“If it’s someone significant, I’ll leave it to the authorities to deal with.”
“You’ll tell General Court?”
Andrew really did look elegant, sitting there, so poised. Darius shook his errant thoughts away. “I know more reliable people than he. He is a clumsy operator at the best of times, and he would probably not talk to me. He is not sympathetic to…me.”
Andrew didn’t miss the pause. “You mean to men who prefer men?” His eyes gleamed, the warrior of justice there for all to see.
Since Darius was the only person present, he got the full benefit. “Yes. He’s hardly alone in that view. Most of the country feels that way.”
“Yes. So is it cowardice to deny it?”
“No, it’s common sense.” Darius gentled his voice. “For someone in your position. I cannot press you to do anything. Your daughter is young, and she will need protecting and caring for. I see that. I understand that.” He swept into the lowest bow he was capable of making. “You have my understanding and respect, Andrew. You will always have that.”
The clock chimed the half-hour. They had been in here far too long. “Come,” Darius said. “We should go.”
Andrew was already on his feet. “Indeed.”
He appeared every inch the alert, smart man he was, no hint at his other side, the one Darius wanted to explore. He’d discovered the sensualist beneath the neat clothes, the alert expression, and he longed for more. Such a man would conquer everything. But he understood why Andrew would wish to close that part of himself down.
Darius would be well advised to do the same. Despite that, he would not. He wanted to live as fully as possible. He was fortunate to have a powerful family at his back. That gave Darius immunity to a lot of situations he would otherwise be vulnerable to.
In the act of opening the door, he paused. Behind him, Andrew waited. He could feel the other man as if touching him.
A thread of possibility weaved its way through his mind. He would not give up. After he had dealt with the current matter, he would explore his idea, see if he couldn’t turn it into something acceptable.
With new resolve, he turned his mind to the problem of catching an Italian spy. Opening the door with a sudden wrench, he came face-to-face with a party of young men.
“Oh, damnation, someone has discovered our plan!” one said. Catching sight of Darius, he bowed and received a bow in return. “My lord, good day.” The young man’s bow was somewhat unsteady.
“Mr. Court,” Darius murmured.
The youth’s attention went past Darius to the man behind him.
Darius ignored the overt question in the man’s eyes. Introducing Andrew to this person would not help him in the least. “This room is a private one. I understand. That is why we were leaving.”
“Not interested in a very interesting encounter with three young, ah, ladies?” the youth said. “We had a wager we could induce three ladies of the town to come here tonight, and damn me, they have!” He blushed, the vivid color flooding his face and under his formal wig.
Darius said nothing.
“Oh, ah, that is, I daresay you are not interested in trysts with ladies of any description,” the man behind him said, with a snigger.
“I might surprise you,” Darius said mildly. “But I doubt it. It wouldn’t be worth my while.”
Three men, three scions of noble families, who had smuggled three whores inside the house. Darius detested telltales, but he was sorely tempted to make an exception. Knowing her as he did now, he assumed she would get to hear of it. He walked past. Andrew followed him, his face as pale as the youth’s was scarlet.
“We will inform the lady,” he said, when he was past them.
“Better to tell the butler, who will have them ejected quietly,” Darius told him. “Perhaps we can find her special footman. Miss Childers can hardly come storming up here demanding an explanation.”
“She will get to hear about it.”
“No doubt,” Darius said.
They did not return to the ball but informed the butler that if he went up to the green drawing room, he would find uninvited guests if he waited twenty minutes.
“I have already discovered the young ladies,” the butler told them with a smirk. “They were not hard to single out.”
Darius imagined they hadn’t been.
Most whores were easy to spot. But only the honest ones.
Chapter 9
Andrew had not known what true loneliness felt like, but he did now. How could he miss someone so much after half a day? But he did. Every time he paused from his work, he thought of Darius. Little things reminded him of the brief time they’d spent together.
Perhaps he was just melancholy. He probably needed a change. He closed the folder he was working on, left his office, locked it, and paid a visit to his daughter, who was busy with her nurse. The rainy day made their usual visit to the park impossible, so they were drawing.
A little soothed by his visit, Darius donned his hat, overcoat, and gloves, and left his house for his office in chambers. Glancing up, he spared a thought for Darius, wondering if he was on horseback or in a carriage.
Water dripped down the back of his neck, and Andrew turned up the broad collar of his coat. The weather suited his mood. A wet October in London—what could be better?
But he wished he lived closer to the Inns of Court. His house was near Lloyd’s Coffee House in an area he’d grown up in and felt comfortable with. The Inns were farther west, centered around green spaces. Perhaps he should move his offices to the Inns of Chancery, where many solicitors were situated. Then he could buy one of the new houses being erected nearby. It was definitely time for a change. He had kept his distance when he had taken the property work, deciding he must work for his family more than following his inclinations.
Restlessness infused him as he strode toward the Inns of Court. When the rain changed, surging into a vituperative downpour, he gave up and took shelter under the heavy overhanging sign of a printmaker. This one specialized in political caricatures, so he peered into the window, joining other people taking shelter and peering at the offerings within.
While the prints were cruel, he had always considered the subjects fair game. The artists generally chose current topics, and they could produce their caricatures remarkably quickly. Parliament would open soon, and the citizens of London and farther abroad could look forward to some particularly scurrilous examples.
He liked the one that showed the Prince of Wales, now nineteen, clinging to the apron strings of Lord Bute, his erstwhile tutor and, some said, his mother’s lover. Bute was not popular, so any caricature with him as its subject would sell well.
He moved on, glancing into the sky. Someone looked at him and then returned to look again. Andrew followed the man’s attention to the brightly colored prints in the window.
His heart lurched. There he was, in the middle of the display. Kissing Darius. Young men surrounded them, some in female dress, their bodices askew. Others wore the garb of dandies. All but Andrew, depicted in his usual sober, dark, unremarkable clothes. Because of that, he was the focus of the picture. Just in case the viewer hadn’t understood the point, a judge stood behind him. His full-bottomed wig was comically askew with the effort he was making hammering his gavel on the bench.
Andrew closed his eyes, but it didn’t help. The picture was still there when he opened them again.
The rain was better than this. With the image burning its way into his brain, he put his head down, more because he didn’t want to be recognized than against the downpour. His mind in turmoil, he strode to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Sparing a nod to the clerk, he went past and unlocked the door to his office.
He retained a small room here, all he needed, enough to keep his barrister work separate from his main business. But the folders and cases didn’t hold his interest any more than the work at home had. Especially after the shock of seeing himself depicted in the printshop window.
After a tap on the door, his Head of Chambers came in. Famed for his large, imposing, and terrifying presence in court, today Edward Jeffries smiled, although grimly. Twenty years older than Andrew, Jeffries held the respect of everyone in the legal business. What he didn’t know about criminal law wasn’t worth knowing.
He slammed a piece of paper in front of Andrew. “You’ve seen this?” he demanded without preamble.
Andrew stared at the sheet. Jeffries had folded it down the middle, so now a deep crease separated him from Darius. It seemed appropriate. “They spelled my name wrong,” he said dully. They’d called him Andrew Gram.
“It prevents them being sued.” Without being asked, Jeffries hauled the chair Andrew usually used for clients and plumped down in it. The sturdy Windsor chair creaked alarmingly. Andrew was fond of that chair, but its imminent destruction was the least of his concerns right now. “They tweak the names a little.”
“I saw it on the way here.” Andrew decided to put a brave face on it. Having regained his composure, he looked up and met the head’s gaze from under hooded eyes. “It’s nonsense, of course.”
“Naturally,” Jeffries said. “But it does put rather a dark light on us here at chambers. You understand that, I take it?”
“I do. It will pass.”
Jeffries flashed a sudden smile. “Is it your first time?”
“What?” Considering the nature of the picture, Andrew blinked, taken aback. “Is what my first time?”
Jeffries waved a hand, vaguely indicating the vile thing. “That you’ve been caricatured.”
“As far as I know.”
“I’ve had a few, but none with accusations like this. Usually they’re protesting something I said in court. I have taken care to preserve my private life. I have a wife and children, and I live a few miles outside the city. Do you see what I mean here?”
Discretion. Andrew breathed a sigh of relief. He had half-expected Jeffries to demand his immediate removal. He didn’t depend on the barrister work for his living, but he’d miss it terribly. Another chambers wouldn’t take him if he left this one in disgrace. “I assure you, sir, that nothing…nothing happened.” Bar a few kisses. Kisses he would treasure the memory of for the rest of his life.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Don’t deny it directly. That forces you into defending your position. What if you can’t? And from the expression you tried to hide a moment ago, you’re skating lightly on the truth here.” Jeffries stood up, the chair creaking mightily. “I’m forced to give you a warning. Be careful, Graham. If you are caught, you will become a criminal, and you will lose everything. If you wish to become the friend of a known sodomite, gather your defenses around you.”
Andrew could say something about that evening. “Miss Angela Childers invited me to her house for the ball the night before last. She wished to ask a favor of me, and I assume, see how I coped in exalted society.”
Jeffries snorted. “And did you?” He leaned back. The chair creaked some more.
“Well enough, I think. But she invited Lord Darius and me to a private room and spoke to us on a matter I’m not free to discuss yet.”
“Is it about Lord Valentinian Shaw?”
“No.” Of course he would think that. “Not directly, although she said the case brought me to her notice. Sufficient to say that she would bring a great deal of business to chambers if our arrangement comes to pass.”
A gleam lit Jeffries’s pale eyes. Andrew could never decide if they were gray or green. Today, with the bleak weather and the cold light filtering through the single window, gray predominated. “Indeed? If that happens, we will welcome the business. Until then, I must ask you to leave until the scandal has died down. I’ll get the clerk to redistribute your cases. And Lord Darius? Will you see him again?”
“I doubt it,” Andrew said, suppressing his sorrow. “I will no doubt come across him in the course of business.”
“That’s a good thing.” Jeffries got to his feet with a scrape of wood and left the room.
Andrew sat there, his hands steepled, the fingertips touching the underside of his chin. That message was plain enough. If he did not redeem himself, if he failed to bring Miss Childers’s business here, he was finished in chambers. No doubt someone else wanted his place here. Competition for these rooms waged as fiercely as war.
He wouldn’t put it past one of the contenders to have paid for this cartoon to be circulated. Private citizens with a grudge would often do so.
Since he had nothing else to do with his day, he would put that theory to the test. He would fight this slur with knowledge. In the way of snowballs rolling down a hill, the picture could lead to his downfall. He would not accept that. But he had no antecedents in the law, no powerful patron to protect him from calumny.
Fleetingly, he thought of Miss Childers but dismissed the notion. He did not know her well enough yet, and he could destroy any relationship he might build with her if he went to her cap in hand now. She had made it clear that beggars and charlatans beat a path to her door on a regular basis. He would not be one of them.
Andrew walked back past the clerk, who did not raise his head, and out of his Chambers into the drizzling misery of a rainy day in London.
Surely he could not get much wetter.
Chapter 10
After an interesting visit to the printer who had made the caricature, Andrew had another visit to make. He would not let this matter rest. By now his shock had subsided, giving way to pure white anger. He went home and changed, viewing his drenched clothes ruefully, and then took a chair to Whitehall. He missed his quarry, so he took another chair to Brook Street.
General Court was not at home, his housekeeper said. Andrew scribbled a note on the back of a visiting card, and turned the corner down firmly, indicating he was attending in person. He gave the card to the woman. “Take that to him. Tell him he sees me now.” Anger consumed him, but the cold kind that had served him well in the past.
As he expected, a servant returned to ask him to follow him. The general would see him now.
The servant led Andrew upstairs to the general’s bedroom. The man was in shirt and breeches, his head covered by a skull-cap. He sat before a dressing table with a triple mirror. “You said it was urgent. Get on with it, man. I’m expected for dinner.”
Andrew silently reflected that the general would make a serving for a dozen people, if roasted properly. It seemed like the best thing to do with him. The extreme lack of courtesy only added to his anger. He had not been offered refreshment, nor had the general bothered to put on a coat and meet him in a reception room. He would, Andrew determined, be asked to dinner before he was done. Not that he would stay.
He sat in the hard wooden chair the general’s valet reluctantly offered him. The valet returned to his master and reverentially lifted a curled white wig from the stand on the dressing table. When he removed the cap, he revealed sparse, grizzled hair cut short.
Clearly the general was not about to dismiss his servant. That suited Andrew. He would have his say in front of anyone the general pleased.
“I assume you have become aware of the scurrilous caricature prominently displayed in all the printshops today.”
“No.”
Andrew had obtained all the remaining caricatures from the printer without paying for them, although he had given the man five guineas for the information. The damage to his reputation was done, however. But he had prepared a surprise of his own.
Calmly, he got to his feet and laid a copy of the print before the general, unceremoniously shoving aside a powder box and a half-used pot of red face paint. Then he returned to his seat and waited.
The general glanced at it and guffawed. “Can’t you take a little ribbing?”
“Not when
it endangers my career.” Andrew leaned back and crossed his legs, even though the pose was far from comfortable. He’d learned the skill of appearing relaxed from Darius and, as he feared he would always do, spared him a brief second of his time.
“Pshaw, it won’t do that!”
“It has already done so, sir.”
“And why should I concern myself? Surely this thing is your business.” The general met Andrew’s gaze in the mirror.
Oh, yes, the man knew all right. He’d seen the drawing, and he knew who’d commissioned it. So did Andrew, now. “Not when your son paid for it. He visited the artist, paid for a drawing to his specification, and then visited the printmaker. That,” he said, folding his hands in his lap, “is not acceptable to me.”
“The boy may do as he pleases.” The general shrugged. “Why should he not? He’s attained his majority.”
“Did he tell you the circumstance of our meeting the other night?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” The general took more notice of his appearance, touching a curl on his wig.
“Indeed, sir. The incident occurred at the house of Miss Angela Childers. She had given Lord Darius and me permission to have a brief discussion in a private parlor.” He ignored the general’s suggestive snigger. “Your son had smuggled three whores into the ball, and he proposed to entertain himself and his friends in a private room. That indicates discourtesy of the worst kind.”
“As is a…business meeting of the kind you and Lord Darius were engaging in.”
“Your son saw nothing.” Andrew refused to demean himself by lying, but he could go far enough to say, “There was nothing to see.”
The guffaw returned again. “Why do you think I sent you to that molly house? Because I knew you would fit in. I know you are of that inclination, sir. I have seen it.”
How on earth would he know? Did Andrew carry a placard on his forehead? He thought not. Now the general had what he determined to be evidence. Rumor and innuendo could prove exceedingly damaging. He had no security.
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