truth About Dukes
“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 Phoebedaft?—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 Nathanielhas 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.
Sheglowed, 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.”
