He took the paper from her outstretched fingers, and she snatched her hand back as if his touch might burn her.
He held the paper pinched in his fingers as he scanned the list. “This next-of-kin bit is Christopher’s information, my brother who is suing me. Quite honestly, we weren’t raised on the same continent. The last time I saw him for any length of time, he was seven, and I was ten years old.”
“Are you estranged?” she asked, unsure how to put that politely.
Lord Severn laughed. “Estranged doesn’t begin to cover it. Let me add a few contact numbers.” He snagged one of the several pens rolling across the conference room table and wrote in neat block letters in the margin of the paper. “If I’m ever in trouble or in hospital, call these two: Casimir van Amsberg and Maxence Grimaldi. These are their private numbers. Max is often out of cell phone range. Leave a message for him. It will take both a while to get to England, so plan for that. If I die, and only if I die, call this last number, too.”
“Oh, I’m sure that won’t happen.” She paused. “You aren’t sick or anything, are you?”
“Healthy as can be. I plan to die in my own bed of advanced old age, preferably by being stepped on by an elephant.” He cleared his throat, as if he usually added something else to that sentence but hadn’t.
“An elephant? In your bedroom?” she asked.
“It’s as likely as anything else.”
Gen glanced at the paper and read upside down. “Elizabeth? No last name?”
“Yes, ask for Elizabeth, and then tell them what happened to me and answer any questions they have with all the information you know.”
“Is she your family solicitor? Or the estate’s?”
“I’d better write them down, too.” He did. “This is the number for my groundskeeper at Spencer House. He could handle the day-to-day functioning until the estate is settled.”
That seemed like a lot of information for just a barrister to have. “Are you sure you’re not planning to die?” she asked.
He looked up at her, grinning. “No one plans to die, and yet so few people truly live.”
“I’m sure most people live for quite some time.”
Lord Severn laughed, a ringing, joyful sound. “Not like me. Every day, every single day, I live.”
Yes, and they needed to talk about how he lived, too.
“Now,” he said, leaning in, “let’s talk about getting you out of this cubicle and onto my plane to the continent tonight. I know a guy who thinks he’s a rock star. Perhaps we can see his show from backstage and disabuse him of the notion, afterward.”
Partying with rock stars was absolutely part of the problem. “Mr. Finch-Hatten—”
“Lord Severn,” he said.
Gen glanced behind her, looking to see if someone was standing there.
“No, I’m Lord Severn,” he said. “I’m a third-rank peer of the realm. One uses ‘Lord’ and my title as the Earl of Severn. I sign letters and documents as Severn, rarely with my surname.”
“I’m sorry.” Her hands fluttered over the paper in front of her, where she had written that note right there to call him that.
“It’s perfectly all right, just something you should know.”
“I’m so sorry. I hope you aren’t offended.” She grabbed the table to keep her hands from flopping off like brain-damaged bats.
“No offense taken,” Lord Severn said. His hand lifted and hovered across the table, gently falling toward where her hands were braced against the dark wood.
Gen pushed back from the table, scooting the chair across the thick carpeting. “I think we should begin to discuss your case by going over some of the depositions. I have transcripts. The transcripts are right behind me, in the files. I’ll just get one of the transcripts so we can discuss your case.”
She bolted out of her chair and scrambled for the table, pretending to sort through a file folder while she fought herself.
Her hands tingled. She shook them, flicking her fingers to try to fling the crazies away.
Spidery nerves crawled up her arms.
Not now, not now. She knew Lord Severn hadn’t meant anything by their conversation and certainly not about being a creature with appetites. A little harmless flirting never killed anyone.
He wasn’t flirting with her anyway. No one flirted with horsey-face Gen unless they wanted something, or it was a dare, or they were a predator with a taste for the weak and stupid.
Deep breath, deep breath.
Her skin stilled, and her body quieted. The panic drained away, a small blip in her day that would have no effect on the afternoon or the rest of this meeting, she resolved.
Time to get back to work.
Gen walked her fingers through the tabs sticking out of the block of files in the box. “It’s in here somewhere. Do you want me to ring up the clerks and have some coffee or tea delivered?”
She felt him standing at her back rather than having heard him move.
The skin on the back of her neck heated, and a smoky shadow loomed up the white wall in front of her like an evil poltergeist trying to break through the centuries-old plaster.
His voice, whispering near her shoulder as he bent down, was low in his throat. “Or we could go back to my apartment for a liquid lunch. Or perhaps to Majorca for the weekend, to become better acquainted as barrister and client.”
He trailed his fingers over the outside of her upper arm, the merest suggestion of a caress.
Training kicked in.
Gen jabbed with her elbow, striking backward as hard as she could.
Her blow was deflected sideways before she connected with his solar plexus.
She spun and kicked.
Air. No contact.
She flipped around as her kick whiffed through the air and stumbled backward, banging her hip on the table.
Lord Severn stood several paces behind her, angled sideways, his arms up and ready to block again. His hands were balled into loose fists so he could either strike or block. His steady gaze was serious over his fists.
He said, “I’m sorry. I misunderstood our banter, earlier.”
“Don’t touch me,” she said, and the crazy shaking filled her hands and spread up her arms. “Don’t ever touch me.”
His voice was solemn. “As I said, I misunderstood. I won’t approach you again.” It sounded like a promise. “Are you all right?”
Gen leaned against the table with the boxes of file folders. The air felt chunky in her throat as she tried to breathe it, choking her. “I don’t like that sort of thing.”
“As I said, my mistake. I didn’t mean to cause offense, and I won’t presume again. I apologize for my error.”
She was still breathing too fast in panicky gasps. Damn. Krav Maga lessons for two years, and she hadn’t landed a blow when it had mattered. “I’ll bet you’re not used to women telling you no.”
“I’m not used to misreading signals.” Lord Severn lowered his hands, though he kept them near his waist and in front of him.
She had gotten caught up in the moment. She should have shut down any sort of invitation, fast. Her heart pounded in her chest, vibrating down her weak legs.
“I’m not used to men hitting on me,” Gen admitted.
“Why not?”
She stared at him, at that gorgeous man with his testosterone-molded cheekbones and geometric jaw and those silvery eyes lined with dark lashes. He had probably never felt like the fat, ugly, lumbering giant in the corner of a party where everyone else was a pretty little elf. “Look at me.”
Lord Severn blinked and lowered his hands to his sides. “You’re funny and smart and attractive. Horace doted on you. He said once that he would adopt you if he thought you would stand for it, which was his highest praise. I quite imagine that men are all over you.”
A laugh caught in her throat and turned into a snort.
Oh, that was sophisticated. Way to complete the image of the horsey, designated fat friend. She didn’t ev
en have her pretty girlfriends around to make her seem like the good-natured buddy.
She tried to cover up the snort by saying, “Uh, no. The men are not all over me.”
And the thought of men being all over her made her legs shake.
Lord Severn said, “Their loss, then.”
She tried to breathe more slowly, holding her breath between inhales, but fear still drowned her. “You probably only date beautiful duchesses and models and actresses and stuff.”
He chuckled and took another step backward, putting more blessed space and air between them. “I’ve dated a few daft beauties. I had to measure every word I said lest they tattle to everyone they knew from lack of common sense. Handling women as if I’m manipulating a toddler to behave in public is tiresome.”
Gen shook her hands to flick the heebie-jeebies out. She still wanted to scamper up the wall and cling to the ornate crown molding, shrieking curses down like a rabid spider monkey until Lord Severn left. “That sounds difficult.”
Lord Severn walked around the table and sat in his chair. He gestured to the papers spread over the table. “Can we resume our discussion of my case?”
Gen nodded and drew a deep breath. She didn’t like saying this. She felt like a wuss. “I just need to find that deposition. Could you remain seated while I turn my back, if you would be so kind?”
Lord Severn patted the arm of his chair. “I won’t move.”
She gathered every ounce of her willpower and pivoted, turning her back to him, and started walking her fingers through the files. “I can call for coffee or tea.”
“I would appreciate a coffee.” His voice came from across the room and on the other side of the table.
Good.
The air around her seemed to thin, and Gen breathed more easily.
The papers under her fingers drifted into focus, and though she listened for any scuff of his chair moving or his tread on the thick carpeting, she only heard Lord Severn clear his throat a few times and rustle some papers, all on the far side of the table.
When she turned around, clutching the depositions, Lord Severn was leaning back in his chair, studying a piece of paper, entirely at ease.
He smiled at her. “Did you find the deposition?”
She nodded. Her neck felt stiff, like she was holding herself ready for him to assault her.
Gen dropped the papers on the table, letting the swoosh cover up her deep breath. She shook out her hands again.
“Okay, so let’s talk about winning your case for you.” She tapped the pile of papers in front of her with her pen, covering up that she was still flicking her fingers. “There’s no mention of a jury strategy. It seems that Horace was preparing your case for an appeals court or magistrate instead of a trial.”
Lord Severn shook his head. “Oh, no, no. We won’t be going before a court at all. Matters of peerage are always heard in the House of Lords.”
Gen grabbed papers, trying not to look like she was reading frantically. “Did Horace say that?”
“We discussed the case rather than the venue, but I assumed.”
“Nothing is tried in the House of Lords anymore. Not since the Supreme Court was created in 2009. The last trial of a peer in the House was in 1935.”
“But this is a matter of peerage, not a criminal case to be tried in the special court for nobles. The House of Lords always hears cases concerning peerage claims.”
“But they never try cases anymore. They disbanded their court years ago. I think it was in 1948. The Law Lords aren’t even members of the House of Lords anymore.”
“But Horace said that we should appeal directly to the sovereign to throw it to the Lords.”
Yes, yes. Gen could just remember from her university days that the Crown was the fount of all honor, and thus the Crown was entitled to decide all questions related to peerage disputes.
In practice, the sovereign referred all disputes about who got to be the duke to a committee in the House of Lords—Gen wracked her brain—the Committee for Privileges and Conduct, and then the committee told the sovereign what to do in the case.
But the committee didn’t even have Law Lords anymore, not since 2009. Surely, a bunch of stuffed shirts who weren’t even barristers or solicitors couldn’t decide such a contentious case based on law and precedent and honor without even Law Lords to advise them.
“Are you a member of the House of Lords?” she asked Lord Arthur Finch-Hatten, the Earl of Severn, just in case.
“Egads, no. My grandfather held his hereditary spot until the reform in 1999, but neither he nor I ever stood for election. I’m far too busy with other priorities.”
Yeah, she just bet he was.
“I need to look over these depositions,” Gen said, trying to come up with something to say that would not let on that she was entirely out of her depth.
“Quite,” Lord Severn said drily and stood.
Oh, yeah. He knew.
“I just have to study this.” She clutched the papers to keep her hands from shaking. “Give me a few days, and we’ll meet again to discuss your case.”
He brushed some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “I’ll find some way to occupy my time.”
“No, you mustn’t.” Gen stood and let the papers in her hands flutter to the table. “Horace told me about your escapades. Every time you went on a bender, he watched the gossip sites for days, fretting that you might have given your brother yet more ammunition. The only reason this case has gotten this far is because of your atrocious behavior. For anyone else, anyone who acted with an ounce of decorum, such a stupid claim would have been dismissed immediately.”
Lord Severn flicked his fingers in the air. “My actions don’t matter. This is all a matter of peerage and privilege. My parents bequeathed the earldom and Spencer House to me.”
“Your brother is getting the National Trust involved. Horace thought you might lose when he was fighting this for you.”
“And now you’re fighting it for me, so you see to it that my ‘escapades’ don’t influence the case.”
“Ms. Hawkes and I can’t win your case if you’re doing everything you can to sink it!”
Lord Severn sighed and looked out the window. “Be careful about that fiery American temper. The House of Lords won’t like that.”
“Nothing is ever tried in the House of Lords!”
His sultry glance down at her was laced with pity and derision, and Gen felt like a lower-class biscuit aping her betters.
Class will out, she had heard more than once when certain other pupil barristers had made unfortunate choices in alcohol quantities or sleeping arrangements. They had lost the respect of the senior barristers in chambers, and thus their chances at tenancy, with a single miscalculation.
But Lord Severn’s stare made her feel all sorts of new levels of inferiority.
When he spoke, his cut-glass, upper-crust British accent clipped the words, “You need to do your homework.”
Lord Severn turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his long legs covering the plush carpet in just a few steps.
Gen sank into her chair, holding her head in her hands.
Between her panicked freak-out and lack of understanding about Lord Severn’s case, this meeting could not have gone any worse.
The only things worse than throwing the case to someone else was getting fired by the client or losing it in court.
And she had just increased the odds of both of those.
Disaster.
CHAMBERS HIGH TEA
Chambers high tea was held at precisely four-thirty every day in the largest conference room. Pupil barristers brewed the tea in the enormous, Victorian-era silver tea set and served it in bone china cups to the barristers like waiters.
Outside the windows, the sun was already setting on the other side of the historic building that housed Lincoln’s Inn, the wan winter sunlight barely able to crest over the roof and chimneys.
Gen poured a cup of tea for her b
oss, Octavia Hawkes, and added one lump of sugar, and then she poured another cup for one of the other senior barristers, David Trent, and another and another. The tea steamed sweetly, misting her cheeks with warmth and soft scent.
Beside her, fellow pupil barrister James Knightly poured tea for his pupil master, Leonard Boxster, and placed two of the chocolate cookies on the saucer for him. James blew across the top of the tea because Leonard Boxster liked his tea scandalously lukewarm. James said, “So I heard that you were closeted with His Lordship Arthur Severn this morning.”
Gen grimaced at James’s innuendo and poured tea for another senior barrister. “We had our first meeting to discuss his case.”
James asked, “What’s he like?”
Oh, that was a minefield. She couldn’t say that Lord Severn was as hot as a blue brushfire in the Texas August sun, nor that he was funny, infuriating, and smelled like masculine devilry. “He’s concerned about his case.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
“Then you’ve heard wrong. Of course, he’s concerned about it. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Someone who’s too busy whoring and drinking his way across Europe.”
Gen had left herself open for that one. “He met with me for a suitable amount of time, and we discussed his case. There was no whoring or drinking involved.”
“How’s he paying you? In cash or services rendered?”
What a smug ass. “His account was set up with the clerks when Horace Lindsey was his barrister.”
“Must have been in services rendered, then.”
Gen didn’t bother scolding him. James had always been an arrogant, slimy asshole. Everything that came out of his mouth was a put-down or an outright lie. He was going to be an amazing barrister, and he was Gen’s primary competition to get the one tenancy position at the law firm of Serle’s Court Barristers.
She said, “Horace had better taste than Arthur Finch-Hatten.”
James laughed and walked away, having gotten her to say something derogatory about a man who was better-looking and richer than he was.
And nicer.
Gen finally poured herself a cup of tea and sipped it.
Stiff Drink: Runaway Billionaires: Arthur Duet #1 Page 3