by JayneFresina
"Humph. I suppose I ought to sack you for costing us."
This was threatened once every few months, and Damon's reply was always the same. "It'll cost you more to lose me."
The old man knew this was true, of course. Damon was their most promising young lawyer, and Stempenham and Pitt did not want him working for any other firm in London. His energy and reputation helped keep them busy with clients. Men admired his tenacity and courage, while women admired...whatever it was they saw beneath his hard exterior and detached manner. That was still a matter for debate. Damon didn't know what women saw in him either and was just as bemused as anybody.
"Lucky for you, Deverell, we have just been commissioned for another case. A curious matter, but one that pays even better, and you're good for the unusual cases." Tobias rasped out a quick chuckle, his lips cracking open in the shadow of that beaked nose. "A Mr. Prospero Piper, an American businessman— yes, I see your surprise, but apparently our successful reputation is known even so far abroad—wants an eye put on his daughters while they're in London, to keep them out of harm's way. Letter arrived yesterday. You can see to it. You're the only one with enough vigor to chase three young girls around Town, picking up after 'em and undoing any damage before it gets in the broadsheets. Or back to their father across the Atlantic."
Damon was seldom shocked. Today he was, for a moment, too unsettled to reply. Piper. He should have known she'd cross his path again, sooner or later.
"What's with the gormless face? Up late last night, Deverell? I've told you before, a man cannot burn the candle at both ends for long. It'll catch up with you."
"I confess, I am confused by this request," he muttered. "It seems an odd task for us."
"There's been some legal issue at home. A weak-chinned boy with a moneyed father took offence to something one of the girls did and won't shut up about it. So they've been sent here to stay with an aunt, out of the way. But Mr. Prospero Piper wants to be sure there's no more bother while they're here. Should there be any ruckus, he wants it dealt with at once. Nipped in the bud, as they say, the damage mended. And fellow is paying handsomely for the effort, so you needn't look so peevish."
Damon shook his head. "I've never heard of a solicitor hired on retainer to keep a woman out of trouble."
"They do things differently in America, I daresay. Since he's so generous, and must not have anything better upon which to spend his money, who are we to complain? Can't fault him for having the foresight. Women and daughters can be a wretched nuisance, and I should know with six of 'em at home myself." He paused, sniffed. "Which reminds me— don't suppose you're in the market yet for a bride, eh?"
"No. Sir." He paused and then added, "Unless you'd like to give me a substantial raise with which I might be better able to keep a wife."
Of course, they both knew he didn't mean it. Damon Deverell was not the marrying kind and asking for a large raise from Tobias Stempenham was akin to whistling in the wind.
"With your stinking rich father?" the old man croaked. "What do you need with my money?"
"I prefer to make my own fortune, sir, than rely on his. Besides, my father has enough offspring to strain his finances."
"At least your father had all sons. No daughters to drain his coffers."
"He has one daughter, sir."
"Only one?" Tobias sniffed miserably and bent over his desk. "Lucky wretch. And here I am with half a dozen I cannot be rid of."
"You have my deepest sympathy, sir."
"You're sure I can't tempt you with one o' my girls? They're not much to look at, but they can keep a clean house and cook a plain dinner."
"Once I have a house to keep clean, sir, I'll give your kind offer all due consideration. At present I have only cramped lodgings with space for myself and a few bold mice. And I usually eat my dinner here, at my desk."
"Aye. Well, always worth a try." The old man groaned deeply. "Got to be rid of 'em one day, before they eat me out of house and bloody home. Six thoroughbred horses would be cheaper to keep and handsomer to look at."
Damon hid a smile and reminded his employer, "But about the Piper girl, sir. Are you certain this is—"
"If you ask me, that American chap has the right idea for managing his daughters. Send 'em far away and pay someone else to watch over 'em. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. Who knows," he shrugged, "it might become a regular practice, with females getting so out of hand these days. Women's suffrage." He huddled deeper into the arch of his shoulders as if he felt a sudden blast of cold air around his ears. "Demanding the vote and whatnot. Stopping addle-pated wenches from getting themselves arrested might become our bread and butter."
But Damon was thinking about a certain pair of extraordinary eyes, quarrelsome lips, and tempting shoulders. Softly rounded, smooth, sun-kissed skin, and a rich, warm voice with a laugh never far away. "Isn't there anyone else who might suit this task better? I do have other cases—"
"Aye, but you don't have Roper's case anymore, do you?" The old man leered, scratching the end of his nose with one crooked finger. "You can take this one instead, since you've arranged yourself some spare time."
Ah. So this was to be his punishment for turning the other fee away. Damon was annoyed. Surely putting him onto this strange case was akin to using the best soldier to stand behind and beat a damned drum. But often he was the errand boy, the messenger, the fixer. Especially when it was a task nobody else wanted.
"What's the matter now?" Tobias roared. "You look like a ferret just ran up your breeches."
"It's...I met one of them."
"Oh? And?"
"Short, chatty, willful brunette with lavender eyes, a great many opinions about Englishmen, and, so she tells me herself, a splendid right hook. We took an instant dislike to each other, so I may not be the ideal man for the job."
Tobias gave a gruff chuckle. "You're always the man for the job, Deverell. You get it done. And this is good money for naught, if you ask me," he said, nudging papers across his desk with those rheumatic knuckles.
"Naught?" Damon grumbled. "You just said women can be a wretched nuisance."
"Not for you, surely." Tobias feigned surprise, leaning back in his chair. "The merciless Master Damon Deverell doesn't quake in his boots for a woman. Now don't you let us down. Take a firm hand to the wayward wench. You've got a reputation for being an utter bloody bastard to maintain."
* * * *
Two days after the Courtenay's ball, Damon, in his best "utter bloody bastard" mode, was at the door of a smart house in Belgravia. He estimated it to be one of those rented for around fifteen hundred pounds a year, perhaps more. Clearly, as his employer had stated, Mr. Prospero Piper liked to throw his money around and had plenty to throw. Why shouldn't he catch some of it?
His previous reservations about this job had fallen away. Damon was always up for a challenge and he liked clearing up messes, but there had been very few cases of the interesting sort falling into his lap of late, and life had begun to feel rather narrow. Ready for some fresh air and fireworks, therefore, he stood at the door in Belgravia, warm spring sun in his eyes, newspaper tucked under one arm, and felt just a slight tremor of excitement. But he was careful not to let it show on his face; had that reputation to maintain.
The door finally opened, a footman appearing before him in solemn, resigned weariness.
"Are the ladies of the house at home?"
The footman blinked slowly, as if invisible strings tugged his eyelids downward. "And whom might I say is calling?"
"Deverell. Damon Deverell. If Miss Piper pretends not to remember me, tell her it's the one with the big feet. The one she shot at."
That got the footman's interest and woke him from the somber gloom of despondency. "I see. Kindly...wait here. Sir."
Thus he was left on the step, the door closed again while the footman's steps echoed away down the corridor. A few minutes later, the door reopened in a hurry and a woman in a silk robe, with a feathered turba
n on her head snapped at him to leave his card. He sensed at once that she would have sent the footman back to get the card had she not wanted to appraise him with her own eyes. The informality of her costume told him that her curiosity was greater than her propriety. Her eyes were bright, very intense, scouring his person with practiced speed as he handed her his calling card.
"She shot at you?" Her countenance and tone showed no surprise or horror, merely a slight impatience and more than a little morbid curiosity. "Where? I don't see any holes in you."
"Just a jest, madam. I was unharmed. As you see."
She considered briefly and then said, "Come pass by tomorrow, young man, when I've looked you up."
But she was not fast enough to stop Damon's hand on the door, holding it open. "Madam, I think you misunderstand. This is not a social call. I'm not here as a prospective suitor. I came here on business for Mr. Prospero Piper."
She glared at his hand and then at him.
"Apparently his daughters might need an ally in London," he added, turning the folded newspaper to show her the cartoon featured there. "And it seems to have fallen to my lot."
* * * *
Pip was the last to enter the room and had just come in from a morning walk in the park. As it happened, and although she tried to occupy her mind with anything else, she'd been thinking about Damon Deverell ever since the ball, so when she saw him standing in her aunt's drawing room with his back to the fireplace, she exhaled a small, wheezy, high-pitched "Oh, no", and prepared to walk out again, sensing she was in trouble. Exactly how or why, and whose fault it was, she didn't yet know. But it was definitely trouble.
"Epiphany," her aunt called out, "come sit, ma cher. This is Mr. Deverell, a lawyer."
He looked at her, bowed his head and put both hands behind his back.
Apparently he was not about to confess that they'd met before. She certainly wouldn't either. In truth, Pip still couldn't decide whether she forgave him for tricking her so easily, making her such a prize fool, and leaving her wishing she was five feet eight inches with golden hair and a willow-wand waist. Something she had never before wanted or cared about— fortunately, considering her penchant for cake.
The air in the room felt oddly thick and hot. Aunt Du Bois was, strangely enough, still in her dressing robe and turban, an outfit she wore in the mornings before the proper number of coffee cups had been downed, the drapes opened and her mood readied to tackle the day's challenges. The fact that she had not bothered to change into anything more appropriate suggested that their aunt considered their visitor a "nobody", yet his purpose there must be fairly urgent for she had gathered her nieces together on the sofa and hadn't even waited for a maid to light the fire.
"What do we want with a lawyer?" Pip exclaimed, not moving another step, one hand still on the door handle. "Is this about that idiot Moffat again? What now, for pity's sake!"
"Your father has hired the firm of Stempenham and Pitt to watch over you. This young man is—"
"Watch over me? I'm not a child."
"And I am not a nursemaid, Miss Piper," he said in a low, measured voice. "I have been tasked with advising you, while you remain in London. Your father seems to think certain issues might arise and that, if we were already hired to stand at your side, any difficulties, misinterpretations and misunderstandings might be avoided. In advance."
She laughed, finally closing the door and crossing to a chair by the window. "You mean you're supposed to stop me from burning my fingers on a hot frying pan? Because I am far too stupid to save myself."
He replied evenly, "I can't stop you from burning your fingers, Miss Piper, but I can stop it from costing your father his fortune."
"Well, you've been sent on a fool's errand. We don't need you. I can just stay indoors if I'm that much of a problem. Gladly."
"Epiphany!" her aunt exclaimed, "your father knows what he's about. I have no great fondness for lawyers myself, not since they took all my beloved Remy's possessions away after he died and I was sore bereft," hand to brow, "but I can see we must suffer this gentleman's advice, if it is what your father wants. A necessary evil, perhaps."
Since leaving the room in a temper would only make everybody's concern seem appropriate, Pip sat primly, chin lifted and hands in her lap. It took supreme effort, but she managed, with nothing more than a short, tense sigh.
The man by the fire watched her with eyes the color of very hot smoke. "Your father's wealth will no doubt make you all subject to some unwelcome attention here. His anxiety, therefore, is understandable. If you have any concerns or questions, ladies, I ask that you bring them to me. And that," he winced at Pip, as if she gave him a sudden bout of indigestion, "is all I ask. I have no intent to intrude. I shan't be an obstruction. Or prevent you from having any enjoyment in your life."
"I suppose our father has already paid you, so you're keen to look useful," she said. "Or as useful as a man can look."
"You won't even know I exist. Like any good servant."
But with his lack of humility he could hardly enter a room unnoticed and merge with the woodwork, she mused. "Well, if our father wants to waste his money, I can't stop him and neither will you, of course. Might as well get what you can out of us."
"Just doing my job, Miss Piper. No need to punch me in the eye." She was certain she saw his lips fight a sudden twitch of amusement— one that apparently took him by surprise and confusion, for he colored slightly and almost dropped the newspaper he held.
"People do love their gossip, on both sides of the Atlantic, it seems, Mr. Deverell."
He crossed the floor in a few long strides and placed in her lap the newspaper, neatly folded to show an artist's rendition of herself, in a ball gown, raising her fist to a terrified young gentleman as onlookers gasped in shock. The description beneath the sketch explained the titillating scene.
"Miss E. Piper brandishes her mutinous fist before injuring Mr. Moffat the younger."
She was horrified. How quickly that story had followed them to England. Had it flown with pigeons?
"According to the article, young women in America are becoming more and more difficult to keep in their place. Something to do, perhaps, the author suggests, with a Women's Rights Convention held in Seneca Falls, New York, only a year before Miss E. Piper landed the infamous punch that knocked poor little Moffat off his feet." He paused, his lip quirked again before he was able to resume with a grave expression. "The author concludes that, hopefully, this feminine discontent will not find its way across the Atlantic, even though the pugnacious Miss Piper has."
All Pip could find to say was, "It doesn't look anything like me."
He tilted his head, examining the picture upside down. "They have made you considerably taller and heftier. Probably to make Moffat look more tragically pathetic, the hapless wounded party."
"He doesn't look anything like that either."
"It might be a challenge, Miss Piper, to capture the parties or the moment accurately, but it won't stop them speculating in ink."
"Well, it's not fair. They don't have my side of the story."
"Quite. So perhaps there is some purpose to my existence after all."
She thrust the paper back at him. "I'm sure I don't care what people say. Let them talk."
"Oh, they will, no doubt." Rather than take the paper from her, he backed away. "We don't hear of many young ladies starting a fist fight in London ballrooms, but I understand they do things differently in America."
She said nothing, tightening her lips peevishly. Looking into his eyes had the same unsettling affect as before, and she ought to know better this time, so she carefully looked away.
"May I enquire," he said resignedly, "what brought about the swinging of your fist on that occasion? Merely for my own edification."
"If you must know, he called me a southern bumpkin swamp crawler. Not the worst thing I've ever been called, but I found his face particularly nauseating. It didn't help when he referred to my father as
a jumped-up, opportunist half-breed, and suggested that my sisters and I would fare better at a quadroon ball, where we might find wealthy men to make us their concubines."
Ah. That shook his jaded expression.
Pip heard her sisters gasp and caught the demure semi-faint with which their aunt attempted to make everybody think she'd never heard such words and suggestions uttered in her presence.
But Deverell's gaze was fixed, slightly horrified, upon Pip.
"It's called placage,” she continued, enjoying the mayhem as her aunt's second attempt, with wilder gesticulations, knocked over a potted plant. "Perhaps you are not familiar with it, Mr. Deverell. It is an arrangement without a binding legal marriage, but gives the man— her protector— all the rights of a husband."
He cleared his throat. "I believe I understand how it works."
"So I took slight offense at the young man." Pip smoothed down her skirts and sighed. "Perhaps my physical reaction could have been more restrained. But we Pipers never do anything by halves."
Her aunt had picked up the toppled plant, but still held a torn leaf in her hand. "Will you stay for breakfast, Mr. Deverell?" she inquired hastily. "We were just about to—"
"No," came the curt response. "As I said, this was business. Not a social call." He gave a brief bow to the room in general and said, "I am at your service, ladies, unfortunately for us both. Good day." With that he swept out, closing the drawing room door just short of a slam.
"Well, I declare, that young man could make use of a few etiquette lessons," their aunt muttered, fanning herself with the ragged leaf. "Despite some severely bosom-palpitating good looks, he has a distinct lack of finesse."
To which Pip replied, "If you ask me, bosoms palpitate far too easily, and I'm sure Damon Deverell has made a fool of many young women who ought to know better." She glanced out of the window to see him leave the house with his commanding stride. "I don't suppose a man like that needs finesse and manners to get his wicked way with anybody."