The Truth About Dukes (Rogues to Riches #5) - Grace Burrowes Page 0,70

time of his death.”

“Is he planning to die soon?” Quinn asked.

“Likely not,” Stephen replied. “I suspect he’s planning to be legally emasculated. If the money isn’t in Rothhaven’s possession at the time a guardian is appointed for him, Philpot won’t have the opportunity to steal it. Has Rothhaven signed the marriage settlements yet?”

Quinn nodded. “For both Althea and Constance, and the funds remain in my hands. If anything happens to me, management devolves to you, Stephen, then to Cousin Duncan, and if all else fails, His Grace of Elsmore manages the money.”

“The money is safe,” Nathaniel said, “but what of my brother? A guardian could send him back into the keeping of some private madhouse, and none of us would be permitted to see him.”

“He likely knows that,” Stephen said, “and he’s taking defensive measures, but defensive measures are insufficient to secure victory.” Footsteps sounded in the corridor, so Stephen studied his cards and slapped a bored expression on his face. “Quinn, do you have any sevens?”

The door opened to reveal Jane and Althea, both looking happily intent on intruding on male pastimes.

“Alas no,” Quinn said, mildly. “Rothmere, any threes?”

Chapter Thirteen

“She goes by Ivy,” Miss Abbott said. “That threw us off the scent. I’d told all my contacts to scan the records for an Artemis Ivy, or Artemis, but her parents thought a pagan name less suited to the offspring of clergy than a common English name.”

“Go on,” Constance said.

To Robert, she sounded calm, but her grip on his hand was desperate. The tea tray sat before her untouched, so Robert poured out for the ladies.

“We knew she would not be a Wentworth,” Miss Abbott said, “despite whatever name you gave her at her christening. James and Etta Wilson took her in, so we searched for Wilsons in every direction.”

“And you found them.” Robert poured three cups of good China black. “This being Yorkshire, and Wilson being an exceedingly common name in these parts, you found Wilsons in every village. How do you take your tea, Miss Abbott?”

Miss Abbott moved through life with an air of unshakable confidence. She did not walk, she marched, a stout cane in her hand, though she appeared to be free of every infirmity. She had tossed a glorified nod in Robert’s direction when most women would have curtsied to an obsequious depth. Constance had asked that he remain present for this interview, and Miss Abbott had drawn her employer aside and held a whispered exchange first.

Very likely Miss Abbott had ensured that Robert’s company was, in fact, what Constance truly sought, and not a capitulation to domestic tyranny. He held out the tray of tea cakes and the lady looked at him as if he were a stuffed canary that had started singing.

“You are a duke, sir.”

“Lamentably so, and yet, I am able to manage a tea tray.”

She considered the sweets and considered him. “A touch of honey will do, Your Grace. Thank you.”

Never had thanks been more grudging. Robert rewarded her skepticism with a double serving of tea cakes.

He fixed Constance a cup of tea, plain, because later in the day she preferred it that way, and then prepared his own, also with just a drop of honey. Miss Abbott watched all of this, her expression unreadable.

“You were saying,” Constance prompted. “The Wilsons had the raising of Artem—of Ivy—for seven years.”

“But Mrs. Etta Wilson was not, of course, born a Wilson. I’d thought she was born a Brown, another common Yorkshire name, and she was, but in other regards I was in error.”

A peal of thunder should have accompanied that admission, so portentous was Miss Abbott’s tone.

“Etta’s mother, Daphne Shaw, was the second wife of Mr. Abel Brown,” Miss Abbott went on, “but Etta was born only four months after the wedding. Her mother had been widowed after conceiving Etta, and by agreement, Etta took her stepfather’s name. Etta was thus born a Brown, though her full siblings are Shaws.”

Constance ignored her tea. “You were looking for an Artemis Wilson, but you found an Ivy Shaw?”

“Exactly so. My apologies that it took this long, but as His Grace has pointed out, all of the names involved—Brown, Shaw, Wilson—are exceedingly common in the northern counties.”

“And how,” Robert asked, “did you eventually find her?”

“The past two weeks have been nigh frenetic, because I was able to put all available hands to her ladyship’s project. Some of my agents are Americans, though most are from other parts of Britain. They have been inquiring at vicarages and