The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,115
Thank God and Miss Abbott. You came. Sir Leviticus, may I present to you Mr. Alexander Fulton, maths instructor at the Greater Wilburn Friends Scholastic Academy, and friend to His Grace from years gone by. Did Mrs. Fulton accompany you?”
“Helen’s in the gallery.” Fulton squeezed Rothhaven’s shoulder. “Robbie, my friend, what a pass, eh?”
“You just missed a seizure,” Constance said. “His Grace is not at his best.”
Fulton looked around the hall. “And the crowd doubtless gawked all the while.” He waved to his wife, a small, blond woman with vivid blue eyes. “Well, we’re here now, and we can tell the lot of them what you put up with for all those years. Bloody Soames, beg pardon for my language. Helly still has nightmares.”
“Mr. Fulton,” Sir Leviticus said, “we haven’t much time to prepare if you’re to testify. A few questions, please?” They moved to the corner of the room, Mrs. Fulton joining them.
Weatherby and Philpot were also exchanging whispers, sending curious glances in Mr. Fulton’s direction.
“You sent for…?” Rothhaven gestured toward Mr. Fulton.
“Alexander Fulton,” Constance said. “Yes. I had Miss Abbott track him down, but I didn’t mention it because I wasn’t sure she could find him in time. I only let Sir Leviticus know I’d done so after today’s proceedings began. Are you angry?”
“Impressed.” Rothhaven kissed the back of her gloved hand. “Grateful.” He sat up as the members of the jury, one of them finishing a meat pie, resumed their places in the jury box. The bailiffs began chivvying the crowd to their seats, and Constance wanted to bellow at them to cease their foolishness.
Rothhaven wasn’t ready to testify again, not nearly. Every minute of delay at this point would aid him, though Drossman seemed bent on hurry, and Weatherby doubtless sensed the advantage he’d just gained.
“Where’s Stephen?” Rothhaven asked.
“He’s…” Constance looked about. Stephen was in conversation with Lady Phoebe. Dear God, what could he be about? “He’s here, has been here for the whole proceeding.”
“Good.”
And then they were out of time, with the bailiff bidding everybody to rise, and Constance having no choice but to rejoin Quinn, Althea, and Jane in the gallery. The air had grown closer as the morning had progressed, and both Althea and Jane were wielding their fans before Constance resumed her seat.
“He’s not ready,” Constance muttered, as the commissioners shuffled to their places, and Sir Leviticus began to prose on about the need to suspend the proceedings in fairness to the allegedly disabled duke. Weatherby was spluttering before Sir Leviticus had concluded his argument, and Drossman’s expression said he had no patience with the pair of them.
“Jane,” Constance said. “Now, please.”
“Very well.” Jane fluffed her skirts, waved her fan a few more times before her cheeks, then cast the fan out across the room to land with a clatter between the counsel tables.
“Oh, dear heavens, the heat!” She raised her forearm to her brow, then fell into a dramatic heap at Constance’s feet.
“My duchess has fainted,” Quinn bellowed, a credible note of dismay in his voice. “I want a sedan chair, smelling salts, and a glass of hock, and I want them now.”
Assuming the nearest tavern stocked German wines, a glass of hock would take a good five minutes to produce. Sedan chairs were an outmoded means of transport, and finding one—even for a duchess—would take a good quarter hour.
Jane’s eyes remained closed, but she squeezed Constance’s fingers before Quinn scooped his duchess into his arms and recommenced making a fuss worthy of an upset duke.
Chapter Twenty-one
“Her Grace of Walden has suffered a grand faint,” Sir Leviticus whispered. “Walden is putting on a performance worthy of Mrs. Siddons when the royal box is occupied. I suspect your duchess is directing the play.”
“I’m sure of it,” Robert said, resisting the temptation to smile. The same wily determination that had prompted a young maid to slip a wedge of cheese between clean sheets was still much in evidence, and thank God for it.
For her.
The morning had had a low point—the moment when Robert had realized he was about to have a shaking fit before half of York and the commission of lunacy itself—but a high point had been granted him too, when he’d announced, before the entire room, that Constance had become his wife.
“Are you ready to testify?” Sir Leviticus said.
“Best not. Not yet. Soon.”
The sight of Alexander, full of his usual energy and cheer, Helen clearly as devoted to her husband as Alexander was to