The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,106

a state funeral. The scent of tobacco wafted from one of the reading rooms, while cooked beef perfumed the air nearer the dining room.

The whole place was tediously predictable, and Stephen’s appetite for steak and ale abruptly fled. He didn’t exactly miss London, and he certainly didn’t miss Love Nest Vale, but he missed something and someplace.

Or someone.

“Oh dear.” Sir Levi hesitated at the door of the dining room. “I suppose one ought not to jump to conclusions.”

“Jump,” Stephen said, remaining in the corridor and peering over Sir Leviticus’s shoulder. “What do you see?”

“Weatherby, Philpot, and Cranmouth, all at the same table. Again.”

“Again?”

“Yes, now that I see them together I’m reminded that they shared a meal a week or two ago. That made an impression at the time because they aren’t typically social, at least Weatherby and Cranmouth aren’t. Cranmouth takes his consequence from his ducal client, you see, and limits his associations accordingly. I am permitted to break bread with him by virtue of my knighthood, but I rarely do.”

Stephen withdrew into the corridor. “Do lawyers opposing one another typically confer this early in the litigation?”

“Not in the usual course. Negotiations as the hearing approaches are common, but one needs guidance from a client before taking that step.”

Rothhaven would not have guided Cranmouth to settle anything. Cranmouth’s marching orders were to fight the petition by any and every legal means. Steak and ale did not qualify as courtroom weapons.

“Can you have somebody with acute hearing take a table near them?” Stephen asked. “I do not like what I’m seeing, and I suspect Rothhaven would hate it.” While Constance would rid the world of a crooked solicitor or two. Or three.

The majordomo hovered a few feet away, tapping the menus against his palm. “If I might make a suggestion, sir?”

“Please,” Sir Leviticus said. “I trust your discretion, Monmouth.”

“Judge Framley takes his midday meal here without fail by one of the clock. I can seat him at the table next to Mr. Cranmouth’s. I believe you and His Honor are on amicable terms.”

“He’s a retired judge,” Sir Leviticus said. “We play the occasional hand of cards, and he is godfather to my eldest.”

“And here is His Honor,” Monmouth said. “Punctual as usual.”

Sir Leviticus and the judge conferred, Stephen pretended to examine the portraits on the walls—why did half-naked goddesses appeal to a gaggle of staid lawyers?—and then Monmouth was leading the judge into the dining room.

“Why would the majordomo do that for you?” Stephen asked.

“You’re asking if Monmouth is trustworthy, and he is. His loyalty is to the club, and if I had to guess, I’d say that Cranmouth, Philpot, and Weatherby are behind in their dues, rude to the staff, and parsimonious with their vales.”

“Bad form,” Stephen said, accepting his hat and coat from a footman. “Mortal sin, that. Have you ever defended a client accused of mental incompetence, Sir Leviticus?”

“No. Am I soon to have that honor?”

“You are soon to ride out to Rothhaven Hall with me and explore the possibility.”

“So Cranmouth is telling you not to worry?” Lord Stephen asked, patting the gelding’s neck. “Claiming you’ll be home by supper following a pleasant chat with the commission members?”

After a week of riding lessons, Robert was still both amazed and terrified to find himself back in the saddle. The project had been necessary, both to provide an excuse to call at Lynley Vale every day, and to keep Lord Stephen from descending into a grand pout.

“Cranmouth tells me that I should be more concerned over a meeting with my steward than I am over this mere formality.” Robert gathered up the reins as Lord Stephen took two steps back. For a man who professed to care about only his close relatives, his lordship certainly did hover near his riding student.

“If the lawyer tells you not to worry,” Lord Stephen said, “then you should be very worried indeed. Though I have every faith in Sir Leviticus, I am worried, which is no credit to my masculine dignity.”

“Walk on.” Robert nudged Revanche with his calves. The beast obligingly shuffled forward, and the little boy who dwelled deep in memory gave a shout of joy.

“You have the natural seat of a damned cavalry officer,” Lord Stephen said, backing away another two steps. The footing in the arena was sand, which had to be hard going for a man who relied on a cane.

“I am all but trussed into the saddle.” The leather straps went over Robert’s thighs, beneath the flap of his