Page 41 of The Truth About Dukes
Every soul present had acknowledged his arrival, and the singing had been glorious. A duke returned from the dead was cause for rejoicing, apparently. Vicar Sorenson’s sermon had been on the prodigal son, and some of the older ladies had sniffed into their handkerchiefs for most of the service.
Rothhaven had darted right back into his waiting coach before the final notes of the recessional hymn had ended.
No matter that he hadn’t stood about making small talk in the churchyard. Attending services at all was a start, a leap rather than a step in the right direction. Constance’s joy had been profound. Two days later he’d sent a note asking her about a trip into York to meet with Miss Abbott.
What difference did churchyard pleasantries make, when a man so clearly understood what mattered most to his intended?
“How far is Miss Abbott’s office?” he asked, scowling at a perfectly beautiful blue sky after he’d completed his business with the lawyer.
“Several streets that direction,” Constance said, tipping her chin. “It’s a pretty day for a stroll, and she is expecting us.”
Rothhaven pulled on his gloves—one did not wear gloves when signing documents—and tapped his hat onto his head.
“Let’s be…” He shook free of Constance’s grip. “I need the coach.Now.”
His tone was so abrupt, Constance mentally recoiled. “But we can walk, Rothhaven. I would like to stretch my legs, in fact, and I daresay—”
“Get me the damned—” One moment, Rothhaven had been standing before her, muttering foul language, the next, he slipped downward, his hat tumbling into the street.
“Rothhaven?”
He curled onto his side, his limbs twitching spasmodically as passersby either stopped to gawk or hurried past as if appalled. His boots scrabbled against the cobblestones, his watch fell from its pocket, and his walking stick was trapped at an angle beneath his body.
Constance knelt beside him, feeling helpless, angry, worried, and stupid. “Rothhaven?”
The seizure took an eternity that in all likelihood consumed less than a minute. When he lay still, eyes closed as if he’d died, Constance looked up to find a circle of strangers staring down at her.
“Lord Nathaniel Rothmere should be at the ice shop around the corner,” Constance said. “Somebody please fetch him.”
Nobody moved.
“Fetch Lord Nathaniel now,” she snapped, rising. “And please have the livery at the corner send the Rothhaven coach on the instant.”
Mention of the family title sent a young man scurrying around the corner, while a small boy kicked at the sole of Rothhaven’s boot.
“Be he dead?”
Constance nearly swung her reticule at the lad, whose mother had yanked him up by the arm.
“His Grace has the falling sickness. He will be better in a moment or two. Please stand back.”
Rothhaven would never be better. He had tried to convey that to her, but the magnitude of the burden he carried was only now becoming real to her. To be unable even to walk down the street…
“Your Grace,” Constance said, kneeling beside Rothhaven. “Can you sit up?”
An older fellow in knee breeches and a worn brown jacket came down beside her. “He’ll come right soon enough. M’wife had the falling sickness, God rest her. We bled her and bled her, and nothing helped. There now, he’s waking up.”
Rothhaven tried to push to a sitting position, his movements as clumsy as a drunk’s.
“Easy there, Your Grace,” the older man said, helping Rothhaven to brace his back against a lamppost. “Don’t want a bump on the noggin in addition to your other woes. No need to hurry.”
The crowd began to drift away as a nattily dressed fellow bustled out of the solicitors’ offices. “What’s this? Has His Grace been set upon by ruffians? What is the world coming to? Daylight robbery, of all the insults. You lot, move along. Miss, give the man some air, please. I am His Grace’s solicitor. I cannot believe—”
Constance glowered up at him, and something about her expression must have penetrated the lawyer’s well-developed self-esteem, for he fell silent.
“His Grace has had a seizure,” she said, standing between Rothhaven and his lawyer. “He will be well in a moment. You may return to your office.”
The solicitor, who resembled the young Mr. Cranmouth, craned his neck to peer around her. “But if His Grace is in need of aid, then I must send for a doctor. Ebenezer Cranmouth, at your service, miss.”
