Page 49 of The Truth About Dukes
Her common sense and apparently her heart. “We know he has the falling sickness.”
Stephen tugged on his hat brim and kneed Revanche away from the mounting block. “Yesterday’s incident was apparently nothing short of spectacular. What of his finances?”
Mungo fell in step beside Revanche without Quinn having to steer him. “Rothhaven’s skill when it comes to investing is spectacular as well. Apparently when a man has little to do other than read newspapers from every corner of the realm and as far away as Boston and Rome, his investment decisions bear abundant fruit.”
“High praise from you.”
The horses clip-clopped along, and while part of Quinn was enjoying an outing with his brother, another part was concerned for Jane. She’d managed little more than dry toast at breakfast.
Again.
“Rothhaven is a thinker, Stephen. He ponders and conjectures and sees connections that only emerge when a situation is studied with equal parts insight, information, and imagination. His father was apparently a plodder, and Lord Nathaniel did what he could with the estate finances. Rothhaven took on the investments five years ago and has worked miracles.”
“Miracles?” Stephen turned Revanche left at the foot of the drive, in the direction of Rothhaven Hall and the village.
“Fortunes can be won or lost when a nation is at war,” Quinn said, “as you well know. Rothhaven has made several fortunes, and in a very short time. He knows when to buy corn and where to sell it. Knows what the Americans want before they want it. He grasped exactly what France would need to rebuild—seed, seed drills, ploughs, bullocks, brick molds,paintbrushes, for God’s sake—and set about quietly buying it up and cheaply shipping it. He could open a bank and do very well for his customers.”
“You are saying he’s brilliant with money.”
The day was lovely, a harbinger of summer, though by tonight—this being Yorkshire—the sky could be hurling down sleet. Had Stephen not asked Quinn to join him, Quinn would probably have spent the afternoon indoors, poring over some damned ledger. That was a recipe for premature aging, also foolish, and Rothhaven had been kept away from fresh air for years.
What did that do to a man?
“I get the sense,” Quinn said, “that Rothhaven isn’t even trying when it comes to money, Stephen. He was cooped up indoors day after day. He amused himself with investing based on voracious reading and prodigious mental speculation. He’s some sort of investing savant. Whatever else is true, Constance and Althea will be lavishly provided for.”
“This is not particularly good news, is it?” Stephen asked, urging his horse into the trot.
“What could possibly be wrong with abundant settlements?”
“If Rothhaven is fabulously wealthy, his fortune could lure the unscrupulous into scheming against him. I will now imitate a man having a fit.”
Stephen shook the reins first, then wobbled his body, then made his limbs tremble as the horse slowed from a trot to a walk, then shuffled to a halt.
“Is that what Revanche is supposed to do?” Quinn asked.
“No,” Stephen said, sitting up and patting the horse’s neck. “He was supposed to come to an immediate stop and stand like a statue, but I purposely did not practice in the arena first, nor did I give him any verbal command to stand. We practiced this morning, then I put him away. This was an unannounced exam. He did well, he needs to do better. How’s Jane?”
Jane was expecting, a situation in which Stephen took an inordinate interest. Never had a man longed as fervently for a ducal nephew as Lord Stephen Wentworth apparently longed for one.
“She will be intermittently miserable for the next five months. I will be unrelentingly worried.”
“I know not what inspires more dread in me: Jane’s condition or the ongoing courtships of our sisters. Evidence of present or impending marital bliss faces me on every hand.”
Stephen, who was obnoxiously intelligent, sounded genuinely dumbfounded.
“It might be contagious, that bliss,” Quinn said. “Constance succumbed almost as soon as Althea brought Lord Nathaniel up to scratch. You’d best return to London posthaste, lest the ailment afflict you too.”
Stephen shot him a peevish look. “Hilarious, but if you think I will abandon our sisters before they are securely ensconced in the state of holy matrimony, you have spent too long impersonating a bear in the nursery. Neville Philpot saw Rothhaven’s seizure yesterday, and I beg leave to doubt that Philpot’s solicitude was motivated entirely by Christian charity. Philpot has something of a reputation.”
“You are, as usual, creating drama where none exists. Philpot will gossip with his confreres, and Lady Phoebe will loudly remember His Poor, Infirm Grace in her endless prayers and small talk, and nobody will take any note of either of them.”
Stephen remained silent, urging his horse back up to the trot. That Stephen would let the matter drop proved nothing. Rothhaven might be a genius at spotting lucrative investments. Stephen, of a certainty, could smell trouble in the wind. That he would subject himself to not one but two courting swains and a duchess on the nest suggested trouble was indeed approaching.
“His Grace of Rothhaven is no more insane than you are, Philpot,” Cranmouth said. “One doesn’t accuse a duke of mental incompetence and come away unscathed.”
“One does not,” Neville replied, taking a sip of excellent claret, “unless the duke is incontrovertibly afflicted. Then one is taking on a thankless and necessary public duty.” Phoebe’s words, though they had sounded more convincing when she’d spoken them.
Neville had chosen to have this discussion with Cranmouth over a superb rare steak at the club frequented by most of the solicitors and men of business in York. The Dalesmen premises weren’t as busy at midday, and thus the conversation was private.
