“We have all been deceived,” Phoebe said, gazing off at some vast horde of aggrieved innocents that existed only in her imagination. “The lot of us, from the lowest potboy at the posting inn to the neighbors, very likely to Vicar Sorenson himself. The Duke of Rothhaven allowed us all to believe his younger brother—Nathaniel—was the titleholder. I expect you to see the family prosecuted for perpetrating such a monstrous fraud.”

Neville refrained from laughing only from long experience dealing with clients. They wanted the impossible for free, they expected miracles for a pittance, and most of them believed any injustice they suffered was the worst outrage ever to befall mortal man or woman.

“Phoebe, might we think this through?” Neville considered pouring himself a brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, but the hour was early, and Phoebe would disapprove. “We have our standing in the community to consider, and whoever the real duke might be, he is a duke.”

“What matters our standing in the community when an outrage of this magnitude will go unpunished?”

Insight dawned as Neville studied Phoebe’s pinched features and glittering gaze. She’d been a pretty young woman and was still an attractive lady, but she had borne him no children, and—to give credit where due—not for lack of trying. She’d miscarried twice and delivered a stillborn son at seven months.

That a ducal family’s supposedly deceased heir should pop out of the bushes as casually as a hare returning to his favorite clover patch would affront her sorely.

“I understand your concern,” Neville said, “but we must think of our Sybil. Your niece is on the verge of making a very advantageous match thanks to your good influence. Lord Ellenbrook would hardly look with favor upon Sybil’s connections if I took up a suit against His Grace now.” And what would the cause of action be? Aristocratic eccentricity was hardly grounds for a lawsuit.

The fire in Phoebe’s gaze dimmed, her lips pursed. “Ellenbrook would not break an engagement. You could sue him for breach of promise if he did.”

“But he has not proposed, has he?” Ellenbrook had followed the proper steps in the proper order: impressing Sybil with his agreeable company, approaching Neville to ask if addresses might be paid, and then resuming the impressing-and-agreeable-company part.

Last week, Ellenbrook had departed for his hunting box some miles to the west. He was due to return in a fortnight or so, and the household—the female part of the household—expected a proposal would follow.

“You must trust me on this,” Neville said, taking Phoebe’s hands. “I have seen too many young people fall out of love once the settlements come under discussion. I can do my part for Sybil, and I’m sure her dear papa will do his, but Ellenbrook’s family might regard our efforts as insufficient.”