Page 80 of The Truth About Dukes
He passed the letter to Rothhaven, and Constance was on her feet, reading over His Grace’s shoulder.
“That vile, skulking, putrid parasite,” she said. “Who the hell does this Solomon Weatherby think he is, to question your competence?”
“He’s a neighbor,” Rothhaven replied. “One who doubtless knows I had a full-on shaking fit at the church. He very likely heard of a similar episode in York right outside Cranmouth’s office. Both times I suffered my usual disorientation after such a spell, and—worst offense of all—I am wealthy. Thus I must be put under guardianship, lest I be taken advantage of.” He folded the letter and put it on the table. “I am sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”
A beat of quiet ticked by, while Stephen resisted the urge to upend the table. “How can you sit there as serene as a bishop at a baptism when your very freedom is once more at issue? I am concerned for you, and I make it a point to never bother about anybody but family, which you might well not become. I am concerned for Constance and Althea, who will be caught up in your legal scandal even if you never speak your vows, and I am also selfishly disinclined to have a certified lunatic for a brother-in-law.Bad for business, Rothhaven. Very bad for business.”
“Hush, Stephen,” Constance said, “or I will make you hush.”
Constance had enormous self-control. Stephen had no wish to see that control snap in his direction. “I apologize,” he said, “but the situation is dire.”
She sank back into her chair. “We have faced dire situations before.”
Rothhaven’s reaction to a dire situation was apparently to enjoy his supper. “The difference this time,” he said, spearing a strip of roasted beef from the platter in the middle of the table, “is that a young girl also faces a dire situation. Her well-being must take precedence over my own.” He chewed his beef, then used the edge of his fork to portion off a bite of potatoes.
“I wonder if you aren’t truly daft,” Stephen said. “Thirty miles away, a lawyer as crooked as he is determined is plotting your downfall. If that happens, you won’t be permitted to marry, you won’t be allowed to oversee your own finances while your so-called guardian bleeds you dry. All the while, you sit there eating god-damnedpotatoesrather thandoing something.”
Constance had gone silent, which was more unnerving than her display of temper.
“My lord,” Rothhaven said, considering a forkful of buttery potatoes, “do I tell you how to handle your canes? When to exercise your game leg, when to rest it? Do I presume to know the best means of ameliorating the pain it causes you?”
“My leg rarely hurts.”
Rothhaven saluted with his potatoes. “If you say so. I, on the other hand, have epilepsy. Experience suggests I had best leave the tantrums to others.”
Constance took a sip of her wine, her grip on the glass perilously tight.
“I am not having a tantrum,” Stephen said. “When I have a tantrum, I destroy the room.”
Rothhaven looked at him with faint humor leavened by a dash of pity, and Stephen knew he’d had his last room-destroying histrionic fit.
“Here is how I suggest we proceed,” Rothhaven said. “Constance and I will finish our meal. You, my lord, will pen a reply to Sir Leviticus acknowledging receipt of his missive and thanking him for his diligence. I will return to Rothhaven Hall tonight and confer with my brother and His Grace of Walden to ensure that my financial affairs are in order, and my family well provided for. You, however, are needed here, for I suspect Constance will remain close to Ivy for the nonce.”
Constance set down her wineglass. “I will go with you, Rothhaven. You shall not face this without me.”
Rothhaven put aside his knife and fork and patted Constance’s hand. “My dear, I fear I must. You cannot fight this battle for me. When I lose, you must be at as great a distance from me as possible.”
Constance turned her hand over and laced her fingers with Rothhaven’s. “You are saying that I must choose between you and my daughter?”
Rothhaven kissed her knuckles. “There is no choice to be made, Constance. If Reverend Shaw took umbrage at an arrogant duke, he will have no dealings whatsoever with one declared mentally unfit, nor will he want Ivy associated with such an unfortunate wretch.”
“But you aren’t unfit, Rothhaven. You are the most…” Constance fell silent, and a tear dropped onto the worn planks of the table. “This is so unfair.”
Stephen had said the same thing, countless times, about an unreliable, aching leg. He would keep his miserable excuse for an appendage and be grateful rather than endure the pain Constance and Rothhaven were suffering now.
“I’m off to write a note to Sir Levi,” Stephen said, pushing to his feet. “Rothhaven, I’m sorry.”
He’d said that more today than he had in the previous five years, and the words grew more bitter with each use.
“I am not sorry,” Rothhaven replied. “I have known more joy in recent days than any man deserves.” He saluted Constance with his wineglass, and Stephen moved toward the door.
If Constance needed to cry, she also needed for her brother to leave the room. By the time Stephen closed the door, Rothhaven was at Constance’s side, his handkerchief already in his hand. Stephen stood outside the door as the sound of quiet weeping commenced.
One of the buxom serving maids went by with two tankards in each hand. “Done so soon, sir?”
“No longer hungry. Where can I find paper and ink?”
“Ask the missus at the front desk. She’ll charge you dearly.”
