by Caro Fraser
‘Do you love her more than you loved me?’
There was a silence of several seconds before Leo answered, pushing his hands back into his pockets so that he might resist the temptation of reaching out for Anthony.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘No.’ And he realised in that moment where Anthony’s jealousy had always lain, the reason for that scene in Leo’s room, the words on the landing just before William’s heart attack. He could not trust himself to say more; drawing his overcoat around him, he turned and walked quickly through the cloisters towards King’s Bench Walk, away from Anthony.
In the two weeks since they had returned from Florence, Rachel had been aware of a distraction, a restlessness about Leo. The realisation filtered gradually through her own haze of happiness, with days taken up by another of Mr Nikolaos’s disasters, visits to her gynaecologist, house details from the estate agents.
‘We can’t stay here for ever,’ Leo had said of the mews house. He no longer wanted to stay there; the place belonged to his past, to a time when he had been another person, his life his own. He did not wish to share it with Rachel. He suggested during their stay in Florence that they should find another place. ‘We’ll start looking for something bigger as soon as we get back.’ But since their return it had been she who had visited the estate agents, going enthusiastically through the bundles of information they sent. Leo had become vague about the whole business.
The vagueness and distractedness, however, she put down to his work and the approach of Easter. It must be stressful, she told herself, waiting to hear whether he would take silk or not, simply having to wait through the days for the letter to arrive.
‘If it’s big and bulky,’ he had told her light-heartedly one evening, ‘then it’s all right. They have to put in all the bits and pieces about what to wear, where to go, when the ceremony takes place. If it’s small and flat – well, that’s it, isn’t it?’
But Leo had taken soundings, spoken to Frank and others, and he had come to understand that the thing would go smoothly, that he had little to worry about. The rumours had died away, all was as before. James had been given a few hours’ community service and told not to do it again, and Leo had paid some money into an account for him and put him in the way of some work in the West End. Since Sir Basil’s elevation to the Bench, it seemed likely that both he and Stephen would take silk. Had it all been an unnecessary waste of time? he wondered. Need things have been taken to such extremes? He no longer knew. He only knew that the thing was done, that Rachel was his wife, and that his life was now changed completely.
He did not think of Anthony. Since the evening in the cloisters, that was curiously painful. He saw him routinely during the day and all was fine, with no hint of what had passed between them. But when Leo was alone, when his attention strayed momentarily from his work, he had to prevent himself from allowing his thoughts to dwell on the past.
On Wednesday morning in the week before the Easter weekend, Rachel was sitting at the kitchen table in the mews house, going through yet another sheaf of estate-agent mail.
‘Honestly,’ she said, ‘they send far too much. If only they’d send the kind of thing we’re looking for, instead of all this irrelevant rubbish. Half of it’s no good.’ She frowned. ‘I wish we could sell the flat. That would help. But look,’ she added, holding up two sheets of paper stapled together, ‘here’s the one I was telling you about last night. I’ve only just found it. Shall we go and look at it this evening?’
Leo helped himself to another cup of coffee and glanced at her eager, lovely face. He felt empty, without any desire to go and look round houses. He wished he could shake off this mood. His life seemed to have lost all its impetus, as though he were falling into a state of fuddled domestic inertia, from which he would never rise. It’s just the change in circumstances, the adjustment, he told himself. And this stifling, claustrophobic feeling was probably just the effect of two people living together in a place that was too small for them.
‘Not tonight,’ he replied, draining his cup and slipping on his waistcoat. He smiled at her, trying to cheer himself, to inject something more positive into his mood. ‘I have to go with solicitors to see the director of this pharmaceuticals company this afternoon, the one who’s involved in this swap deals case. Apparently he’s too important to come all the way down to the Temple. It might go on a bit, and I may be late. Why not fix it up for tomorrow night?’
He heard the apologetic tone of his own words as he made excuses, accounted for his time. He had never expected to have to do that. But he was married now. He was entirely accountable.
He put on his jacket, watching as she rose from her chair, smiling, and put her arms around him. She kissed him happily.
‘Aren’t you going in to work today?’ he asked, running his hand with curiosity over the slight swell of her stomach beneath her robe.
‘I’m going in late. I think I’ve earned a couple of hours at home. Anyway, my new secretary is so tremendously efficient … How’s Felicity, by the way?’
‘Oh, she’s doing well. No major disasters so far. Look, I have to run.’ And he slipped from her embrace and left, while Rachel went happily back to her house details.
Frederick Seely’s offices were housed in the City in a building of sumptuous starkness; one could sense the many hundreds of thousands which had been expended on its apparent minimalism. Leo came in through high glass entrance doors; the reception area, where a uniformed security guard sat, was isolated in a sea of shining marble flooring. Leo signed himself in and took the little plastic visitor’s tag which the security guard handed him.
‘Twenty-second floor, Mr Davies,’ he said, and Leo walked across the gleaming floor to the lift, whose doors slid back noiselessly and swiftly as he approached.
The atmosphere was rather more intimate on the twenty-second floor, but still the whispering voice of vast corporate wealth could be heard everywhere, in the tinkling fountain which played beside the reception desk, in the bank of small video screens on the wall opposite, which gave out soundless images of Seely’s scattered empire, and in the lush carpeting and furniture. There was none of the bustle and chatter of a busy office. The heavy carpeting soaked up what sound there was. The polished creature at the reception desk smiled at Leo in an unhurried manner, her movements impressively slow and serene as she informed Frederick Seely’s inner sanctum of Leo’s arrival.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Leo, ‘that Mr Leslie, who should be with me, has been delayed for half an hour or so. He should be joining us.’
The receptionist smiled and nodded, and asked Leo to take a seat. He sat for ten minutes or so on a glossy, high-backed black leather chair, thumbing through a copy of Seely’s latest annual report and reflecting on the habitual unpunctuality of solicitors, until the polished wooden doors which fenced Frederick Seely off from the rest of the world opened and a young man came out. He approached Leo and held out his hand.
‘Mr Davies? I am Francis Bryan, Mr Seely’s personal assistant. I do apologise for keeping you waiting. Would you come this way?’
The young man was tall and fair-haired, with an oval face and charming features, which bore no trace of a smile. His entire demeanour exuded cold efficiency, and he was impeccably dressed. His movements as he led Leo into Mr Seely’s domain were graceful, yet a trifle exaggerated.
‘Mr Leslie, the solicitor, should be joining us,’ Leo explained as they reached the doorway. ‘As I told your receptionist, he has been detained for a short while.’
The young man surveyed Leo’s face expressionlessly. He said nothing, then ushered Leo in, leaving him alone with Mr Seely.
The conference was delayed by Mr Leslie’s late, puffing, apologetic arrival, and it was well after six-thirty by the time their business was finished. Glancing at his watch as he gathered his papers together, Leo was surprised to see that Francis Bryan was still in attendance at that late hour, flitting in and out of the room, bearing Mr Seely the messages which had
accumulated throughout the afternoon.
‘Look,’ said the solicitor, as Mr Seely conferred briefly with his assistant, ‘I wish I had time for a drink and a chat, but I have to dash. I’ll call you in chambers and we’ll go through all this.’ And Mr Leslie fled as precipitately as he had come, his briefcase sagging and flapping at its broken clasp, the belt of his raincoat trailing.
It was left to Leo to make the polite murmurs of departure. He shook hands with Frederick Seely and they parted. As he was making his way along the hushed corridor and back to the lifts, Leo was aware that Francis Bryan had caught up with him.
‘Allow me to see you downstairs, Mr Davies,’ he murmured and, adjusting his graceful, striding gait to Leo’s, walked with him past the deserted reception area to the lift.
There was silence as they waited for the lift to come. Leo glanced at the younger man, and their eyes met. Francis Bryan leant back against the wall next to the lift, his eyes still fastened on Leo’s, and looked him up and down slowly. Then he smiled. The gesture was overtly insolent, but Leo felt only a familiar thrill of interest and excitement. He looked away.
The lift doors opened and Leo stepped inside, followed by Francis Bryan.
‘There really is no need, you know—’ began Leo.
‘I insist,’ said the younger man gently, turning his eyes on Leo once again as he pressed the button for the ground floor. As the lift began its slow descent, Leo was aware of the other man’s gaze, knew he could not be mistaken. He turned to look at him, and Francis Bryan smiled his charming, affected smile once again. Leo’s mouth felt dry as he spoke.
‘When will you be finished here?’ he asked quietly.
He did not think of Rachel, or of the coming months, or of anything else. He was back in his old world, intoxicated by the pleasurable excitement of this new, wordless encounter, this enchanting young man with the long, graceful legs and insolent smile.
Francis Bryan leant against the polished steel of the lift wall, his eyes turned to the moving light of the floor indicator, the smile gone from his face. It seemed to Leo that he took a very long time to answer. And in that time, Leo wondered, fleetingly, at his own madness. But he didn’t care any more. After the past few months, it no longer seemed to matter.
‘In twenty minutes or so,’ replied Francis Bryan, still not looking at Leo. Then, as the indicator drew near to the ground floor, he glanced at him. ‘There’s a wine bar round the corner, in Colvin Street.’
He said nothing more. The lift doors slid open and Leo walked out, across the reception area, into the street and round the corner, to wait in the wine bar.
The next morning, in the mews house in Mayfair, Rachel bent to pick up the sheaf of Leo’s mail. A bulky envelope from the Lord Chancellor’s Office lay among the others, the little House of Lords crest on the back. She stared at it, turning it over, then carried it back upstairs with the rest.
At the top she paused, aware of the silence in the house, and of the sick uncertainty that lay within her. The wide sleeve of her blue robe slid back from her arm as she reached out to touch the petals of one of the daffodils which stood in a jug on the table. She laid the pile of envelopes next to the flowers. Then she lifted her gaze to the window, to the damp cobbles of the empty mews. Folding her arms, she stood by the window, looking out, waiting.
LOOK OUT FOR THE NEXT BOOK IN CARO FRASER’S CAPER COURT SERIES …
Now a QC at the eminent chambers of 5 Caper Court, Leo Davies has a big case on his hands. His clients have staked everything on Leo’s performance in court, blissfully unaware of the confusions of his private life which threaten to destroy their case. For at home, the delicate facade of Leo’s marriage to Rachel is swiftly crumbling. And while Leo eyes Charles Beecham, the handsome TV celebrity, Beecham’s own interests may lie elsewhere …
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About the Author
CARO FRASER is the daughter of George MacDonald Fraser, author of the Flashman novels. She attended art school and worked as an advertising copywriter before deciding to pursue a career in law. Fraser began to write full-time while bringing up the third of her four children, and published her first novel, The Pupil, in 1993. Since then she has written several novels, including the critically acclaimed Caper Court series. She is currently a full-time shipping lawyer and lives in London.
By Caro Fraser
THE CAPER COURT SERIES
The Pupil
Judicial Whispers
An Immoral Code
A Hallowed Place
A Perfect Obsession
A Calculating Heart
Breath of Corruption
Errors of Judgment
Copyright
Allison & Busby Limited
12 Fitzroy Mews
London W1T 6DW
www.allisonandbusby.com
First published in Great Britain in 1995.
This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.
Copyright © 1995 by CARO FRASER
The moral right of the author is hereby asserted
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.
ACIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-7490-1403-2