In the Barrister's Chambers Page 3

  But an unfamiliar guilt pierced his thick barrister’s armor. Looking at his former mentor and pupilmaster, Jack couldn’t help but notice his frailty, the lines of exhaustion around his eyes or worse yet . . . the subtle vulnerability beneath his façade of respectable Oxford professor.

  And then there was Evie, the precocious chit from his past with the shrewd intelligence and sharp tongue who had inadvertently pushed him to study harder. The girl who had grown into a woman with the face and figure of a temptress. The contrast of brains and beauty was fascinating . . . compelling.

  All that and the nagging suspicion that things were not right here tonight. That somewhere lurked a real danger for both father and daughter.

  Jack took a deep breath before asking the question that could very well bar his quick escape. “Is there a possibility that there is a connection between Mr. Sheldon’s accused crime and the intruder tonight?”

  Evelyn looked aghast.

  Lord Lyndale’s eyes clouded in confusion.

  “A connection?” Evelyn asked incredulously. “No! It’s nothing but a horrible coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences,” Jack said dryly. “Years in the courtroom dealing with the underbelly of London have taught me such a thing rarely exists.”

  Chapter 4

  After Jack left, Evelyn and her father finally retired. She had lain awake in her bed for over an hour, and more than once had tiptoed to her father’s bedroom, pressed her ear to the door, and waited until she heard his muffled snores. He had sustained a nasty hit on the head, and despite Dr. Mason’s examination, Evelyn knew at her father’s age there were risks.

  But it was Jack Harding’s observations that had her tossing and turning the remainder of the night. He had rejected the constable’s conclusion that the break-in was connected to a string of burglaries in Piccadilly. Jack had been correct in pointing out that valuables had been left behind. But even more disturbing, he had been suspicious of a connection between the intruder and Randolph’s alleged crime.

  Could it be true?

  But what on earth would the murderer of the infamous Drury Lane Theatre actress, Bess Whitfield, want in her father’s library office? It made no sense.

  And then there was Jack himself. Handsome, devilishly charming Jack, who had turned out to be a safe harbor in which to anchor when deadly circumstances made her feel like grasping at driftwood like a drowning sailor.

  After their run-in with the intruder, Jack had instantly taken charge, summoning the doctor and constable. He had not succumbed to the panic that had nearly overwhelmed her. He had been a source of strength and command when they had most needed it. Neither had he departed as soon as Dr. Mason or Constable Bridges had arrived, but had chosen to stay until Hodges and her father, as well as herself, had been examined, even holding her hand as the porcelain shard was painfully pulled out of her flesh.

  The warmth of his palm as he held hers had sent a tremor of awareness down her spine. The faint scent of his shaving soap had filled her senses, and the heat emanating from the nearness of his body had offered a comfort that no amount of laudanum could provide. A delicate thread had formed between them. And when he had called her Evie, her mind whirled with unbidden memories . . .

  Jack bent over a thick treatise, a lock of brown hair falling over his forehead. Jack standing outside the Inns, roughhousing with the other students. Jack flirting with the female clerks at the Inn, all of them responding to his smile.

  She frowned at the last memory and shook her head at her foolishness. She was no longer a schoolgirl, but a grown woman who was more than able to resist the virile charms of Jack Harding. She must be more practical than to think of the past; too much was riding on the present.

  There had been one good thing that had come of the evening: Jack’s slight capitulation to take on the case. She had sensed it more than anything else. He was torn. If he truly believed in his suspicions, then he may feel obliged to take the case. For in representing Randolph Sheldon, Jack would be helping both her and her father.

  She waited until the first streaks of sunlight filtered through her curtains before dressing and knocking on her father’s door. She was surprised to find his room vacant, and when she rushed downstairs, she saw him dressed and sitting in the dining room. The servants had returned as expected, and the housekeeper, Mrs. Smith, entered carrying a steaming plate of eggs and biscuits.

  At the sight of Evelyn, Mrs. Smith’s eyes widened. “Lady Evelyn! I heard of last night’s occurrences. You should not be up, my lady. Your maid, Janet, has just returned with the rest of the staff. Perhaps you should spend the day in bed. I’ll send her to you right away.”

  “I’m well, Mrs. Smith. Thank you for your concern.” Evelyn smiled, glancing at the plate of food in her hand. “That smells delicious.”

  “Right away, my lady.” Mrs. Smith said, setting the plate on the table and rushing back in the direction of the kitchen.

  Evelyn took a seat beside her father, aware of his steady scrutiny.

  “I don’t suppose I can talk you out of your plans? You know I do not believe Randolph would make a good husband for you,” he said.

  Evelyn knew how her father felt. Although he liked Randolph and kept him as his University Fellow, he believed Randolph was not a good spiritual or emotional match for his headstrong daughter. Despite her father’s beliefs, Evelyn was convinced that she could change his mind regarding Randolph. If only the three of them could spend more time together, Lord Lyndale would see how truly intellectually compatible they were.

  At her silence, his brows drew downward in a frown. “I take it your mind is set on your other plans as well?”

  “If you mean my soliciting Mr. Harding, then yes, my mind is set,” Evelyn said.

  Mrs. Smith returned with a full plate and placed it before Evelyn. As soon as the housekeeper departed, her father spoke up.

  “You have acted hastily. Randolph may never be arrested. Furthermore, you should not have approached Mr. Harding directly, but should have gone through a solicitor,” he admonished.

  Evelyn shook her head. She knew the formalities, of course. If a person had a legal dilemma, they were to approach a solicitor, who dealt directly with the public. The solicitor, in turn, contacted the barrister, who alone was permitted to appear in court.

  “But I wanted to ensure Jack Harding’s representation, not another barrister’s chosen at will by a solicitor,” she said.

  “There are other barristers that owe me favors”—he raised a hand when she would interrupt—“but after last night, I do believe Jack Harding would be a good choice.”

  She took a quick sharp breath. “You do?”

  “He is already acquainted with our family, and he was gracious enough to stay by our side last night. In addition, I too have been following his trial record. You are not the only one interested in such things, Evelyn.”

  Evelyn stiffened, momentarily abashed. “Of course not, Father. I never thought I was.”

  “Has Mr. Harding agreed to aid Randolph then?”

  “Not exactly . . .”

  “But he was here last night?”

  “Only to speak with you.”

  “Ah, I see. He refused any subterfuge on your part.”

  “I believe that was his intent,” she said dryly.

  Lord Lyndale nodded. “Good. I’m even more comfortable with him then.”

  Evelyn watched him beneath lowered lashes as he finished his breakfast. Placing her fork down, she asked, “Father, do you believe what Mr. Harding said? That there is a connection between last night’s burglar and Bess Whitfield’s murder?”

  Lyndale looked up, his eyes narrowed. “I do not, but I’m not surprised he did. Highly successful criminal barristers like Jack Harding do not achieve their results by leaving any stone unturned.” Pushing his empty plate aside, he put down his napkin. “What I believe matters naught. Do you think you can persuade Mr. Harding to take Randolph on as a client?”
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  “If he believes you want him involved, then yes.”

  Her father stood and made to leave. “Good. I have a lecture at the university this morning that I cannot miss.”

  Evelyn rose. “I shall pay Mr. Harding a visit then.”

  Her father stopped and turned. “Alone?”

  “I shall take Janet as a chaperone.” She dare not tell him that she had already been alone with Jack Harding in the client consultation room of the Old Bailey Courthouse. Knowing her father, he would protest if he learned she had observed Jack’s trial in the spectators’ gallery with the general masses without a proper chaperone.

  “Please extend my gratitude for his aid last night,” her father said. “And invite him to dine with us one evening when we entertain the judges. I’m sure Mr. Harding would enjoy a meal with both Lordships Bathwell and Barnes.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  Evelyn waited precisely five minutes after her father’s departure before summoning a carriage. She had no intention of taking her maid.

  Evelyn stepped out of the carriage and looked up in awe at the magnificent structure before her. She had visited Lincoln’s Inn of Court many times in the past as it was her father’s Inn, and he had maintained his chambers here before leaving to teach at Oxford. But it had been years since she had explored its hallowed halls as an excited and eager girl, lingering in her father’s chambers and listening to him advise his clients and lecture his pupils.

  Yes, she had been here dozens of times in her past, and yet Lincoln’s Inn still enthralled her.

  It was a compound more than a single building. She started down Chancery Lane and the Tudor Gatehouse came into view. Built in the sixteenth century, the brick gatehouse had massive oak doors with three coats of arms above its entrance.

  The first coat of arms showed a lion rampant, which Evelyn knew was the symbol of Lincoln’s Inn. But it was the memory of her father, sitting her high upon his shoulders as a little girl, pointing at the lion that made her smile. He had danced around and roared and she had giggled upon his shoulders as a giddy, carefree five-year-old. Years later she had learned that the lion was not only the symbol of the Inn, but the arms of Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln. The other two arms above the oak doors belonged to Henry VIII, one of England’s most controversial kings who ruled at the time the Gatehouse was built, and Sir Thomas Lovell, who was not only a member of Lincoln’s Inn and the House of Commons, but the Chancellor of the Exchequer who funded the Gatehouse.

  Stepping through the oak doors, she stood in Gatehouse Court, an appealing Tudor-style, half-timbered courtyard with turrets and flowering pots overflowing with fragrant blooms. Before her lay the Old Hall, the impressive library with its collection of rare and current law books, the dining hall, and the seventeenth-century chapel with its stunning stained glass, but she suppressed the urge to take a leisurely tour.

  She turned to the left instead and headed for the Old Buildings, which housed the professional accommodations of the barristers.

  If she had been born a man, she would have gladly entered the pupilage to become a barrister herself. The truth was, she had studied her father’s books with a voracious hunger for knowledge and had been envious of the pupils that had come and gone, seemingly oblivious to their fortunes that only because they had been born male they could attain what she wanted most, but would never be able to have.

  And then Jack Harding had come along.

  He was the first student who made her not yearn to be born a male, but quite happily a female. He had been charming and carefree and quite horribly the worst pupil to enter Emmanuel Darlington’s chambers. His Latin and Greek were sorely lacking, and he had never bothered to learn the basics of torts, contracts, or criminal procedure. But he had the gift of speech and a glib tongue like that of an experienced politician, and her father had instantly recognized his talent and taken Jack under his wing.

  She herself had tried every trick she knew to gain Jack’s attention. Unfortunately, without female guidance, no one ever told her the way to a man’s heart was not through fluent Latin or a complete knowledge of William Blackstone’s legal works.

  Turning a corner, the heels of her kidskin shoes echoed down a long hallway of doors bearing brass nameplates engraved with the names of barristers. She finally came to a stop at the nameplate announcing the Chambers of Mr. Jack Harding, Mr. Brent Stone, Mr. Anthony Stevens, and Mr. James Devlin. The first name was the only one of interest to her, and she knew the other three belonged to barristers who shared chambers with Jack.

  Taking a deep breath, she reached for the handle and swept inside. She entered a common room, with rows of file cabinets lining the walls. A middle-aged clerk, seated behind a desk writing furiously on a legal-looking document, looked up and froze.

  “May I help you, miss?”

  “Lady Evelyn Darlington looking for Mr. Harding.”

  “Is he expecting you, Lady Evelyn?”

  “Of course,” she lied.

  Adjusting his spectacles, he looked down at an appointment book, his ink-stained fingers traveling down the page.

  Evelyn held her breath as her mind spun with excuses.

  The clerk shook his head once and looked up. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not see your name in his appointment register.”

  “Then there must be a mistake,” she said in a haughty tone she had heard her father use when addressing an unethical adversary. “Please advise Mr. Harding of my presence.”

  The clerk stood and strode down the hall, past several closed doors until he stopped before one. He knocked once, then cracked open the door. “A Lady Evelyn Darlington is here to see you, Mr. Harding. She claims she has an appointment, but I—”

  Evelyn heard a murmur from behind the door, and the squeaking springs of a chair, and then the door opened wide.

  Jack stood in the entrance. He wore an impeccably tailored suit, the navy jacket of which emphasized the outline of his broad shoulders, and she wondered if he had another trial at the Old Bailey this morning. The familiar lock of wavy brown hair fell casually on his forehead as if he had styled it in such a roguish manner to enhance his appeal. But it was his unfathomable, emerald eyes that seemed to glow in his bronzed face that held her attention.

  His gaze swept her figure, then returned to her face, and he grinned.

  The pit of her stomach churned in response.

  “It’s quite all right, McHugh,” Jack said. “Lady Evelyn is always welcome in my chambers.”

  The clerk nodded, and she handed him her cloak. He shut the door behind him on his way out.

  She stood awkwardly in Jack’s chambers, her eyes roaming the space. It was more impressive even than her father’s chambers had been. With keen interest she took in the massive bookshelves lined with law books and the stacks of litigation pleadings and briefs piled on his mahogany desk. A luxurious Wilton carpet with a cut-velvet appearance and Turkish pattern covered the floor. Behind his desk was a stone fireplace, ready to be lit, and resting on the mantel was a bust of Sir Thomas More—one of the most prominent members of Lincoln’s Inn—who had been tragically beheaded by Henry VIII for refusing to acknowledge the king as the Supreme Head of the Church of England.

  “I was going to pay a visit today,” Jack said, “to make certain you were all right after last night. How is your father faring?”

  “He’s quite well. He rose before me this morning and is delivering a lecture at the university as we speak.”

  Jack stepped close and reached for the hand of her bandaged arm. Looking down at her injury, he rubbed her fingers. “How about you? Does it hurt?”

  Her pulse quickened at his touch, the stroke of his fingers against hers. “Less than last evening.”

  “Did you take a dose of laudanum like Dr. Mason advised?” he asked.

  Evelyn wrinkled her nose. “No. I dislike the stuff. It clouds my thinking.”

  His lips twitched. “Many consider that a desirable side effect of the drug, a
lthough I’m not surprised by your aversion. You never could stop thinking.”

  She straightened. “Are you going to constantly remind me of the past?”

  An easy smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Why not? You said yourself that your memories of me are quite vivid.”

  Heat flooded her cheeks. “Mr. Harding, I—”

  “It’s Jack. You always used to call me Jack.”

  “Yes, but that was years ago when—”

  He raised her hand to kiss her fingers, and her heart slammed against her chest. His lips, firm, yet soft, brushed against her skin. He lifted his head, and his green eyes glittered intensely. Sunlight streamed in through the parted curtains, illuminating his face, and she was struck by a sudden serious set to his handsome features.

  “I was furious that you were injured,” he said, his tone hardening. “If I had been lucky enough to catch the intruder, I would have pummeled him senseless.”

  She swallowed hard. Uncomfortable with his keen probing eyes and the uncharacteristic harshness behind his words, she turned away, walking toward one of the large windows.

  “I wanted to thank you for your assistance last evening,” she said. “You went above and beyond any duty toward us when—”

  She felt a big hand on her shoulder. “You’re welcome, Evie. But tell me why you’re really here.”

  She turned, and he was so close she had to tilt her head up to look into his eyes. There was no doubt in her mind that he knew the truth, and there was no sense trying to placate him with gratitude—even if it was heartfelt.

  “Father changed his mind and agrees you would be the best barrister to take on Mr. Randolph Sheldon’s case,” she blurted out.

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, her voice sounding husky to her own ears.

  Jack stepped closer. With her back to the window, she felt like a skittish doe being cornered by a large, dangerous predator.

  “And what will be the terms of my retainer?” he asked.

  She was finding it difficult to keep her wits about her with him standing so near. “The terms?”