smoothed out Her Grace of Rothhaven’s letter and began reading.
“I want you to know something,” Rothhaven said, as he and Constance were shown to a private dining room at the Duck and Goose.
“I want the jury to know many things,” Constance replied. “For instance, if they find against you, I will have Quinn and Jane ruin the lot of them unto the nineteenth generation.” She would do no such thing, of course. Reverend Shaw detested high-handed aristocrats for reasons, and a tendency to abuse wealth and power for personal satisfaction was probably at the top of his list.
And in that much, oddly enough, Constance agreed with him.
Rothhaven held her chair for her as the serving maid closed the door. Luncheon was already laid out on the table, but Constance had no appetite.
Her husband leaned close to whisper in her ear. “I loved being able to tell the world that you are my duchess. I love that you sent for Alexander and Helen. I love that you put that vile excuse for a physician in his place. I love you.”
Constance rose and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you too, so very much, and I am furious on your behalf.”
He stroked her hair, and some of the ire drained out of her. “We shall contrive, Your Grace,” he murmured. “That business with Her Grace of Walden fainting was splendid.”
“I think Jane enjoyed using the fiction of female frailty to control an entire courtroom. She was very convincing, wasn’t she?”
“Walden was convincing. Let’s eat, shall we?”
He was so calm, so at ease when Constance was ready to rip up at all of York, and most especially at Lady Phoebe Philpot, who had no doubt authored this entire drama.
“I could manage some bread and butter,” Constance said, resuming her seat. “A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss either.”
“This is not the prisoner’s last meal, Constance.” Rothhaven sounded amused, which exceeded the bounds of savoir-faire by several leagues.
“Today has been far more than merely trying, Rothhaven.”
He poured himself a glass of water, poured her a glass of ale, and sat at the head of the table. “It has been a challenge. Nonetheless, please recall that certificates of lunacy can be overturned, and if Weatherby prevails, Philpot will have to deal with you, Nathaniel, Walden, and my own efforts to limit his schemes. Speaking of schemes, I have taken a measure of which I doubt you’ll approve.”
“Say on. I have also taken a measure that I doubt will merit approval.” Another measure.
“I sent a modest sum to Reverend Shaw while I still had control of my assets.”
Constance paused, a piece of bread in one hand, the butter knife in the other. “Why would I disapprove of such generosity?”
“Because Shaw could take offense at my hubris, because funds make it easier for him to decamp to New South Wales, because I did not consult you before I sent him the bank draft.”
Rothhaven grasped that a failure to consult his wife could be a transgression. That such a man stood accused of incompetence was an injustice of mythic proportions.
“We haven’t exactly been in each other’s pockets this past week,” Constance said.
He touched her arm. “You are not wroth with me for my high-handedness?”
“Eat something, Rothhaven. I can sustain myself on anger and determination, but you haven’t that luxury.”
He served himself some beef and barley soup, which—now that Constance got a whiff of its aroma—looked tasty.
“Shaw might well return the money,” Rothhaven said. “I might have made matters worse.”
“Then he returns the money, but I don’t know as matters can get much worse. I wrote back to Ivy and told her that under no circumstances was she to quit her uncle’s protection.”
Rothhaven filled a second bowl with soup and set it before Constance. “Did you, now? Told her to stay put when she’d all but begged you to rescue her?”
The best part, the very, very best part of loving Rothhaven was that he had from the first been Constance’s friend. An honorable, kind, decent, tolerant friend. He greeted her announcement as pleasantly as if she’d informed him of a decision to have some new dresses made up.
“This whole legal mess,” Constance said, “with Weatherby and Philpot, is driven by Lady Phoebe’s mean-spiritedness.”
“Very likely. Philpot does not need my money, but he needs to keep his wife happy. Sir Leviticus made it plain that Philpot married up, and his bride has never let him forget it.”
The soup was good. Being able to air these thoughts with Rothhaven was