Page 43 of The Truth About Dukes
Phoebe frowned at the crystal glass in her hand. “You weren’t attempting to pass the time of day with him, I trust?”
“Of course not. I tried to assist him to stay on his feet, and he cowered away from me so violently he nearly overset himself again.”
“You are a good man, Neville. If His Grace has taken leave of his senses, that is not your fault. I heard he tried to attend services and made a complete hash of it.”
The brandy was working its magic, as was Phoebe’s sense of calm and good sense. “How can one make a complete hash of attending services, short of a loud case of the wind during the sermon?”
“Neville, I despair of your humor. Rothhaven arrived at the last minute, said not a word to anybody, and left before the organist had concluded the final hymn. He looked neither left nor right, greeted nobody, and kept his coach waiting right at the foot of the steps. Very odd, if you ask me.”
Very pragmatic. The biddies in the churchyard would gabble until sunset with a new duke to torment.
“He was pale,” Neville said, thinking back over a situation that would not leave his mind. “Rothhaven, when he tried to get up. Looked like a shade.”
“Clearly, attending services was the limit of his ability, and then those women had to drag him all the way into York, parading him about as if he’s some sort of oddity. What can you expect from a family ofbankers?”
As bankers went, His Grace of Walden had a spotless reputation. Quinn Wentworth hadn’t been among the cabal that had financed Napoleon’s Hundred Days, for example. Another set of London bankers had helped the fledgling United States buy the Louisiana Territory from Napoleon, providing an enormous infusion of cash into the emperor’s coffers.
In Neville’s opinion, most bankers were economic parasites. They made money off of other people’s hard work or misfortune. Solicitors might not be gentlemen in the strictest sense of the word, but at least they earned their coin fairly and in exchange for honest services rendered—in theory.
“Lord Nathaniel arrived as His Grace’s fit was passing,” Neville said, taking a fortifying sip of his brandy. “He seemed to know what to do.”
Phoebe set aside her cordial. “And that makes it better, that the same brother who all but imprisoned Rothhaven was abetting His Grace’s public torment today? First, poor Rothhaven is kept hidden away like some disgusting secret. Then they drag him around to the Wentworth entertainments. Now they force him to attend services and haul him clear to York. Of course Rothhaven’s wits went begging. It’s a wonder he didn’t strike you with his walking stick or flail at you with his fists.”
Phoebe fell silent, hands folded in her lap. She didn’t often lose her temper, but in this case, she had a point.
“Rothhaven wanted to be away as quickly as possible,” Neville said slowly. “That much was obvious.” Though the man had been in possession of a stout walking stick, stout enough to do damage if wielded like a weapon.
Phoebe spread her fingers, the firelight catching the gemstones and gold of her rings. Another woman would have tossed out a few recriminations or a succinctI told you so. She merely sat, ladylike and composed, while Neville’s conscience and his legal instincts wrestled with a puzzle.
“We don’t know Rothhaven is being run ragged by his brother. We don’t know whose idea it was for him to attend services. We don’t know that a trip into York wasn’t at His Grace’s bidding. He called on Cranmouth. The old duke retained Cranmouth’s father, and I’m fairly certain Lord Nathaniel did as well.”
Though come to think of it, Cranmouth never mentioned meeting with Lord Nathaniel in the years when the true duke—Robert—had been away from the Hall. All very curious, that. The timing of Robert’s re-emergence at Rothhaven Hall was never discussed in any detail, not in the circles Neville frequented.
“Do we know when Rothhaven re-joined the household at the Hall?” he asked.
“We do not,” Phoebe replied. “I’ve probed gently, strictly out of concern for the duke. As best I can tell, Robert simply did not interest himself in affairs at the family seat. He wasn’t aware his father had died, which again suggests a man of unusually eccentric sensibilities. How can a parent’s death be a matter of indifference to a son in line for a great title?”
Neville was about to sayThey aren’t like us, my dear, but Phoebe was an earl’s daughter. She placed herself firmly on thethemside of the us-and-them divide, and Neville forgot that distinction at his peril.
“The old duke had Robert declared dead,” Neville said, “suggesting the family crotchets aren’t limited to the present generation. More cordial, my dear?”
“Thank you.” She passed over her glass. “One doesn’t want to borrow trouble, but I do fear Rothhaven’s situation will require legal intervention, Mr. Philpot. Between Lord Nathaniel and those Wentworth women, His Grace is without allies, and too much is being asked of him. The falling sickness can be fatal, you know, and I would not want it on my conscience that Rothhaven was being hounded literally to death by selfish meddlers while I stood by and said nothing.”
Neville replenished her drink and topped up his own. “No man is above the law, or so we’re told, but Rothhaven is a duke. Walden’s sisters command ducal standing. Lord Nathaniel is a duke’s son, and there’s tremendous wealth in play. A mere lowly solicitor charges at that windmill only after very careful consideration. Have we heard anything from young Sybil’s swain?”
Phoebe’s smile was an echo of her youthful beauty. “Lord Ellenbrook sent a lovely note to me yesterday, including his good wishes for our Sybil. He expects to be passing back this way early next week. I am encouraged, Mr. Philpot. I am very encouraged.”
The change of subject had served its purpose, restoring Phoebe’s good humor, and allowing Neville to finish his second and third brandy in a better frame of mind. Rothhaven’s situation was troubling, to be sure, but without proof that the duke was being ill treated by his family and neighbors, the matter was not any of Neville’s affair.
Not, at least, until Sybil and her young lord became engaged.
The inevitable had occurred sooner than Robert would have liked. Constance had seen him in the middle of a great fit, convulsing on the ground like a bovine in its final throes at some knacker’s yard. And then what had he done? Had he offered her conversation, reassurances, any semblance of normal interaction?
“I slept most of the way home. Slept in a moving coach, and I detest coach travel.”
Nathaniel regarded him with a slight, maddening smile. “Isn’t that progress of a sort, that youcouldsleep in a moving coach at midday?”
“No, it is not progress.” Robert sat back on his heels, the walled garden for once providing no solace. “I could not have stayed awake in the coach had I wanted to. I could not prevent myself from having that seizure. I sensed trouble approaching, but I hadn’t enough notice to turn the coach around.”
