The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,101
all night. Constance dozed in Lord Stephen’s capacious coach, while Robert held her and battled demons.
She had stated the blunt truth: He felt in some corner of his soul as if he deserved punishment. Perhaps not for having the falling sickness, but for being unable to fool the world into believing him hale and whole, as his father had fooled the world.
The falling sickness had taken the lives of royalty, people who’d surely had the best, most conscientious care available. The malady was not a sign of God’s disfavor any more than crossed eyes or a stammer indicated celestial judgment.
And yet…Robert hated every mile spent in even the most luxurious traveling coach imaginable. Hated the anxiety that dogged him whenever he left Rothhaven’s walls, hated having to limit his sweets, his spirits, even the amount of tea he consumed in the course of a day.
“I cannot smoke a damned cheroot,” he muttered, “cannot get drunk, cannot ride hell-bent on the most sure-footed mount. Cannot waltz, cannot enjoy a pipe of hashish, cannot go for a swim in the river on the hottest summer days.”
“You’re awake,” Constance said. She lay on her side facing him as the coach rocked along in the gray mists of dawn.
“So are you.” The sight of her, even rumpled and tired, made him smile. “Did you rest, or did you feign sleep in hopes that I’d rest?”
She pushed the hair off his brow. “I promise you this, Rothhaven: I am a poor hand at dissembling. I slept some. You?”
“No sleep that I’m aware of.” Which was bad, because regular rest was the foundation upon which all Robert’s strategies for coping with his malady relied.
“You can sleep at Lynley Vale,” Constance said. “I will deal with the family, or put them off until you are feeling more the thing.”
She was so confident of her course, or perhaps—contrary to her own words—she was good at appearing confident.
“Before I find a bed,” Robert replied, “I will send for Cranmouth. He must be alerted to what’s afoot.”
“Mr. Cranmouth made an unfavorable impression on me.” Constance sat up and rested against the seat back. “I met him on only the one occasion, and he managed to be both unctuous and dismissive.”
Robert could recall little of that incident, except a towering sense of humiliation. “I don’t care for Cranmouth much myself, but Nathaniel has never had a problem with him. Cranmouth’s father either kept the old duke’s secrets or didn’t pry enough to learn them, which also weighs in Cranmouth’s favor. I have contemplated changing solicitors, but wanted the marriage settlements tidied up first.”
“The marriage settlements are quite tidy, Your Grace.” She patted her thigh. “Get comfortable. We’ve a few miles to go yet. Can you sack Cranmouth?”
Robert laid his head in her lap, and something about that position was more restful than trying to make do with thin pillows and wadded-up blankets.
“If, immediately before a very serious legal proceeding, I sack the solicitors who have represented my family for generations, I will look somewhat foolish, won’t I? Foolish or daft.”
Constance stroked his ear, a peculiarly soothing caress. “If Cranmouth has never defended a client from a competency petition, isn’t that a strong reason to turn elsewhere for at least this one case?”
The accumulated aches of thirty miles’ jostling eased under Constance’s touch, and even some of Robert’s mental tumult quieted.
“I might hire additional counsel,” he said, “but I ought not to break ranks with Cranmouth. You are putting me to sleep.”
“Fatigue is putting you to sleep.”
Rather than argue, he let himself drift and had almost reached the sweet oblivion of true slumber when the coach swayed around a sharp turn.
“We’re nearly there,” Constance said, patting his shoulder. “Time to wake up and be ducal.”
The near-occasion of sleep left Robert groggier than simply soldiering on through fatigue would have. He nonetheless assisted Constance to put the coach to rights. He was sitting beside her, properly attired and trying to mentally compose a note to Cranmouth, when the coach rocked to a halt at Lynley Vale’s front door.
Robert descended from the carriage, feeling ancient, exhausted, and none too optimistic.
“You’re home,” Althea said, rushing past Robert to take Constance’s arm before he could offer that courtesy. “Breakfast is waiting, and Quinn and Jane are most anxious to discuss matters.”
“Matters must wait,” Robert said. “Lady Constance is fatigued from her exertions, and our sortie to Fendle Bridge was not entirely successful.”
Nathaniel, who was apparently already stepping into the role of host at Lynley Vale, waved