The day’s developments were simply too promising for him to keep to himself, and thus Wednesday evening found him enjoying a glass of brandy while Phoebe presided over the after-dinner teapot and worked at her embroidery.

“And how has your friend dear Elspeth been keeping?” he asked. “Weatherby is forever going on about his girls, but he never mentions his wife.”

Phoebe threaded a needle with gold silk. “If she can help it, Elspeth Weatherby makes little mention of her spouse. I believe their arrangement more cordial than devoted. What of matters in town? Any interesting news?”

Neville took a sip of his brandy, savoring the moment, for he so seldom felt of use to his wife. Of course, he provided well—a man ought not to marry if he couldn’t provide for his wife and offspring—but Phoebe could have had her pick of good providers.

“What is that you’re working on?” he asked, which was naughty of him. Phoebe had requested his report, and he was being dilatory.

Her smile said she knew his game and knew that it must end with good news. “This is an altar cloth. Just because our church is humble is no excuse for it to be plain. I really ought to be assisting Sybil with the finishing touches on her trousseau, but Sybil will have years to embroider her pillowcases, while the parish will gather again in a few days.”

“Do you suppose His Grace of Rothhaven will make another attempt to attend services?”

Phoebe knotted her thread and began stitching. “One hopes divine services bring comfort to the afflicted, but I will never forget the sight of that poor man, utterly overcome, nearly frothing at the mouth. The memory will give me nightmares. That his family put him on display in such a manner is a shame and a disgrace. When, I ask you, did advertising bad blood become proper behavior?”

As best Neville recalled, Rothhaven had put himself on display, charging up the aisle after his brother had taken his place in the family pew.

“Perhaps Lord Nathaniel couldn’t talk him out of attending,” Neville said, “or perhaps his lordship knew the conversation would be fruitless. You will be relieved to know that Solomon Weatherby is drafting a petition to have Rothhaven declared mentally unsound.”

Phoebe’s needle stilled. “Mr. Weatherby is a conscientious man of the law. We must commend him for an effort to protect a vulnerable peer from further embarrassment. Have you offered to serve as guardian if the court should see fit to appoint one?”

“You know I have, my lady.”

“Good of you. Your task will be thankless and burdensome, I fear, when His Grace apparently cannot leave the Hall without suffering a fit. And did you know, there’s no physician in residence at the Hall?”

“No physician?”