Phoebe had such lovely hands. Graceful, soft, not so much as a freckle to mar their perfection.

“I want to argue with you,” she said. “I want to shout and pace and behave in a most unladylike manner, but you raise a valid point. Ellenbrook looked kindly on Lady Althea—he very probably pitied her that harum-scarum family of hers—and now she is to marry Lord Nathaniel.”

Phoebe’s gaze became speculative. More than once she had seen how to settle a difficult case on the basis of social standing, family pride, or some other non-legal consideration. She had a streak of guile, did Phoebe, and Neville truly admired that about her.

“Missing heirs have seven years to challenge an inheritance,” Neville said. “The previous duke died less than six years ago. That means the older Rothmere son still has time to officially challenge his younger brother for the title.”

“Lord Nathaniel—I don’t like even speaking his name—made it clear at Lady Althea’s ball that he has no interest in keeping the title. Had himself announced with only the courtesy title, presented his brother to us all as the duke. I suspect that dreadful woman is to blame for this scandal.”

The current dreadful woman was Lady Althea Wentworth. A succession of similarly unfortunate females had suffered Phoebe’s opprobrium over the years, including, occasionally, her closest acquaintances.

“Let’s take some time to reconnoiter the situation,” Neville said, kissing the backs of his wife’s hands. “You excel at that, and Ellenbrook must come up to scratch before your concerns draw any public notice. I will set the clerks to researching missing heirs, while you make the appropriate overtures to the new duke.”

She withdrew her hands and he let her go. Phoebe was not an affectionate woman by nature, which was appropriate, given her breeding, but she was loyal and shrewd and Neville loved her dearly. His business had prospered in large part because she knew everybody in the local surrounds worth knowing and knew their secrets as well.

He would never burden her with a declaration of his sentiments—she’d be horrified at such vulgarity from her own husband—but he also knew she blamed herself for their lack of children.

A complicated woman, his wife, much like the law was complicated.

“We must not wait too long before we act, Neville. The shock of this great deception will wear off, people will go on with their lives, and a significant injustice will become so much old gossip.”

The significant injustice was that Phoebe had been forced by circumstances to marry into an untitled family for money. She’d been denied children, and she’d ended up presiding over the squirarchy of rural nowhere. Now the further injustice of advancing age approached, and of all things, not one but two ducal families were usurping Phoebe’s limited consequence.