Diamonds & Deceit (24 page)

Ada felt tired as she entered Somerton on her way back from the church. Yet she knew she had to hide her fatigue. She should not make things difficult for the staff, she told herself. Her job was simple: to walk where she was led, to smile when she was expected to, to say
I do
at the right moment. And in return she would make her family happy and have her greatest wish fulfilled, to study at Oxford.

Ada saw Cooper carrying a large parcel to the blue sitting room.

“Not more wedding gifts!” she exclaimed. “That is—how lovely. Who is it from?”

“Lord Fintan, my lady,” Cooper said.

“Oh!” Ada was startled. She followed Cooper in. Despite her father’s objections—“It looks like a floor of Selfridges”—the countess had followed the fashion and turned the room into a kind of shrine. Silver, jewels, boxes made of rare woods, crystal vases, gold scent bottles, exquisite paintings and bronzes—all had been catalogued by Cooper and formed a glittering display. Ada hovered as Cooper unwrapped the package. She sniffed as a familiar scent wafted out: old paper and leather bindings.

“How wonderful!” she exclaimed as she saw a set of volumes in tooled leather revealed. Another glance told her they were the collected Greek playwrights, and a very little more inspection that they were rare editions from the reign of Queen Elizabeth. She couldn’t suppress a squeal of delight.

Cooper handed her the card that came with it. Ada recognized Laurence’s elegant handwriting at once. The words were not romantic but they made her smile:

A small payment on account, that you may be sure I will keep
my promise.

She understood at once. The books were to promise her Oxford and her studies. Laurence had a knack of not pressing her, and yet reassuring her. He was so admirably discreet, so good at saying exactly the right thing.

“Dear Laurence,” she murmured.

She crossed the room, still gazing at the card, hardly aware of James standing guard at the door as stiff and dutiful as a guardsman.

Laurence is perfect, she told herself. Laurence is perfect.

Out of nowhere, Ada felt a breathless catch in her chest. It was as if an invisible corset inside her ribs were being laced tighter and tighter. She turned, and with quick, tight steps walked across the room, the card still pinched in her fingers, and out into the hall. She was aware of James watching her with concern. She swallowed.

I am feeling a little out of sorts, she told herself. There is no need to alarm the servants. Ada took a gulp of air and headed at random across the hall to the library. She walked in and stood with her head leaning against the shelves, inhaling the comforting smell of books, trying to calm herself.

“Are you quite well? May I ring for a glass of water?”

Ada started upright. She hadn’t realized there was anyone else in the room, but there was, a ladylike woman, about thirty, in a well-tailored tweed walking suit. She had just risen from the window-seat her gloved hands clasped around a leather handbag, and she was looking at Ada with gentle concern.

“I—No. That is, yes, perhaps a glass of water. Thank you.” Ada was startled out of her nervous fit. The woman crossed smartly to the bell and rang it. She turned back with a smile.

“I surprised you. I’m so sorry. You must wonder who I am and what I am doing in your house.”

“That question did cross my mind, yes.” Ada’s returning smile was warm. The woman seemed both well-bred and pleasant.

“Of course. My name is Hannah Darford. I am here to see Mr. Templeton.”

“Hannah Darford!” Ada exclaimed. The lady smiled enquiringly.

“I
am
sorry, but we know each other—at least we have corresponded.” Ada crossed the floor to her and clasped the woman’s hand, shaking it warmly. “I am Lady Ada Averley. You were kind enough to agree to speak at our fund-raising dinner—”

“Lady Ada, of course! I had not realized you were so young, forgive me.”

“I admire you so much,” Ada went on enthusiastically. “It is so wonderful to see a woman making her voice heard. I wish I could join you in your campaigning.”

“Do you?” Miss Darford’s eyes twinkled. “Well, please take my card. Should you ever wish to visit us, please do—though I understand you will be married soon, and that of course will take a good deal of your time.”

Ada took the card. She looked up as she heard someone enter the room. Sebastian stood there, his face flushed with excitement, his eyes sparkling with a light Ada had not seen in them since Oliver’s arrest.

“Miss Darford, I presume? Hello, Ada.” He gave her a brief nod, and returned his attention to Miss Darford. “Can you come with me now? If we’re lucky we can still be in time.”

“I came here for no other purpose.” Miss Darford crossed to him with the stride of a confident woman.

Ada found her tongue just as they were leaving the room. “Sebastian, you’re going somewhere?” She hurried after them.

Sebastian didn’t stop walking, but spoke hastily over his shoulder. “We are. It’s an emergency, Ada. I’m sorry.”

“But—” Ada was so startled at his sudden decision that she hardly knew what to say. She ran a few steps after them, and paused as Thomas handed them their motoring dusters and hats. “In the motorcar? Is it—are you—will you be long?”

Sebastian was opening the front door of the house, not even waiting for Thomas to do it for him. “A day or so,” he called back to her.

“But the wedding—” Ada ran after them again, catching the door as it swung shut. She almost shouted. “You will be back in time for the wedding, won’t you? It is the day after tomorrow! And you are best man!”

Sebastian was climbing into the motorcar that stood ready, engine humming. He revved the engine as Ada spoke, and his reply was almost lost in the noise.

Miss Darford leaned over the passenger-side door, smiling as she held her hat on, the motoring goggles making her look like some kind of benevolent insect.

“I hope we’ll be back in time for your wedding, Lady Ada!” she called. “It’s a most urgent matter—and our very last chance.”

Ada stood speechless as the car drove away with a thunder of crunching gravel. She put a hand to her head, which she felt in danger of losing.

Of course, she remembered. Tomorrow is Oliver’s trial.

“Forward,” grunted the policeman, and Oliver walked forward, through the iron door of his cell and into the short dark corridor that led to the courtroom. The handcuffs around his wrists weighed him down and chafed with every step. The policemen who flanked and surrounded him formed a wall of dark blue, forcing him to walk at a slightly faster pace than he could manage, shackled. It was a murder trial. He knew that and wasn’t surprised at the treatment. Still, he seethed inside with anger as the policeman behind him shoved him again in the small of the back.

He blinked as they came from the darkness of the cells into the murmuring light of the court. The public galleries were crowded. Oliver looked up and glanced around, and spotted the men with their hats placed in front of them on the bench, how they moved quickly to touch the crown or the brim. Hidden cameras. He had heard of the trick, and he could hear the scrape of ten or twenty pencils against notepads, beneath the whispers and coughs. The press would have a field day. He was glad again that he had kept Sebastian out of it—but, glancing around, he still felt sick with disappointment when he didn’t see Sebastian’s face watching from the gallery.

“Sit,” the policeman ordered, and Oliver shuffled into the prisoner’s box. The gate clanged shut behind him. Another prison. He stared at his manacled hands, trying to disregard the fact that he was the focus of all attention. Even though he had told Sebastian not to come—warned him not to—ordered him not to—he wanted him there more than anything.

“All rise,” announced the clerk. There was a thunderous rustle as the whole court stood. Oliver stood with them, and glanced up toward the judge’s bench. The judge saw a small, elderly man, drowned in a gray wig and red robes, making his way awkwardly to his seat. Oliver almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. He glanced once toward the jury—a typical cross-section of London life—then down toward the benches where his counsel sat. And then he saw her. Hannah—here? He thought for a second he had said it aloud.

“Be seated,” the clerk boomed.

Oliver sat. He felt almost as if his legs had been cut out from under him. He stared straight ahead. He could not see her from his seated position, but he was sure—the thumping blood in his head told him—that he was right. It was his sister. He knew she had wanted to train as a lawyer, but his father had always forbidden it. Was it just coincidence that had brought her here? How could she possibly know? He had done everything he could to disappear, to hide from his hated father, to change his identity. They could not have found him. He would rather die than return to his father’s house.

There was some whispering and murmuring from the benches. The judge looked up as Mr. Brompton edged toward him and with a bow handed up a folded slip of paper. The judge took it, opened it, read it. Oliver knew he might be imagining it, but he thought he saw the judge start, as if he had been suddenly caught on a fishhook. He ducked his head to look over his spectacles, first at the paper, and then toward Oliver in the prisoner’s box. Oliver met his gaze, uncertain what it meant. The judge’s face now gave nothing away.

The judge folded up the paper and passed it to another wigged gentleman who stood nearby. There was some whispered conversation. The public gallery shifted, restless. Oliver glanced around. Was this how things were supposed to go?

The judge rose to his feet. “Case adjourned,” he announced, and a roar of disappointment surged up from the public gallery.

The clerk seized his gavel and banged it irritably. “Order,” he called, “order.”

Oliver stayed where he was, too startled to react. His first feeling was one of anger and resentment. How could they spin out his torture like this? Let them sentence him and get it over with. But then, as the policeman unlocked the door and urged him to his feet, he felt a wild, reckless sense of relief. Something had happened. An object had fixed in the toothed wheels of justice and brought the whole thing to a halt. But what? Had it something to do with Hannah?

Oliver looked over his shoulder as he was led away, searching for her face. He saw her at once, pushing her way through the crowd with authority—and this time, just behind her, his face alight with anxiety and hope and love, he saw Sebastian.

“Sebastian!” he gasped. He wrenched out of the grip of the policemen. Sebastian broke into a run. The courtroom had nearly emptied, but some people were still filtering out of the public galleries. They turned to look as the two young men ran into each other’s arms.

“It’s going to be all right,” Sebastian said. Oliver felt his arms tighten around him. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were, you idiot? Never mind—Hannah has arranged everything, she’s a marvel. You’ll have to go back to prison now, but we’ll get you off, see if we don’t.”

“I thought you weren’t coming,” said Oliver, as tears filled his eyes.

Sebastian cupped his face tenderly, and his voice was fierce and gentle as he said, “You bloody idiot.”

Oliver heard Hannah say sharply, “Sebastian!” and then the policemen dragged him away. He let them shove him back into the cells. He didn’t care when they pushed him and laughed, muttering coarse names. He had heard all those before, anyway. What mattered was that Sebastian had come, had saved him. Now everything was going to be all right.

Hannah, her arm locked in Sebastian’s, steered him through the crowd and out of the court. Sebastian, happy and dazed as he was, was able to appreciate the way she contrived to make it seem as if she were leaning on him for support, when in fact she was directing his footsteps. It must take some character, he thought, to be one of the first female lawyers to have qualified and practiced in England.

“That was extremely unwise,” she murmured to him sharply.

“I daresay. I expect they will gossip anyway.”

“Gossip is one thing. Did you see that man touch his hat to you as you embraced Oliver?”

“No.” Sebastian was surprised. “Why should he have done that?”

“The gentlemen of the press conceal cameras in their hats. The technology has advanced to such a degree that excellent photos—snapshots—can be taken quickly and in secret. We will have to follow him, and bribe or bully him into giving the photograph back.”

She nudged Sebastian sideways and he found himself almost falling through a side door, down steps, into the glaring light of the afternoon. To his right, some kind of a rugby scrum appeared to be going forward. Another glance told him it was the press, baying around the exit as the police van carrying Oliver emerged.

“How long will he have to stay locked up?” Sebastian exclaimed.

“Not long, I hope. We’ll wait till the fuss has died down. With my connections I’m sure of getting a retrial with the right judge. He’ll be acquitted, I’m sure of it. No one wants to send the Chief Justice’s godson to the scaffold. Now, there goes our man.”

She strode out into the road as a man clutching his hat onto his head with both hands walked swiftly away from the crowds.

“Hold up!” Hannah hurried after him. Sebastian followed. The man looked around, then broke into a run. Hannah did so too, and Sebastian followed. As they reached the corner, Sebastian recognized the man who had been following him for so long.

“We want to buy that photograph you just took!” Hannah shouted to him.

“I bet you do. Every Fleet Street editor is going to say the same.” The man backed away, grinning.

“Name your price,” Hannah insisted.

“Thank you, but I’d rather try it on the open market.”

Hannah tutted with impatience. “For all you know that negative may show nothing. The angle was a difficult one. We’ll buy it sight unseen. If you refuse us you may have a worthless shot of the crowd on your hands.”

“May do.” The man was walking away backward. A tram rattled by, and as it slowed, he jumped on. “But I think I’ll take my chances.”

Hannah stared after the retreating tram. “Damn,” she murmured.

Sebastian caught her arm. “Oh, who cares? He probably has a worthless shot, as you say. How could anyone take a decent photograph at that distance and at such short notice?” He felt himself humming with excitement like a turning engine. “Oliver’s saved and that’s all that matters. Let’s celebrate. Haven’t we a wedding to go to?”

Hannah at last looked away from the vanishing tram, and answered his smile, though her eyes remained troubled.

“Yes. I daresay you’re right. It’s simply that it’s a loose end…and as a lawyer, I dislike loose ends.”