The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,100
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.”
“Your generosity of spirit does you credit, my dear. I don’t suppose generosity of the marital kind might extend to a husband who has missed you sorely of late?”
He always asked before visiting her bed. Phoebe was still regularly indisposed, and he would not impose unwanted attentions on her for the world. Weaker vessels were available for casual pleasure, and a considerate husband made frequent, discreet, use of them.
“I’ve missed you too, Neville. I know your clients must come first, but I do miss you.”
That was a yes. That was a gracious, smiling yes, and Neville silently thanked whatever god had imbued the Duke of Rothhaven with an unsound mind. Perhaps the same god would grant Phoebe a child, and as long as miracles were under discussion, why not a boy child?
Robert felt as if he’d been caught in a whirlpool, a force that would drag him relentlessly to the darkest depths no matter how hard he struggled against the current.
A wheeler had come up lame on the journey back to Lynley Vale and what should have been a four-hour ordeal was taking