In the Barrister's Chambers

by Tina Gabrielle

  “We had an agreement, Jack. I go with you.”

  He threw up his hands and sighed. “Fine. Shall we then?” Leaning out the window, he gave the driver directions.

  The leather harness creaked and the cab jerked forward, then settled into a sway as the wheels crunched over the cobblestone streets.

  Jack returned his attention to her. The window shade was rolled up and the late-afternoon sun illuminated Evelyn’s form. She was garbed entirely in a dark cloak. Her shoes were obviously a servant’s, and the slight brim of her hat served to shield her eyes. It was not a bad choice of attire, and he wondered what she wore underneath. If he had any say, she would keep the cloak on the entire evening.

  He noticed she was studying him as well. “Do you approve of my clothing?” he asked.

  She grimaced. “I was wondering where your valet obtained such a horrid jacket.”

  Jack grinned. He was wearing a corduroy jacket, torn and badly stitched at one wrist, and a grubby shirt with enough grease stains to appear as if he had repeatedly wiped his plate with the dingy fabric. Coarse wool black trousers with frayed hems and scuffed boots completed his look. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning and had a shadow of a dark beard.

  “My valet, Martin, is familiar with several secondhand clothing dealers. He adds his own personal flair, of course.” Jack motioned to the awful stitching and grease stains. “But Martin’s talent is remarkably helpful when I am investigating some of my clients’ alleged grievances, and I need to travel to the scene of the crime.”

  A corner of her mouth curled upward. “I can only imagine.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Evie. Our attire will aid us, but you must be aware that nothing will draw the eye like a beautiful woman.”

  She blinked, and the thought occurred to him that she had little idea just how stunning she was. Had no man ever called her beautiful before?

  What a blasted waste, he mused. Her father had done her a grave disservice by permitting her to sequester herself in his chambers.

  The swaying of the hackney changed to a stop-and-go motion. The pungent odor of fish wafted through the window of the cab, and Jack knew they were close to their destination.

  On impulse, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of blond hair behind Evelyn’s ear. But as soon as he touched her, he felt an immediate and total attraction. His fingers lingered near her lobe, and he was mesmerized by the silky texture of her hair. He wanted to touch more of her, to take off the hat and explore the fine mass....

  He glanced at her face. She sat rigid, clearly surprised at his touch.

  Feeling a sudden rush of frustrated annoyance at his lack of control, he jerked his hand back. “Stay close to me, Evie,” he bit out. “Keep your hat on at all times. The last thing we need is your hair drawing unwanted attention. If any man approaches us, then you are to claim to be my woman. Understand?” His tone sounded unduly harsh to his own ears, but he didn’t care, wanting only for her to heed his warning.

  “But surely that won’t be necessary?”

  He leaned forward, his eyes piercing her with a hard stare. “Until we find Randolph Sheldon, then it is necessary for your own safety.”

  When she opened her mouth to protest further, Jack said, “Do you trust me?”

  She looked taken aback and bit her bottom lip before looking him in the eye. “Yes. I trust you, Jack.”

  “Good, because we’ve arrived.”

  He opened the door, jumped down, and held out a hand to Evelyn.

  She took it and alighted, her blue eyes wide as disks as she spotted the throng of people down the street.

  “We can still turn back, Evie,” he said.

  She shook her head.

  Jack tossed a coin to the cabdriver. “Stay in the area tonight and there will be double in it for you.”

  “Aye, gov’ner,” the driver said, tipping his hat.

  Then Jack took her hand in a firm grip and headed for the thickest part of the mob.

  Evelyn couldn’t believe her eyes. The fish market enveloped them in a malodorous crowd of activity. The overpowering stench of fish lay as heavy as the humid air on her skin. Fishmongers with gut-stained aprons waved fish above their heads and cupped hands around their mouths as they shouted their prices. Screeching seagulls hovered above and occasionally swooped down to pick at fish guts or slop thrown between the stalls.

  “How will we ever find the tavern?” she shouted above the cacophony of voices to be heard.

  “I know where it is,” Jack said.

  A burly sailor bumped into her and she stumbled. Jack steadied her with a hand at her elbow.

  “We could lose each other in this crowd.”

  His grip tightened. “No, we won’t. The tavern is just down the street.”

  “I didn’t think it would be this busy. It’s almost five o’clock in the evening.”

  “It’s worse at five o’clock in the morning,” he said dryly.

  They passed a stall where a buyer haggled with a fishwife who had a dozen turbots strung around her apron. The brownish tails and white bellies of the fish swung around as the woman gestured wildly with her hands and yelled in the buyer’s face. In the next stall a charlatan stood on a table, shouting out the benefits of a salve that could heal hemorrhoids as well as accidental cuts from fish knives in record speed. A milling crowd gathered around the charismatic man and the noise level increased.

  Evelyn looked about flabbergasted, grateful for Jack’s presence by her side. The market was like a living beast with a pulse of its own that could easily swallow an unsuspecting passerby.

  “I can see why you did not wish me to come alone,” she blurted out.

  He stopped suddenly and looked down at her, his green eyes studying her with a curious intensity. “Is that an admission of weakness, Evie?”

  “No, Jack. Merely a statement of gratitude for your escort.”

  A strange, faintly eager look flashed across his face, but as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

  “I would have preferred to meet Mr. Sheldon elsewhere, but we’re here now.” He pointed past the table of the medicine man. “I can see the tavern up ahead. Let’s be on our way.”

  They continued on through the market. As the end of the business day neared, fishmongers threw buckets of water in front of their stalls. Some mopped the fish guts and waste, others were content to let the gulls and stray dogs do the work. The cobbled street was slick and dirty, and Evelyn held up her already-short hem as they walked by.

  Soon the murky, brown water of the Thames came into view, and the odor of fish and seaweed grew stronger. Shrimp and oyster boats were lined up at the wharf. Fishermen and porters scurried about at the direction of a burly wharfmaster, his weathered face as dark as tanned leather, whose shouts were mixed with ear-blistering profanity.

  She first spotted the sign for the Cock and Bull Tavern before they rounded the corner and the building came into view.

  “Stay by my side, Evie,” Jack warned. “Every sailor in Billingsgate is going to be here on a Friday night.”

  They came up to the tavern door, and she could make out the roar of voices within. Just as Jack reached for the handle, the door swung open and a sailor stumbled outside. Ruddy-cheeked and glassy-eyed, he barely glanced at them before making his way to the street and spewing up his latest meal.

  Giving her no chance to stare, Jack dragged her inside the tavern.

  A thick haze of smoke enveloped them. Her eyes stung, and she blinked several times until the scene before her cleared.

  The tavern was crowded just as Jack had warned. It was a large room, with a long bar spanning the back wall and tables and chairs haphazardly scattered about. Groups of men were seated, their hands cradling tankards of ale or cups of gin while others held decks of cards. The crowd was coarse—made up of dockworkers, sailors, porters, and fishermen.

  Candles sputtered from wall sconces and coals glowed in a corner brazier. A few women were present—barmaids
scurrying about; other females with scandalously low bodices lingered at the tables, hanging over the shoulders of men who played cards.

  The door closed behind Evelyn. The man behind the bar looked up and stopped pouring a bottle of gin. Other heads rose, and the occupants stared at the newest patrons with narrow-eyed interest.

  Evelyn’s heart pounded in her chest, and uncertainty flooded through her. She had tried to anticipate what she might encounter, yet no newspaper article she had read, nor even literature featuring the lower classes, had amply prepared her for this true life experience. Her senses were overwhelmed by the thick smoke wafting across her skin and the fetid air full of unwashed, perspiring bodies. The din of the crowd boiled down to a dull ringing in her ears, and her feet felt as heavy as if her borrowed shoes were filled with lead.

  She was vaguely conscious of shuffling backward, making for the door, when Jack’s hand tightened on her wrist. He pulled her firmly to his side, his breath hot in her ear.

  “Don’t, Evie. It’s too late to run, and I’m with you.”

  The hard length of him pressed against her, reassuring her, and she nodded numbly.

  Jack elbowed their way past the crush of bodies to an empty table in the rear of the room. Several broad-shouldered dockworkers eyed them, and Evelyn feared they were the type who enjoyed bar brawls. But Jack exuded a cocky confidence as if he belonged in such an environment, and the men remained in their seats. The man behind the bar went back to pouring cups of gin.

  They were almost at the table, when a hand snaked out for Evelyn. Jack pulled her out of reach and glared at a young sailor with crooked, brown teeth who was far into his cups.

  “Willin’ to share?” the man asked, slurring his words.

  Jack’s face was fierce. “She’s mine fer the night. Bought and paid fer. Find another.”

  The drunkard shrugged and turned his attention back to his gin.

  Shock ran through Evelyn at Jack’s comment, and she bit her lip. She recalled the promise Jack had her make, that if she were approached she would claim to be Jack’s woman. She had assumed he meant his wife, but looking at her surroundings she realized that was never his intent—for no decent man would bring his spouse here.

  They sat, and a buxom barmaid sidled over to Jack. The woman gave Jack a sly look, her greedy eyes raking his chiseled profile and broad shoulders. The shadow of his beard only added to his rugged, masculine appeal.

  Jack did nothing to discourage the woman; rather he gave her a lazy wink and sent her off with a smile.

  A streak of annoyance passed through Evelyn at how easily Jack could charm the female sex. Barmaids, librarians, courthouse clerks, and even high-born ladies—Jack seemed to know how to make them all respond with very little effort.

  The barmaid returned with two tankards. Bending over more than necessary to place the ale before Jack, she displayed a huge amount of bosom for his view before walking away.

  Just then, the door swung open and two men stepped inside, bringing with them a blast of wind.

  Evelyn’s tankard halted halfway to her mouth. “It’s Randolph and Simon,” she said to Jack.

  Jack rested his hand on hers, staying her when she made to rise. “Do not draw attention to yourself. Let them come to us.”

  Chapter 10

  Jack eyed the two men at the door. One was of medium height and dark-haired, the other was slightly taller with sandy-colored hair and round spectacles. Jack assumed the darker male was Simon Guthrie and the blonde was Randolph Sheldon as Evelyn had described them. Simon was the first to spot Evelyn in the corner. With a jerk of his head to his friend, the pair made their way to the back of the tavern and took seats at the table.

  “Randolph!” Evelyn cried out. “I’ve been so worried.”

  Randolph Sheldon reached across the table and clasped her hand in both of his. “Evelyn, darling. Please forgive me.” His blue eyes watered behind his spectacles, and his fair hair stood on end as if he had repeatedly run his fingers through it in angst. He wore a wrinkled coat with a limp shirt beneath, and his complexion resembled a dish of warm gruel.

  Randolph raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them.

  Jack grit his teeth, and a vicious thought popped into his head: He does not deserve her.

  “Oh, Randolph,” Evelyn sighed. “Are you well?”

  “As well as can be expected. I never wanted this for you, Evelyn.”

  “Nonsense, Randolph,” Evelyn admonished, her blue eyes gentle, understanding. “You did not bring this upon yourself. The murderer did.”

  At the mention of the crime, a painful expression crossed Randolph’s countenance. He glanced nervously at Jack.

  Evelyn looked at Jack, then at Randolph. “This is Mr. Harding. He has agreed to represent you.”

  “Simon told me about Mr. Harding,” Randolph said. “But I don’t know if it’s necessary for—”

  “Mr. Harding is extremely accomplished, Randolph,” Evelyn said. “We are fortunate to have him.”

  Randolph still looked uncertain, and Jack spoke up before Evelyn had the chance. “Mr. Sheldon, if Bow Street is looking for you, then it’s only a matter of time until they find you. Do not be fooled by their intentions. Bess Whitfield was a popular actress, and the head magistrate is under a considerable amount of pressure to make an arrest. The people expect a conviction. And from what I understand, the evidence against you is sufficient to give them what they want—whether you are innocent or not.”

  Randolph’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. He looked young and scholarly, the type of man Jack expected Evelyn to be drawn to.

  He is just a boy; what she needs is a man. Jack’s gut twisted at his bitter thoughts. He knew Randolph Sheldon was not a boy, but was twenty-two, the same age as Evelyn.

  “They have made up their minds then. They think I killed Bess,” Randolph said in a choked voice.

  At the common usage of the actress’s first name, Evelyn’s hand fluttered to her chest. “You never explained the extent of your acquaintance with Bess Whitfield in the past.”

  “She was my uncle’s daughter from his first wife. We were close as children, but then her mother died and my uncle remarried and they moved away. She wrote over the years, but it wasn’t until she returned to London to take to the stage that we frequently saw each other again. My uncle died, you see, and I was her only living relative. She . . . she relied on me.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” Evelyn asked.

  Randolph reached out to touch Evelyn’s shoulder.

  Jack wrestled with the urge to slap away Randolph’s wayward hand.

  “I wanted to, Evelyn,” Randolph said. “But it was Bess who asked me not to. She was worried it would affect my chances at the university. She knew that I depended on my Fellowship with your father and that I had plans to one day become a professor myself. Bess was concerned her ‘reputation’ would hurt my advancement.”

  Evelyn frowned. “Her reputation?”

  Randolph’s face turned a mottled shade of red.

  Simon came to his friend’s aid. “Bess was known for her performances offstage just as much as those at the Drury Lane Theatre.”

  Bewilderment flashed across Evelyn’s face. “Whatever do you mean?”

  All three men looked at her.

  Simon squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. Intelligent brown eyes glanced at her, then lowered, then looked at her again. “Bess Whitfield had many lovers. Some were men of influence and wealth while others were mere musicians and stagehands. Rampant rumors existed speculating that Bess’s drove of lovers were the reason she had advanced in the theater so quickly. It’s rare for a country girl to become a famous actress almost overnight at one of London’s most popular theaters.”

  Evelyn cast her mind back and the image of Bess Whitfield focused in her memory. Evelyn had seen Bess on stage two years ago during the opening night of the newly rebuilt Drury Lane Theatre’s production of William Shakespeare’s tragedy Hamlet. Bess had
played the role of Gertrude, King Hamlet’s widow and the mother of Prince Hamlet, who marries Claudius, her husband’s brother and murderer who succeeds to the throne. Bess had been a beautiful woman, but it was her charisma and provocative allure that had captured the audience. Evelyn would never forget the pivotal moment when Gertrude drank a cup of poison intended for Hamlet by Claudius. She had fallen to the floor, moaning in agony and reaching out for her son. The applause for Bess at the end of the performance had rivaled that of the lead actor, Robert Elliston.

  Evelyn had heard competition for leading roles was fierce, but she had never suspected Bess Whitfield’s performance offstage had aided her career.

  Evelyn blinked, then focused her gaze on Randolph. “And you knew this about Miss Whitfield?”

  “It’s true, but that’s not the side of Bess I knew. We were related, Evelyn, and we shared nothing but kinship.”

  Evelyn covered his hand resting on her shoulder. “I believe you, Randolph.”

  She coddles him like a helpless babe, Jack thought. Randolph could very well be guilty, an accomplished actor. Jack had seen it before; men so adept at lying, they could fool their own mothers while committing heinous crimes beneath the roofs they shared.

  “Tell me what happened the night she was murdered,” Jack said.

  Randolph dropped his hand from Evelyn’s shoulder, and his gaze snapped to Jack. “I was at the university library that night when a note was delivered. It was from Bess saying that she wanted to see me. She requested I come to her London lodgings. She said it was urgent, that there was something she had to give me. An item of great importance.”

  Randolph’s hands twisted on the table. “I went right away. Bess rented the second floor of a four-story building. When I arrived on her doorstep, I knocked, but there was no answer. Then I noticed the door was ajar, and I let myself inside. I stood in the vestibule and called her name, but no one was about. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, and I later learned that she had left for the night. As I looked about, I heard a loud thump from upstairs. Concerned that Bess had fallen, I rushed upstairs. I found Bess in her bedchamber. She was . . . she was lying on the floor. She had been stabbed numerous times and there was blood . . . blood everywhere. On the rug, the walls, the furniture. I knelt down and held her in the crook of my arm, hoping to find her still breathing, but her life blood soaked through my shirt. She was already gone.”