Page 42 of The Truth About Dukes
Another man came up on Cranmouth’s right. “Somebody get into a brawl right outside your office, Cranmouth? What sort of clients are you represent— I beg your pardon, Lady Constance.”
Neville Philpot doffed his hat and bowed. Constance knew him only in passing from local assemblies. His wife, Lady Phoebe, was a notorious gossip and had been a thorn in Althea’s side.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Constance said, turning to help Rothhaven get to his feet.
Philpot tried to intercede, but Rothhaven shied from him so violently as to nearly lose his balance again.
Constance inserted herself between Philpot and the duke. “I have him, Mr. Philpot. It’s quite all right.”
The man in the brown jacket was actually doing much to support Rothhaven’s weight, and just when Constance was about to tell Philpot to bugger the hell off, Nathaniel and Althea trotted around the corner.
“Seizure?” Nathaniel asked, relieving the older gent.
Constance nodded. “Of no great moment, but more than a little inconvenience. Mr. Philpot, if you wouldpleaseexcuse us.”
“Yes, do,” Althea added, picking up Rothhaven’s walking stick and crumpled hat. “The situation is in hand. Thank you for your concern.” She swept a glance at Philpot and Cranmouth, who remained by his office door, looking ghoulishly curious.
The coach pulled up before Constance could launch into a lecture about gawping imbeciles impersonating lawyers, and Nathaniel helped Rothhaven inside. Then they were pulling away, the last of the onlookers finally leaving the scene.
As the coach rounded the corner, Constance caught a glimpse of Cranmouth and Philpot, heads bent in conversation as they disappeared into Cranmouth’s offices.
“Sorry,” Rothhaven muttered. “Not very dignified.”
Nathaniel looked like he’d speak, but Constance silenced him by taking Rothhaven’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, as long as you are unhurt. Perhaps you’d like to nap now?”
For most of the distance home, Rothhaven slouched against Constance’s side, dozing quietly. She tried to sort out her feelings as the miles rolled by, but she got no further than admitting that the suddenness of the seizure had disconcerted her and the reaction of the crowd had angered her.
Althea sat on the opposite bench, fingering the crumpled crown of Rothhaven’s beaver hat, and that added another emotion to Constance’s pile of feelings.
Rothhaven had fallen on the walkway. Had he gone two more steps in the direction of the street, his head rather than his hat might have been crushed beneath the coach wheels. That realization was frightening, and explained, if only a little, why the old duke might have sent his son to an asylum on the moors, rather than watch day by day as one danger after another befell an innocent young man.
Chapter Ten
Neville Philpot waited until after supper to discuss the day’s events with his wife. Lady Phoebe’s sensibilities were refined, and the scene outside Cranmouth’s office had honestly been upsetting even to Neville, whose profession had inured him to human foibles.
“I have never seen anything more pathetic,” he said, passing Phoebe a portion of elderberry cordial for her digestion. “A peer of the realm, a duke, a man who should be in his prime, twitching like an inebriate in the last throes on the walkway. Cranmouth was quite overset. Rothhaven is his client, and that unfortunate drama took place right outside the poor fellow’s office.”
“I’m sorry you happened upon such a situation,” Phoebe said, settling into the wing chair by the fire. “You say the Wentworth sisters were on hand?”
Neville poured himself a brandy—the subject called for it—and took the second wing chair. “Lord Nathaniel was present as well as Lady Althea and Lady Constance. Lady Constance was trying to manage the situation, but how could she? She’s merely a neighbor to His Grace, and a woman.”
The brandy was good—illegally good, as it happened, as all the best brandy tended to be. Still, Neville would be an old man before he forgot the sight of Rothhaven, helpless and addled on the ground.
“Lady Constance is a Wentworth,” Phoebe said, touching her glass to her lips. “They think only about money, and if Lady Althea has her hooks into Lord Nathaniel, then you can bet Lady Constance has set her sights on Rothhaven.”
“God pity the woman if that’s the case.”
“Pity her? Husband, your charitable sentiments do you credit, but Lady Constance was raised in the vilest of circumstances. Her concern for Rothhaven is doubtless motivated entirely by self-interest.”
In Neville’s experience, self-interest was not limited to the lower orders, at least not among his clients.
“Her ladyship was ready to gut anybody who interfered with Rothhaven,” he said. “Wouldn’t let Cranmouth near him.” Smart of her. Cranmouth was a notorious gossip, which in a solicitor was a fatal failing. Old Man Cranmouth had been the genuine article, to be trusted in all matters, a lawyer of discretion and tact. The nephew wasn’t a bad sort either.
“Cranmouth says His Grace is selling off some property in the West Riding.” Hardly a sensitive matter, but still, Cranmouth ought to have kept his mouth shut.
“If I owned property in the West Riding,” Phoebe said, “I’d sell it as well. God has created no drearier corner of the realm, particularly in winter.”
Neville thought the Dales rather beautiful, but he was loath to contradict Phoebe. “Rothhaven cannot be long for this earth, my dear. He was in a terrible state when I saw him. Could not speak, could not stand unassisted.”
