One Night in London (11 page)

Unfortunately, Mr. Hubbertsey soon proved as unsatisfactory as Mr. Fowler. He barely looked at Lady Gordon when he first came in, but as Edward described the case, the man’s eyes slid her way. On guard after Fowler’s dismissive attitude, he saw weary annoyance flash across the solicitor’s face. Edward was not a man to waste time on anyone who would refuse him in the end, the moment Mr. Hubbertsey’s demeanor shifted to one of subtle regret, Edward thanked him and dismissed him. Blackbridge, following instructions to wait close at hand, showed the man out almost before the solicitor realized what was happening.

Lady Gordon stared fixedly across the room, hands knotted in her lap. “Was he also unsuitable?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“He wasn’t going to take the case.”

She unfolded her hands and smoothed her palms over her skirt. She inhaled a long, controlled breath. He could feel her emotions like another presence in the room, pulsing bright with anger and frustration. Lady Gordon was trying not to lose her temper again. Perversely, Edward wished she might fail, which surely only proved how vital it was that he conclude this business as quickly as possible. “How do you know?”

“I could tell.”

“How?”

“By the way he looked at you,” he retorted. “Neither he nor Fowler wishes to deal with a woman.”

A series of expressions flashed across her face in short order—humiliation, fury, despair—leaving her flushed that intoxicating shade of pink. “I see,” she said tightly.

He simply couldn’t imagine being in her position, rejected not for any weakness of her case or inability to pay, but just because of general traits attributed to her sex. As galling as it must have been to be refused at all, it seemed a hundred times worse, in his eyes, that she had been refused on specious grounds. He almost wished Fowler would come back for a moment, to see how little hysteria there was in Francesca Gordon. From what she’d said, she must have endured similar scenes several times over before today, perhaps even worse. For the first time, Edward appreciated why she accosted him over Wittiers and then contrived to secure his help. In her position he would have done—in fact, had done—just the same when it was his family in question.

“Who were the other solicitors recommended to you?” he asked.

She pulled another copy of her list from her reticule and handed it to him, then surged to her feet and paced across the room. Edward read the list again with new skepticism. It was composed of respectable, experienced solicitors, the sort he would hire. He had accepted it blindly before, thinking only to find the first man who would take her case. But that sort of help would be hollow; she wanted to win her case, not merely have it heard. She cared very deeply about the child at the center of the matter, and he reluctantly acknowledged he would feel rather callous if he didn’t make a real effort to help her, particularly after she fulfilled her part of the bargain so promptly and efficiently.

Unfortunately, that would take more time than expected, not to mention throw him into her company a great deal. It sounded very simple when she first presented it—he had found a solicitor within two days of arriving in London, after all—but now it was clear he would have to devote more thought and energy to her. To
helping
her, he reminded himself at once. The less attention he devoted to her eyes and her voice and the way she moved, the better.

He got up and crossed the room. She turned at his approach, her eyes glittering like polished amber. Just like the other night, she put him in mind of a fire, banked by propriety but still smoldering with energy and feeling and . . . passion. “I fear none of these men will prove satisfactory.”

Her eyebrows arched slightly as she glanced at the list in his hand, held out for her to take. “You know that by reading their names?”

“If Fowler and Hubbertsey were the two most likely candidates, I see no point in wasting time with the others.”

A deeper color bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes remained fixed on the list although she didn’t reach for it. “I see.”

She thought he was rejecting her as well, as the solicitors had. Edward hoped she never knew how unlikely that was. “Perhaps we should consider other . . . possibilities.”

She looked at him, and her lips parted. For a moment the only other possibilities that ricocheted through his mind had nothing to do with solicitors. She took a step closer. “What other possibilities?”

He took her hand in his and closed her fingers around the discarded list. “Possibilities that do not involve anyone on this list.”

Her head tilted suspiciously. “But I was told I needed a solicitor.”

Edward gave her a slight smile. “Whoever advised that did not, perhaps, fully comprehend your circumstances.” Her hand still rested in his. For some reason, she didn’t pull away, and he didn’t release her. He wasn’t even sure he could release her, not while she was looking at him like this.

“Very well,” she murmured after a moment. “What do you think I need, then?”

If he had been a less sensible man, Edward might have lost the thread of the conversation right there. Instead he found himself playing along, taking shameless advantage of the chance to linger close enough to see every little flicker of her eyelashes, every rapid beat of the pulse at the base of her throat. “I know what you want,” he replied. “But you must decide what you are willing to do to get your niece back.”

The intrigued light in her eyes cooled to determination. Her hand curled into a fist in his, crumpling her list. “Whatever it takes.”

His feelings exactly—whatever it took to satisfy his obligation to her and thus relieve the insidious temptation of her company. This time he made himself let go of her hand. “Excellent. I’ll send word.”

“I shall be anxiously awaiting it.” She looked at him again with new interest, even warmth. “Thank you for everything, Lord Edward.”

When she had gone, Edward went into his father’s study. He took his seat behind the desk, mindful of all the work waiting for him in neat stacks on the wide mahogany surface, but instead of taking it up he found himself staring out the window as rain began to spatter the glass. It was the honorable thing to do, he told himself; Francesca Gordon had helped him, and now he was obliged to repay the favor. If only he could keep his thoughts on that honorable thing, and away from the almost irresistible urge to touch her, he would be fine.

Blackbridge came to announce Wittiers. Edward nodded and pushed aside his wayward thoughts. There was another reason he should finish soon with Lady Gordon; he needed to concentrate on securing his inheritance. Even this morning, when he talked about the blackmail letters with Gerard, he had been distracted from that one all-encompassing goal by Francesca’s imminent arrival.
Lady Gordon
, he reminded himself.

Wittiers came in and got straight to business. He had begun preparing the petition Charlie would need to present to make his claim to the dukedom of Durham. The main problem, of course, lay in documenting the pedigree that would establish Charlie as the sole and undisputed heir. As Wittiers explained, the petition must be accurate and truthful in every way they knew. The evidence of a prior marriage in Durham’s own hand was very much a problem, especially as word of it had gotten out in the gossip papers and everyone would be looking to see how Charlie’s petition explained it away.

“Surely rumor can’t stand as evidence,” Edward said sharply.

“Of course not, my lord,” Wittiers replied. “In our favor, there appears to be no record of the marriage in any family Bible, let alone an official register, and your late father states they did not live as man and wife; indeed, he says that it was a secret marriage, performed just before such ceremonies were outlawed some sixty years ago. That will suggest it was not entirely legal to begin with, and that your father suspected as much. Additionally, any witnesses who might have known them then are unlikely to be found after so many years, which will forestall any allegation that they were known to be married. And of course there is no shred of evidence that she ever approached him again, seeking support or recognition, despite a powerful motive to do so once he assumed his title.”

“But my father did acknowledge the marriage. In his eyes it was a legal union.”

“Yes,” Wittiers conceded. “It would be best if we could verify the date of death of the lady in question.”

Edward closed his eyes for a moment. “My brother has undertaken to discover more about her. My father didn’t leave us much information.”

“No, he did not,” murmured the solicitor. Edward had given him copies of Durham’s letters. “That is both good and bad. But I have persevered in the face of such challenges before, my lord.”

Edward nodded. That was why he had wanted Wittiers, after all. Challenges seemed to inspire him, and his reputation as a solicitor was founded on winning them. “Do you recall a woman by the name of Francesca Gordon?” he asked abruptly.

Wittiers’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded once. “I believe so.”

Edward realized he was drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, and flattened his palm against the leather. “I have met Lady Gordon and heard about her case. She approached you about it at one time.”

Nothing marred Wittiers’s smooth expression to indicate he was surprised at this turn of conversation. “Indeed she did, sir.”

“What did you think of the merits of her case?” When Wittiers hesitated, Edward added, “I understand you came close to accepting it.”

“I do recall that case.” Wittiers seemed to sit straighter and his expression grew more focused. “I did consider accepting it, as a challenge. Custody of a child, I believe? It would have been a difficult argument to make, and the chances of success were uncertain, but I believed I could win it.” He smiled, a rather wolfish look. “I don’t take on cases I don’t believe I can win.”

“Of course.” Edward studied him. “And what did you think her chances were?”

“One in five,” the man answered promptly. “The will was not in her favor, the child’s guardian was not testifying on her behalf, and the child was not known to be in any danger.”

“Ah.” So low—and this was Wittiers’s assessment, who had almost taken the case. The others must have given her no chance at all. How unsurprising she’d had difficulties. “I wonder what you think the chances of my case are.”

“Much better, my lord—three in four, at least. Rumor, and a letter from a man of advanced age on his deathbed, are all that suggest any fault in your brother’s pedigree. And if no one else files a credible claim, it is all but assured. Half the titles in England might be contested, if these are judged valid reasons to withhold one. There will be a strong prejudice in Lord Gresham’s favor.”

Just as there was a strong prejudice against Lady Gordon, it seemed. Again Edward felt the faint scrape of injustice. One chance in five was far from impossible. Wittiers couldn’t be the only solicitor in London with a certain arrogance regarding his own abilities to win difficult cases. “I am relieved to hear it,” he said. “Keep me informed of your progress.”

Wittiers was on his feet and bowing. “Of course, my lord.”

When the door closed behind him, Edward’s eyes fell again on the stacks of correspondence and bills waiting on the desk. His business agent would arrive at any moment to begin working through them. Just because the Durham estate was in danger of being disputed was no excuse to neglect it. Wittiers was quite sure they would prevail, and Edward knew he would only create more work for himself in the future if he shirked his duty now. Besides, he had too much care and pride in the family estates, and in his own contributions to them, to simply turn his back on them now. When Mr. White, the Durham business agent, tapped at the door, Edward called him in at once and began arranging the most pressing items in front of him.

But as the man sat down, Edward paused again. “Mr. White.”

“Yes, my lord?” The agent was a model of competence, hardworking and honest. His pen was already poised to note whatever Edward said.

“Find a reputable man who investigates private matters. He must operate with great discretion and the utmost reserve; I don’t wish anything I am about to ask to become public knowledge.”

“Of course not, sir,” White murmured. “I understand you completely.”

Edward hesitated again, rubbing one finger along his upper lip. He probably ought not to do this . . . But perhaps nothing would come of it. “He is to locate a woman named Mrs. Ellen Haywood, widow of one John Haywood. Her brother may be living with her as well; his name is Percival Watts, and he is, I believe, an artist—a painter. They recently resided in Cheapside but have disappeared. If they are in London, I want to know where, and if they are not, I want to know where they’ve gone. I’m particularly interested in the whereabouts of a girl living with them, a child of about seven years named Georgina. He should do nothing other than report to me what he finds, and under no circumstances can he alert anyone to his, or my, interest.”

White’s pen scratched for a moment, and then he looked up. “Will that be all?”

“No,” said Edward, even though he knew without a doubt he shouldn’t be doing this. “I also want to know everything he can learn about Lady Francesca Gordon.”

Chapter 11

F
rancesca left Berkeley Square torn between humiliation and hope. The interview with Mr. Fowler was bad enough, but when Lord Edward abruptly sent off Mr. Hubbertsey, too, she wanted to throw something, or crawl under the sofa. Somehow it was much worse to be rejected in front of Lord Edward, for all that he sat there with his gray eyes as cold as a winter’s sky and called both attorneys unsuitable. When he returned her list and declared them
all
unsuitable, Alconbury’s warning about being brushed aside had echoed in her ears. And wouldn’t Lord Edward have ample reason to turn her away? He might well think her delusional and tiresome, unable to convince a single attorney in London to take her case.

But he didn’t send her off with empty regrets and murmured hints that she look elsewhere for assistance. He offered to think of other possibilities, ones that wouldn’t involve humbling herself to beg solicitors to reconsider her case. Francesca was wild to know what he meant by other possibilities, even as she tried to keep her surging hope at bay. Alconbury, who was no naive innocent, had assured her she needed an attorney to handle the matter. Alconbury had suggested most of the men on her list, the ones Lord Edward dismissed as unworthy of his time. Of course, Alconbury never interviewed anyone with her, as Lord Edward had done, or assured her he knew what she wanted. Lord Edward didn’t shake his head and sigh when she declared she would do anything to get Georgina back; he smiled, the vaguely predatory smile of someone who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. Her opinion of him was a great deal warmer for that.

All the way home she wracked her brains for other options. Giving up, as Alconbury had suggested, was unthinkable. She could try again to bring Mr. Kendall to see the justice of her goal, and secure his help; perhaps he would be moved by Ellen’s recent disappearance. Of course, he had shown little to no interest in Georgina so far, despite her strongly worded pleas, and as he would be abroad for the next several months, he could hardly get the results she wanted in the near future. She supposed she might hunt Ellen down and kidnap her niece, but that would unleash a whole new set of troubles. So what other choices would Lord Edward propose?

Not for the first time, she had some very unkind thoughts about John Haywood. He had been a charming fellow, handsome and easygoing and always ready to laugh, but at heart he’d been a weak man, easily led by others. Giuliana’s more forceful, practical personality had complemented his in every way, and her fortune certainly made their life easier. But once her sister died, Francesca had almost seen the backbone melt out of John. He forgot to pay bills for months, then lavished money all about in a way that would have put the Prince Regent to shame. Money ran through his fingers like water. She thought his servants must have begun stealing from him, he spent so heedlessly and with nothing to show for it. He spoiled Georgina outrageously—even Francesca, who adored the tiny girl, knew he went too far in indulging her, but her diplomatic suggestions were all brushed aside. John’s marriage to Ellen brought some order back into the household, but not enough. Ellen had the restraint and moderation John lacked, but not the strength of character to impose it on her husband. John never found time to change his will, not even after he promised Francesca that she would have the raising of his daughter in the event of his death, nor even after he’d married again and his wife was expecting a child. John hadn’t had much to leave, it was true, but to have been so careless of his duty to his new wife and to his children, both Georgina and his future offspring, was almost unforgivable, in Francesca’s opinion.

And now he was dead, and Ellen was hiding his daughter away. In her softer moments Francesca felt some pity for Ellen, who had been left a widow with two infant sons and very little money—again thanks to John and his inability to economize even the slightest bit—but that sympathy never lasted long once she thought of Ellen’s actions since. Ellen had been in the room when John promised Francesca that she should have the care of Georgina; Ellen had known his wishes and then deliberately obstructed them. For that alone she could never forgive her.

Mrs. Hotchkiss divined from one look at Francesca’s face that the interviews had not gone well. “I took the liberty of preparing tea, madam,” the housekeeper said as she took Francesca’s hat and pelisse. “I’ll bring it right up.”

Francesca nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hotchkiss.” She went into the drawing room and sank onto the sofa. When the housekeeper brought in a tray a few moments later, she mustered a smile. “You always know just what I need.”

“Not that you always take my advice,” the woman murmured with a pleased smile as she fussed over the tray. The Hotchisses were worth every farthing of their salaries, Francesca thought gratefully.

“And that is what I admire about you, Mrs. Hotchkiss. You offer your good advice so freely, and then bring me tea and sympathy when I choose my own doomed path anyway.”

“Never doomed,” said the housekeeper loyally. “I’d never say such a thing, madam.” She handed Francesca a cup of tea, perfectly prepared.

Francesca swirled the spoon in the tea and watched the steam curl and billow around it. “It certainly seems like it today,” she said with a sigh.

“Things will look vastly improved tomorrow, I’m sure. But until then . . .” Mrs. Hotchkiss tilted her head at the brandy decanter. “Maybe just a drop, in your tea?”

Francesca shook her head. “No, not today. I think a clear head will serve me better. It appears all my well-laid plans may come to naught.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with a new plan, madam. And Mr. Hotchkiss and I will do everything we can to help. It would be so lovely to have a child around the house, to say nothing of two or three.”

She narrowed her eyes at the housekeeper, whose face was blandly innocent. “I have only one child in mind at the moment, not two or three. Let us not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Of course not! I was thinking of Miss Georgina. She might be lonely without other children around; that was my only fear.”

“Hmm.” Francesca sipped her tea. “I could get her a puppy. Or a parrot.”

“A parrot!” Mrs. Hotchkiss swelled with indignation. “No, Lady Gordon, I beg you. Nasty, smelly birds, parrots. And they bite! Not at all suitable for children, I should think. Lady Cartwright, my former mistress, had a parrot. It was terribly noisy, madam, squawking at all hours like it was being tortured to death—which some people might have considered doing, mind you. You’ll reconsider once the young lady is here, mark my words.” She nodded her head for emphasis, then bustled from the room, muttering, “A parrot, indeed!” under her breath.

Francesca’s smile over the housekeeper’s tirade against parrots faded quickly. Teasing Mrs. Hotchkiss about the animals she might buy to amuse Georgina was completely pointless if she couldn’t even visit her niece. And without a solicitor, knowing where Georgina was would only be small comfort, because Ellen could run away to parts unknown again and she would be powerless to protest.

She would have to wait and see what Lord Edward proposed. He had looked so confident when he put her list back in her hand . . .

That night she tried to keep her mind off Georgina. Perhaps Alconbury was right; she was in danger of driving herself mad over attorneys and wills and other things far beyond her control. That would certainly not help her cause. So she joined some friends at the theater, laughing and talking and losing herself in the farce onstage. Alconbury came by between acts, bringing glasses of champagne and a beaming smile.

“What a relief it is to see you enjoy yourself again!” He brought her hand to his lips. “I was afraid I overstepped myself the other day and spoiled our friendship.”

She laughed, and took a sip of champagne. “You did overstep yourself, but fortunately for you, I am a forgiving sort of woman.” Of course, it was much easier to forgive him when Lord Edward supplied all the affirmation and sense of purpose Alconbury lacked. She was mildly startled to realize how inconsequential Alconbury’s disapproval felt compared to Lord Edward’s support.

“It is just one of many things I adore about you.” He grinned. “In fact, there are so many, I feel positively weak at the knees . . .” He started to sink down, as if falling to his knees. His expression was smiling, but his eyes were serious—and determined.

Francesca gasped, then made herself laugh again. “You were quite put out with me the other day, and well did I know it. A true gentleman would say nothing more of the matter, and merely be pleased to see me taking your advice to go out at nights.”

“Well, I’ve always been a true gentleman, haven’t I?” He leaned closer. “Even when I didn’t want to be.”

She met his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, smiling, but more in warning than humor. “You’re a thoroughgoing scoundrel.”

“No.” He held up one hand. “I won’t be. Not while you are caught up in finding Georgina and winning custody of her. Just know that . . . know that I respect your desire to do this, and I’m always ready to lend my support, in any—and every—way you need.” She stared at him in surprise. He had listened to her troubles and given his advice when asked, but never offered to take up the fight with her. He smiled, and ducked his head to kiss her cheek. “Remember that, Francesca. You don’t need to turn to people like de Lacey.”

So that was it. Oddly, she felt more relief than dismay that his motives sprang out of jealousy and not from any newfound conviction she was right about Ellen and Georgina. It meant nothing had really changed between them. “Good night,” she said lightly. “I appreciate your offer of support very much; you may be sure I shan’t forget. It was so kind of you to come see me, but I don’t want to keep you from the play.” Thankfully, the drama was beginning, and there was no excuse for Alconbury to linger. He pressed her hand once more and left to return to his own box, and Francesca turned her eyes to the stage, even though it was harder to concentrate on the performance now.

A week ago she would have been overjoyed to hear Alconbury pledge his support and assistance. She knew he thought her battle would be long and difficult, although he had never suggested surrendering altogether until the other day. But now that he was offering all she wanted, for whatever reason, she didn’t feel like taking it. He was ridiculous to be jealous of Lord Edward, who had never done anything more forward than take her hand and hold it. Perhaps a few moments longer than necessary, although it hadn’t been unpleasant at all. Quite the contrary, as he had strong, lovely hands, and a light touch. Francesca realized she was rubbing one thumb along the back of her other hand, imagining his fingers cupped around hers again, and reached for her fan.

Sally Ludlow, her hostess and friend, changed seats to sit beside her. “He’s besotted,” she teased. Francesca started, still thinking of Edward de Lacey. “Poor Alconbury,” Sally added.

“Infatuation,” Francesca whispered with a dismissive flick of her fan.

Sally glanced at her shrewdly, and raised her own fan to cover her words. “Nonsense,” she said as the crowd roared with laughter at the actors onstage. “He’s in love, and you know it as well as I do.”

“You’re wrong,” Francesca returned quietly. “He’s very fond of me, I grant you, and I of him—but we’re not that suited to each other. Ours is a light, frivolous affection that would never survive the hardships of marriage.”

They applauded as the lead actress swept onstage. She had carried the play thus far, and the audience quieted in anticipation. “He’s hinting that he wants to marry you,” Sally murmured. Francesca didn’t reply. “I take it you plan to refuse . . . ?” she added, a lilt of surprise making it half a question, half a statement.

“He hasn’t asked me.” Francesca kept her eyes on the stage. “There has been nothing to refuse.”

“Indeed.” Sally was watching her in the dark theater. “You had better prepare yourself, for he intends to.”

Francesca smiled as if it were no matter one way or the other. “Thank you for the advice.”

But she knew Sally was right. Sooner or later she would have to confront Alconbury’s unspoken proposal, particularly if he were telling other people it would become a formal one soon. He’d been patient and lighthearted about it so far, but obviously something about her association with Lord Edward piqued him. Francesca knew she was being a coward, but she dreaded telling Alconbury no, once and for all. He was a very dear friend. He was amusing and clever, an excellent dancer and a good listener. He always had a kind word and a handkerchief ready when she was in low spirits. She wasn’t sure she could have done without him these last two years, since her husband died.

For a moment Francesca felt the echo of Cecil’s loss. Cecil, she was sure, would have been very much in favor of bringing Georgina into their home, since they had no children of their own. He always agreed with what she wanted. Several years older than she, he’d said he waited a long time to find a woman like her, and it was a pleasure to indulge his young wife. The six years of their marriage had indeed been indulgent, as Cecil introduced her to the world of politics, the arts, and a social whirl quite different from her quiet upbringing. Francesca had said at times that Cecil was training her to be the wife he wanted, but he corrected her; he was showing her how to be the woman she should be. Francesca supposed she had never lacked a strong will, but Cecil showed her how to channel it appropriately. Alconbury once joked that Cecil would rue the day he gave Francesca her head, for he’d never get the bit between her teeth again. She had exclaimed in indignation, but Cecil just laughed.