Neville Philpot waited until after supper to discuss the day’s events with his wife. Lady Phoebe’s sensibilities were refined, and the scene outside Cranmouth’s office had honestly been upsetting even to Neville, whose profession had inured him to human foibles.

“I have never seen anything more pathetic,” he said, passing Phoebe a portion of elderberry cordial for her digestion. “A peer of the realm, a duke, a man who should be in his prime, twitching like an inebriate in the last throes on the walkway. Cranmouth was quite overset. Rothhaven is his client, and that unfortunate drama took place right outside the poor fellow’s office.”

“I’m sorry you happened upon such a situation,” Phoebe said, settling into the wing chair by the fire. “You say the Wentworth sisters were on hand?”

Neville poured himself a brandy—the subject called for it—and took the second wing chair. “Lord Nathaniel was present as well as Lady Althea and Lady Constance. Lady Constance was trying to manage the situation, but how could she? She’s merely a neighbor to His Grace, and a woman.”

The brandy was good—illegally good, as it happened, as all the best brandy tended to be. Still, Neville would be an old man before he forgot the sight of Rothhaven, helpless and addled on the ground.

“Lady Constance is a Wentworth,” Phoebe said, touching her glass to her lips. “They think only about money, and if Lady Althea has her hooks into Lord Nathaniel, then you can bet Lady Constance has set her sights on Rothhaven.”

“God pity the woman if that’s the case.”

“Pity her? Husband, your charitable sentiments do you credit, but Lady Constance was raised in the vilest of circumstances. Her concern for Rothhaven is doubtless motivated entirely by self-interest.”

In Neville’s experience, self-interest was not limited to the lower orders, at least not among his clients.

“Her ladyship was ready to gut anybody who interfered with Rothhaven,” he said. “Wouldn’t let Cranmouth near him.” Smart of her. Cranmouth was a notorious gossip, which in a solicitor was a fatal failing. Old Man Cranmouth had been the genuine article, to be trusted in all matters, a lawyer of discretion and tact. The nephew wasn’t a bad sort either.

“Cranmouth says His Grace is selling off some property in the West Riding.” Hardly a sensitive matter, but still, Cranmouth ought to have kept his mouth shut.

“If I owned property in the West Riding,” Phoebe said, “I’d sell it as well. God has created no drearier corner of the realm, particularly in winter.”

Neville thought the Dales rather beautiful, but he was loath to contradict Phoebe. “Rothhaven cannot be long for this earth, my dear. He was in a terrible state when I saw him. Could not speak, could not stand unassisted.”

Phoebe frowned at the crystal glass in her hand. “You weren’t attempting to pass the time of day with him, I trust?”