Randolph swallowed and ran his hand through his hair. “That was when I heard a man shout out. When I realized it was the constable, I . . . I panicked. The window was already open, and I jumped out and climbed down the trellis. The neighbor must have heard Bess’s screams and summoned the constable. Looking back, the murderer must have still been in the house when I entered. He must have made the noise I had heard and escaped through the window moments before I had come upstairs.”
“It’s unusual for me to take on a client that is in hiding,” Jack said. “If Bow Street comes to me, I have an ethical duty as a barrister not to present perjurous testimony. You should turn yourself in for questioning.”
“No!” Simon and Randolph said in unison.
“You said yourself Bess Whitfield was popular with the people and Bow Street is under pressure to make an arrest,” Randolph pointed out.
“Yes, but hiding is not aiding your cause. To the contrary, it makes you appear guilty. Eventually they will find you. If you return, I can be present when you are questioned and officially request to be kept informed of the outcome of any investigation.”
“There is another option,” Simon said as he withdrew a paper from his jacket pocket. Leaning forward across the table, he lowered his voice. “We have compiled a list of suspects. People that had both motive and opportunity to kill Bess Whitfield. We could investigate them ourselves while Randolph is in hiding.”
“Yes,” Evelyn said. “Mr. Harding and I can help look into them.” Her face held an eager excitement like a puppy thrown its first meaty bone.
“Evelyn,” Jack said, a silken thread of warning in his voice.
Evelyn spun toward Randolph. “You said Miss Whitfield wanted to give you ‘an item of great importance.’ What was it?”
Randolph shrugged. “I don’t know, but I suspect the murderer was searching for the item when my arrival interrupted him.”
“How do you know that?” Jack asked.
“Bess’s bedroom was a mess. The bed had been torn asunder, the mattress sliced down the center. Furniture had been turned over, curtains had been pulled off their rods and vases had been shattered. The two cushioned chairs in the room had been slashed, and horsehair was scattered all over the carpet.”
Jack’s breath froze in his lungs. It was not every day that the description of a crime scene stunned him, but this crime scene, the way the room had been ransacked, was eerily similar to the way Emmanuel Darlington’s library had been ripped apart days ago.
Jack had experienced a wary feeling in his gut then, had felt the crime had been somehow related to Randolph’s problems. The inexperienced constable hadn’t agreed and had called it a common burglary. But Jack had learned never to ignore his instincts—they had never failed him in the past. Now he had more than instinct to go on; he had coincidence. The two crimes were related; he felt it down to the marrow of his bones.
Whatever Bess Whitfield had planned on giving Randolph Sheldon was something that also involved the Darlingtons.
But what could it be?
Only one thing was certain: Evelyn and her father were in danger.
The constable would be of no assistance. Bow Street would turn a blind eye between the two crimes and would dismiss Jack’s concerns. Rather, they would eagerly arrest Randolph and not look further for the true criminal. And once Randolph was arrested, Jack’s time to search for the murderer was severely limited. Justice was swift. Within days after an arrest, a grand jury would find sufficient evidence to issue an indictment, and a trial at the Old Bailey would begin immediately thereafter. He had seen it time and again. The Crown’s prosecution would be content with an easy conviction; it didn’t necessarily have to be the right man.
Jack’s gaze snapped to the list in Simon’s hand. He had the resources to investigate the names. His fellow barristers and friends could aid him. They could find the killer, find whatever Bess had hid and had died for.
Only then would Evelyn and her father truly be safe.
Yes, she would be safe to live her life as planned with Randolph Sheldon at her side....
Evelyn took the list from Simon and scanned its contents. “I know some of these people. I could look into them.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth twisted with exasperation.
She needs a firm hand. A man worthy of her mettle. Jack scowled at his thoughts. Don’t be daft! Evelyn Darlington has made her choice.
Jack turned his attention back to Randolph. “Do you still have the shirt?”
“The shirt?” Randolph asked.
“Yes. The shirt that was soaked in Bess’s blood. Do you still have it?”
“I . . . I suppose so. I’ve been hiding at Bess’s home in Shoreditch. I stowed it there. Why?”
“I’ll need to examine it.”
“All right.”
“Does that mean you’ll agree to help?” Evelyn’s face lit with hope.
Jack plucked the list out of Evelyn’s hand. “I’ll agree to look into the names.” He eyed Randolph. “I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, try to stay out of trouble and out of sight.”
Chapter 11
Evelyn watched Randolph and Simon leave the tavern. She was disheartened to see Randolph depart and knew it would be a long time before she saw him again. But at the same time, she was eager to delve into the list of suspects that Simon had handed her and prove Randolph’s innocence.
“Don’t worry, Evie. You’ll see him again.”
Evelyn turned to find Jack watching her. She was struck by the firm set of his jaw, the intense green eyes.
She swallowed and nodded, unable to find her voice. How could she explain that she was more relieved that Jack had remained than she was upset that Randolph had returned to hiding? If Randolph stood any chance to return to his normal life, then Jack’s services were essential.
Jack pushed his chair back. “We need to get you home.”
She stood and cleared her throat. “Yes, of course. If I am fortunate, no one in the household will have noticed my departure.”
She followed him to a rear door. He pushed the door open and they stepped into a narrow cobbled alley. Bypassing the main section of the fish market, Jack led her to where the same hackney driver that had brought them to Billingsgate waited.
Grasping her skirts, she climbed into the seat, and Jack sat across from her.
As the hackney started on their return journey, Jack lifted his sleeve to his nose and grimaced. “My valet is going to smell me coming.”
She laughed. “The smell is quite horrid and clings to everything.” Indeed, her “borrowed” clothing was destroyed by the slop and swill of the fish market, and she was thankful she had previously purchased her maid new clothing so those she was wearing might be disposed of without a pang of regret. Even her hat hung askew, damp from the humidity. She felt flushed and warm inside the coach, and she shrugged out of her wool cloak, which now lay wet and heavy against her skin.
Jack’s gaze dropped to her chest, and Evelyn recalled the tight bodice. A sudden heat coursed through her, an awareness of his masculinity. The interior of the coach seemed to shrink as she focused on the attractive, virile man across from her.
Suddenly nervous, she pulled the coarse wool around her shoulders.
“I want to thank you for remaining as Randolph’s barrister. I understand your predicament, your ethical duty not to lie to a Bow Street magistrate. But I am grateful that you did not insist Randolph return with us.” The truth was she was so relieved Jack had agreed to stay that it felt like a lead weight was lifted off her chest, and she could freely breathe for the first time that evening. “I’m prepared to immediately look into the list of suspects that Simon provided.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Jack drawled. “It could be dangerous, Evie.”
“But I could be of great assistance. As I said before, I recognized some of the names and—”
He held up a hand to interrupt. “I know better than to exclude you entirel
y. I suspect you would take matters into your own hands if I tried to stop you. I only ask that you do not look into any suspects by yourself and that you involve me in every step. We work together. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said quickly, lest he change his mind.
“Even if you have the opportunity to see Mr. Sheldon, I want to accompany you.”
Something in Jack’s tone raised the hair on her nape. His eyes held a sheen of purpose and warning.
“You think Randolph is guilty, don’t you?” she asked.
“It’s possible.”
She shook her head. “No. You asked me to trust you. Do you trust my judgment, Jack?”
“It’s not the same thing. Mr. Sheldon could be a gifted liar. I’ve seen it before. Some people are so talented that they begin to believe their own version of the story.”
“No, Jack. You have to believe me,” she insisted. “I don’t agree with what Randolph did after he found Bess Whitfield’s body. I think he should have stayed and explained himself to the constable. But I would not remain by Randolph’s side if I believed him capable of murder.”
“I don’t need to believe in my client’s innocence to represent him,” he pointed out.
“Yes, I know that too. But I trust Randolph’s story that he went to Bess’s home that night at her request. She planned to give him something. Perhaps if we learn what that item is, you will believe him.”
Jack cocked his head to the side and gave her a grudging nod. The dying embers of the sun spilled through the open window of the cab, illuminating his extraordinary eyes, flecked and ringed with gold.
“My fellow barrister in chambers, Anthony Stevens, works with the best investigators in the business,” he said. “If there was something in Bess Whitfield’s past that she wanted to hide, they’ll find it.”
Jack strode into Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon at 13 Bond Street. Across the large salon, he spotted Anthony Stevens stripped to the waist in the center of a ring. Wearing padded gloves, he circled his opponent. The ring’s heavy ropes were tied to four anchoring posts to form a square, and the boxers circled one another like scorpions with their tails raised, ready to strike.
The sparring pair rocked back and forth, their swift nimble footwork like rapid flashes across the hardwood floor. Both bent slightly at the waist, head and shoulders pressed forward, their gloves raised. They jabbed and punched as they moved, sweat running down their foreheads and onto their bare chests.
Anthony was tall, and his massive shoulder muscles bunched and flexed as he struck with each forceful punch. For such a large man, he moved with agility and grace in the ring. His opponent was as tall and powerfully built as Anthony, but one glance at the man’s broken nose, missing front teeth, and purple bruising around one eye, pronounced him a seasoned boxer.
But Jack knew better than to underestimate Anthony’s ruthlessly competitive nature.
To the side of the ring, resting his arm on the rope and shouting out instructions, stood John “Gentleman” Jackson himself. Before retiring, Jackson had defeated Daniel Mendoza to become the heavyweight champion in England. Since opening his own boxing salon, well-bred gentlemen flocked to Jackson for instruction in the pugilistic art.
Jack himself often sparred here, and he thrived on the physical exercise.
He watched the match from the far corner of the room. Near the end of the third round, Anthony surged forward and hit his opponent square in the gut, followed by a fierce uppercut to the jaw. Down and dazed, the other boxer lay flat on his back, and Anthony was declared the winner.
Jack waited to approach until Anthony stepped out of the ring, and an assistant untied his gloves.
“You fight like the devil, Anthony. By the experienced look of your opponent, I would have placed my bets against you,” Jack said.
Anthony laughed as he wiped his forehead with a cotton towel. “You never were good with wagers, Jack.”
Jack grinned. “I looked for you in chambers.”
“Nothing like a good boxing session to ease the stress of the day.”
“Ah, I see. An unpleasant encounter with a client?”
Anthony shrugged. “A particularly ornery fellow who is disgruntled with his spouse’s spending habits.” Anthony reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. The fabric clung to his sweat-slicked skin. “I had planned to return to chambers after I bathed. But truth be told, I expected you to seek me out sooner. What took you so long, Jack?”
“Let me guess; Devlin and Brent gave you an earful.”
“They told me about your latest female client. They warned me to expect you.”
Jack cursed beneath his breath. “Bloody hell! Those two magpies gossip like old hags.”
“I said the same thing, but there is truth to what they claim this time. Since when have you taken on beautiful women other than in your bed? I seem to recall you mentioning something about your trial concentration.”
“I told them. Evelyn Darlington is my former pupilmaster’s daughter. I owe Lord Lyndale.” Indeed, Jack’s youthful days at Lincoln’s Inn touched upon a nerve. He had entered at his father’s coaxing, and in little time he had found himself failing miserably and at risk of being thrown out of Lincoln’s Inn. Without a willing pupilmaster to take him on, Jack would have had no choice but to leave and return to his father, head bent in shame. But Emmanuel Darlington, a revered Master of the Bench, had seen something in Jack and had quite simply been his savior. The man had been a phenomenal teacher, and he had ignited an appetite for learning in Jack—a near impossible feat at the time.
Anthony reached for a dented metal cup beside a water bucket, dipped it, and drank. Lowering the cup, he eyed Jack. “I assume both Devlin and Brent tried to talk some sense into you so I won’t bother. What do you need from me?”
“The private investigator you work with. You once told me he was the best in the business.”
Anthony was quick to supply the information. “He’s a shrewd Armenian by the name of Armen Papazian, and he excels at his job. But I assume my needs for information are different from what you require. I use Mr. Papazian to delve into an adversary’s bedroom antics and secrets.”
Jack knew all about Anthony’s unusual practices.
Anthony Stevens was an anomaly in their chambers. The truth was, Anthony was cut from a different cloth compared to every barrister Jack knew. Anthony had magically managed to obtain what so many of the married members of the beau monde fantasized about: the elusive divorce. Requiring an Act of Parliament, divorce was nearly impossible to obtain. Legal separation was more readily available, and even then the formal legal documents rarely were filed by the members of the ton. More commonplace and even expected was the fact that the husband and wife went on to live separate lives—some even on separate continents.
But Anthony had obtained divorces for three wealthy and respectable members of society, all titled men, all by proving the adultery of the wives. The fact that the men had kept mistresses throughout their marriages had been deemed irrelevant. The legal system, like society, favored men, and Anthony took complete advantage of that system.
Anthony’s wealth and notoriety were well known, but he did pay a price for his chosen field. Seeing only the worst side of marriage, Anthony had become a jaded man who believed love an illusion pursued by weak fools.
Worse still, Anthony had developed a ruthless streak, a cutthroat manner that simmered beneath the surface of a respectable gentleman and barrister.
“Is it Evelyn Darlington’s past you want searched?” Anthony asked.
“No. The victim’s—the actress Bess Whitfield. She had numerous lovers and something to hide. Something worth killing for.” Jack reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a wrinkled paper, and handed it to Anthony. “This is a list of possible suspects and a place for Mr. Papazian to start investigating, although it is by no means complete.”
“Who gave you this?” Anthony asked.
“Randolph Sheldon. The ma
n suspected by Bow Street of the crime.”
“Lady Evelyn’s lover, I presume?”
Something about Anthony’s statement irked Jack. “No. Mr. Sheldon is the man she is convinced she should marry, but he is not her lover,” Jack said, unable to withhold the critical tone in his voice.
A bright mockery invaded Anthony’s hawklike stare. “Come now, Jack. You do not believe they are lovers? What woman would zealously defend a man accused of murder if not her husband or lover? In my experience, there is no such thing as an altruistic and selfless female.”
Except for Evie, Jack thought. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Whether her behavior was irrational or completely altruistic as Anthony suggested, one thing was certain: She and Randolph had never been intimate.
Jack felt it in his bones—knew it just as he knew how to breathe. His instinct had homed in on the platonic relationship between Evelyn and Randolph. She had looked upon Randolph with concern and compassion, certainly not the heated look she had given Jack after he had kissed her . . . after she had experienced her first spark of passion.
Anthony eyed Jack narrowly. “Damn it, Jack. Don’t tell me you’re turning into one of those weak fools who allows a woman to get under your skin?”
Jack bit back harsh words. “Of course not,” he snapped. “Just have your man look into Bess Whitfield’s past.”
“What about Randolph Sheldon’s past?”
Evelyn wouldn’t approve. But if Randolph was hiding something, Jack wanted to know what it was. Jack nodded and said, “Yes, his too.”
A satisfied light came into Anthony’s eyes, and he slapped Jack on the back. “Consider it done, Jack. Finding out people’s secrets is the best part of my job.”
In the Barrister's Chambers Page 7