In the Barrister's Chambers Page 5

  It was a good idea, he knew. There was no easier way to get a woman off his mind than to bed another. They were all the same; Evelyn Darlington was just a woman, no different from any other. And when it came to the importance of his career, Jack refused to allow Evelyn to be the exception to his steadfast rule.

  Chapter 7

  A week after Evelyn had met with Jack in his chambers, she still had not heard from Randolph. Needing to distract herself, she decided to go on a long-delayed shopping excursion. Her maid, Janet, walked beside her as they passed Bond Street’s well-known establishments—Hookham’s Circulating Library, Ackermann’s print shop, and Sir Thomas Lawrence’s portrait studio.

  They came up to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon, and Janet craned her neck to get a glimpse inside.

  Evelyn couldn’t blame her maid. The pugilistic arts were presently in fashion, and she couldn’t help but wonder if Jack Harding practiced boxing. At once her mind pictured him bare-chested and bare-knuckled, sweating in a ring. Her temperature rose of its own accord.

  Biting her lip, she turned to her maid. “Janet, while I’m in the milliner’s shop, I want you to go to the tea shop next door and pick up Lord Lyndale’s medicinal tea.”

  Janet dragged her gaze away from the pugilists visible through the window to look at her employer. “’Ow will I know which one, m’ lady?”

  “The proprietor knows what I require for Lord Lyndale.”

  Evelyn’s father had been looking tired of late, and Evelyn was concerned that his hectic schedule was taking a toll on his health. Even though as an earl he need not work as a barrister or a lecturing professor, Emmanuel Darlington refused to act the titled lord and give up his love of teaching.

  “Aye, m’ lady.” Janet bobbed her white-capped head, and left for the tea shop.

  Bells on the milliner’s door chimed as Evelyn stepped inside. From the outside, the shop appeared small, and indeed it was narrow, but it had considerable depth.

  Evelyn wound her way through rows of display stands, holding everything from bonnets with dyed ostrich plumes to straw hats trimmed with ribbon streamers and artificial flowers, to gaudy jewel-studded turbans. Throughout the shop, expensively dressed ladies tried on hats and peered at their reflections in cheval glass mirrors.

  Never one to be obsessed with fashion like many of her acquaintances of the ton, Evelyn’s awareness of her attire had been heightened after her father inherited his title. Now the daughter of an earl, she was well aware of the importance of dressing the part.

  A particular bonnet caught her eye. Periwinkle blue, with a ruched silk lining, it had a wide brim and ribbon edge. Beside it was a silk parasol with matching periwinkle fringe and a cane handle. The bonnet and parasol were exquisite and would be just the thing for walking in Hyde Park to shield her fair skin from the summer sun.

  Evelyn reached for the hat, and her fingers caressed the fine material. Again an unbidden image of Jack Harding returned, and she pondered how he would react to seeing her in such finery. With the memory of his kiss, heat flooded her face. She remembered his lips, firm yet soft, and the tantalizing taste of his mouth. He was everything she had ever fantasized as an awkward girl and more . . . so much more.

  She had desperately wanted to stand on tiptoe and press her body close to his, wanted to sink her fingers into his hair and then run her hands over his broad shoulders. It was as if he had drugged her, taken her will and turned it against her. Instead of being outraged at his demand for a kiss, as a true lady should have been, she had wildly wondered how she had compared to his other conquests, for surely there had been many.

  Evelyn sighed, touching her lips with her finger, reliving the kiss in her mind.

  An elderly matron with iron gray curls walked past, and the overpowering smell of her perfume wafted to Evelyn. When Evelyn looked up, the woman frowned as if she could read the inappropriate thoughts that passed through Evelyn’s mind. Evelyn’s finger dropped from her mouth, her gaze returning to the bonnet in her hands.

  What was she doing?

  It was one kiss. It was a mistake. And it would never happen again. Lust was meaningless and hardly the basis for a good future. The intellectual and respectful bond that she shared with Randolph Sheldon was irreplaceable and priceless. She refused to allow one kiss and a foolish childhood infatuation to distract her from her plans.

  She made to return the blue silk bonnet to its stand, when a masculine voice came from behind.

  “Evelyn.”

  She started and whirled around. “Simon! What are you doing here?”

  He smiled and reached out to clasp her hand. “I’ve been searching for you, Evelyn.”

  Evelyn’s eyes widened as she stared at Simon Guthrie in astonishment. Simon was Randolph Sheldon’s closest friend, and Evelyn had immediately taken a liking to him. Simon was also a University Fellow at Oxford, but whereas Randolph was her father’s Fellow, Simon labored under another professor. Of medium height and dark-haired, his narrow face looked older than his years. His brown eyes were sincere under drawn brows and he smiled reassuringly, showing straight teeth.

  Simon pulled her behind a tall stack of mahogany drawers. Leaning close, he lowered his voice. “Randolph sent me.”

  Evelyn found her voice. “Where is he? Is he well?”

  “He’s fine. But he needs your help.”

  “I need to know where Randolph is.”

  “He’s in a small house in Shoreditch.”

  “Shoreditch!” Evelyn’s thoughts whirled like leaves in a strong wind. On the outskirts of London, in the County of Middlesex, Shoreditch was known for its many theaters and bawdy music halls. It was attractive to artists and theatergoers alike because it was out of the dominion of the more conservative London moralists. “Why is he there?”

  “Bess Whitfield had a house there for when she wasn’t performing in London. As Randolph’s cousin, she gave him the key years ago.”

  At the mention of the murdered actress, shock flew through Evelyn. “Bess Whitfield! Is Randolph insane?”

  “He had no other place to hide.”

  “He shouldn’t have run in the first place.” Her voice sounded brusque to her own ears.

  Damnation. She hadn’t intended to criticize Randolph’s actions, but the words were out before she could stop them.

  “Word is the Bow Street Runners are searching for him for Bess’s murder.”

  “Perhaps if Randolph had stayed behind and answered the constable’s questions, none of this would have occurred.”

  Simon’s kind eyes studied her. “Do you really believe that, Evelyn?”

  Evelyn exhaled. She didn’t know what to believe. Truth be told, there was a good chance Randolph would have been arrested had he not fled from the constable. Randolph had been the one to find Bess Whitfield’s body in her home. His presence there alone would have been suspicious.

  “I need to speak with him,” she said. “I have hired a barrister to represent him.”

  “A barrister? Who?”

  “Jack Harding.” She wondered if Simon had heard of Jack, being a university student.

  “The jury master?”

  She looked at Simon in surprise. “You know of him then?”

  “Some of his cases and verdicts have been mentioned in the newspapers.”

  “Mr. Harding suspected that Randolph would reach out to me, but I thought Randolph would come to me himself.”

  “You must know that he could not. It is too risky.”

  “Mr. Harding needs to speak with him.”

  “I can arrange a meeting, but then Randolph will have to go back into hiding. Can we trust this Mr. Harding?”

  “We have no choice.”

  Simon’s face was grim. “I’ll speak with Randolph and send you a note where to meet.”

  Simon nodded at the bonnet she held in her limp hands. Reaching out, he squeezed her shoulder. “Buy that one, Evelyn. It brings out the blue of your eyes.”

  Chapter 8


  “Randolph wants to meet where?” Jack scanned the note in his hand and then glared at Evelyn.

  “It makes perfect sense, really,” Evelyn said.

  “The hell it does.” He was so irritated that he did not care if his choice of words was inappropriate before a lady.

  Evelyn crossed Jack’s chambers, sat in the chair across from his desk, and made a show of arranging her skirts before speaking.

  “Surely you must understand that Randolph must be cautious,” she said.

  “I understand that he is evading the Bow Street Runners to avoid questioning regarding Bess Whitfield’s murder. But I do not understand why he wants to meet at the infamous Cock and Bull Tavern in the frenzied fish market of Billingsgate on a busy Friday afternoon.”

  “It is a safe choice for him. Randolph will not be recognized there.”

  Jack felt his temper rise. “And he has no concern for your safety, your reputation?”

  “I will dress appropriately.”

  Pressing both palms flat on the desk, Jack leaned into them and glowered at her. “You think a quick change of your gown and all will be well? Have you not looked at your reflection of late?”

  She swallowed. “We will travel together. It will be dark by the time we leave.”

  “No, Evie. We will not travel anywhere together. I will meet Mr. Sheldon alone.”

  Evelyn’s eyes widened in alarm. “I must go. I have to see Randolph. And Simon said Randolph will not meet with you unless I am present.”

  “And just who is this Simon?”

  “Simon Guthrie is Randoph’s close friend and another Oxford Fellow. Simon is the one who delivered the note requesting us to meet at the Cock and Bull.”

  Jack glanced down at the now-crumpled note on the desk. Throughout his career he had met with clients in all types of establishments throughout the underbelly of London, but never had he been responsible for the welfare of a lady accompanying him.

  And the Cock and Bull was a rowdy, bawdy tavern, in the center of the Billingsgate fish market. Part of the London docks, the place swelled with sailors, dockworkers, fishwives, buyers, prostitutes, thieves, and smugglers on a daily basis.

  It certainly was no place for a lady.

  Jack could blend in at the Cock and Bull if need be, and if by chance he was recognized, many of the tavern’s patrons would look upon him as a hero from the Crown’s overly aggressive prosecutors.

  But to take Evelyn to such an establishment?

  Unthinkable.

  His eyes raked her face. Her golden hair was pulled back into a bun, but the severe style only served to emphasize her exotic cat-shaped eyes, which now flashed a glorious shade of blue.

  Anger toward Randolph Sheldon—the man she intended to marry—escalated to a heightened pitch.

  “I insist on traveling alone,” Jack said. “I will tell you everything upon my return.”

  Evelyn sat forward in her chair, her spine visibly stiffening. “No. I will go with or without you.”

  “I am not offering a choice, Evie.”

  She met his hard eyes without flinching. “You must know that I do not take well to unreasonable orders, Jack. I intend to see Randolph no matter the risk.”

  No doubt, he thought. Evelyn would put herself in danger to aid her man. A foreign ache sprang up in the center of Jack’s chest. No woman of his past acquaintance would ever jeopardize her safety on his behalf.

  Could he be jealous?

  Nonsense. In the cold, selfish world in which he practiced criminal law, he was merely unnerved by her loyalty.

  She must have sensed he was debating whether to capitulate to her demands because she leaned across the desk and touched his sleeve.

  “Please understand, Jack. I don’t believe it to be a great risk. Not with you, Simon, and Randolph present.”

  Jack looked down to where her slender fingers rested on his arm. She would do it, he knew. She would go alone and the chances of her escaping unscathed without his protection were slim.

  “I’ll agree,” he said, “but only because I don’t want your father to become ill should anything untoward happen to you should you venture there on your own.”

  She removed her hand, and a secretive smile softened her lips. “Everything will be fine, Jack. You’ll see.”

  His gaze dropped from her blue eyes to her full, bottom lip, curved now in a sensual smile, and his heartbeat hammered in his ears. Not for the first time, he wondered what he was getting himself into.

  The most difficult part was slipping out of the house undetected. Evelyn had announced she wasn’t feeling well and sought to retire for the evening after an early supper. Having long ago sent away her maid, Evelyn now restlessly paced her bedchamber.

  The closed curtains shut out the late-afternoon sun, and a solitary candle stood lit on a nightstand. As she moved about, shadows loomed over the cream-colored walls like eerie ghosts.

  The household routine was like clockwork as her father ordered his life with military precision. A familiar creaking of the wooden floorboards drew her to a halt, and she listened to her father’s heavy footsteps first on the landing, then moving down the grand staircase. Lord Lyndale was headed for his library office where he would immerse himself in scholarly volumes, have his evening meal delivered on a tray, and remain until midnight. The servants, including Mrs. Smith, Janet, and Hodges, would perform their household duties, then linger in the kitchen until they retired. Only her father’s valet would remain near to assist Lord Lyndale into bed.

  She continued pacing for five minutes more, her eyes drawn to the mantel clock in thirty-second intervals.

  Four o’clock.

  Finally certain she could sneak out of the town house undetected, she rushed to her wardrobe. But instead of opening the wooden doors, she reached behind and pulled out a dress that had been carefully hidden.

  Evelyn shook out the serviceable black fabric and eyed the garment. For a heart-squeezing instant, she felt a stab of guilt. But then she thought of Randolph and pushed the emotion aside.

  The dress belonged to Janet, and Evelyn had taken it from the laundry when no one was about. She was thankful she had purchased Janet new dresses last month to supplement her wardrobe before Evelyn had ever dreamed of needing to borrow her maid’s clothes. Nothing in Evelyn’s own wardrobe was suitable for the Cock and Bull Tavern, and she had told Jack she would dress “appropriately.”

  The truth was she had no idea what would be appropriate attire for such an establishment. As a child, she had spent most of her time at her father’s chambers at Lincoln’s Inn or with her private tutor. And then later—after her father had inherited the earldom—she had begun to socialize with the beau monde.

  Never had she strayed into the unfashionable areas of London, let alone the boisterous Billingsgate fish market.

  “It is of no consequence,” she spoke out loud to herself. “Randolph is depending on you.”

  Tossing the dress on the bed, her fingers reached for the buttons of her own gown. She stripped off the fine muslin, and the chilly evening air made her shiver. She pulled on black stockings and then struggled to don the maid’s dress. She was glad it had buttons down the front instead of down the back—one of the reasons she had chosen it from the laundry.

  A cheval glass mirror stood in the corner of the room, and she frowned at her reflection. The dress was a good two inches short and overly snug in the bosom. Evelyn knew Janet was shorter, but she hadn’t considered the distinct difference in their chest sizes.

  She looked again at the clock. The dress would have to do; Jack was waiting. She would wear a coarse wool cloak to cover the bodice, and the short hem would serve to showcase her economic straits. And along with the serviceable black shoes Janet wore, no one would mistake her for a lady of wealth.

  Grabbing a black hat, she reached for the door handle and crept down the stairs.

  Chapter 9

  Jack was standing outside a hackney cab parked around the corner
when Evelyn approached. His eyes raked her from head to toe, taking in her unusual attire with a wry smirk.

  “What took you so long?” he asked.

  “I had to wait until Father went to work in his library for the evening.”

  “Were you seen?”

  “No.”

  He opened the door to the hackney and held out his hand. “I took the liberty of obtaining a cab. In the area of London where we are headed, my phaeton or carriage would draw a significant amount of unwanted attention.”

  She climbed in and sat on the bench across from him. In the small confines of the cab, her skirts brushed his knees. Jack watched as she fidgeted in her seat and retied the ribbons of her hat tightly beneath her chin, all sure signs that she was anxious and tense.

  Some devilish part of Jack was glad she was nervous, but the rest of him wanted to reach out and touch her, reassure her that he would remain by her side tonight. He mentally shook himself. His warring emotions were becoming all too familiar when it came to Evelyn.

  “I don’t like this,” he said. “Your father would not approve of where we are going. Is he aware that the Bow Street Runners are searching for Mr. Sheldon?”

  She lowered her eyes and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her dark cloak.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no.”

  She looked up. “Father isn’t aware of the extent of the evidence against Randolph and that witnesses saw him fleeing from Bess Whitfield’s bedroom window. He believes Bow Street wants Randolph for questioning. But Father fully understands Bow Street’s aggressive nature, and he wants you to represent Randolph in case he is arrested.”

  “Then let me, Evie. I can go to Billingsgate alone. My representation as Mr. Sheldon’s barrister will not be compromised by your absence tonight.”