Ever since they had left the theater, Evelyn had pondered what Bess Whitfield’s dresser had said—and very little of what was running through Evelyn’s mind had to do with the murdered actress.
Mary Morris was old and shrewd, far more experienced than Evelyn when it came to men. Mary’s comment that Jack wanted Evelyn in his bed had taken Evelyn by surprise.
But more shocking was that Jack had not denied the accusation, had merely shrugged in acceptance.
Did Jack truly desire her?
Instead of dissecting the valuable information they had learned about Bess’s past interests since leaving the dresser’s presence, Evelyn had been consumed with getting Jack alone and questioning him on his interests.
A mocking smile crossed Jack’s lips. He sat forward, resting an elbow on his knee. “You truly are a fascinating contradiction, Evie. You ask me about my desires and in the next sentence you bring up our working relationship. Are you completely ignorant of a man’s baser needs?”
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean,” she stammered, suddenly doubting her wisdom for bringing up the topic in such a forthright fashion.
The curtains were drawn, blocking out the street lamp, and in the dim light of the carriage, Jack suddenly seemed darkly illusive.
“I think you know exactly of what I speak.” His voice, deep and sensual, sent a ripple of awareness through her.
He reached out to lightly finger a loose tendril of hair on her cheek. His fingers, tapered and strong, continued onward, trailing a leisurely path down her neck.
She gasped at his touch, her heart drumming in her ears.
He leaned closer until she could see the flecks of gold in his jade eyes and feel his breath on her cheek. The scent of his cologne, sandalwood and cloves, filled her senses, and she sat perfectly still, entranced and weak-limbed. The idea to pull away did not enter her fogenshrouded mind.
Kiss me.
The traitorous thought snaked through her head.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. Tender and seductively persuasive, his tongue slid lazily across her bottom lip, and he sucked on its plumpness, before delving between her parted lips. Overwhelmed by the taste of the man, she opened to him, reveling at the first tangling of their tongues.
Her hands rose of their own volition to his arms, the superfine texture of his jacket smooth beneath her hands. She leaned forward, into the kiss, and when she grazed his hard chest, a delightful shiver of desire ran through her. Her fingers inched higher, touched his neck, then speared through his thick hair.
He growled, low and deep in his throat, and captured her face in his hands, ravaging her mouth. Whatever logic or propriety remained flew from her mind.
His hands caressed her shoulders, then lowered to trace the sensitive skin above the bodice of her gown.
At the first brush of his palm against the side of her breast, she quivered and arched closer. Perched on the edge of the bench with her heart hammering madly, her mind told her to resist, but her body refused.
And then he cupped her breast.
The heat from his palm through the material of her gown nearly melted her bones. His touch was light, painfully teasing, and the shock of it ran through her body. Her breasts instantly swelled; her nipples hardened.
Ah. She wanted this . . . wanted more . . .
A loud rapping sounded on the carriage door.
Evelyn jerked backward like a stunned bird flown into a stone wall.
Jack cursed.
She reached for the door handle, then dropped her hand and touched her kiss-swollen lips. A horrid sense of shame and guilt flooded her veins.
She looked up at Jack. “We must never speak of this again.”
“Don’t try to deny what you felt, Evie,” he said.
“It was a mistake, nothing more.”
His eyes were like bits of stone. “Do you feel the same when Randolph kisses you?”
She lifted her head in horror. Dear Lord, poor Randolph! How could I have behaved so wantonly?
The rapping came again, more insistent this time.
Evelyn threw open the door, suddenly overcome with the need for fresh air and to escape the close confines of the carriage.
Janet stood outside, her pale face pinched. “M’ lady?”
“Yes,” Evelyn answered.
“Shouldn’t we return?”
“Yes, of course. Father will be waiting.” Evelyn made to step down with an urgency as if the carriage was on fire, when Jack grasped her arm.
“The step isn’t lowered,” he pointed out sharply.
He jumped out before her, lowered the step, then offered her his hand.
She alighted with his aid, but when she tried to pull away, he refused to release her hand.
“We need to discuss what occurred today,” Jack said matter-of-factly.
For a heart-stopping moment, she believed he referred to their passionate embrace. But then she realized he meant what they had learned from Bess Whitfield’s dresser.
By the smug grin on Jack’s face, Evelyn suspected he knew of the true nature of her thoughts.
“I am available Monday,” she offered.
“I’ll be at the Old Bailey.” Looking to Janet, he flashed a charming smile. “I’m certain Janet will enjoy viewing her first trial.”
Jack’s gaze hardened on Evelyn’s stiff back as she hurried down the street with her maid rushing to keep pace by her side.
His body was tense, the blood pounding in his veins.
What the bloody hell had he been thinking?
Frustration roiled deep within his gut. It was simple lust. Evelyn was a beautiful woman. She had stared him in the eye and questioned him about his base desires.
What man wouldn’t grow hot and heavy in similar circumstances?
And yet he had tasted her, tasted the rising passion within her. Beneath her no-nonsense and straitlaced façade simmered a passionate nature that was as challenging as a swift-footed deer darting past a starving hunter.
Ah, and there’s the rub, Jack-boy.
She was untouchable. Not to be dallied with. And not just because she was a client that could possibly compromise his legal ability, but because she was Emmanuel Darlington’s daughter.
His former pupilmaster deserved Jack’s utmost respect. Seducing his daughter in a carriage parked on the man’s street was not the way to show his gratitude or respect.
Not to mention the fact that Evelyn intended to marry another man.
Jack’s mouth set in a grim line. The more he learned of Randolph Sheldon, the more he thought Evelyn’s choice was a bad match. Intellectually compatible, perhaps, but Jack was certain they lacked even the merest spark of passion.
Then there was the messy business of the brutal stabbing of Bess Whitfield. The criminal still roamed free. And most disturbing of all, Jack was not yet entirely convinced of Randolph’s innocence.
Chapter 15
He woke slumped over a rickety chair, his forehead resting on an old desk. A nearly empty bottle of whiskey rested in his hand.
The temperature in the room had dropped. The smell of smoldering ashes from the hearth comingled with rotting food roused him from his liquor-induced trance. He lifted his head and was seized by a shooting pain in his temples.
He pushed with his arms and tried to stand, but the pain slid to the base of his skull, demanding entrance to his brain, hovering like a demon.
Just like the curse that plagued him.
The chair creaked as he collapsed back down. He looked about the room. The floor was littered with crumpled paper, dirty clothes, and decaying food. Flies buzzed over an apple core.
His hand shook as he lifted the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. The cheap whiskey burned the back of his throat, every inch of his esophagus, and burst into a fireball in his belly.
The bitch was dead.
The fact should have given him joy, but the euphoria had waned.
He shut his swollen lids
and pictured the killing. The initial fury on her face when she had walked in on him searching her bedroom had turned to bone-chilling fear at the first slice of the knife. He had been forced to act, to protect his future. And yet he had felt an excitement that had peaked at her horror when she realized she would die . . . her feeble struggles . . . the blood . . . the massive spray of blood.
Each time the well-honed blade had pierced her body, the crimson elixir of life had splattered across the walls, his clothing, his face, his lips.
She had betrayed him, and her death—although not planned—had left him unremorseful.
But now he had nothing.
Not entirely true.
There was another that could give him what he wanted. The beauty with the blond hair and blue eyes that he had been watching.
She was the one. She was pure. Innocent.
And unlike that tarnished actress, she would never betray him with another.
Chapter 16
April 25, 1814
London, Old Bailey Courthouse
Honorable Harvey Lessard, presiding
There is no justice for the weak and poor.
At least, that’s what Evelyn had always believed.
Two broad-shouldered guards brought the woman into the courtroom. Their viselike hold on her arms was entirely unnecessary, a pathetic show of barbarism.
Chained at the wrists and the ankles, the iron shackles dragged and clanked as she shuffled forward to stand before the judge. Her dress was torn and patched, her hem too short, her shoes pitiful pieces of leather that were held together with butcher’s string. Whispers among the spectators placed her age around thirty, but the crow’s-feet around her eyes, sagging skin of her neck, and gray in her hair, made her look twenty years older.
Six children and no husband, the whispers around Evelyn said.
Evelyn shifted on the wooden bench in the spectators’ gallery.
The woman’s crime: Guilty of theft of goods worth thirty-five shillings from a dwelling house.
Why ever else but to feed her six children? Evelyn thought. Life in the St. Giles rookeries was harsh on married women with a working husband, let alone a widow with half a dozen young children to feed.
Dear Lord, she could be sentenced to death for such a trivial crime. And what would become of her children then?
She’d heard enough from her father to know the answer: Pickpockets in training in order to survive.
“Hannah Ware,” Judge Lessard began in a droll tone as he sat high up on his bench, “You have been found guilty of theft of goods from a dwelling house. Do you have anything to say for yourself before you are sentenced?”
The woman’s mouth opened and closed. A raspy sound came forth, barely audible in the cavernous courtroom.
Evelyn decided right then and there to leave. She refused to watch such injustice. This was not the reason she was here today. She was here to meet . . .
Just then the doors in the rear of the courtroom opened and thumped against the wall. All heads turned to see Jack Harding striding forward, his black barrister’s gown flowing behind him like a specter.
“If it may please the court, my lord,” Jack said as he reached the woman’s side, “I am the barrister for Miss Hannah Ware for her sentencing.”
Judge Lessard straightened as if stuck with a pin between his shoulder blades. “You’re late, Mr. Harding.”
“Pardon my tardiness, my lord. I was in Lord Townsend’s courtroom on a different matter.”
“You’re a busy barrister, Mr. Harding.” The judge waved his meaty hand toward Hannah Ware. “I had asked the guilty party if she had anything to say before her sentencing. You may proceed on her behalf.”
“Miss Ware is terribly sorry for her crime, my lord,” Jack said. “She succumbed to a moment of weakness, stealing to feed her children when her eldest became ill. She agrees to pay full restitution for the amount taken. And she respectfully begs the court the benefit of clergy.”
The spectators began rumbling. Evelyn clenched her fists in her lap. She knew enough of the law to understand that requesting the “benefit of clergy” meant sparing a guilty defendant the death penalty. Rather than the court issuing a punishment, it would send the defendant to the church for its own penalty.
“Benefit of clergy does not apply since the defendant committed theft from a dwelling house,” Judge Lessard said.
“I beg to differ, my lord. Miss Ware was found guilty of theft of goods of thirty-five shillings. According to the new statutes, only those crimes of theft of forty shillings and more from a dwelling house are not eligible for benefit of clergy.”
Evelyn held her breath.
The judge hesitated and made a show of sorting through papers on his immaculate desk before he finally raised his head. “In order to prove the defendant’s affiliation with the church before benefit of clergy can be considered, the court requires she read the first and second verses from the 51st Psalm.”
Judge Lessard turned to his court clerk who immediately brought forth a Bible and handed it to Hannah Ware.
Hannah’s hands shook as she held the leather-bound book.
Jack took it from her, opened it to the correct page, and returned it to her. “Go ahead, Hannah. Do the best you can.”
Hannah’s voice wavered as she stumbled over the verse familiarly known as “the neck verse” for sparing many the death penalty. “‘Have mercy on me, O God, accordin’ to yer unfailin’ love; accordin’ to yer great compassion blot out me transgressions. Wash away all me iniquity and cleanse me from me sin.’”
Judge Lessard nodded. “The court allows benefit of clergy in this case, Mr. Harding.” The judge pointed to Hannah Ware and glowered at her above the rim of his thick spectacles. “You are fortunate indeed that branding was abolished.”
Evelyn was aware that in the past guilty defendants who pled benefit of clergy were branded on the thumb so that they could not receive the benefit again should they commit more crimes in the future. Branding had been abolished thirty-five years ago—before Hannah Ware had even been born—but if it had still remained a regular practice, Hannah would have been branded immediately after her sentencing in front of the spectators.
“As promised by your barrister, I expect full restitution of the thirty-five shillings before you are released, Miss Ware,” the judge said.
Hannah Ware paled and looked to Jack.
“The amount shall be paid immediately,” Jack said.
“As the sentence is accepted, court is adjourned.” Judge Lessard pounded his gavel.
Hannah Ware’s shackles were removed and the judge rose. Spectators filed out of the courtroom.
Evelyn watched as Hannah Ware threw her arms around Jack and sobbed, repeatedly thanking him.
An elderly woman came forth with six children in tow. Their ages ranged from several months to eight years old. They embraced their mother, joy and happiness—and most of all, relief—written all over their tearstained cheeks. The children must have been in the rear of the room and Evelyn hadn’t even noticed. What a travesty that they could have been witness to their mother being sentenced to death.
That is, if not for Jack.
She felt uncomfortable watching them, like an intruder stealing glances into a private home.
She stood and quietly left the courtroom.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
Evelyn whirled around to see a tall, dark-haired man standing behind her. His broad shoulders seemed a mile wide. Unfathomable eyes, sinfully dark, looked down at her. They held an ominous gleam that made her uneasy.
“Pardon?” she asked.
The stranger’s mouth spread into a thin-lipped smile. “I was told about you, but I really didn’t believe it until now.”
Her discomfort increased. “Do I know you?”
Dressed in a telling black robe, he was clearly a barrister. He wasn’t wearing a wig, and his dark hair was cropped short and emphasized his square chin and bold featur
es.
He shrugged one big shoulder and again she was struck by his massive size. Even through the robe, he had the build of a boxer, all hard muscle and bulk.
“My name is Anthony Stevens,” he said.
Realization dawned. “You’re one of the barristers who shares chambers with Mr. Harding.”
“I assume you are Lady Evelyn Darlington, then? Jack Harding’s newest client?”
She nodded. “I’m here to meet Mr. Harding. I was told by a clerk he would be in Judge Lessard’s courtroom today. Mr. Harding was late, and I had begun to believe I was in the wrong courtroom.”
“Ah, you must have just seen Hannah Ware’s sentencing.”
She frowned. “Yes.”
“Was Jack able to avoid the death penalty, then?”
“Yes, thank the good Lord. The judge allowed Miss Ware to plead benefit of clergy.”
Anthony smirked. “Brilliant, really, that Jack was able to successfully obtain it. Judge Lessard is known for his harsh sentences.”
“The judge did threaten Miss Ware with branding. I believe he would have carried it out, too, had branding not been abolished.”
“Ah, yes. The delightful art of branding,” Anthony drawled, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Did you know it was not unheard of for some criminals to bribe the official to apply a cold iron? That way, they could effectively continue to steal repeatedly with no fear of a big fat letter “T” for theft so obviously imprinted on their thumbs. It was a big sham, really. Some officials were in on it too and received their cut from the stolen goods. Quite a lucrative business. Were I reborn a member of the lower classes, I would surely participate in such a cunning scheme.”
“I hardly believe such was the case for Hannah Ware. She meant only to feed her offspring,” Evelyn argued.
“The woman hasn’t a shilling to her name. Did Jack promise restitution?”
The question struck her. Evelyn had heard Jack offer restitution for the thirty-five shillings. Hannah Ware had looked stricken when the judge insisted the amount be immediately paid in full.
So where would the money come from? And more to the point, how could such a client pay for Jack Harding’s services?
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