“Rothhaven wanted to be away as quickly as possible,” Neville said slowly. “That much was obvious.” Though the man had been in possession of a stout walking stick, stout enough to do damage if wielded like a weapon.

Phoebe spread her fingers, the firelight catching the gemstones and gold of her rings. Another woman would have tossed out a few recriminations or a succinct I told you so. She merely sat, ladylike and composed, while Neville’s conscience and his legal instincts wrestled with a puzzle.

“We don’t know Rothhaven is being run ragged by his brother. We don’t know whose idea it was for him to attend services. We don’t know that a trip into York wasn’t at His Grace’s bidding. He called on Cranmouth. The old duke retained Cranmouth’s father, and I’m fairly certain Lord Nathaniel did as well.”

Though come to think of it, Cranmouth never mentioned meeting with Lord Nathaniel in the years when the true duke—Robert—had been away from the Hall. All very curious, that. The timing of Robert’s re-emergence at Rothhaven Hall was never discussed in any detail, not in the circles Neville frequented.

“Do we know when Rothhaven re-joined the household at the Hall?” he asked.

“We do not,” Phoebe replied. “I’ve probed gently, strictly out of concern for the duke. As best I can tell, Robert simply did not interest himself in affairs at the family seat. He wasn’t aware his father had died, which again suggests a man of unusually eccentric sensibilities. How can a parent’s death be a matter of indifference to a son in line for a great title?”

Neville was about to say They aren’t like us, my dear, but Phoebe was an earl’s daughter. She placed herself firmly on the them side of the us-and-them divide, and Neville forgot that distinction at his peril.

“The old duke had Robert declared dead,” Neville said, “suggesting the family crotchets aren’t limited to the present generation. More cordial, my dear?”

“Thank you.” She passed over her glass. “One doesn’t want to borrow trouble, but I do fear Rothhaven’s situation will require legal intervention, Mr. Philpot. Between Lord Nathaniel and those Wentworth women, His Grace is without allies, and too much is being asked of him. The falling sickness can be fatal, you know, and I would not want it on my conscience that Rothhaven was being hounded literally to death by selfish meddlers while I stood by and said nothing.”

Neville replenished her drink and topped up his own. “No man is above the law, or so we’re told, but Rothhaven is a duke. Walden’s sisters command ducal standing. Lord Nathaniel is a duke’s son, and there’s tremendous wealth in play. A mere lowly solicitor charges at that windmill only after very careful consideration. Have we heard anything from young Sybil’s swain?”