The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,113
do you base that claim?”
Thank heavens Sir Leviticus had demanded that Robert rehearse this as well as dozens of other lines of questioning.
“The times were less enlightened years ago,” Robert said. “My father was made to feel ashamed of his condition, and feared that he would be exploited by unscrupulous parties if his seizures became public knowledge. He nonetheless managed his ducal responsibilities adequately, as we heard Mr. Cranmouth himself testify earlier.”
Cranmouth was examining his pocket watch as if the secret to eternal life were written on its face. A few people in the gallery got up to leave, others took their seats, while Robert remained focused on Sir Leviticus. Robert’s sense was that the tide had turned, and the case was going against Weatherby. But legal proceedings were the province of the devious, among whom Robert had never sought to number.
A clerk passed Sir Leviticus a note.
“Then your unfortunate malady is inherited,” Weatherby said, his statement dripping with false pity, “and I’m sure Dr. Warner would tell us that what is inherited cannot be cured.”
“My condition is not inherited, but rather, the result of serious head injuries sustained one after the other at the age of eleven. My brother, Nathaniel, has no symptoms of the falling sickness, as he would doubtless testify. He would further testify that I myself had no symptoms until after my boyhood riding accidents.”
Robert offered this hearsay on behalf of his brother with an apologetic smile at the commission, who were at risk for missing their nooning, thanks to Weatherby’s ridiculousness.
Sir Leviticus was re-reading the note in his hand, and that, along with a quiet and growing sense of dread, kept Robert from claiming a premature victory. Weatherby was not acting defeated, and Neville Philpot wasn’t looking ashamed.
“Have you more questions, Mr. Weatherby?” Drossman asked.
“Yes, I have more questions. I am far from done with my interrogation. Have you a physician in residence at Rothhaven Hall, Your Grace?”
“I do not. I doubt any of the epileptic patients your friend Dr. Warner has treated have physicians in residence, and not one of those five people was declared mentally incompetent either.”
A snicker went through the gallery. Nathaniel was trying not to smile.
Weatherby grabbed his lapels and drew himself up. “I respectfully ask the commission to caution His Grace. He is under oath and bound to answer my questions, not expound upon whatever speculation seizes his considerable fancy.”
Drossman waved a hand. “No gratuitous speculation, please, Your Grace. Weatherby, are you almost finished? I vow I’ve yet to see anything approaching lunacy in these proceedings, unless it’s the lunacy of lawyers alleging mental illness where it doesn’t exist.”
The commission only oversaw the proceedings. The jury made the actual finding, and the jury appeared amused by Drossman’s observations.
“To the contrary, sir, this matter deserves our utmost consideration,” Weatherby said, raising his voice to be heard over the whispers flying around the gallery. “We see here a man afflicted since his youth with seizures, and we have the unrefuted testimony of Dr. Warner that seizures can and do diminish reason.”
Weatherby swept Robert with a pitying look. “His Grace was hospitalized for years, no matter the genteel fictions maintained to the contrary, and now we learn that despite these factors, a man of considerable means has no medical professional on hand to care for him. His family has provided no such medical professional, and some in attendance today regard this as a laughing matter.”
Drossman dropped a pencil onto a sheet of foolscap. “I regard it as a serious matter, but that needn’t mean it must become a lengthy matter. I’m sure the jury would agree. Get on with it, Weatherby. Sir Leviticus must have his turn to call witnesses, and he has ever been one for thorough prosecution of his cases.”
“How did you arrive here today?” Weatherby asked, swinging his gaze on Robert as if the question was somehow of great import.
“I rode my horse. Revanche is a lovely fellow. Stands about seventeen hands, has a fondness for apples.”
Lord Stephen smiled and saluted with two fingers, though his gaze remained watchful, as it had for the duration of the proceedings.
“You didn’t take a closed carriage, one with all the shades drawn even on so fine a day?”
Robert sat forward and spoke slowly and loudly. “I rode my horse.” Never had four words given a man more satisfaction, and yet, Robert had the sense he was being drawn into a trap.
“And isn’t it true,” Weatherby went on, “that you eschew strong spirits, abhor