William smiled. “The boy vendor out front has given me an idea. The people holding Captain Tuttle in custody want the ship’s seizure and the arrests to remain quiet, so they must fear public knowledge and reproach. We need to force our adversaries to produce the captain and start the legal wheels rolling—where we can engage them. To do so, we need to pierce the silence, create public interest.”
“I don’t see how,” Edmund grumbled. “The newspapers aren’t likely to accept our word on events, even if they aren’t being silenced. And we can’t print the story ourselves.”
“Ah, Edmund, that’s where you’re wrong. I believe we can print the story ourselves, and must. The newspapers haven’t the only presses in town.”
“True. There is the Church. But I doubt they’d lend us their machines.”
“You miss my meaning.” William reached to the floor and picked up the book he’d just purchased, opening to the title page. “Publisher Wiscomb and Sons,” he read aloud.
Edmund shook his head. “Hire a book publisher to print broadsheets? Who’d pay attention?”
“Again you miss my meaning,” William replied. “I’d publish this story as a penny dreadful.”
Edmund and Obadiah looked on as though William had declared himself for Parliament.
“You’re joking!” Edmund cried at last. “You’d publish this tale as such trash? Who’d believe it? They’re less than a third factual on a good day!”
“And everyone’s secret pleasure,” William rejoined. “And you’re wrong: the public will believe it—or at least want to know if what it says is true. I already have the title: The Appalling True Story of the Unlawful Seizure of the Padget and Her Brave Crew, and the Imprisonment of Navy War Hero Harold Tuttle. I’ll write it myself. Perhaps with a little of your youthful energy to help.”
“How quickly could we get it released?” Obadiah asked, looking enthused.
“If I subsidize it, I’ll bet they’d have a volume on the street in two days.”
“We’ll be sued for slander if we can’t prove our facts,” Obadiah said.
“That won’t be possible. You can’t sue for slander if nobody names you as the bad actor, and we don’t even know the guilty parties. But we will need funds to feed the serial every day or two with new editions—at least until we shame the newspapers into taking up the story or force our opponents to respond. It won’t be cheap.”
“I like it,” Obadiah said.
“I don’t,” Edmund declared.
“So you’ve made clear, Edmund. Nevertheless, I’ll need your help for a couple of days getting this publication out.”
Edmund made no effort to hide his disappointment. “Sir, please help me understand why you’re considering taking such a case, with so little to warrant the commitment. You’ve passed on these kinds of cases before. Here’s one that might implicate the Crown itself. Isn’t this the ‘political tar’ you’ve always avoided?”
William stared at Edmund, momentarily helpless in the glare of an excellent question. He replayed the arguments he’d faced in the late evening hours about the emotional and professional costs of such a case, then weighed the pounding and public reproach the case might bring.
What was different about this case that would lead him to keep considering it?
Maybe he just wanted to challenge Mandy Bristol after all these years. Hadn’t he felt a powerful yearning to take the case the instant he saw the solicitor framed in the doorway of his office? Hadn’t that yearning grown as they parted?
What of that Jameson woman?
The inner arguments quieted. He’d say nothing of them to Edmund and Obadiah. There was another truth he could state more safely and persuasively.
“Because our opponents’ ability to sidestep the legal process with the kidnapping of the captain,” William began, “and the brazenness of the matter anger me. Combined with a young man’s life at stake, and the appearance that this Lady Jameson, her father, and Captain Tuttle may be greatly outnumbered and out-funded. No, I can’t shake the case off like mud from my boots. Even if, Edmund, you hate the fact that our clients may have their roots in the upper class.”
The young barrister appeared embarrassed. “I don’t hate them. Not precisely,” he said, then drifted into silence.
His retreat seemed a good sign to William. At least he was thinking and not just reacting.
“I’ll accept that for now,” William answered. “But whatever your feelings, I’m determined that we’re at least taking the next step. Let’s get started on drafting our first penny dreadful.”
11
JAMESON ESTATE
HEATHCOTE MANOR
COUNTY OF ESSEX
Even in full morning daylight, the return ride into Staunton refilled Madeleine with the terror of the evening. Sidestepping the horror of her stricken mare still splayed on the drive, she rode away from the estate grounds, soon finding the woods where she’d hidden the coins the night before.
Tying off her horse, she walked into the trees. Her scarf was undisturbed.
She knelt and dug at the earth. The cloth bag was still there, inches below the surface. Deeply relieved, Madeleine placed it in her saddlebag and rode on.
It wasn’t until she was riding over the bridge into town that Madeleine felt a respite from the fingers of fear at her throat. Even then, a rider passing from behind startled her until she saw the face of a familiar farmer. He acknowledged her with a tip of his hat.
Solicitor Rooker greeted her in the entryway of his law office with sad eyes—his mortician’s eyes, she’d always called them, steeped in formal, cold empathy. How her father had put up with the man and his thieving fees for so many years, she’d never know. She never would have come to Rooker for help to buy the Padget if she’d had any other choice.
Madeleine steeled herself as the solicitor led her silently into his back office.
“How is your father?” Rooker asked when he’d sat stiffly behind his desk.
“Fine, Mr. Rooker, thank you. I’m afraid I’m here because I need an extension on the estate’s loan.”
Rooker’s eyebrows rose. “An extension? On the eve of its maturity? What on earth for?”
“The return of our investment has been . . . delayed.”
“I see. I see. I do hope you appreciate that the risk I’ve . . . we’ve undertaken on that loan is considerable. I don’t see how we could permit such an extension.”
“You could because my father was a client for thirty years and supported you with legal work through the worst economic times. I’m not asking you to forgive our debt, only to delay repayment. And only for three months.”
She set the soiled bag on the solicitor’s desk. “That’s a little under one hundred pounds. Consider it a first portion of the loan repayment.”
Rooker didn’t even look at the bag. “Lady Jameson, that represents less than one percent of your debt.”
“I know. But it’s a good-faith payment.”
The solicitor sighed and stood to pace. “Please recall, Lady Jameson, that I am only an agent for the loan. As I explained to you at the time, it would have been impossible for me to lend such a sum myself. Your loan came from a consortium of professionals and colleagues. Even with your father’s power of attorney enabling you to pledge the Heathcote Estate against the ten-thousand-pound sum, I and my colleagues agreed with great trepidation. As for myself, I participated only as an accommodation for an old client. Extending the loan now would only add to my risk and that of my colleagues.”
Most of what she heard was lies, Madeleine was sure. She could never understand her father’s blind spot for Mr. Rooker and others with professional licenses. The penny-squeezing solicitor could easily have made the loan himself and most certainly did. He was only refusing the extension in his greed to acquire Heathcote Estate.
“Then arrange for me to meet your consortium so I can try to convince them.”
“Impossible. Simply impossible. They prefer anonymity.”
Rooker found his seat again. “Lady Jameson, you’re but twenty-nine and inexperienced with such business matters. Let’s convene tomorrow with your father—”
“Mr. Rooker, you know perfectly well the state of my father’s health. He’ll have nothing to add to our discussion.”
She had only a single card left to play to Rooker’s greed.
“I’ll agree to an additional five percent interest on the loan in exchange for a three-month forbearance.”
The solicitor’s eyes grew lidded. “I don’t know that—”
“Six percent and two months.”
The pained expression and show of hesitation disappeared. “Ten percent and two weeks,” the solicitor replied.
“Seven percent and one month.”
“Agreed,” Rooker announced. “I’ll draw up the papers . . . uh, on behalf of the consortium. It will take half an hour or so. You may wait in the client room.”
Standing, Madeleine reached to the desk and took the bag of coins. Solicitor Rooker looked on, startled.
“But I assumed—”
“You’ll get all your money in a month,” Madeleine said and marched from the office.
An hour later, Madeleine entered the chemist’s shop, empty of customers. Roisin came out of the back room.
“Madeleine! Back to town so soon? Is everything all right?”
Madeleine felt the soiled bag bulging her pocket. “I had to wrestle old Rooker for an extension on the loan.”
“Better get it in writing, dear. I wouldn’t trust that vulture to prune my hedges without the arrangement bein’ signed and witnessed.”
“I did.” She looked into her old friend’s eyes and dearly wanted to share—with anyone, but especially Roisin—the terror of the night’s attack. But Roisin would insist that Madeleine heed the threat and abandon any lawsuit. She hadn’t the strength to argue the point now.
“I just wanted to ask that you take care. Please be especially careful with your work with the American just now.”
“I will, girl. Don’t fret about me. Save your thoughts for your father and yourself.”
Madeleine said good-bye with a final hug and walked out to her horse. Nearly a hundred pounds were in the bag in her pocket, another five hundred hidden at home. All the cash she and her father had in the world. It was only February, and those funds would never carry the estate or the farmers dependent on them until spring. Their creditors would drown them by summer.
Proving the existence of the Letter of Marque was her only way to save Harold. But it was also the only way to get the cargo released and sold before her world came tumbling down.
And now, with her agreement with Solicitor Rooker, she had precisely thirty days to do so.
12
MAYFAIR, LONDON
Arriving late, Solicitor Mandy Bristol climbed the mountain of steps to the towering front door of Lord Beau Brummell’s mansion, moving so quickly that his legs grew rubbery and his breath came hard. A single knock and the chief butler greeted him with stateliness, then turned to lead him deep into the gilded house—beneath chandeliers sparkling with artisans’ handicraft, past suits of armor, between portraits of stern family stock unmistakably dressed for service to Crown and country. Huffing to keep up with the butler, Mandy was finally ushered through twin doors into a library, where leather-bound books lined shelves from floor to ceiling and an engraved oaken desk stood majestically on pillared legs. An arched window behind the desk framed a garden and pines beyond.
The butler disappeared. Mandy was still breathless when booted footsteps joined him in the room.
“Solicitor Bristol,” an affectionless voice greeted him.
Mandy turned to his host. “Good morning, Lord Brummell. I came as quickly as I could when I got your message.”
“Thank you so much,” Lord Brummell replied dryly. He walked past Mandy to the chair behind his desk.
Lord Brummell seldom failed to surprise Mandy with the opulence and modernity of his attire. Always dressed as though he was about to be presented at a ball. Today it was split tails and a short-cut front, with black velvet lapels, large buttons front and back, and a stiff cravat high and tight on his neck, signaling indifference to comfort.
Given his loyalty to style, Mandy wondered if the lord even slept in such clothes.
“Have you seen this?” Lord Brummell asked, lifting high from the desktop a paper-backed book.
He knew it instantly. “Yes, I have, sir. “
“‘The Appalling True Story of the Unlawful Seizure of the Padget and Her Brave Crew,’ et cetera, et cetera,” the lord read at arm’s length. He looked to Mandy. “What do you make of it?”
“Tripe, sir. Street trash. No one will pay it any attention.”
“Really? Have you seen Volume Two from Monday? Or today’s Volume Three?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I should ignore it? That is my solicitor’s sage advice?”
This was the kind of verbal trap Brummell liked to lay. But there was no way around it. “Yes, m’lord. These penny dreadfuls are for the lowest of the masses. It will go nowhere.”
“And yet here it is! On my own desk! I caught my groom reading the first edition in the stable yesterday. I sent the butler to acquire the second and third, each filling in more salacious details of brave Captain Tuttle’s daring and innocence. I’m afraid I must disagree with you. In fact, it’s my belief that every storekeeper, factory hand, deliveryman, and lady’s maid with the capacity to do so will have read them all by tomorrow. And they’ll be joined by half of the noblemen, members of Parliament, and lords and ladies of London—either because they secretly have their servants sneak them copies of the publications or because they discover them as I did, in the hands of their staff.”
“Sir, everyone knows these things are the basest form of fiction. Even if they read them, your contemporaries will pay them no mind.”
“Ah, my contemporaries. But what of the masses?” The lord turned the pages slowly to near the back of the book. “‘The strong but graceful lines of the brig the Padget still occupy London’s docks as these words are recorded, her brave and stalwart crew gaoled in its belly for crimes they did not commit, cruelly unrewarded, even punished for acts of heroism against the scourge of smuggling.’” He looked back at Mandy. “Not your typical penny dreadful, is it? More like a call to arms. And you think this will not result in half of London traipsing to the docks to confirm with their own eyes the presence of the Padget in all her glory? Her crew gazing plaintively from the gunports? Outfitted and staged to confirm every word of injustice described in this book for the tourists who come to see her? My men at the docks tell me the pilgrimages have already begun.”
The books of the library seemed to hang close in mocking attention. The trees outside garnered Mandy’s jealousy, safely on the far side of the glass.
“This is the handiwork of that barrister you told me paid you a visit a week or so ago, isn’t it?” the lord added.
“Snopes, sir. William Snopes.” He cleared his throat. “It’s possible.”
“Possible? The parting of the Red Sea was possible. Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps with his elephants was possible. The publication of this tome is not an ancient event; its authorship should not be difficult to confirm. I pay you to know what is and what is not.”
“I can check. I will check, my lord.”
“Good. Now tell me about this Snopes.”
His feet growing sore, Mandy stretched on his toes, hoping for an invitation to sit. His host ignored his discomfort. “Well, sir, he is the son of Lord Kyle Snopes.”
“Don’t tell me what I know. I preside with his father in the House of Lords, man. Tell me what I don’t know.”
“Of course, sir. Forgive me, sir. William is Lord Snopes’s only son. He’s rumored to have ruled William with an iron hand. Soon after his mother’s death, William rebelled and left home. I believe he was not yet twenty at the time. There are many rumors about
the reasons for his departure. One has it that he discovered his father had murdered a servant and secretly buried him on the estate. Whatever the cause for William’s leaving, it does appear true that his father wanted him to serve in the King’s Guard and follow in his footsteps managing the family estate before entering Parliament. William refused and found a barrister willing to sponsor him for apprenticeship to the bar instead.”
“I’d heard some of this before. How do we know any of it to be true?”
“Barrister Snopes handled a case for me not long after he passed the bar. I made it my business then to run down information about him before hiring him on the matter, my lord.”
“That’s better. What else?”
“He’s unmarried, sir. I believe he had a sweetheart when he worked on my case, but I’m aware of no other dalliances with courtship or marriage. He seems entrenched in his career.”
“All right. More.”
“Since that one case, I’ve not attended any of his trials, yet it’s said that he’s developed a style of conducting them in . . . an independent way.”
“What do you mean? Doesn’t he know the rules?”
“He knows the rules; he just interprets them differently.”
“And he gets away with that?”
“It depends upon the magistrate, sir. And though he seems to have shied away from controversial cases, he’s willing to take matters that other barristers might find distasteful. Difficult cases.”
“Does he win?”
“Surprisingly often, my lord.”
“Has he a weakness? Money? Hubris? Ambition?”
“I don’t know at present. It is rumored that his junior, Edmund Shaw, has a gambling habit.”
“You learned this how?”
“I’ve had people researching since Barrister Snopes’s visit to my office last week, my lord.” And I thought I’d have more time to complete that research before this interrogation.
“That’s good. The man you paint is unlikely to respond to a bribe.”
“Agreed, sir,” Mandy said, his feet and knees aching.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 9