In the Barrister's Bed

by Tina Gabrielle

  Disquieting thoughts raced through Bella’s mind. Had she made a mistake in approaching Evelyn Harding?

  “I understand,” Bella said in a low, composed voice.

  Evelyn leaned across the desk and a thoughtful smile curved her mouth. “That does not stop me from making my own judgments. Your position may not be as precarious as he would have you believe.”

  Surprised and more uncertain than before, Bella asked, “You mean the duke?”

  “I do.”

  “I assume you are speaking of our dispute over ownership of this property.”

  “I am.”

  “Blackwood claims the legality of his deed is not in question because he was first to record the deed despite the fact that I purchased the property first and moved in days prior to him,” Bella said.

  “I’m quite proficient at reading and interpreting case law, even the arcane property statutes, and I have discovered one court that was divided on the issue. Most courts have held that the first to record the deed is the owner; one held for the first to purchase and possess. Every case is fact specific, you see.”

  Bella approached the desk and looked over Evelyn’s shoulder. Even though Bella was well read, the thick text of the legal volumes was baffling, with many of the words in Latin. It was like an indecipherable code.

  “How can you understand what you are reading?” Bella asked.

  Evelyn chuckled and turned in her chair to look up at Bella. “I am the daughter of a longtime barrister.”

  “I thought you were the daughter of an aristocrat.”

  “It wasn’t until years later that my father inherited my uncle’s earldom. For most of my life, my father was a revered Master of the Bench—otherwise known as a Bencher—at Lincoln’s Inn. I spent my youth roaming around the Inn and my father’s chambers, listening to him lecture his pupils on the topics of contracts, torts, and criminal law. Father has since retired from Lincoln’s Inn, but he never lost his love of teaching and still lectures at Oxford. James and the others call me ‘Lady Evelyn’ in honor of my father.”

  “Your father mentored others to become barristers?”

  “Oh, yes. My husband and James Devlin were just two of his many pupils.”

  “Is that how you met Mr. Harding?”

  “I was a skinny twelve-year-old girl when Jack Harding became my father’s pupil, but I adored him the first time I set eyes on him. He’s always been a charmer.”

  An image of Jack Harding rose in Bella’s mind: tall and lean with green eyes and an easy grin. She could imagine Evelyn’s fascination with the handsome barrister.

  “It wasn’t until a decade later that I encountered Jack again, only I believed I was in love with another, a scholar and my father’s Fellow at the University, who was under suspicion for murdering the Drury Lane actress Bess Whitfield.”

  Stunned, Bella could only stare. News of the notorious Bess Whitfield’s murder had reached even the residents of Plymouth far from the London theater district.

  “I needed a competent criminal barrister to represent my anticipated betrothed, and Jack Harding is one of the best,” Evelyn explained. “Needless to say, my youthful infatuation for Jack blossomed, and I realized I was wrong about the scholar. Jack and I married soon after Bess Whitfield’s true murderer was unearthed. We have since been blessed with our three-year-old son.”

  “You are both fortunate indeed to have each other.”

  Evelyn tilted her head to the side and regarded Bella curiously. “James told me you were married for seven years. You must be distraught.”

  “It was not a love match.” Bella regretted the words the moment they left her lips. Why had she spoken so honestly?

  “I’ve known many friends that have married out of duty. There is no shame in it. I take it you see Wyndmoor Manor as a fresh start.”

  “May I speak plainly?”

  “Of course.”

  “I have always yearned to write, yet my husband never understood and did everything in his power to stop me. Wyndmoor Manor is indeed a fresh start for I am finally free to pursue my dreams of publication and write my stories and articles, despite the fact that some would disapprove of a female author. Can you understand?”

  A sudden light glinted in Evelyn’s eyes, and she stood and eagerly clasped Bella’s hands. “I understand only too well. For years I longed to be a barrister. Oh, to experience striding into the Old Bailey and arguing a case before a jury. It makes gooseflesh rise on my arms. But as a woman, I am not permitted to be called to the bar.”

  Evelyn Harding’s enthusiasm was contagious. They were kindred spirits. Women whose talents and longings were bound by rigid rules—whether established by social mores, universities, or the commands of stern spouses.

  “It’s not just novels that I long to write,” Bella blurted out. “I have submitted a political article to the Times using a male pseudonym.”

  Evelyn clasped her hands to her chest. “Wonderful! If Wyndmoor Manor and your status as widow provide the security and freedom to pursue your dreams, then you must fight for the place and your happiness. You need to retain a solicitor about your dispute of ownership. There’s no guarantee you will win, but you deserve representation. I can recommend a solicitor, but you will have to travel to London.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Bella asked. “Blackwood is your husband’s friend.”

  “James may be a friend, but he knows quite well that I cannot stand by and allow him to bully an innocent widow.”

  “He has offered to pay me for Wyndmoor Manor if the seller Sir Reeves is found and all our monies spent,” Bella said.

  “Will you accept his offer?” Evelyn asked.

  “I will not. He cannot get rid of me so easily.”

  A look of mischief crossed Lady Evelyn’s face. “Good. James deserves to be challenged by a woman.”

  “And your husband?” Bella asked. “How would he feel about your helping me?”

  Evelyn responded without hesitation. “Jack understands me.”

  What would it be like to have such devotion from a man? To have the confidence to do what you felt was right, without the fear of disapproval? Bella couldn’t fathom it. When she had stumbled upon one of Roger’s questionable business ventures—even those that involved treason—and confronted him, he had immediately responded with threats. “Harriet is old, her bones are brittle, she could easily suffer a fall,” Roger had spat, a wicked gleam in his eye.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Harriet entered. “Pardon, Bella. A gentleman caller has arrived asking for the duke. Coates left the man’s calling card on the vestibule table before leading him to the drawing room and summoning Blackwood. I do believe the gentleman’s identity may be of interest to you.” Harriet stepped forward and held out a card.

  Bella reached for the card, her brow furrowed and she read out loud, “Armen Papazian, Investigative Services.” She glanced at Harriet in confusion. “I do not know this man.”

  Evelyn spoke up. “He is the investigator James hired to find Sir Reeves and look into a few other matters.”

  A few other matters? Bella knew, with certainty, James was investigating her. Dear Lord, what if he learned the truth, learned everything ... ?

  Bella turned to Lady Evelyn. “Please excuse me. Perhaps we can have tea on the terrace another time?”

  Evelyn smiled warmly. “That would be lovely.”

  Not wasting another moment, Bella turned on her heel and rushed from the library.

  James had just seen Investigator Papazian out and was closing the door when Bella came rushing into the vestibule.

  “I was informed there was a guest. An investigator,” Bella said.

  Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes bright slashes of jade in her oval face. As always of late, a frisson of excitement thrummed in his veins when she entered a room. They had resided under the same roof for less than one week, and even though she went to great lengths to avoid him, he had kept an eye on her as she’d busied hersel
f organizing the servants and unpacking and placing her own belongings.

  James’s gaze lowered to the calling card clasped in Bella’s hand. “I must remind Coates to exercise discretion when I have a visitor.”

  “Why was the investigator here?” she asked.

  “Upon inquiry of the patrons of the Twin Rams, I learned that Sir Reeves had left the village immediately after he sold me Wyndmoor Manor. My investigator has located Reeves, and I’m on my way to see him.”

  “Now?”

  “I see no need to wait to question Reeves,” he said.

  “I’m going with you,” she said matter-of-factly.

  James shook his head. “It is not a good idea. Reeves is staying at the Black Hound, a rundown posting inn on the outskirts of Hertfordshire.”

  She met his gaze without flinching. “I’m going. The man owes me an explanation.”

  His lips parted in a curved, stiff smile. “The Black Hound is a bawdy, boisterous establishment. It certainly is no place for a lady.”

  She answered in a rush of words. “If Sir Reeves is there, then nothing can keep me away. I am just as much his victim as you, and I have a right to confront him face-to-face.”

  “I will confront him for us both. Or do you not trust me?”

  “You have yet to exhibit trustworthy behavior.”

  His temper inexplicably flared. “Are you always this argumentative?”

  “Since you present no logical reason for me not to accompany you, then yes.”

  “Fine,” he snapped. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  His gaze raked her from head to toe, noting her cream gown with its rounded bodice. It was hardly scandalous, nothing close to the plunging bodices of the London females of his acquaintance, but the smooth silk accentuated the nubile curves beneath her dress, and the cream color heightened the translucence of her face and neck.

  As a barrister whose practice occasionally involved criminal cases, James had met with clients in unsavory establishments throughout the London rookeries, but never with a beautiful lady in tow. His gut clenched as an image crystallized in his mind of the patrons of the Black Hound gawking when Bella Sinclair walked through the door.

  His thoughts raced headlong, and anger toward Sir Redmond Reeves rippled along his spine. Damn him, James thought, for thrusting us into this predicament.

  His voice was cold when he spoke. “You’ll need to change. Do you own a darker gown?”

  “I have a mourning gown.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to ask why, as a widow of less than a year, she never wore it. Instead, he said, “Good. And fetch a cloak, something that covers you from the neck down.”

  She opened her mouth to argue but, spotting a parlor maid and one of the footmen staring from around the corner, thought better of it. They were making quite the spectacle for all the servants to overhear—both hers and his.

  She took a deep breath, her green eyes blazing with determination. “I’ll be but a moment, Your Grace.” With a swish of her skirts, she made for the stairs.

  James watched as she ascended, her hips swaying with each step.

  Magnificent. Despite his anger at having to escort her to the Black Hound against his better judgment, her defiance was a challenge, a novel experience that drew him like a lodestone. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew just how much her rebelliousness attracted him.

  James was waiting beside the carriage when Bella came out of the house. Satisfied with the demure cut of her black dress, he said, “I approve of the dress, but where is your cloak?”

  As if on cue, Harriet came out of the house, a dark cloak draped across her arm.

  “It’s too warm to wear it,” Bella said. “I thought to carry it with me until we arrive at the Black Hound.”

  “I don’t suppose you can convince her to stay here?” James asked Harriet.

  The old woman’s brows drew downward in a frown. “I’ve tried, Your Grace. But she has a stubborn streak.”

  Stubborn streak indeed, James mused.

  Of all the women he had known, every one would have happily stayed in the safety of her home and allowed James to confront Sir Reeves at the Black Hound on his own. Further still, the women of his past would have gladly taken the money James offered for Wyndmoor Manor without a second thought and gone on to spend it lavishly on an opulent lifestyle.

  But Bella Sinclair was different.

  Despite the odds of feuding with a man, a barrister and duke to boot, she refused to be cowed. He should be annoyed, but as each day passed, he became more intrigued.

  “Where’s your carriage?” Bella asked.

  “The investigator lent me his in exchange for mine. I had no desire for the patrons of the Black Hound to get a look at the ducal crest on the side of my carriage.”

  A footman opened the carriage door and the step was lowered. Bella climbed in, and James settled on the bench across from her. The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, and her auburn hair gleamed deep mahogany and rich red.

  She shifted on the soft leather seat, watching out the window as Harriet went into the house and shut the door. Keeping her gaze averted, she sat straight and folded her hands in her lap, clearly determined to ignore him for the duration of the trip just as she had avoided him during the past three days.

  Her behavior irked him. He wasn’t used to being ignored by a woman, especially one who had tantalized him after only one kiss. A devilish part of him wanted to upset her composure. He stretched his long legs, brushing her skirts.

  She started, and the heavy lashes that shadowed her cheeks flew up. Their eyes met, and she colored.

  Ah, she wasn’t as immune as she would have him believe. Only now she appeared nervous, biting her bottom lip, and growing increasingly uneasy under the heat of his gaze. He didn’t want that either. Truth be told, he admired her bravery. She would never play the dreaded damsel in distress that many women had thought he would find attractive. A woman like Bella, if she allowed herself, would be full of passion in the bedroom. Where he’d thought he’d find satisfaction in her nervousness, instead he now longed to see her unwavering courage return.

  What had addled his brains?

  Annoyed with his thoughts, James banged on the roof. The horses set off with a jingle of harness and the carriage lurched, before settling into a steady pace across the graveled drive.

  James leaned back on the bench. “When we get to the Black Hound and find Reeves, let me speak first.”

  She regarded him with a speculative gaze. “Why?”

  “I don’t know what type of criminals he’s consorting with.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You think Sir Reeves consorts with criminals?”

  “Don’t be so naïve, Bella. Redmond Reeves is a criminal.”

  “But still—”

  “Is your safety of no concern to you?” his voice grated harshly. “There’s only one reason for a beautiful woman to be present in such an establishment.”

  Her lips parted in surprise, and he suspected she was more shocked that he had called her beautiful than that he had suggested the Black Hound’s customers would think her a prostitute.

  Had her husband never told her she was beautiful?

  Not for the first time James sensed her marriage with the deceased Mr. Sinclair had been intimately unsatisfactory. Whether the man had been a simpleton or a selfish bastard, James could only guess. What James knew for certain was that Bella’s innocent yet sensual reaction to his kiss would forever be imprinted on his mind.

  A foreign stab of protectiveness pierced his chest.

  They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey until the swaying of the carriage slowed upon a section of the cobbled road that had fallen into disrepair. With a creak of the harness, the wheels of the carriage hit a rut with a teeth-jarring bounce, and Bella was jolted from her seat and thrown atop him. James grasped her about the waist at the same time she reached out to clutch his thigh, and they
nearly bumped heads.

  A glance down at her small hand on his upper thigh caused the temperature in the carriage to rise twenty degrees. An erotic image focused in his mind of Bella touching him without the barrier of clothing.

  “Oh!” she cried out.

  “Easy, Bella.”

  Realizing where she grasped him, she pulled her hand back as if she had clutched a scalding hot poker. She leaped off him, reseated herself, and smoothed her skirts.

  Just then, the carriage came to a full stop. James glanced out the window. His arousal instantly cooled, and his gaze narrowed on the inn across the street. “We’ve arrived.”

  Chapter 10

  The sign for the Black Hound creaked on its rusty chains above the door. The posting inn was at a crossroads, where travelers on their way to London or through the villages of Hertfordshire might be unfortunate enough to stop.

  Bella had spent her married years in Plymouth and was aware of the many taverns the sailors, fishermen, dockworkers, and prostitutes frequented, but she had never set foot in one of those establishments.

  Night had descended, and thick clouds obscured a hazy moon that seemed to hang precariously on a curtain of black velvet. Fog furled around the crumbling stone walls of what looked more like a dockside whorehouse than a frequented inn. One of the inn’s shutters hung askew on its hinges, and coarse male laughter spilled into the street. Two men leaned against the posts just outside the door smoking, their eyes red from too much gin, their jaws unshaven. They turned to stare at James and Bella as they passed, and she lifted the hem of her skirt to avoid the debris of broken bottles and horse dung.

  James opened the door and ushered her inside. A thick cloud of smoke stung her eyes and swirled above to hang in the rafters in a heavy cloud. A long bar with stools ran the length of one wall, and an assortment of tables and chairs jammed the floor. The tavern was crowded with laborers, farmers, and local tradesmen, whose voices and laughter resounded in the small space. Barmaids scurried through the room, tankards of ale or cups of gin balanced on their trays. A handful of other women lingered at the occupied tables, and judging by their rouged lips, brazen smiles, and low-necked dresses, Bella suspected they earned their living selling their bodies to travelers who passed through the inn.