A Duke by Any Other Name by Grace Burrowes Page 0,96

Phoebe has been busy.”

“How do you know it was Lady Phoebe?”

“Because she made certain I was aware she’d be attending the Stebbinses’ ball in York, a gathering to which I was not invited. I can think of nobody else in the neighborhood who would have been in York at an event that lasted half the night, such that they’d be returning at dawn. The road doesn’t pass within fifty yards of that stile and yet she will report the identities of the couple in question far and wide.”

“Exactly what Vicar told Lady Phoebe, if indeed she saw us. He reminded her that the eyes at that distance are not reliable. That Rothhaven Hall could easily have been hosting a guest, that many women wear brown cloaks and straw hats. He further admonished her to keep her damned mouth shut, but that is the last thing she’ll do.”

“She was at the vicarage earlier today,” Althea said, taking off that same straw hat. “She was driving away as I crossed the green. Given what you are telling me now, I think Vicar invited me to confide our situation to him. He brought up the topic of loneliness and foolish choices.”

Did he really? “And did you confide in him?”

“Of course not.” She jabbed her hatpin into the crown of her millinery. “You have placed your trust in me.”

For Althea, a confidence shared was that simple. For Nathaniel…He again possessed himself of her hand, slid off her glove, and linked his fingers with hers.

“Somebody is threatening to reveal that Robbie dwells at the Hall. I put that matter to Sorenson today, because he is the only person beyond the staff who grasps the situation.”

Althea scooted a few inches closer. “The only person besides me and Stephen, you mean. How did he learn of it?”

“Robbie got in a bad way a few years ago. I was in York with Treegum. Thatcher and the housekeeper over-reacted and had Sorenson administer last rites.”

“Thatcher with the toast rack?”

“He was a more formidable fellow five years ago.” We all were more formidable fellows, except for Robbie.

“How has the threat to expose your situation been conveyed, Nathaniel?”

Sorenson hadn’t asked that. Hadn’t asked many questions at all, now that Nathaniel thought about their conversation.

“Notes delivered with the post.”

“Did you see anything unique about the penmanship?”

Another useful inquiry. “An educated hand. The script is neat and regular, not a schoolboy’s labored scrawl or a shopkeeper’s functional letters. I don’t recognize the handwriting, but I might have seen it previously.”

“As if a familiar hand was purposely disguised?”

“Perhaps.” Perhaps yes.

“What of the paper it was written on?”

Nathaniel recollected the feel of the note in his hand. “Not foolscap, now that you mention it. Half sheets of good quality, folded and sealed with red wax.”

“As if somebody tore off a watermark or crest on personal stationery?”

Neither he nor Robbie had made that connection. “Yes, exactly like that.”

Althea sat forward, staring hard at the packed earth of the path before them. “And was the paper clean, or did it look as if it had traveled a great distance?”

“Pristine. It could have been a hand-delivered invitation brought no farther than from the village itself.”

She turned her head to peer at him. “So the threat is likely local.”

“Bloody hell.”

Althea’s smile was impish.

“Excuse my language, my lady.”

“I’ve heard much worse, and if Lady Phoebe is attempting blackmail, that is worth very foul oaths indeed.”

“Why do you suspect Lady Phoebe is attempting mischief at the Hall?” And why hadn’t Nathaniel and Robbie, or Sorenson, been able to make the deductions Althea reached so swiftly? “I had thought Dr. Obediah Soames, the author of so much of Robbie’s misfortune, might be seeking to extort funds from his former patient, but Soames has become a shuffling, mumbling half-wit, of all the ironies. I doubt he is long for this world.”

How Nathaniel wished Robbie had been able to see his former tormenter reduced to a dependent status, unable to so much as stir milk into his own tea or recall the day of the week. Soames had barely been able to make his mark on a piece of paper when the pen had been placed in his hand.

“I suspect Lady Phoebe,” Althea said, “because her sister was once quite close to your father, and her ladyship might well carry a grudge. If she means to launch Miss Price in London, a large sum would facilitate that aim nicely.”

Not a motive Nathaniel would have deduced, but it had the ring of credibility. “My father