“Might we have a brief recess?” Sir Leviticus asked. “I’m sure His Grace will be prepared to resume his testimony shortly.”

“Very well,” Drossman said. “A short recess. Mr. Weatherby, have you any other witnesses to call?”

“I do not, sir. A few more questions for His Grace—if he can answer them—and I will rest my case.”

The three members of the panel left the hall, and the hum and buzz in the gallery rose to a roar. Weatherby and Philpot began a whispered conversation on their side of the room, and Constance took the seat beside her husband.

“Shall we offer him some water?” Dr. Warner had inserted himself into the small group around Sir Leviticus’s counsel table.

“Are you daft?” Constance retorted. “For His Grace to try to consume food or drink this soon after a seizure would be most unwise. Be off with you and take your silly little black bag with you.”

Warner had the good sense to simply bow and withdraw.

“Fierce,” Rothhaven said, his hand landing clumsily on Constance’s arm. “My duchess.”

“You surprised me with that announcement, Rothhaven.” They’d agreed to keep the news of their nuptials private until after the competency hearing, barring some exigent circumstance. “I’m glad you acknowledged me as your duchess. Weatherby’s shock was delicious.”

“And what about my shock?” Quinn growled.

“And mine?” Nathaniel added. “Althea suspected. I laughed at her speculations.”

Jane and Althea soon joined the conversation, while Constance sat beside Rothhaven, his cool hand in hers.

“Sir Leviticus,” Constance said, “might you call me as a witness rather than have Rothhaven return immediately to the witness box? The more time His Grace has to recover, the better.”

“A fine notion,” Sir Leviticus said, “but His Grace is still Weatherby’s witness. Weatherby gets another go at him when the recess is over.”

“Then you must delay the inevitable with an eloquent and protracted argument about some legal inanity.”

Much of the gallery remained milling about, unwilling to give up their seats. Clerks, bailiffs, and Mansion House staff conversed in small groups, and Constance longed for a quiet room where Rothhaven might gather his composure.

“I can offer a dilatory motion or two,” Sir Leviticus said, “but we run the risk of antagonizing the commissioners and the jury. Then too, if I admit that His Grace cannot answer simple questions now, I’ve all but made Weatherby’s case for him.”

“We need time,” Constance muttered. “A half hour at least, an hour would be better.”

“My lady—I mean, Your Grace—I’m very much afraid—”

“Robbie!” a man called from the open door to the corridor. “Robbie, you old devil, is that you?”

The fellow was youngish, lanky, and wore attire such as a clerk or tutor might wear. His boots were dusty and his cravat much in want of starch.