could not provide,” she said slowly, wishing Quinn hadn’t jaunted off on social calls. “Do I have that right?”
All charm fled Sir Leviticus’s expression, leaving only astonishment. “I cannot confirm the particulars of a matter entrusted to me in confidence.”
“Then allow me to conjecture: You’ve seen something, heard rumors, or otherwise come across alarming information of the sort the duke’s lawyers would not hear, and time is of the essence.”
Sir Leviticus remained standing, his posture militarily straight. “Your Grace, while I would never want to offend—”
Jane waved him to silence. “Lord Nathaniel Rothmere and Lady Althea Wentworth are to wed. Rothhaven might have enemies, but he also has allies, will he, nill he. You either tell me what you know, or I will have the footmen keep you here, stuffing you with sandwiches, until Walden, Lady Althea, and Lord Nathaniel return from their outing.”
A tense silence ticked by, during which Jane’s belly chose to inform her that she was hungry. She’d just eaten, and she was abruptly famished.
“My wife would get on well with you,” Sir Leviticus said. “I don’t suppose you like rabbits?”
“To eat? Actually, no. I don’t care for most game.”
“Rabbits as pets,” he said, gaze on a drawing Constance had done of Septimus, the house cat. “I refuse to violate a confidence, Your Grace, but I can tell you that I and my clerks move in less rarified legal circles than does Rothhaven’s man of business, and I can discuss with you the law of guardianship as it relates to mental incompetence.”
Jane sent out a silent plea for Quinn to gallop home, though he’d be gone for hours yet.
“You are telling me—or rather, not telling me—that you have evidence of somebody scheming against Rothhaven, and he’s to be brought before a commission of lunacy examiners.” Quinn had explained that process to her, one his banks occasionally became entangled in when a customer grew dotty. “Worse yet, you are telling me this plot is already afoot, and Rothhaven isn’t even on hand to begin preparing his defense.”
Constance would be devastated, Quinn would be furious, and Stephen would be plotting violent felonies. As for Althea and Nathaniel, Jane could not guess how they would react, and Rothhaven…If anything ought to cause an epileptic duke to succumb to seizures, a scandalous lawsuit should suffice.
“I can see why Lord Stephen holds you in such esteem, Your Grace,” Sir Leviticus said, “but I cannot confirm your conjectures.”
“You don’t deny them either. I hardly know Rothhaven, but I would pit his sanity against that of any peer. His tenancies thrive, his investments prosper, his only sibling has nothing but respect for him. This petition cannot be allowed to go forward, Sir Leviticus.”
He subsided into his chair. “I have not admitted to the existence of any petition, Your Grace.”
His very posture, now that of a tired, unhappy man rather than a lancer preparing to charge, was admission enough.
The front door slammed and heavy footsteps sounded in the foyer.
Thank God. “Walden will demand to speak with you.”
Sir Leviticus sat up. “I thought you said His Grace was from home?”
“He’s back, and not a moment too soon.”
“You’ll want a tray for your guests, Reverend,” Mrs. Hodges said, once she’d taken Constance’s parasol and Robert’s hat.
The tiny foyer was crowded, and the house smelled slightly of lye and tallow. The floors were nonetheless clean, the aging rugs recently beaten, and the corners free of cobwebs. The cleanliness would probably be a relief to Constance, though it meant little to Robert.
Soames’s prison had been spotless.
“A pot of tea will do,” Shaw said. “The everyday, Mrs. Hodges.”
The housekeeper looked ready to mutiny at that blatant insult to newly arrived guests, but she bustled off toward the back of the house, while Ivy remained near Constance.
“Ivy,” Shaw said, “to your room.”
“But, Uncle…”
“To your room, and don’t come down until you’ve copied at least an entire chapter of Matthew.”
Constance patted Ivy’s shoulder. “Do as your uncle says, Ivy. He and I have matters to sort out.”
Ivy ran up the steps, and Shaw scowled after her. “Not a quarter hour after meeting you, and the girl is already inspired to further rebellions.”
Constance swiveled a glittering gaze to Shaw. “Perhaps if Ivy had been allowed to spend more than a quarter of an hour with me, she might be more biddable.”
Shaw bristled, clutching his prayer book to his chest as if it were his moral targe, deflecting arrows of disrespect.
“Might we continue this discussion someplace more private?” Robert asked.
Shaw marched down the corridor.