from Robert, not Nathaniel. Nathaniel let the house go to ruin. Busied himself tending the estate, and seldom bothered to call on me. How would he have come across a scheme to enrich the family coffers by brokering nails, lumber, and the like?”
“Lumber?” Lumber, especially hardwood, was scarce in England. The ever-growing cities and towns wanted quick construction, not the more expensive stone variety, and what didn’t end up in housing had long since been impressed into service in the Royal Navy.
“Rothhaven bought lumber in America,” Cranmouth said, “where they literally have trees to burn, and let the wood finish seasoning as it traveled across the sea, thus reducing the time the inventory needed to be stored at its origins. These are not the behaviors of a lunatic.”
“But until recently, Nathaniel was the duke of record, so the cleverness must be attributed to him. Of Robert, we know only that he grew up away from his family, likely in a madhouse, and only recently returned to Rothhaven Hall.”
Cranmouth glanced around. “Lunatics do not amass fortunes in only a few years’ time.”
“You have no proof that the investments were Robert’s doing, Cranmouth. Sensible people are not relegated to madhouses.”
Cranmouth sat back, wineglass in hand. “Sensible people are sent to madhouses every day, Philpot. You know that as well as I do. Inconvenient wives, carping aunties, simpletons with no harm in them whatsoever…They can all be quietly incarcerated for a modest sum, and if they aren’t barmy when they arrive at those places, they will be by the time a doctor comes around on an annual visit.”
If any such visit was ever made. “As best I can determine, Robert Rothmere would have spent at least a decade in a private madhouse. He was sent off somewhere as a boy, we know that much, and if you did a very thorough review of the old duke’s ledgers, you could probably ascertain where. Add the falling sickness to his afflictions, and you doubtless have a man of very frail mental faculties. You saw him, Cranmouth. When his fit was over, he couldn’t speak, and he could barely stand. Anybody could have served him a bad turn in such a state or made off with him bodily.”
Cranmouth grimaced and took a sip of his wine. “It was awful, no denying that. One can’t help but feel sorry for the poor fellow. He’s a duke, an extraordinarily wealthy duke, and he looked like a gin drunk twitching in the gutter. Pathetic. This is an excellent vintage.”
“Have some more.” Neville refilled Cranmouth’s glass yet again and signaled the waiter for another bottle. “I’m not asking you to bring the petition for a competency review, Cranmouth, merely to continue to serve in the capacity you always have. You are the legal conscience of the Rothhaven estate, the loyal servant of the family’s interests. If Rothhaven is declared incompetent, you would simply carry on, though your direction would come from a guardian rather than from some difficult aristocrat in bad health.”
Cranmouth didn’t have to be told that the guardian would be Neville himself. Neville had been appointed guardian in several other cases, and was known to the court to be conscientious in the execution of his duties.
“You will bring the petition?” Cranmouth asked quietly.
“Of course not. I’ll have Weatherby handle that part. He and I have cooperated on similar cases in the past. He brings the petition and asks to have me appointed guardian because I’ve shown myself to serve in that role effectively on other occasions. I also have a family connection to the Rothmeres.”
Cranmouth’s brows drew down. “You do?”
“My lady wife’s sister had a liaison with the old duke. Our niece Sybil was the result, though a handy groom was found for her mama in time to prevent outright scandal. That makes my wife a relation to the Rothmeres of sorts.”
“Not a close relation, Philpot, and not in any sense a court would recognize.”
“Cut line, Cranmouth. My niece is a half sister to His Grace. That’s family connection enough for benighted Yorkshire and you know it. When I am in charge of Rothhaven’s affairs, I will take very good care of His Grace, you may be sure of that. I expect your fees will necessarily increase, because so much more of the estate work will be thrust onto your shoulders.”
Neville was unwilling to be more obvious than that in a discussion with another solicitor.
Cranmouth studied his wine. He peered around the dining room, which was decorated with