One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  “May I have a word, sir?” The attorney nodded. “You must excuse me a moment, my dear,” he said to Lady Gordon, and led the solicitor from the room.

  In the corridor he closed the drawing room door. “What is the fatal flaw in her case?” he asked without preamble.

  “Ah, well, there is no single fatal flaw, my lord,” replied the man carefully. Fowler was a tall, broad-shouldered man with bushy black hair and sharp, shifty eyes like a weasel’s. “But the will is not in her favor, she has never lived with the child—”

  “The guardian named in the will is dead, and the trustee of the child’s funds seems rather derelict in his duty. What argument would there be against bestowing custody of the girl on her aunt?”

  Fowler scratched his chin. “The girl has been living with a mother.”

  “Stepmother.”

  The attorney shrugged off the distinction. “Unless there is hard evidence the stepmother has been abusing the girl, the court will likely not be moved to alter that arrangement. Lady Gordon, my lord, does not present a maternal appearance.”

  Edward raised an eyebrow. “She is a respectable lady with her own income and home. She is the girl’s family by blood.”

  “She is a widow,” said the solicitor. “She hosts parties with foreign guests. And . . .” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  “Yes?” he prompted when the lawyer said no more.

  Fowler cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “My lord, you must understand my position—may I speak bluntly?” Edward gave one short nod. “This is an argument between women. I’ve never been partial to female clients; invariably they require too much delicacy and consideration. The law is not for the female sex, sir. It is too harsh and critical for a woman’s moods.”

  Edward turned toward the room they had just left, where Lady Gordon waited. Of course Fowler hadn’t seen her as he had, but he had never thought women were the weak, overwrought creatures other men sometimes did. “I saw no sign of hysteria or undue delicacy of mind. I thought she had a good grasp of the law and had considered very carefully how her case might succeed.”

  “But would she be the same when she suffers defeats and reverses? I am not equipped to deal with weeping women, sir.” Edward tightened his jaw, wondering what it would take to make Francesca Gordon dissolve into tears. He had a feeling she’d shoot a solicitor before she sobbed on his shoulder. Fowler must have taken it as understanding, though, for he leaned slightly forward. “She appears to be a woman of strong emotions, sir—a rather tempestuous temperament, if you will, and I have no stomach for it.”

  “I see,” said Edward coldly. “Yet if I wished to hire you to find this child . . .”

  The man hesitated, but Edward had seen the spark of speculation in his eyes. Fowler didn’t want to deal with a woman, but he’d be happy enough to take Edward’s money. “Thank you, Mr. Fowler,” he said before the solicitor could reply. “Good day.”

  Francesca Gordon was on her feet when he went back into the drawing room. “What is wrong?” she asked. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing.” Edward closed the door behind him. “He isn’t suitable after all. Mr. Hubbertsey will be here shortly.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t like him much anyway,” she said at last.

  “Nor I,” said Edward under his breath. “Perhaps I should speak to Mr. Hubbertsey first. I think I’ve got the details in hand by now.”

  Lady Gordon gave him a narrow look. “Why?”

  “You wished to borrow some consequence, did you not?” Unconsciously he straightened his shoulders and flexed his hands as he returned to his seat.

  She frowned. “Yes . . .”

  “Then let us ladle it on,” he replied. “As a trial.”

  She still looked dubious, but nodded. When Mr. Hubbertsey was shown in, Edward explained the case. By now he had heard it enough times he was beginning to have a vague interest in the girl at the center of it. He couldn’t help but pity a child who lost her parents so young. He remembered too well the grim atmosphere that pervaded the house when his mother died, just before he turned eight. Gerard, only five—as old as Lady Gordon’s niece when her mother died—had refused to believe the duchess was dead, and so Durham had taken all three sons into the room to see her. Edward hadn’t wanted to; like Gerard, he wanted his mother to wake up and be herself again. The sight of her so still and gray had been the biggest shock of his life, but at least his father was there, patting him on the shoulder as he tried unsuccessfully not to cry. And this little girl had lost both parents in short order and was now divided from her only living relative. It was quite right that he provide what assistance he could, Edward told himself. His father would have expected no less of him.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Hubbertsey soon proved as unsatisfactory as Mr. Fowler. He barely looked at Lady Gordon when he first came in, but as Edward described the case, the man’s eyes slid her way. On guard after Fowler’s dismissive attitude, he saw weary annoyance flash across the solicitor’s face. Edward was not a man to waste time on anyone who would refuse him in the end, the moment Mr. Hubbertsey’s demeanor shifted to one of subtle regret, Edward thanked him and dismissed him. Blackbridge, following instructions to wait close at hand, showed the man out almost before the solicitor realized what was happening.

  Lady Gordon stared fixedly across the room, hands knotted in her lap. “Was he also unsuitable?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “He wasn’t going to take the case.”

  She unfolded her hands and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She inhaled a long, controlled breath. He could feel her emotions like another presence in the room, pulsing bright with anger and frustration. Lady Gordon was trying not to lose her temper again. Perversely, Edward wished she might fail, which surely only proved how vital it was that he conclude this business as quickly as possible. “How do you know?”

  “I could tell.”

  “How?”

  “By the way he looked at you,” he retorted. “Neither he nor Fowler wishes to deal with a woman.”

  A series of expressions flashed across her face in short order—humiliation, fury, despair—leaving her flushed that intoxicating shade of pink. “I see,” she said tightly.

  He simply couldn’t imagine being in her position, rejected not for any weakness of her case or inability to pay, but just because of general traits attributed to her sex. As galling as it must have been to be refused at all, it seemed a hundred times worse, in his eyes, that she had been refused on specious grounds. He almost wished Fowler would come back for a moment, to see how little hysteria there was in Francesca Gordon. From what she’d said, she must have endured similar scenes several times over before today, perhaps even worse. For the first time, Edward appreciated why she accosted him over Wittiers and then contrived to secure his help. In her position he would have done—in fact, had done—just the same when it was his family in question.

  “Who were the other solicitors recommended to you?” he asked.

  She pulled another copy of her list from her reticule and handed it to him, then surged to her feet and paced across the room. Edward read the list again with new skepticism. It was composed of respectable, experienced solicitors, the sort he would hire. He had accepted it blindly before, thinking only to find the first man who would take her case. But that sort of help would be hollow; she wanted to win her case, not merely have it heard. She cared very deeply about the child at the center of the matter, and he reluctantly acknowledged he would feel rather callous if he didn’t make a real effort to help her, particularly after she fulfilled her part of the bargain so promptly and efficiently.

  Unfortunately, that would take more time than expected, not to mention throw him into her company a great deal. It sounded very simple when she first presented it—he had found a solicitor within two days of arriving in London, after all—but now it was clear he would have to devote more thought and energy to her. To helpi
ng her, he reminded himself at once. The less attention he devoted to her eyes and her voice and the way she moved, the better.

  He got up and crossed the room. She turned at his approach, her eyes glittering like polished amber. Just like the other night, she put him in mind of a fire, banked by propriety but still smoldering with energy and feeling and . . . passion. “I fear none of these men will prove satisfactory.”

  Her eyebrows arched slightly as she glanced at the list in his hand, held out for her to take. “You know that by reading their names?”

  “If Fowler and Hubbertsey were the two most likely candidates, I see no point in wasting time with the others.”

  A deeper color bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes remained fixed on the list although she didn’t reach for it. “I see.”

  She thought he was rejecting her as well, as the solicitors had. Edward hoped she never knew how unlikely that was. “Perhaps we should consider other . . . possibilities.”

  She looked at him, and her lips parted. For a moment the only other possibilities that ricocheted through his mind had nothing to do with solicitors. She took a step closer. “What other possibilities?”

  He took her hand in his and closed her fingers around the discarded list. “Possibilities that do not involve anyone on this list.”

  Her head tilted suspiciously. “But I was told I needed a solicitor.”

  Edward gave her a slight smile. “Whoever advised that did not, perhaps, fully comprehend your circumstances.” Her hand still rested in his. For some reason, she didn’t pull away, and he didn’t release her. He wasn’t even sure he could release her, not while she was looking at him like this.

  “Very well,” she murmured after a moment. “What do you think I need, then?”

  If he had been a less sensible man, Edward might have lost the thread of the conversation right there. Instead he found himself playing along, taking shameless advantage of the chance to linger close enough to see every little flicker of her eyelashes, every rapid beat of the pulse at the base of her throat. “I know what you want,” he replied. “But you must decide what you are willing to do to get your niece back.”

  The intrigued light in her eyes cooled to determination. Her hand curled into a fist in his, crumpling her list. “Whatever it takes.”

  His feelings exactly—whatever it took to satisfy his obligation to her and thus relieve the insidious temptation of her company. This time he made himself let go of her hand. “Excellent. I’ll send word.”

  “I shall be anxiously awaiting it.” She looked at him again with new interest, even warmth. “Thank you for everything, Lord Edward.”

  When she had gone, Edward went into his father’s study. He took his seat behind the desk, mindful of all the work waiting for him in neat stacks on the wide mahogany surface, but instead of taking it up he found himself staring out the window as rain began to spatter the glass. It was the honorable thing to do, he told himself; Francesca Gordon had helped him, and now he was obliged to repay the favor. If only he could keep his thoughts on that honorable thing, and away from the almost irresistible urge to touch her, he would be fine.

  Blackbridge came to announce Wittiers. Edward nodded and pushed aside his wayward thoughts. There was another reason he should finish soon with Lady Gordon; he needed to concentrate on securing his inheritance. Even this morning, when he talked about the blackmail letters with Gerard, he had been distracted from that one all-encompassing goal by Francesca’s imminent arrival. Lady Gordon, he reminded himself.

  Wittiers came in and got straight to business. He had begun preparing the petition Charlie would need to present to make his claim to the dukedom of Durham. The main problem, of course, lay in documenting the pedigree that would establish Charlie as the sole and undisputed heir. As Wittiers explained, the petition must be accurate and truthful in every way they knew. The evidence of a prior marriage in Durham’s own hand was very much a problem, especially as word of it had gotten out in the gossip papers and everyone would be looking to see how Charlie’s petition explained it away.

  “Surely rumor can’t stand as evidence,” Edward said sharply.

  “Of course not, my lord,” Wittiers replied. “In our favor, there appears to be no record of the marriage in any family Bible, let alone an official register, and your late father states they did not live as man and wife; indeed, he says that it was a secret marriage, performed just before such ceremonies were outlawed some sixty years ago. That will suggest it was not entirely legal to begin with, and that your father suspected as much. Additionally, any witnesses who might have known them then are unlikely to be found after so many years, which will forestall any allegation that they were known to be married. And of course there is no shred of evidence that she ever approached him again, seeking support or recognition, despite a powerful motive to do so once he assumed his title.”

  “But my father did acknowledge the marriage. In his eyes it was a legal union.”

  “Yes,” Wittiers conceded. “It would be best if we could verify the date of death of the lady in question.”

  Edward closed his eyes for a moment. “My brother has undertaken to discover more about her. My father didn’t leave us much information.”

  “No, he did not,” murmured the solicitor. Edward had given him copies of Durham’s letters. “That is both good and bad. But I have persevered in the face of such challenges before, my lord.”

  Edward nodded. That was why he had wanted Wittiers, after all. Challenges seemed to inspire him, and his reputation as a solicitor was founded on winning them. “Do you recall a woman by the name of Francesca Gordon?” he asked abruptly.

  Wittiers’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded once. “I believe so.”

  Edward realized he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, and flattened his palm against the leather. “I have met Lady Gordon and heard about her case. She approached you about it at one time.”

  Nothing marred Wittiers’s smooth expression to indicate he was surprised at this turn of conversation. “Indeed she did, sir.”

  “What did you think of the merits of her case?” When Wittiers hesitated, Edward added, “I understand you came close to accepting it.”

  “I do recall that case.” Wittiers seemed to sit straighter and his expression grew more focused. “I did consider accepting it, as a challenge. Custody of a child, I believe? It would have been a difficult argument to make, and the chances of success were uncertain, but I believed I could win it.” He smiled, a rather wolfish look. “I don’t take on cases I don’t believe I can win.”

  “Of course.” Edward studied him. “And what did you think her chances were?”

  “One in five,” the man answered promptly. “The will was not in her favor, the child’s guardian was not testifying on her behalf, and the child was not known to be in any danger.”

  “Ah.” So low—and this was Wittiers’s assessment, who had almost taken the case. The others must have given her no chance at all. How unsurprising she’d had difficulties. “I wonder what you think the chances of my case are.”

  “Much better, my lord—three in four, at least. Rumor, and a letter from a man of advanced age on his deathbed, are all that suggest any fault in your brother’s pedigree. And if no one else files a credible claim, it is all but assured. Half the titles in England might be contested, if these are judged valid reasons to withhold one. There will be a strong prejudice in Lord Gresham’s favor.”

  Just as there was a strong prejudice against Lady Gordon, it seemed. Again Edward felt the faint scrape of injustice. One chance in five was far from impossible. Wittiers couldn’t be the only solicitor in London with a certain arrogance regarding his own abilities to win difficult cases. “I am relieved to hear it,” he said. “Keep me informed of your progress.”

  Wittiers was on his feet and bowing. “Of course, my lord.”

  When the door closed behind him, Edward’s eyes fell again on the stacks of correspondence and bills waiting on the
desk. His business agent would arrive at any moment to begin working through them. Just because the Durham estate was in danger of being disputed was no excuse to neglect it. Wittiers was quite sure they would prevail, and Edward knew he would only create more work for himself in the future if he shirked his duty now. Besides, he had too much care and pride in the family estates, and in his own contributions to them, to simply turn his back on them now. When Mr. White, the Durham business agent, tapped at the door, Edward called him in at once and began arranging the most pressing items in front of him.

  But as the man sat down, Edward paused again. “Mr. White.”

  “Yes, my lord?” The agent was a model of competence, hardworking and honest. His pen was already poised to note whatever Edward said.

  “Find a reputable man who investigates private matters. He must operate with great discretion and the utmost reserve; I don’t wish anything I am about to ask to become public knowledge.”

  “Of course not, sir,” White murmured. “I understand you completely.”

  Edward hesitated again, rubbing one finger along his upper lip. He probably ought not to do this . . . But perhaps nothing would come of it. “He is to locate a woman named Mrs. Ellen Haywood, widow of one John Haywood. Her brother may be living with her as well; his name is Percival Watts, and he is, I believe, an artist—a painter. They recently resided in Cheapside but have disappeared. If they are in London, I want to know where, and if they are not, I want to know where they’ve gone. I’m particularly interested in the whereabouts of a girl living with them, a child of about seven years named Georgina. He should do nothing other than report to me what he finds, and under no circumstances can he alert anyone to his, or my, interest.”

  White’s pen scratched for a moment, and then he looked up. “Will that be all?”

  “No,” said Edward, even though he knew without a doubt he shouldn’t be doing this. “I also want to know everything he can learn about Lady Francesca Gordon.”