One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  “You’re probably right.” Gerard took his coat from the footman. “Not that it wouldn’t give me a fair bit of pleasure to see him suffer the pains of his own shortcomings once. Can you imagine him consigned to the wilds of Lincolnshire, without a curricle race or an opera dancer in sight?”

  Edward smiled and shook his head, and stayed the footman with his coat. “I’ll be along shortly.”

  “You aren’t going to apologize, are you?” exclaimed his brother as Edward turned back toward the stairs. “For what?”

  “For cutting up so rough at him. He’s ill.”

  Gerard stared after him in disbelief for a moment, but put on his hat and left without another word. Edward went back upstairs, shaking his own head at himself. He hadn’t done anything wrong, really; one day he would get out of the habit of caring so much for his brothers’ peace. He tapped twice at the door and opened it. Then he stopped short in surprise.

  Charlie was sitting on the side of his bed as if in the process of rising, arms braced on the mattress and feet on the floor. But one of his legs was out straight in front of him, bound in bandages and splints that didn’t quite conceal the reddened, swollen flesh. Charlie’s valet Barnes, kneeling beside him to support the leg, glanced up at Edward’s entrance and froze in apprehension.

  “Bugger all, don’t you knock?” Charlie shot an annoyed glance at Edward through the rumpled waves of hair that had fallen over his eyes.

  Now Edward realized the sheen of perspiration on his brother’s forehead wasn’t just from a headache. That was a badly broken leg. He stepped into the room and closed the door. “I beg your pardon.”

  “No, you don’t, not really, but never mind.” Charlie settled his injured foot on the floor, flexing his arms. His valet hurried to his side, and with a heave Charlie was on his feet. The valet snatched up a green silk dressing gown and held it up as Charlie shoved his arms into it, balancing precariously on one foot.

  “It doesn’t look as though you should be walking about,” Edward observed.

  His brother took the cane his valet offered him and hobbled to the table, where a tray with breakfast dishes and a fresh pot of tea sat. Leaning heavily on the cane, Charlie poured a cup and sipped deeply. “Not even I can spend my entire life in bed—not alone, at any rate.”

  “I came to apologize,” Edward said to his brother’s back. Charlie didn’t turn, but his shoulders tensed, visible even through his dressing gown. “Gerard was out of bounds, and I was impatient as well. This problem has consumed us for several days now, and you seemed oddly unmoved by it.”

  Charlie said nothing. Listing on his cane, teacup clutched close to his chest, he stared out the window, a strangely pensive figure. Edward crossed the room to stand beside him. “I didn’t realize you were in no state to travel,” he said.

  “Damn it, Edward, I wouldn’t have come to Sussex anyway,” Charlie muttered. He seemed fascinated by something outside the window, although Edward couldn’t see anything worthy of note. “We all know that. Durham certainly knew it.”

  “He called for you,” Edward reminded him. “I was there. He wanted to see you again. Perhaps he knew you didn’t want to see him, but he was dying, and he wanted to see you.”

  “And what did he want to say to me?” A heavy, brooding expression had settled over Charlie’s face.

  Edward hesitated. “He wanted to beg your pardon,” he said reluctantly, knowing how it would sound to his brother. “For this terrible mess, I believe. He worried for you.”

  A dark smile curled Charlie’s mouth. “Ah. No wonder. I suppose he knew you and Gerard would get on just fine, but poor Charles wouldn’t know what to do.”

  Edward said nothing.

  “And you think he was right,” Charlie went on. “You came to tell me what you planned to do, but only out of obligation.”

  “You must admit,” said Edward dryly, “your response did not overturn our expectations.”

  “The bloody bounder,” Charlie said, bitterness seeping into his voice. “How dare he do such a thing?”

  “I expect it was shame, and age, and outraged pride.” Somehow Charlie’s belated anger at Durham made Edward want to defend their father, even though he agreed with every word his brother said.

  “That damned Durham pride,” Charlie muttered.

  Edward sighed. “He tried to apologize.”

  “And now he’s left us all to be humiliated and dispossessed.”

  “It certainly wasn’t what he intended; it left him heartsick at the end. And he left us everything he had so we can solve what he could not.”

  Charlie just gulped some more tea. This time Edward caught a whiff of brandy, and almost shook his head. He should have known . . . But perhaps this once Charlie deserved a little nip. “Dare I ask what happened?” he asked, looking at his brother’s leg.

  “Ah.” Something of the usual gleam returned to Charlie’s eyes. “It was quite a fight. Three of them, all monstrous brutes. I battled back two, but in the end had to flee on horseback. The horse cleared the first fence, but not the second. And as I was lying there in a daze, the last villain caught up to me and finished what he had started.” He extended his injured leg, regarding it almost proudly. “I’m quite an invalid now. I shall have a terrible scar.”

  Edward didn’t believe a word of that story. He could tell when Charlie was telling a tale. “I hope she was worth it,” he said with a straight face.

  His brother flashed a lazy grin. “Absolutely.”

  This time when Edward left, he beckoned to the valet, who slipped out of the room behind him. “How long has his leg been like this?”

  “Just over a week, my lord,” replied Barnes. “The doctor thinks it will heal well.”

  Edward nodded. “How?” Barnes hesitated, and Edward added, “I know it wasn’t a fight, nor a runaway horse. I want to know if there is any danger of a similar fate awaiting his other leg.”

  “A slip on the stairs,” murmured Barnes, glancing guiltily over his shoulder. “After a late evening out.”

  So there wasn’t a jealous husband or an angry cardsharp contemplating breaking Charlie’s other leg. Edward let out his breath in relief. “Thank you, Barnes. Do your best to keep him under a doctor’s care.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Barnes bowed and then hurried off at Edward’s wave of dismissal.

  So Charlie was truly out of the way, though not due to disinterest. Gerard had effectively removed himself from the scene, taking off on some quixotic pursuit of the blackmailer. If Durham, with all his money and steely determination, hadn’t found the villain, Edward didn’t see how Gerard could, charging off alone with only the same information that had led Durham’s investigator into a blind end. But this plan suited him rather well; Charlie was inclined to do too little, Gerard too much. Now he could deal with the solicitor unimpeded. He would be free to act as he saw fit, without having to persuade his brothers to his prudent way of thinking.

  After all, he was used to being responsible for everything, and he was quite content with that.

  Chapter 3

  Francesca, Lady Gordon, arrived early, which was very much against habit for her.

  She did take her usual care in dressing. First impressions were terribly important, and Francesca was keenly aware of the need to strike just the right tone this morning. She wore her gray silk with black velvet trim, a smart, sharp ensemble that played up her coloring but also signified status and position. It might have suggested a bit more wealth and dignity than she actually possessed, but that could only help. The man she needed to impress today wasn’t a politician or a lord, nor one of the society darlings she found so amusing. James Wittiers was something far more important to Francesca today: he was widely considered the best solicitor in London, fearless, tenacious, crafty, and cleverer than half the King’s Bench put together. According to his very satisfied clients, Wittiers danced right to the edge of legality in pressing their interests, and sometimes succeeded in moving the boundaries of t
hat legality. All this suited her perfectly. She needed a lawyer, and she needed a damned good one.

  Wittiers’s success had made him selective. It had taken almost a fortnight for Francesca to secure an appointment to see the man. She hated to waste that time, but every other solicitor and investigator she interviewed had been lacking in some way. She didn’t want to hear the reasons why her case might fail; she was already well aware of them. She wanted to hear someone assure her she had a chance, and that he would pursue that chance to the very end of the earth. That was all she asked—that, and success.

  A clerk showed her into a small office to wait, and offered to bring tea. Francesca declined. She didn’t need anything to distract her from her interview. She had prepared for it intensely, knowing how much depended on winning his interest, and asked a variety of acquaintances for advice. Sir Phillip Blake, her neighbor, told her to engage the solicitor’s love of a challenge. Mr. Ludlow, husband of her dear friend Sally, suggested she stress the urgency of her situation, to pique Wittiers’s urge to champion someone in need. Lord Alconbury, a longtime friend, told her to avoid dramatics, especially tears. And Mr. Heatherington, incorrigible rogue and flirt, advised her to look beautiful, because Wittiers was just as much a man as he was a solicitor. Francesca wanted to leave nothing to chance. She was determined to meet every point, no matter how minor.

  She perched now on the edge of the small settee and mentally ran over her rehearsed speech. Other solicitors had told her the case was a wretched tangle, as if she couldn’t have guessed that herself, but she was counting on Wittiers to find the thread that would unravel it. A stickier point might be the fee; from his reputation alone, Wittiers must charge a small fortune. Francesca lived a comfortable life and had some money, but she wasn’t enthusiastic about the prospect of beggaring herself. She had fretted a bit over it, but then thought again of her niece, and hardened herself against worries about money. To save darling Georgina from her vapid and venal stepmother, Francesca was willing to risk everything. Somehow she would come to an agreement with Wittiers about his fee.

  After a while the door opened. She rose, feeling composed and measured, and turned to greet Mr. Wittiers, who was younger than she had expected. Fair and barrel-chested, he was just the same height as she was, and he met her gaze levelly, with no trace of condescension or scorn. There was a vital, snapping intelligence in his eyes that reassured her even more. After a brief polite greeting, he got right down to business.

  “My clerk, Mr. Napier, tells me you have a highly complex situation,” he said, seating himself in the chair near her. He propped one elbow on the armrest and focused his intense gaze upon her. “Would you be so kind as to explain, from the beginning?”

  “Of course.” Francesca folded her hands in her lap. She didn’t want to lose herself and become excited. “The story is more complex than the situation. To be concise, I wish to have the care of my late sister’s daughter bestowed upon me. My niece, Georgina, is currently living with her stepmother, and I fear the woman is taking advantage of Georgina’s inheritance and using it to support her own family.”

  His dry smile was gone almost before she registered it. “I presume you have proof of that charge, Lady Gordon.”

  “Hard proof, in the form of confessional letters or receipts, no,” she said carefully. “Proof that the woman, Mrs. Haywood, inherited a very small portion from her late husband, yes. Proof that she lost her home soon after his death, yes. Proof that her brother, Mr. Watts, has influenced her to keep me from seeing my niece since I offered to raise her, yes.”

  “Suggestive,” he said, “but not proof.”

  She raised her eyebrow, still calm and cool. “I understood you were willing to act as investigator as well as solicitor for your clients.”

  “It has been done,” he agreed.

  Francesca smiled. “Then I am sure we will be able to deal very well together.”

  Wittiers stared at her for a moment, a thoughtful set to his lips. Then he sat forward in his chair. “Explain to me the family situation in detail. How did your niece come to be in the care of this woman?”

  She had his interest. Francesca breathed deeply to control her leaping pulse. “Several years ago my half sister, Giuliana, came to visit me from Italy. She had grown up there with our mother, while I was reared in England by my father’s sister. My mother,” she added quickly as a thin line creased his brow, “was Marcella Rescati, the Italian soprano. She married my father while in England, but after his death returned to Italy, where she married again, to Giuliana’s father.”

  “Ah,” he said, his expression turning keen. “I heard her sing in Florence, some years ago. Armida, I believe.”

  Francesca smiled in real pleasure. “One of her particular favorites!”

  “So,” he said briskly, returning to the main point, “you and your sister have different fathers.”

  She nodded. “Yes. Her life was quite different from mine, but I was very content here in England. I married and settled in London, and soon after, my sister came to visit. She was just seventeen, beautiful and vivacious. Within a month she had received several marriage proposals, and to my surprise she accepted one from Mr. John Haywood.”

  “Surprise?”

  “Because she was so new to England; her grasp of English was not complete, and although Mr. Haywood was an eligible match, he was several years older than she,” Francesca explained. “But she was determined, and Giuliana asked for and received her parents’ blessing. She married Mr. Haywood and had a child, her daughter Georgina, a year later.”

  “Haywood had money?” Wittiers queried.

  Francesca shook her head. “No, quite the contrary. He had connections, but little fortune of his own. Giuliana’s father was a very wealthy man, though, and had no other children; on her marriage he granted her a large allowance. At Georgina’s birth, he changed his will so that all the funds were settled on Georgina, with the income to Giuliana during her lifetime.”

  “No marriage settlement?”

  “There was one, of course, but I do not know the size. I suspect Giuseppe—Giuliana’s father—was wary of Mr. Haywood’s management. Mr. Haywood did not have a head for money.” That was putting it mildly, and Francesca had proof of her brother-in-law’s inability to account for his spending. Her sister had mentioned it often in letters. “Fortunately, Giuliana did,” she went on. “They lived a happy, comfortable life for some years. Georgina grew into a beautiful, unspoiled child. I was named godmother to her and visited often.”

  “Excellent,” he murmured.

  “Unfortunately their happiness was short-lived.” She had to steady her voice for this part of the story, a litany of deaths. “Giuliana died two years ago in childbed. I did my best to provide a maternal influence on Georgina, but my own husband died unexpectedly at the same time. Within a few months of my sister’s death, Mr. Haywood had married again, to a woman named Ellen Watts, so Georgina would have a mother. I was welcome in their home, and still visited as often as I could.”

  “Was this woman unkind to the girl?” Wittiers queried. “Was she cold?”

  Francesca hesitated. “Not that I could see,” she admitted. “Georgina did not seem neglected or unhappy. But then her father was killed in a riding accident last summer, and suddenly things changed.”

  “Not surprising, given the death of the father,” Wittiers pointed out. “How did his will leave the girl’s custody?”

  “He had not changed his will since my sister’s death. Giuliana was still named as the caretaker of their daughter, and Mr. Haywood’s brother as guardian—but he had also passed away. The Haywoods, it seems, have a tendency toward mortality. The court has not appointed anyone else yet. I believe, if there had been more money left to her, Mrs. Haywood would have gladly allowed me to take Georgina and raise her, as she was expecting a child at the time of Mr. Haywood’s tragic death. But Mr. Haywood had no money of his own, only what he received when he married my sister. I know the am
ount had dwindled to a very small sum after Giuliana’s death. There was little left for his widow.”

  “And the child’s inheritance?”

  “Giuliana’s father died a year before she did. He named as executor Mr. William Kendall, a barrister in Dover whom he knew through business dealings, to oversee the fortune he left Georgina. Mr. Kendall takes no interest in Georgina except to pay out her quarterly maintenance. I’ve already approached him for assistance, only to be told he has gone abroad and isn’t expected back before the winter.”

  “I begin to see your difficulty.” Wittiers leaned back, a faraway look on his face. “He pays the maintenance to whomever has custody of the girl. The stepmother has little money of her own, I presume? From her family, perhaps?” At Francesca’s shake of her head, he smiled, a vaguely dangerous look that sent her hopes soaring. “Venality,” he said softly. “She has lived with the girl for a year?”

  “Yes. Almost a year and a half now.”

  “Ah. And you have seen the girl in that time?”

  Francesca nodded.

  “Was she mistreated? Unhappy? Ill or otherwise uncared for?” He fired each question without waiting for a response.

  “Initially, she was brokenhearted over her father’s death.” Francesca struggled with her answer. She didn’t want to mislead the solicitor and damage her credibility, but neither did she want him to dismiss her concerns. “She did ask me to take her away from home, which reminded her so strongly of her parents. I offered then to take her and raise her, since I’m related by blood and her stepmother isn’t. I have a good home and could easily afford to raise Georgina, as well as love her like my own child. But Mrs. Haywood said no, saying she had grown attached to Georgina. I agreed, reluctantly, but my sense that things weren’t right grew over the next months. Mrs. Haywood bore twin boys three months after her husband died, and that threw the household into greater turmoil. And now . . . I don’t know, sir. I haven’t been allowed to see Georgina in several months.”