Another man came up on Cranmouth’s right. “Somebody get into a brawl right outside your office, Cranmouth? What sort of clients are you represent— I beg your pardon, Lady Constance.”

Neville Philpot doffed his hat and bowed. Constance knew him only in passing from local assemblies. His wife, Lady Phoebe, was a notorious gossip and had been a thorn in Althea’s side.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Constance said, turning to help Rothhaven get to his feet.

Philpot tried to intercede, but Rothhaven shied from him so violently as to nearly lose his balance again.

Constance inserted herself between Philpot and the duke. “I have him, Mr. Philpot. It’s quite all right.”

The man in the brown jacket was actually doing much to support Rothhaven’s weight, and just when Constance was about to tell Philpot to bugger the hell off, Nathaniel and Althea trotted around the corner.

“Seizure?” Nathaniel asked, relieving the older gent.

Constance nodded. “Of no great moment, but more than a little inconvenience. Mr. Philpot, if you would please excuse us.”

“Yes, do,” Althea added, picking up Rothhaven’s walking stick and crumpled hat. “The situation is in hand. Thank you for your concern.” She swept a glance at Philpot and Cranmouth, who remained by his office door, looking ghoulishly curious.

The coach pulled up before Constance could launch into a lecture about gawping imbeciles impersonating lawyers, and Nathaniel helped Rothhaven inside. Then they were pulling away, the last of the onlookers finally leaving the scene.

As the coach rounded the corner, Constance caught a glimpse of Cranmouth and Philpot, heads bent in conversation as they disappeared into Cranmouth’s offices.

“Sorry,” Rothhaven muttered. “Not very dignified.”

Nathaniel looked like he’d speak, but Constance silenced him by taking Rothhaven’s hand. “It doesn’t matter, as long as you are unhurt. Perhaps you’d like to nap now?”

For most of the distance home, Rothhaven slouched against Constance’s side, dozing quietly. She tried to sort out her feelings as the miles rolled by, but she got no further than admitting that the suddenness of the seizure had disconcerted her and the reaction of the crowd had angered her.

Althea sat on the opposite bench, fingering the crumpled crown of Rothhaven’s beaver hat, and that added another emotion to Constance’s pile of feelings.

Rothhaven had fallen on the walkway. Had he gone two more steps in the direction of the street, his head rather than his hat might have been crushed beneath the coach wheels. That realization was frightening, and explained, if only a little, why the old duke might have sent his son to an asylum on the moors, rather than watch day by day as one danger after another befell an innocent young man.

Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten