He was right. But still, Georgina had been nothing but kind to her.
“Do not forget, the crazy Earl of Newland is just as likely a suspect.” Jack’s soft breath fanned her face as she stood close.
She nodded. His logic, his very presence was reassuring, and she had a maddening urge to lean close, to have his arms embrace her, to rest her aching head against his firm shoulder. For someone who was always the strong one, her feelings were disconcerting.
“Come,” he said, stepping back. “We’ve been in here too long. We need to leave before we are discovered.”
He must have sensed her vulnerability, the myriad jumble of emotions whirling in her and the comfort she gained from his nearness for he extended his hand.
Without hesitation, she slid her palm into his.
Jack doused the lantern and cracked open the French doors. Glancing in all directions to ensure no one was lurking about, he pulled her into the gardens and closed the doors behind them.
They walked side by side in silence, down the sloping lawn until the blazing torches of the terrace came into view.
Jack’s steps faltered. He dropped her hand and patted his shirt pockets.
She stopped and looked up at him. “What is it, Jack?”
“I forgot my bloody eye patch. I have to go back.”
“To the library?”
“It was there the last time I saw it.”
“It’s risky to return twice in one night. Can you not leave it? No one will know.”
“Both Viscount and Viscountess Hamilton saw me in costume wearing that eye patch. How many pirates can there be tonight?”
None that look as memorable as you, she thought.
He turned to leave. “Get back to the ball before you are missed, Evie. I shall be in touch regarding the case.”
“When?” she called out as loud as she dare.
But he was gone, melting into the night.
Chapter 21
Jack sped through the gardens, retracing their steps until he stood outside the entrance to Hamilton’s library once again. He slipped inside.
The eye patch was where he had left it resting on a bookshelf. He slipped it into his pocket.
He cursed himself for his stupidity, his carelessness. He never should have allowed Evelyn to stay and search the place.
But once again, when she stood up to him with fiery challenge, she was a magnificent sight to behold, and he was helpless to refuse her.
When he had first spotted her in the ballroom tonight dressed as the Egyptian seductress, Cleopatra, she had stolen his breath. His fingers itched to stroke her bare shoulders, the curve of her hip through the white satin, the curtain of golden hair.
He was getting sloppy. Tonight wasn’t the first time he had illicitly searched a residence. Sometimes Jack would “follow” his investigators inside a dwelling and take a look around the crime scene before the constable could arrive and “alter” the evidence in their favor.
But never had Jack left behind so obvious a clue as to his identity. Knowing Hamilton had seen him in costume not more than two hours ago, Jack might as well have left his calling card.
It was Evie. All Evie. Her catlike blue eyes, her sharp intelligence, and fearless courage. And when she had become all teary-eyed at the thought her actions could harm her friend, Jack had instinctively responded.
But the truth was Evie’s distress had disturbed him. He found himself genuinely wanting to comfort her. He had consoled clients or their spouses in the past, but his efforts had been superficial and selfish. He needed solid witnesses in the courtroom, not broken ones riddled with the guilt of their crimes. Other than as a barrister determined to influence a jury, he hadn’t truly cared about their sorrow.
But Evie was different.
Not entirely true.
His selfish streak had remained. Yes, he had been moved by her torment as he never had been before, but his desire for her simmered in his blood. He wanted her now more than when he had kissed her in the carriage. Each time he touched her, the attraction grew stronger. Yet, her innocent lack of awareness of her effect on him tantalized him.
If by brushing her lips with his roused his lust, what would it be like to feel her naked flesh against his, to have her in his bed?
Footsteps sounded outside the door of the main part of the house.
Jack jerked to attention.
Damn.
His mistake, his distraction, could cost him dearly. No time to flee through the French doors into the gardens. He would be spotted. A guard summoned.
Grasping a heavy, brass candlestick from the desk, he hid in the corner, concealed by the end of a bookshelf.
The door opened. A servant entered and emptied the wastepaper basket beside the desk. But instead of leaving, the servant stopped to stare at the bookshelves.
Jack ceased to breathe, his fist clenching the candlestick until the decorative brass bit into his palm. His heart pounded in his chest, and he held his breath. Two steps closer and Jack would have to attack, strike the man unconscious.
The servant moved to the center bookshelf, straightened a book, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.
Jack exhaled, returned the candlestick to the desk, and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He slipped out the French doors and blended into the shadows.
“Have the invitations been sent yet, my dear?”
Evelyn’s head rose at her father’s voice in the doorway. She was sitting in the dining room, pushing eggs around her plate in an unsuccessful attempt to eat.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“The invitations to Lordships Bathwell and Barnes. Have you sent them?” Emmanuel Darlington asked.
Comprehension dawned. Her father’s monthly dinner with the judges. It was part of his routine to stay in close touch with the judges even though he no longer had chambers at Lincoln’s Inn or appeared in court. His time was consumed with lecturing students at Oxford.
With Randolph’s troubles, however, she had forgotten the invitations entirely.
She had always enjoyed the dinners and the discussions ranging from the most current judicial opinions to courtroom blunders and antics committed by new barristers. But today she felt nothing but a stab of annoyance—not at her forgetfulness—but at her father’s reminder of her duty to make all the arrangements.
The idea of spending an evening in the judges’ company seemed, well, quite boring.
At her father’s solemn expression, she sat straight and pushed her wayward thoughts aside. She had always been a dutiful daughter, one considerate of her father’s needs and career.
“It must have slipped my mind, Father. I’ll send them out at once,” she said.
“Do not forget to extend an invitation to Mr. Harding.”
Despite herself, excitement hummed in her veins at the notion of Jack attending. With him at the table, the scene would be much more stimulating and, for once, the thought of intellectual conversation did not play a role.
Stop this nonsense! she thought.
She had to stay focused. It had been four days since the Hamiltons’ costume ball, and she had not heard from Jack. She assumed he was busy with his other cases. After all, Randolph Sheldon was not his only client. But she wanted to know what Jack intended as his next course of action. She refused to admit she missed him.
“Send them today, my dear. They are all busy men,” her father said on his way out of the room.
Evelyn remained to finish her tea before heading for her desk to see to the invitations. Hodges stopped her at the foot of the stairs.
“You have a gentleman caller, Lady Evelyn,” Hodges announced.
For a split second, her heart jolted. Was Jack here?
“A Mr. Simon Guthrie,” Hodges continued. “I put him in the sitting room. Shall I arrange for refreshments?”
Bewilderment replaced her earlier thoughts. Why on earth was Simon here? Was Randolph in more trouble? Had the Runners finally found him?
The last thing we want is an interruption by the servants, she thought.
Hodges nodded and shuffled past, his gait slow and uneven.
Evelyn rushed to the sitting room and threw open the door.
Simon jumped to his feet as she entered. He looked the same as the last time she had seen him in the Billingsgate tavern. His dark hair was neatly parted to one side and his brown eyes were gentle and contemplative. Of medium height and average features, he had the common appearance of a man who could blend in anywhere. But the first time Evelyn had met Simon at Oxford, she knew he possessed a sharp intelligence. He was a University Fellow like Randolph, only Simon worked for a different professor. She had always liked Simon, and the fact that he was standing by Randolph’s side, despite mounting adversity and criminal consequences, told her that Simon was loyal to his friends.
Evelyn motioned for Simon to sit and she took the chair across from him. “Is something amiss, Simon?”
Simon twisted his hands in his lap. “Randolph wishes to see you.”
“But the danger—”
Simon looked up, his expression sincere. “He’s desperate, Evelyn. His days in Bess Whitfield’s Shoreditch home are spent in solitude. I brought him his books, and he has been able to continue some of his work. But he’s suffering from melancholy and stress. He says he misses your time spent together.”
Evelyn’s heart sank as memories assailed her. “What did Randolph have in mind?”
“There’s a small bookstore on Bond Street, Smithy’s Books. It’s not busy most afternoons and there is seating in the rear of the store where customers can peruse their selections in comfort.”
“I’m familiar with the place.”
“Tomorrow at four o’clock?”
“Tell Randolph I will meet him then.”
“Oh, and Evelyn—”
“Yes.”
“Randolph wants to see you alone. Without Mr. Harding present.”
She hesitated, her thoughts swirling wildly. What an unusual request for Randolph to make.
She recalled her promise to Jack that she would not investigate matters on her own or meet with Randolph without him present. But how would either Randolph or Simon know about that?
“Is that a problem?” Simon asked.
She thought of Randolph, poor Randolph, isolated and worried in Shoreditch. She did miss him, she realized. Perhaps they could discuss his last project before this mishap had sent him scurrying into hiding. Their meeting would have to be brief. And why on earth would Jack want to waste his time? By his own admission, Jack was an extremely busy barrister, and the thought of him acting as a chaperone was quite ludicrous.
She raised her eyes to find Simon watching her. “It will not be a problem. Please tell Randolph tomorrow afternoon cannot arrive quickly enough.”
Chapter 22
Bond Street offered a tempting array of establishments where a lady could shop. Evelyn walked past the newest attractions: a goldsmith’s who specialized in broaches of rare jewels, and the shop of Madame Fleur, the current French couturiere who was all the rage. But for the first time, it wasn’t the shops that had her pulse quickening in anticipation.
She had sent Janet on a venture to procure her father’s weekly supply of medicinal tea, only this time, Evelyn had written down the name of an extremely rare blend, one that would occupy the maid for over an hour.
Evelyn stopped before a small shop. The wooden sign above read SMITHY’S BOOKS. She opened the door, and a tinkling bell chimed as she entered. The smell of books was immediately comforting and reminded her of the university’s impressive library.
She spotted the shopkeeper, an elderly man with a white walrus mustache and thick spectacles, mending a book’s binding on the front desk. He glanced up as she passed by, nodded distractedly, and went back to his work. As she wove her way among tall shelves crammed with volumes to the back of the shop, she acknowledged that Simon had been correct. The rest of the bookstore was vacant in the late afternoon.
Her hand flew involuntarily to her heart when she saw Randolph. He sat on an old settee of faded green velvet reading a book held up to his face. But there was no mistaking the shock of fair hair.
“Randolph,” Evelyn whispered excitedly.
He lowered the book and smiled. Pale blue eyes twinkled behind gold-rimmed spectacles.
“Evelyn,” he said, and it was as if no time had passed between them. She felt as she used to when she had walked into her father’s Oxford chambers and found Randolph laboring over his latest paper.
He stood. She rushed forward, and they embraced.
He was small-boned and slightly above average height. As he held her, she became aware of his slender frame, as if he had lost weight since the last time they had embraced.
“I’ve missed you dearly, Evelyn,” he breathed.
“Me too,” she said, and she acknowledged that she did miss him. He was her closest friend, her confidant.
He took her hands in his and they sat side by side on the worn settee.
She touched his face, noting the gauntness that had not been visible a month before. His fair skin magnified the dark circles under his eyes. Renewed concern for his well-being surfaced.
“How have you been faring?” she asked.
“It’s been difficult, Evelyn. Quite horrid, actually.” His eyes welled up, and she feared he would cry.
She squeezed his fingers. “Oh, Randolph. Tell me everything.”
“I rarely leave Bess’s Shoreditch home for fear of being recognized or grabbed by a Bow Street Runner. I’m grateful that the residence has not yet been sold, mind you, but Bess’s things are still there and I cannot get the sickening thought out of my head that she is dead . . . murdered.”
“Rest assured that we are doing everything we can, Randolph.”
He looked up. “We?”
“Mr. Harding and I. You do recall we retained his services?”
“Yes, yes. I just don’t like that you are spending time with another man. It makes me uncomfortable.” Across his pale skin a dim flush raced like a fever.
“Don’t be foolish,” she chided. “I’m doing it solely for you.”
Randolph’s face crumpled; he appeared more bereft and desolate than before. She was assailed by a piercing guilt.
“Do you see Simon Guthrie often?” she asked, hoping to change the topic.
“He is my only visitor, my best friend.” Randolph’s voice was hushed and full of despair, like an echo from an empty tomb.
Her heart sank at his words. Wasn’t she his best friend? Or was she being selfish? Simon was free to visit Randolph, whereas she, an unmarried daughter of an earl, could never be allowed to travel to and from a murdered actress’s home in Shoreditch to see a man.
“Do you remember the time we spent together in the university library?” he asked.
How could she forget? Her thoughts filtered back. She recalled when they had worked on one of Randolph’s projects that required esoteric research on the Roman aqueducts. Heads bent and shoulders touching, they had whispered for hours, until the head librarian had threatened to throw them out at fifteen minutes past the closing hour.
Her father had been busy with a faculty meeting that had taken longer than anticipated, and Randolph had taken advantage, urging her to accompany him to a Grecian coffeehouse in the Strand. They drank coffee late into the night in a dim corner of an establishment where no proper ladies were present and no one had a care as to her identity. Emboldened by the atmosphere, she had leaned across the table and initiated a kiss. It had been horridly improper, daring, and quite exciting.
Bells chimed from the front door, startling Evelyn out of her thoughts and alerting her to the presence of another shopper in the store.
“Come with me.” Randolph rose and pulled her to her fee
t.
“Where—”
“Shh,” he said, placing his finger over his lips and leading her to a back exit.
He pushed the rear door open, and she found herself in a back alley behind the shop. The faint odor of rotting garbage reached her nostrils. A scrawny calico cat drank rainwater that dripped from the roof shingles of an adjacent building. The feline dashed down the alley as the back door closed. All was quiet save for the sound of a shutter slamming shut in the distance.
“Randolph, is it safe—”
He pulled her roughly into his arms. “I must have a moment alone with you without the threat of prying eyes or I’ll go mad.” Lowering his head, he kissed her.
Momentarily stunned by his uncharacteristic aggressiveness, Evelyn’s first instinct was to push him away, but she stopped herself. Randolph needed her in his despair. He had never been physically assertive in the past, and she recognized that his behavior was fueled by fear and insecurity.
But truth be told, she needed this too—but for entirely different reasons. An insistent—albeit shameful—curiosity welled in her breast.
Could Randolph’s kisses be like Jack’s?
Closing her eyes, she raised her mouth to his.
The pressure of his lips was pleasant. She leaned into him and placed her hand above his pounding heart. At her touch, Randolph moaned, his actions became more urgent, and the kiss changed. Sloppy, wet kisses slanted over her mouth and down the column of her throat, leaving a slick path on her skin. His breath tasted like coffee and she wasn’t surprised knowing his fondness for the beverage. But a nagging voice pointed out it wasn’t like Jack’s hot taste. And Randolph’s slender build felt nothing like Jack’s solid, muscular chest.
The dreadful truth was, Randolph’s kisses were inexperienced, lacking the seductiveness of Jack’s lips that had skillfully aroused her passion.
She stepped back, holding him at bay with a raised hand when he tried to close the distance.
In the Barrister's Chambers Page 13