In the Barrister's Chambers

by Tina Gabrielle

  “You look confused, Lady Evelyn. Let me guess. You are wondering why such a prestigious and expensive criminal barrister like Jack Harding would represent an impoverished thief such as Hannah Ware.”

  His careless words unleashed her fury. “I’d hardly call an unfortunate widow with six starving children a thief !”

  “Sympathetic to the lower classes, are you, Lady Evelyn?”

  “What would you know of a woman’s plight?”

  “Nothing. But from the looks of your expensive gown, neither would you.”

  For a heart-stopping moment, she wondered about Anthony Stevens’s true intent, and then she realized he was baiting her, judging her reaction to his inflammatory speech. She had seen it before. Opposing solicitors and barristers who had strode into her father’s chambers with belligerent attitudes, twisted facts, and misinterpreted statutes all in an attempt to throw their adversary off balance and tip the scales in their favor.

  She lifted her chin, meeting those hard, dark eyes straight on. “Are you always this confrontational, Mr. Stevens?”

  “If I’m having a good day.”

  She couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing.

  A glimpse of astonishment touched Anthony’s expression before it was replaced with its familiar mocking indifference. “I’m beginning to understand why Jack agreed to help you. A lady with a sense of humor is hard to find.”

  “I’ve seen your kind before, Mr. Stevens. You should know that I’m not easily intimidated.”

  “In that case, I’ll satisfy your curiosity. Hannah Ware is one of Jack’s pro bono publico cases.”

  “Pro bono? He represents her for free?”

  “You sound very surprised.”

  “I just thought . . . I mean I believed . . . barristers of Jack’s caliber could name their price.”

  He shot her a penetrating look. “He can. But unlike me, Jack Harding still has a soul and a conscience.”

  Evelyn didn’t know how to respond, but she was saved from having to answer by the approach of another man.

  “Anthony! Are you bothering the lady?”

  Evelyn turned toward a masculine voice. Her breath caught as a gentleman strode forward.

  She stared at his face, unable to tear her gaze away.

  Sweet Lord, this was a handsome man.

  Thick, light-colored hair and piercing blue eyes met her stare. Smooth bronzed skin stretched over high cheekbones. His chiseled features looked as if his creator had taken extra time to craft his visage. He wasn’t garbed in a barrister’s gown, but rather wore a tailored navy suit that revealed a sinewy frame.

  The man stopped before her and eyed Anthony Stevens. “Leave her alone, Anthony.”

  Anthony faced his accuser with a mocking look. “What makes you think I was harassing the lady?”

  “I know better.” The handsome man turned his gaze upon her and smiled.

  Her heart skipped a beat at the devastating effect.

  “Please pardon my colleague, my lady. His manners can be abominable,” the man said.

  “No apologies are necessary. Mr. Stevens was quite enlightening,” Evelyn said.

  Again, surprise crossed Anthony’s expression, and he swept into a mockingly low bow, as if Evelyn were the Queen of England herself. “A true lady.” Anthony rose and turned to his accuser. “May I introduce Mr. Brent Stone. He is a fellow barrister in our chambers. Brent, this is Lady Evelyn Darlington.”

  Brent Stone’s eyes twinkled. “Jack’s latest case. You must be special indeed for Jack to agree to aid you. His docket is quite full. Are you here to see him then?”

  “I was supposed to meet with Mr. Harding, but he appears quite busy this afternoon.”

  “He has his charitable cases today.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stevens told me, but I cannot help but find it surprising.”

  “Jack handles dozens of such cases throughout the year. Jack and I are board members of the London Legal Aid Society, an organization dedicated to providing necessary services for the destitute.”

  Evelyn looked to Anthony. “Are you a member as well, Mr. Stevens?”

  “Alas, but no, Lady Evelyn. The impoverished have no need for my legal expertise,” Anthony drawled.

  “And what exactly is your expertise?” she asked.

  “Exploiting the fairer sex for their partners’ gain.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Disposing of unwanted wives,” Anthony said bluntly.

  “I see,” Evelyn said.

  “Anthony’s reputation precedes him,” Brent Stone said.

  “Are there any more barristers in your chambers I should be aware of ?” she asked.

  “Mr. James Devlin is the only other. He is not at the Old Bailey this afternoon. But you will have the privilege of meeting him soon, I’m sure,” Anthony said.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” After meeting these two, Evelyn couldn’t help but wonder what the remaining barrister was like.

  The doors to Judge Lessard’s courtroom opened and out came Hannah Ware and her six children followed by Jack.

  Jack stopped in his tracks when he spotted Evelyn. He looked at Anthony Stevens and Brent Stone beside her, and then cursed beneath his breath.

  Chapter 17

  “What the devil are you two doing?” Jack glanced from Anthony Stevens to Brent Stone.

  “Don’t panic, Jack,” Anthony said. “We were just introducing ourselves to Lady Evelyn.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jack drawled.

  Evelyn spoke up. “Your fellow barristers are quite charming, Mr. Harding.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Charming? I’ve never heard Anthony Stevens referred to as charming before.”

  “She must have been referring to me, then,” Brent Stone said, a teasing note in his tone.

  Evelyn smiled at the handsome barrister. “You have both been very informative.” She turned to Jack. “They advised me of your charitable activities. I had no idea.”

  Something akin to admiration crossed her beautiful face. He felt a curious pull at his innards like a boy seeking the approval of an attractive governess.

  Ridiculous.

  “It’s nothing,” Jack said.

  “I’d hardly call your activities nothing. Father is a firm believer that justice, in the form of legal representation, should be available to all. Not just those wealthy enough to afford it,” she said.

  Anthony whistled between his teeth. “Look out, Jack. She is beginning to believe you her champion.”

  Jack shot Anthony a dark stare. “Don’t you two have somewhere else to be?”

  “Truth be told, I was looking for you when I spotted Lady Evelyn,” Anthony said. “I’m waiting for my Armenian investigator, Armen Papazian, to arrive. He’s unearthed information that may be of interest to you.”

  Jack eyed Anthony. “Let’s speak with him elsewhere. The client consultation room is best.”

  Anthony arched a brow. “Why? Don’t you want the lady to be present?”

  Jack itched to punch Anthony in the mouth. The bastard was baiting him and anticipated Evelyn’s outraged response. The problem was Jack didn’t know what information the investigator had discovered.

  What if it concerned Randolph Sheldon’s past secrets?

  “I want to hear what Mr. Papazian has to say,” Evelyn insisted.

  “Of course you do, my lady,” Anthony said.

  “Let’s get on with it then, shall we?” Jack said tersely. He’d take a piece out of Anthony’s hide later. He couldn’t do it in front of Evelyn.

  Brent Stone bowed to Evelyn. “Unfortunately, I must miss this meeting as I have an appointment. It was a pleasure, Lady Evelyn.” He turned and left, his lean frame gracefully turning a corner and disappearing from view.

  Jack turned to Evelyn. “Where’s your maid?”

  “I left her in the carriage. Janet had no interest in viewing the Old Bailey.”

  “Will you never bring a chaperone?”
/>   “I did. She’s in the carriage.”

  Jack looked at Anthony Stevens, then back to her. “Forget the client consultation room. I’ll not take you in there without your maid.”

  With two unmarried barristers remained unspoken.

  They chose a vacant corner in the hallway instead.

  “Where’s your man?” Jack asked.

  Anthony withdrew a pocket watch. “I expect him any minute now. He’s always prompt. Ah, here he is now.”

  Jack glanced up at the sound of approaching footsteps. A short man with a furrowed brow and a head of jet, curly hair approached. Olive-black eyes, hooded like those of a hawk, regarded them keenly before he greeted them, and Jack suspected his watchful inquisitiveness made him excel in his profession.

  Anthony made the introductions. “May I introduce Mr. Harding and Lady Evelyn Darlington. This is Mr. Papazian.”

  Jack shook the investigator’s hand. “Please tell us what you have discovered.”

  “I’m still looking into the list of possible suspects for Bess Whitfield’s murder that Mr. Sheldon and Mr. Guthrie provided. What I have discovered, however, is that there is a man who visits Bess Whitfield’s grave each afternoon. I spoke with the cemetery gardener who said the man is obsessive in his behavior. He arrives exactly at one o’clock each afternoon and exhibits conduct unusual to that of the average mourner.”

  “What on earth does that mean?” Jack asked.

  “I’m not certain. But upon further investigation, I learned the man’s identity.”

  “Who?” Anthony asked.

  “Harold Kirk. The Earl of Newland.”

  Evelyn gasped. “He’s one of the lovers identified by Mary Morris, Bess Whitfield’s dresser at the Drury Lane Theatre!” Evelyn said.

  “Mary knew her mistress’s secrets, then,” Papazian said.

  Jack eyed Evelyn with a calculating expression. “It’s time we paid Bess Whitfield our respects.”

  “The man is obsessed,” Evelyn whispered.

  “More like cracked,” Jack responded.

  Evelyn glanced sideways at Jack, then returned her attention to the man placing roses, one at a time, on Bess Whitfield’s grave.

  Jack and Evelyn were a good twenty feet away, crouching behind a towering gravestone of someone of importance, spying on Harold Kirk, the aging Earl of Newland. In the distance behind the earl, loomed the shape of a gray stone mausoleum.

  The earl’s behavior was strange indeed. He circled round and round the grave, placing one rose on the top of the gravestone with each circuit. He mumbled beneath his breath as he did so. Evelyn could see his lips moving in what appeared to be a sort of eerie chant, but from this distance she couldn’t hear the words.

  “I’ve been here watching him every afternoon this week,” Jack said. “His routine hasn’t varied. He’s cracked, I tell you.”

  This was the first time Evelyn had come along with Jack. Newland’s repetitive behavior was truly alarming. Despite it being a pleasant May afternoon, Harold Kirk wore a heavy wool coat. His pallid complexion resembled ash from a fireplace gone cold. Sparse, gray hair protruded from his scalp like unkempt weeds. He was of average height and appearance, save for a bulbous nose that resembled a ripe tomato.

  Evelyn smoothed damp palms over her black mourning dress. The outfit was from her uncle’s funeral, and she had chosen it not only because she was to visit a cemetery, but because of the black hat and net veil that concealed her face. Jack wore a dark jacket as well, and with the collar up and the curled brim of his hat down, he gave the appearance of a nameless mourner.

  “What is the man saying?” she asked.

  “I passed by him yesterday, pretending to pay my respects to another grave. He mumbles Bess Whitfield’s name, date of birth, and death. Exactly as it’s written on the stone.”

  Anxiety raced through her. “Could he be the killer?”

  Jack shrugged. “If not the killer, then an obsessed lover. Either way, there are cases in which murderers feel compelled to visit the graves of their victims, much like infatuated lovers.”

  Newland suddenly stopped his circuit of the grave and began coughing. Pulling a handkerchief from his waistcoat, he hacked and gasped horribly for over a minute. One hand held the handkerchief over his mouth while with the other he grasped his side as the coughing fit reached a crescendo. His face turned an alarming shade of red, matching his nose. His struggle to breathe seemed endless, but finally the gasping subsided and he withdrew the handkerchief.

  Even from this distance, Evelyn could see the blood on the cloth. “Sweet Lord,” she whispered.

  “They say he has advanced consumption,” Jack said.

  “Consumption!”

  “He doesn’t have long to live. That’s why this troubles me. I don’t think he’s the murderer,” Jack said.

  “Why?”

  “He has no motive. He’s been a widower for over ten years. He has no children. If he was having an affair with a notorious actress, and his sexual antics were detailed in her diary, who would care?”

  “He’s an earl. Society would still be harsh. Doesn’t he have an heir?” she asked.

  “A nephew that’s currently in India. From what I understand, they were never close. Newland cares naught for the nephew save that the man is getting his title and fortune,” Jack said.

  “You said yourself he’s cracked. If he’s mentally unstable, he could be dangerous,” Evelyn said.

  “Yes. I’ve seen it before.”

  Just then, Newland stopped his circuit and turned to where Jack and Evelyn stood partially concealed behind the tall gravestone. His lips twisted into a thin-lipped smile, and he took a step toward them.

  Chapter 18

  Evelyn gasped.

  “Let’s go,” Jack barked. “Now.”

  “But—”

  Jack grasped her arm and pulled her around. “Don’t look back. Don’t acknowledge him.”

  With a firm hold on her elbow, Jack led her down the stone path between the graves. Evelyn rushed to keep up with his long strides.

  “He saw us, Jack,” she said.

  “Keep your hat on and your veil over your eyes. He has no idea who we are.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “He thinks we are mourners come to grieve over another deceased.”

  “Then why are we rushing away?” She was panting now, and they were only halfway down the stone path.

  Jack’s steps never faltered or slowed. “I don’t want you seen up close and recognized. Whether Newland is Bess Whitfield’s murderer or not, he is still demented.”

  They reached the entrance of the cemetery and their hired hackney cab came into view. The driver spotted them, jumped down from his perch, and opened the door.

  She had a mad urge to turn around to see if the earl had followed them this far.

  “Don’t, Evie,” Jack warned. He ushered her inside the cab, then gave the command to depart. The driver hopped into his seat and the carriage jerked forward.

  She glanced out the window.

  There among the last row of graves before the road, stood the Earl of Newland. His burning eyes, like those of a feral animal, took her completely by surprise, and she froze in her seat. Then he raised his hand and waved his bloody handkerchief at them.

  In the thick stack of social invitations and legal correspondence on Evelyn’s desk, one envelope stood out—not because of its costly, cream vellum, fine calligraphy, and gold-embossed seal, but because it bore the crest of Viscount Hamilton.

  Evelyn broke the gold seal and tore open the envelope. Inside was a formal invitation for one of the most anticipated costume balls of the Season given by Cecilia Stanford, the Viscountess Hamilton. This was not just an ordinary costume ball. Cecilia hosted a masquerade where all the guests’ identities were guarded with vigilance appropriate to top military maneuvers.

  Evelyn was a friend of the Hamiltons’ daughter, Georgina. A fourth-year debutante, she was close to twenty
years old, just two years younger than Evelyn.

  Georgina was an intellectual who read voraciously on the controversial subject of women’s rights. Georgina had been quite vocal about not wanting a Season, but because of her family’s social status, her wishes were ignored. Georgina’s mother, Cecilia, a renowned hostess, had been aghast at her daughter’s beliefs. She was determined to parade her reluctant daughter through Season after Season and find her a suitable husband.

  Evelyn, like Georgina, hadn’t any desire for an official coming out either, and because her father had not inherited the earldom until after she had reached the ripe old age of twenty, Evelyn had been spared.

  Evelyn’s mother might have impressed the importance of a Season on her daughter had she been alive, but she had died when Evelyn was an infant. Evelyn’s father had been far too busy at Lincoln’s Inn to concern himself with such frivolities. Evelyn had been grateful for her father’s legal distractions.

  An endless Season of balls, soirées, garden parties, masques, and Wednesday evenings at Almack’s marriage mart at the mercy of its frightening patronesses, all in the hopes of finding a fitting husband, was not a fate Evelyn would wish for any lady, let alone herself.

  No, she had found her match in Randolph, a man with whom she could hold an intellectual conversation without his needing to reach for his snuff box.

  A sudden image of Jack Harding flashed through her mind. Would he seek a rosy-cheeked debutante as a bride?

  Although Jack wasn’t titled, he was very wealthy and many aggressive mamas of the ton sought out rich men before titled ones for their daughters. Ideally, a husband with both wealth and title was preferred, but if given a choice between the two, many went after money like bloodhounds during hunting season.

  Jack didn’t seem the sort to seek out a young, virginal debutante with an overreaching, interfering mother. What would he have in common with such a girl?

  But then again, men acted completely irrationally when choosing a spouse. Perhaps Jack was after a wealthy wife from a respectable or titled family.

  Evelyn frowned at her thoughts. Jack Harding’s marital prospects were none of her concern.