Page 4 of The Truth About Dukes
She munched another cherry. “Is that where you’ve been hiding?”
“I thought the interrogation wasn’t to start until we’d finished eating.”
She laughed, a soft chortle that illuminated her features with a rare and breathtaking warmth. “Touché, vieil ami.You were never frail of mind, were you?”
Old friend.The closest thing to an endearment Robert had heard in years. “I am invariably disoriented after a seizure. Nathaniel is concerned that I will be declared mentally unfit by a hostile court, and all our lands and wealth will fall into the hands of crooked trustees.”
Robert was terrified about the same possibility.
“You still seem frightfully astute to me. Do you share your brother’s concern?”
“When I can be rendered insensate for hours, forgetful of even the words coming out of my own mouth, I must acknowledge the validity of Nathaniel’s worry.”
Constance stabbed a piece of cheese with the butter knife and held it out to him. “Then you must have a plan in place for dealing with an attack on your mental competence. What have you in mind?”
What Constance said made sense. Nathaniel had fallen in love with Lady Althea Wentworth, older sister to Lady Constance. A life of peaceful seclusion for Robert at Rothhaven Hall would be impossible to maintain without Nathaniel holding the reins. Another plan was needed, and quickly.
“For the present,” Robert said, “I plan to enjoy my supper and your company. Perhaps you have a few ideas?”
Stephen Wentworth reserved his most difficult conversations with his ducal brother for when he and Quinn were on horseback. His Grace of Walden rode with easy competence, and thus his attention when in the saddle was not commanded by the horse. Quinn chose sensible, sound mounts, up to his weight, and not given to fidgets or strongly stated opinions.
Stephen, by contrast, was a passionate equestrian. On the back of a horse, he was the equal of any man—or woman. He needed no canes, no inordinate caution. He traded his own unreliable leg for the horse’s four sturdy limbs and enormous muscle. In the saddle, he was free from physical pain. In the saddle, he sat as tall and straight as any dragoon.
In the saddle, and there alone, Stephen was superior to his brother in skill, fitness, and confidence.
The other reason for bracing Quinn on delicate matters when he and Stephen rode out was practical. Quinn was seldom alone. Jane and the children claimed his heart and as much of his time as he could give them, particularly when His Grace wasn’t wreaking havoc in the House of Lords or terrorizing his bank managers.
If Quinn walked in the park, he took his older daughters with him or wheeled the baby in her pushchair while Jane sashayed along at his side.
If Quinn enjoyed a drink before dinner, he often did so while playing simple card games with the children on the rug in the family parlor.
If he sat reading in the garden, Jane brought her embroidery to the same bench.
Stephen’s brother was awash in domestic bliss, and seemed to have no clue how much difficulty that posed to any sibling seeking a private word with him. Stephen thus proposed a ride around the acreage of the Yorkshire property Quinn had earmarked for Constance to manage.
“Constance has done a good job here,” Quinn said, giving his horse a loose rein to negotiate a winterbourne. Mungo popped over the trickling stream while Stephen’s horse, an un-confident five-year-old with more potential than sense, danced around on the near bank.
“Constance takes management of her property seriously,” Stephen said, “as Althea has done with Lynley Vale.” Stephen, by contrast, trusted to good managers and spent little time ruralizing at his estate.
His horse rocked back on its quarters as if facing a dragon determined to snack on equine delicacies.
“Give the ruddy beast a proper swat,” Quinn said, watching this display from the far bank. “If he makes this much drama out of a tiny stream, he’ll unseat you the instant he’s faced with anything truly challenging.”
The horse danced back, then took a tentative step forward while Stephen remained passive. “He’s gathering his courage, Quinn. To force him now means I don’t trust him to sort out the puzzle for himself. The problem with a tiny stream like this is that the poor lad can hear it and smell it, but when it’s barely a rill running between tussocks at his feet, he cannot see it.”
As if to emphasize Stephen’s words, his horse—Beowulf—craned his neck, raising and lowering his head.
“For God’s sake,” Quinn said, “he’s dithering for the hell of it. You’ll ruin him by indulging these histrionics.”
This advice came from a man who’d never givenanyof his children aproper swat, who’d never raised his voice to them, who had never once been heard to publicly express opinions differing from those of his duchess. He’d spanked Stephen exactly once, nearly twenty years ago and for a serious transgression. Quinn doubtless still felt guilty over it.
“Your tone of voice, Your Grace, is not helping the poor fellow to locate his courage, or me to maintain my patience. Walk on, please, and Beowulf will vault the dreaded chasm rather than be separated from Mungo.”
Quinn obliged, and Beowulf—from a near standstill—gave a mighty leap to clear a stream a puppy could have gamboled over.
“Good lad,” Stephen said, patting the horse soundly on the neck. “Well done, young man. Well done.”
Beowulf trotted forward as if parading before the royal standard, then kicked out behind in an exuberance of high spirits.
