A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,71
being a fact of life.
“The Wentworths are the last family you should seek to marry into.” Phoebe set a brisk pace for the stairs. “The duke was convicted of a heinous crime and juries don’t convict a man unless he’s guilty as sin.” He’d been pardoned and supposedly exonerated, but Phoebe trusted an English jury to be more discerning than royal favor or gossip.
“But what about—?”
“The Wentworth fortune? They are bankers, and bankers become paupers overnight. Besides, Lord Stephen is only the heir, and his brother yet enjoys good health. Lord Stephen could be knocked from his expectations by this time next year. Then where would you be?”
Sybil stopped on the landing. “Married into a ducal family? Expecting the next spare? Free from godforsaken Yorkshire, where winters never end and everybody is cousins with everybody else?”
“You sound like me, when I was young and foolish. Apply yourself to wooing Ellenbrook and you will be a viscountess with more annual pin money than most women see in a lifetime.”
They gained the upper reaches of the house, morning sunshine showing off all the marble, gilt, and art to good advantage. Phoebe had worked hard to appoint her household in elegant good taste at a time when ostentation was becoming fashionable.
Sybil ran a finger along the frame of Great-Uncle Blanchard’s portrait, then rubbed the dust away with her thumb. “Should I call for my horse and attempt to meet Ellenbrook by chance?”
“We will call for the gig and pay a call on Vicar Sorenson. Wear your plain bonnet and everyday cloak.”
“Why are we calling on Vicar?”
Phoebe’s resolve faltered, because really, Sybil was so far from shrewd that she’d be a tiresome mate to any man with half a wit. But then, men did not generally marry to debate philosophy with their wives.
“Because when Ellenbrook comes in from his ride, you won’t be here, will you? You will be tending to social obligations, and leaving his lordship to rattle about without a companion for whist, without anybody to flatter him the livelong day or ask his opinion about the most interesting articles in the newspaper. He’s male, so sniffing at Lady Althea’s skirts is to be expected, but the domestic peace and ease he needs aren’t to be found with a strumpet. Change out of your slippers and we’ll be on our way.”
Sybil ought to have scampered up to her room, but she instead waited on the stairs, two steps up. “Why do you call Lady Althea a strumpet? That is a low insult, and she strikes me as very careful to tend to the proprieties.”
“The best strumpets always do. I have it on good authority that her ladyship wanders her acres unescorted, she takes tea with the farmers’ wives, and she is not well regarded in London. Of course she’s a strumpet. It only remains for us to expose her as such to Ellenbrook and any other man foolish enough to give her a second look. You, meanwhile, will be a pattern card of ladylike deportment and charitable sentiments.”
Sybil looked like she might say more, but the sound of hoofbeats on the drive intruded.
“Away with you,” Phoebe said, motioning with her hand. “Ellenbrook mustn’t find you panting for him on the front steps, my girl. Mustn’t find you panting for him anywhere.”
No good came from panting after a man. Given Sybil’s antecedents, she should have been made to grasp that truth from the cradle onward.
“About Lady Althea,” Sybil said.
“Never fear. We’ll see her ruined once and for all, and every hostess in London will thank us.” Phoebe donned her best gracious, carefree smile and prepared to invite Ellenbrook to join them on their call at the vicarage. He was already dressed to go out and had no polite means of refusing to accompany them.
But then, why should he? Given a choice between a woman of lowly antecedents who only looked like a lady and a decent female minding her social obligations conscientiously, Ellenbrook’s decision should be easy to make.
Chapter Twelve
Nathaniel had passed into the phase of exhaustion where waking, interrupted slumber, and reality all merged into a philosophical peace that observed life with benevolent detachment. Soldiers and the mothers of young children doubtless reached this state frequently, while Nathaniel, whose household thrived on order and predictability, was pleasantly disoriented by the muting of chronic anxieties.
Robbie was on the mend, according to Althea. Sometime after midnight, she’d thrown a wet flannel at Nathaniel for referring to her as your ladyship. He’d barked at her