The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,123

ale now?”

Drossman heaved up a sigh. “You may step down, Philpot. Mind you do so carefully.”

The warning was lost. Philpot exited the witness box, neglected to recall that two steps were involved, and went sprawling onto the floor. He lay there for a moment, then rolled to his back.

“Damned fine ale, it was,” he murmured. “I think I wet myself.”

Sir Leviticus spared him not a glance. “I move to dismiss with prejudice the complaint brought against Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. In the alternative, I ask the jury for a verdict denying the petition. A man afflicted with the falling sickness might be slow to answer a few questions immediately following a seizure, but under no circumstances would justice be served by entrusting that man’s welfare and fortune to an admitted criminal parading about as a guardian.”

“Hear, hear,” the jury foreman called.

The gallery was whispering, laughing, and pointing, while Philpot began gently snoring on the floor.

Drossman conferred briefly with the other commissioners, then motioned the bailiff to call for order.

“As chair of this commission, I hereby dismiss with prejudice the petition brought concerning Robert, Duke of Rothhaven. Your Grace, the falling sickness cannot be used as grounds to question your competence again. This commission is adjourned.”

The commissioners left, Weatherby packed up his books and tried to slink away, though a journalist or two was already calling his name.

“You lot,” Robert said, gesturing to Weatherby’s clerks. “Get Philpot off the floor, find his coach, and send him home.”

The older clerk grimaced. “Perhaps he ought to tarry in town for a bit, Your Grace. Lady Phoebe might do for him if we send him home now.”

“Get him home,” Robert said, “before my duchess takes a notion to have him sent to prison.”

Lord Stephen watched as one clerk took Philpot by the boots, and the other under the arms.

“I have a hard head,” Lord Stephen said, “but drinking that man under the table challenged even my considerable abilities. Devious of you, Rothhaven, and a marvelously effective strategy.”

Sir Leviticus tidied up law books and treatises as Philpot was hauled away. “I can have him criminally charged. At the least he ought to be forbidden to do any further legal work.”

“Yonder solicitor won’t fare well in prison,” Lord Stephen observed. “Perhaps that’s the fate he deserves.”

“Philpot will be in a prison of his own making at home with Lady Phoebe,” Robert said. “His punishment will be to stare at the locked bedroom door every night, knowing he’s been a fool for love.” Or for some version of love.

Lord Stephen propped a hip on the counsel table. “And what is Lady Phoebe’s punishment, for much of this mischief can be laid at her dainty feet.”

“Philpot will stare at the locked door,” Robert said, “and her ladyship’s penance is to be on the other side of it, with only her incurable pride for a bedfellow. None of this had to happen, but she would not reconcile herself to her lot. They must forgive each other and themselves, or bitterness and regret will drive them mad.”

“Rothhaven!” Constance flew from the doorway and bundled into his arms, hugging him fiercely. “How splendidly you managed that. Brilliantly. Sir Leviticus, have you ever seen the like?”

“Never, Your Grace, and if luck prevails, I will never see it again.”

“Nor I,” Lord Stephen said. “I am off to swill willow bark tea in hopes of warding off a sore head. Congratulations on your nuptials, Con.”

Her Grace of Rothhaven stuck her tongue out at her brother. “Jane will see you married now. Best get back to Italy, or Persia, or wherever bachelors go to hide from true love.”

“Persia sounds tempting.” He bowed and withdrew, or tried to.

“Lord Stephen!” Robert called.

He stopped, half turned, head cocked as if listening to far-off birdsong.

“Our thanks. Our sincere, hearty thanks. I owe you, and I always repay my debts.”

He shrugged. “We’re family now. Debts don’t come into it. Visit me in Persia.”

“Will he really go?” Robert asked, feeling a profound wave of fondness for his new brother-in-law.

“Who knows,” Constance said. “Take me home, Rothhaven. Take me home now, and tell my family they are not to call for at least a week.”

He hugged her, though such affection drew stares and whispers. “An entire week?”

“That will buy us three days…and nights.”

“Home, then,” Robert said, and for the first time in years, he could say those words, knowing that with Constance at his side, Rothhaven Hall would actually become a home. Not a comfortable prison, not a place full of distant

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