Page 82 of The Truth About Dukes
Constance ploughed on, before she lost her courage. “I did not realize I had choices where Ivy was concerned. I won’t make that mistake again. If I am to be your duchess, then I have choices and I am choosing to return to Lynley Vale with you. You have choices too, but please, please, never doubt that you are as entitled to happiness as any other man. More so, in fact.”
“And if I consent to have a guardian appointed?”
Good God, she’d never considered he might simply cede the field. “You think Philpot will be easier to deal with if you yield the battle without drawing your sword?”
“Possibly.” Rothhaven poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table. “When the lawyers are involved, negotiation is always an option.”
Constance rose, the food having lost anything approaching appeal. “Philpot is a solicitor, true, but he’s also a scoundrel, and his wife a greater scoundrel than he. I would not trust them to exhibit decency to an old stray dog.”
Rothhaven took a sip of water. The wine was good quality and there was plenty of it, but he chose water and probably always would.
“I’ll order the coach brought around,” he said, “but you must feel free to change your mind at any time, Constance. Ivy is your daughter, and if she were my daughter, I would want her mother to think of her first.”
“Which is why I love you, and why I’m off to write her a brief letter.” Constance left the room while she could still resist the temptation to throw plates at the wall.
Rothhaven remained alone at the table, sipping his water.
Neville Philpot typically spent the week in York, returning to his country estate on Friday afternoon and spending the next two days enjoying the pleasures of rural life. The schedule deviated if Phoebe required him to serve as host at one of her gatherings, but she was quite capable of holding entertainments without him as well.
The day’s developments were simply too promising for him to keep to himself, and thus Wednesday evening found him enjoying a glass of brandy while Phoebe presided over the after-dinner teapot and worked at her embroidery.
“And how has your friend dear Elspeth been keeping?” he asked. “Weatherby is forever going on about his girls, but he never mentions his wife.”
Phoebe threaded a needle with gold silk. “If she can help it, Elspeth Weatherby makes little mention of her spouse. I believe their arrangement more cordial than devoted. What of matters in town? Any interesting news?”
Neville took a sip of his brandy, savoring the moment, for he so seldom felt of use to his wife. Of course, he provided well—a man ought not to marry if he couldn’t provide for his wife and offspring—but Phoebe could have had her pick of good providers.
“What is that you’re working on?” he asked, which was naughty of him. Phoebe had requested his report, and he was being dilatory.
Her smile said she knew his game and knew that it must end with good news. “This is an altar cloth. Just because our church is humble is no excuse for it to be plain. I really ought to be assisting Sybil with the finishing touches on her trousseau, but Sybil will have years to embroider her pillowcases, while the parish will gather again in a few days.”
“Do you suppose His Grace of Rothhaven will make another attempt to attend services?”
Phoebe knotted her thread and began stitching. “One hopes divine services bring comfort to the afflicted, but I will never forget the sight of that poor man, utterly overcome, nearly frothing at the mouth. The memory will give me nightmares. That his family put him on display in such a manner is a shame and a disgrace. When, I ask you, did advertising bad blood become proper behavior?”
As best Neville recalled, Rothhaven had put himself on display, charging up the aisle after his brother had taken his place in the family pew.
“Perhaps Lord Nathaniel couldn’t talk him out of attending,” Neville said, “or perhaps his lordship knew the conversation would be fruitless. You will be relieved to know that Solomon Weatherby is drafting a petition to have Rothhaven declared mentally unsound.”
Phoebe’s needle stilled. “Mr. Weatherby is a conscientious man of the law. We must commend him for an effort to protect a vulnerable peer from further embarrassment. Have you offered to serve as guardian if the court should see fit to appoint one?”
“You know I have, my lady.”
“Good of you. Your task will be thankless and burdensome, I fear, when His Grace apparently cannot leave the Hall without suffering a fit. And did you know, there’s no physician in residence at the Hall?”
“No physician?”
Phoebe’s smile would have done the cat in the cream pot proud. “I overheard old Everett Treegum complaining to the apothecary that his rheumatism had lingered longer this spring than last. If a man suffers rheumatism, he’ll go to a physician for treatment if a physician is on hand, won’t he?”
Treegum was the Rothhaven steward. Ergo, no physician at Rothhaven Hall. “My lady, you should have been a barrister.”
“What duke lacks a personal physician, Mr. Philpot? What duke afflicted with a potentially fatal disease eschews the aid of those best positioned to abate his misery?”
She was the picture of womanly grace, plying her needle in the quiet hours of the evening, and yet, her brilliance blazed brightly for anybody with the sense to appreciate it.
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to read Weatherby’s draft petition if I can get hold of it?” Neville asked, refilling his brandy glass. “I know your days are already quite full, but you have an eye for detail that Weatherby’s clerks are sure to lack.”
“I am always happy to help, Neville—you know that—and I do thank you for coming all the way out from town to keep me apprised of these developments. I fear for His Grace, I truly do. It’s a wonder he hasn’t come to grief already, racketing about a crumbling pile, nobody to look out for his best interests.”
