The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,105

on such a happy occasion. She looked up and happened to catch Quinn’s eye.

He was smiling, and Quinn smiled so seldom that Constance had forgotten the breathtaking warmth he could display. His daughters and his duchess were the usual recipients of his rare smiles, but he aimed the full-on version at Constance now.

He lifted his glass. “To not compromising on important matters, and if Rothhaven is to blame for your newfound sense of resolve, then I suppose we must thank him and welcome him—him too—to the family.”

Heat stole up Constance’s cheeks, even as a measure of joy pushed aside the worries plaguing her so sorely. Quinn had started the toasts that invariably accompanied any wedding breakfast, and as Jane stood to offer felicitations to the newlyweds, Quinn rose to fetch a fresh bottle of wine from the sideboard.

He passed behind Constance’s chair and bent low enough to whisper in her ear, “Welcome home, my lady,” then sidled on by with all the savoir-faire to which a bank nabob turned duke was entitled.

“What did he say?” Rothhaven asked.

“He said he loves me.” Said he’d always loved her, and said he blamed himself for the whole sad business all those years ago. Silly man. Silly, dear, dear man. “You were right, Rothhaven.” Constance took a taste of an exquisite dessert.

“I am frequently right. To which occasion do you now refer?”

“You said today is a joyous occasion.”

“When I am with you, the occasion is always joyous.”

And that was not flattery, that was Rothhaven speaking the truth, as he invariably did. Constance finished her sweet as the toasting and laughter rose around her, and a trickle of worry managed to wash back over her joy.

She was not being entirely honest with Rothhaven. She absolutely did intend to spend the rest of her life as his duchess, painting away the seasons, running his household, and raising his children—and also, God willing, her daughter—but she did not trust Cranmouth to adequately defend that future.

Not in the least, and thus she’d taken steps without informing Rothhaven, steps he might well oppose. She lifted her glass yet again to the happy couple, and prayed that she and Rothhaven might also earn that appellation, sooner rather than later.

“I tell you, Sparrow”—Stephen tipped his hat to a pair of passing dowagers—“between true love, married love, and frustrated love, Lynley Vale should have a rose-colored miasma hovering over its roof. I had to get away.” Stephen had also been entrusted with a letter to deliver for Constance, one she hadn’t wanted anybody else to see. Miss Abbott had taken the missive, thanked Stephen, and he’d had no pretext for prolonging the encounter.

Regular constitutionals along the walkways of York had failed to produce another sighting of the lady, and perhaps that was for the best.

Sir Leviticus was doubtless slowing his usual gait, the better to accommodate Stephen’s pace. He was astute like that, or Stephen would have sacked him years ago.

“Has the petition been served?” Sir Leviticus asked. “It’s been a good week since I heard Weatherby’s clerks complaining of his latest project.”

Weatherby, along with Philpot, had apparently made a cottage industry out of guardianships for profit. If Stephen lacked patience with any variety of criminal, it was the criminal who preyed on the helpless and was paid to do it with the victim’s own means.

“The petition was served the day after Lady Althea and Lord Nathaniel’s wedding,” Stephen said. “Cranmouth has been alerted to the situation, and Rothhaven pretends all is in hand.”

“All is not in hand?”

“His Grace has staring spells,” Stephen said. “I had no idea such an affliction existed. I was introducing him to a mount I’m training for his use and in the middle of a conversation, Rothhaven just…He went as still as a deserted cathedral. I babbled on, not even noticing the difference until, when I concluded my eloquence, he made no reply. Damnably awkward.”

Sir Leviticus paused on the steps of his club. “More awkward than a shaking fit?”

“Yes, in a way, because he simply stares at nothing, says nothing, and generally comports with some people’s notions of imbecility.”

“Does Cranmouth know of this condition? If I were representing His Grace, I’d certainly find it relevant.”

The lawyers’ club was the usual dark, carpeted, wainscoted bastion of male self-importance, the majordomo as pretentious as any at Stephen’s clubs in London.

“A quiet table, if any you have,” Sir Leviticus said.

“Very good, sir. Follow me.” The fellow collected two leather-bound menus and minced off with more dignity than the director of