In the Barrister's Bed (34 page)

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Authors: Tina Gabrielle

BOOK: In the Barrister's Bed
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AUTHOR’ S NOTE
The idea of two owners purchasing the same property from an unscrupulous seller first came to me in a real-estate-transactions course in law school. Before I started writing this story, I researched early nineteenth-century English property law. If two buyers disputed ownership, the first to record the deed was generally the owner.
The idea of registering titles rather than deeds did not come about in England until the Royal Commission on Registration of Title in 1857, and was not officially in the statutes until the Land Registry Act of 1862.
In the United States today, we have title insurance that protects the buyer against financial loss due to any defects in title, claims, liens, or taxes. With the invention of computers, buyers and lenders can more easily ascertain this information with a stroke of the keyboard.
It was a pleasure to write this book, and I hope you enjoy the book as much as I have enjoyed writing it!
If you enjoyed IN THE BARRISTER’S BED,
please look for Tina Gabrielle’s other
barrister historical romance:
 
IN THE BARRISTER’S CHAMBERS
 
Turn the page for a special excerpt.
 
A Zebra mass-market paperback and eBook on sale now!
Chapter 1
April 5, 1814
London, Old Bailey Courthouse
Honorable Tobias Townsend, presiding
 
“They ain’t whores!”
“What would you call seven women who live under your roof then, if not a brothel?” Prosecutor Abrams asked, stalking forward.
“Me lady friends, they are,” Slip Dawson explained.
“All seven of them?”
“Me mum always said I ’ad a way with the ladies,” Slip whined.
“Did your mother tell you to freely share your women with all the men of the City of London?” Abrams asked sharply, giving the accused a stony glare.
An imposing barrister at the defense table jumped up. “I object, my lord. The prosecution has not brought forth
one
man ‘from the City of London’ to testify as to bedding any of Mr. Dawson’s lady friends.”
The judge sighed and rested his chin in hand, a look of complete boredom on his face. Four of the twelve-member jury rolled their eyes; others snickered.
Evelyn Darlington sat perched on the edge of a wooden bench in the center of the spectators’ gallery. Her eyes never wavered from the defense barrister—the only man in the room she knew—Jack Harding. He was the reason she was here, witnessing this spectacle, along with all the other observers in the packed courtroom.
The late-afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, raising the temperature in the crowded room by twenty degrees. Too many unwashed bodies in too small a space should have repulsed her.
Instead, she sat in her seat completely enthralled.
Jack Harding was precisely as she remembered him, as only a few lines near his eyes gave away the years that had passed since she had last seen him. He was tall—over six feet three inches—with chiseled features that gave him a sharp and confident profile. His eyes were a deep green that reminded her of the ferns that thrived during the summer months. His lips were curved in a smile, but she knew they could be either cunning or charming, or both.
Beneath his barrister’s wig, she knew his thick brown hair had an unruly wave that he had often impatiently brushed aside when he was concentrating on a legal treatise. He was dressed in a black barrister’s gown that would make the complexions of most men appear sallow, but the dark color only served to enhance his bronzed skin.
But perhaps his most fascinating appeal was his attitude of complete relaxation as if he were unperturbed by the judge, jury, prosecutor, and even the audience sitting in the courtroom staring at him. He was infused with a confidence that made one hang on every word that fell from his lips. Without a doubt, Jack Harding probably had women, from all stations in society, swarming around him.
A snort beside her drew her attention. “ ’E’s got ’em by the throat, ’e does.”
Evelyn turned to look at the man seated to her left, a squat fellow with beady eyes and fleshy jowls. The overpowering stench of onions wafted from his skin. He smiled, revealing no teeth and swollen gums.
She shifted inches to the right only to brush up against a heavyset woman with a bloodstained apron, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and work-roughened hands. A butcher’s wife, no doubt.
“’Tis a matter of time till old Abrams gives up.” The woman laughed and rubbed the calluses on her hands. “Ain’t nobody can git past that Jack Harding.”
Just like old times,
Evelyn thought.
Jack Harding could charm the habit off a nun and cunningly argue the most complicated legal points while doing so.
But that’s why she was here, watching him ... waiting for him. For the years, it seemed, had only polished his raw talent.
The rest of the trial went as expected. Prosecutor Abrams argued about Slip Dawson’s entourage of female inhabitants. Jack countered each argument by pointing out the prosecution’s distinct lack of evidence followed by a number of witnesses who testified as to Slip’s “stellar” character and good standing in the community.
Exactly eleven and a half minutes after the start of the trial, the judge cleared his throat, cutting off Prosecutor Abrams in midsentence.
“As all of the relevant evidence has been presented,” Judge Tobias said, “I ask for the jury to deliberate on the charges and come to a verdict.”
The jury, not bothering to leave the courtroom, huddled in the corner.
In what must have been record speed, the foreman stood—his barrel-shaped chest puffed up with self-importance. “We the jury find Slip Dawson not guilty of keepin’ a brothel.”
The spectators burst into cheers, turning the courtroom into a scene of chaos. Hands reached out to give Slip Dawson a hearty slap on the back as he proceeded out of the room—a free man.
The pounding of Judge Tobias’s gavel was a distant thumping, completely ignored by the people.
Evelyn stared as Slip passed, a cockeyed smile on his face, and she wondered how many of today’s observers were patrons of his “lady friends.”
Her gaze returned to Jack Harding.
Jack extended his hand to Abrams. The prosecutor looked like he had sucked on a lemon, sulking in defeat, but he shook hands with Jack nonetheless. Jack then bent to gather his papers and litigation bag from the desk.
She waited until he turned to make his way out of the courtroom, then stepped into the aisle.
“Mr. Harding,” she called out.
He stopped abruptly, his gaze traveling over her face, then roaming over her figure before returning to her eyes. His lips curled into a smile.
“I believe you have the advantage of knowing my name. How can I be of assistance, Miss ...”
“Lady Evelyn Darlington.”
His brow furrowed in confusion before his eyes widened in surprise.
“Why, Lady Evelyn! I don’t believe it. You were a girl the last time I saw you. It’s been a long, long time.”
“Ten years since you were a student studying under my father to become a barrister at the Inns of Court.”
“Ah, yes, my pupilage. From what I remember, you always had a voracious appetite for the law. You often visited your father’s chambers, listening to his lectures. I have vivid memories of you following me around, taunting me with your extensive legal knowledge.”
Heat stole into her cheeks at his words. “From what
I
recall, you needed the additional tutelage.”
He laughed, a rich, pleasant sound. “Touché, Lady Evelyn. I probably did. Now please tell me, have you come today to watch the proceedings? Many do.”
She shook her head, then looked up at him. “I’ve come to seek your services.”
“My services? No one seeks out my ‘services’ unless they are in trouble. I cannot imagine you in trouble.” A sudden frown knit his brow. “Last I heard, your father, Emmanuel Darlington, inherited his brother’s title and is now the Earl of Lyndale. I understand he is currently lecturing at Oxford. Is he well?”
“It’s not about my father, but a close acquaintance.”
“Ah, I see. What crime has your friend committed?”
“None! He’s been wrongfully accused.”
“Pardon, Lady Evelyn,” he said. “I meant no offense. What crime has he been accused of?”
She looked to both sides, her eyes darting nervously back and forth, then whispered, “Murder.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “A serious offense, to be sure. Who is he?”
She took a deep breath and gathered her courage. “My soon-to-be betrothed.”
He stiffened visibly, and a shadow crossed his features. “I’m very sorry, Lady Evelyn, but my docket is completely full. Murder trials take a significant amount of time to properly investigate and prepare, and I would be remiss to even consider representing your acquaintance.”
A thread of panic ribboned through her. “But you must. If not as a service to an innocent man wrongfully accused, then as a favor to a girl you once knew.”
“I can refer you to a number of proficient criminal barristers. I am not the only—”
“Then as a favor to my father, your former pupilmaster.”
He hesitated, and she knew she had struck upon a nerve. Her father was a revered Master of the Bench—otherwise known as a Bencher—by many students, and she knew Jack was no exception. From what she recalled, Jack Harding owed Lord Lyndale even more than most.
He shifted the papers in his hands, then nodded. “I cannot promise anything, understand, but perhaps this conversation would be better suited elsewhere.”
Relief coursed through her that he was even willing to further discuss the matter. “Yes. Certainly.”
His hand cupped her elbow, and he led her out of the courtroom. As they weaved their way through the halls of the Old Bailey, she was conscious of his tall frame beside her, his firm fingers on her sleeve. She glanced up at the clear-cut lines of his profile and was once again struck by his air of authority. In this legal arena, he radiated a strength that drew her eye, impossible to look away.
He slowed his pace so that she could keep up, and a group of barristers waved as they passed. A voluptuous woman with a scandalously low bodice, a bright yellow flower tucked between her breasts, gave Jack a jaunty wave.
Evelyn couldn’t help but ponder whether she was one of Slip Dawson’s “lady friends.”
“You are quite popular, Mr. Harding,” Evelyn said.
“I am known as the people’s lawyer.”
“At the expense of the Crown’s prosecution?”
His humor apparently returned, his eyes lit with laughter as he looked down at her. “You must not judge me too harshly, Lady Evelyn. From what I gather, my reputation is the very reason you sought me out today.”
He was correct, of course. She had done her research. No other barrister, within the two jurisdictions covered by the Old Bailey—the City of London or the County of Middlesex—was a more successful criminal barrister than Jack Harding.
“You’re right,” she said. “I would be nothing short of lying if I said I hadn’t followed your accomplishments over the years. I just never anticipated that I would so urgently require your services.”
And she did
desperately
need his aid—a life depended upon it. For that reason alone, she refused to take no for an answer. She must convince Jack Harding to take the case, no matter the cost.
Chapter 2
Jack proceeded down a long hall, passing several more courtrooms, until he came to a stop before a door with a brass nameplate labeled
CLIENT CONSULTATION.
He reached for the handle, opened the door, and motioned for Evelyn to enter.
His gaze roamed once again over her form as she swept by. He had been stunned to learn that the beautiful woman standing in the middle of the spectators’ gallery, waiting for him, was Lady Evelyn Darlington—the daughter of his pupilmaster when Jack was a mere student, striving to become a barrister. She had changed much in the ten years since he had last seen her poring over her father’s papers. She had been a child then—close to twelve—now she was a woman full grown.
Her golden hair was piled in an elegant style atop her head. A few loose tendrils had escaped the pins and brushed the slender column of her throat. Her facial bones were delicately carved, and her lips temptingly plump. But it was the turquoise eyes, the shade of a tropical ocean—exotically slanted and tipped with thick lashes—that made his breath hitch.
She wasn’t as tall as he preferred his women, but even in the demure blue gown she wore, any man could see she was generously curved.
She made a circuit of the room, taking in her surroundings— a small desk in the corner, wooden chairs lining the perimeter of the room, and a bookshelf containing several well-used law books—with wide-eyed interest, and he was struck with a thought: Evelyn Darlington may have grown into a beautiful woman, but her scholarly aura seemed quite the same. She appeared quite serious, unaware of her beauty and how it affected men.
He closed the door, strode forward, and placed his bag and the papers he had been holding atop the desk.
Her eyes widened at the thick stack of litigation documents. “It’s a wonder you can sort through such a voluminous amount of paper. Are they all pertaining to Mr. Dawson’s case?”
He chuckled at the unmasked fascination in her voice. “Hardly. I was not lying when I said my docket was full. Truth be told, your friend will be better off with another barrister. There are several highly competent barristers we passed on the way here. I can escort you to any you choose today and request that they take the utmost care with the case.”
“No,” she rushed. “None other will do. You have not lost of late.”
His gaze sharpened at her admission. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me and that you have followed my career, but at the same time, I never anticipated that you would seek to hire me. Does Lord Lyndale know that you’re here?”
Thick lashes lowered. “No. I haven’t told my father of my intentions to retain you.”
“He doesn’t approve of your choice of betrothed, does he?”
She hesitated for a heartbeat before answering. “It isn’t relevant.”
“Ah, he doesn’t.” Her hesitation spoke volumes, just as when a witness paused those few critical seconds before formulating an answer on the witness stand. It usually meant a lie was forthcoming, or in Evelyn’s case, an omission of importance.
He motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs in front of the desk. He ignored the chair behind the desk and occupied the one across from her.
Leaning forward, he said, “Tell me everything.”
She took a deep breath, her breasts straining against the fabric of her bodice. “Mr. Randolph Sheldon, my soon-to-be betrothed, is under suspicion of murdering an actress in the Drury Lane Theatre.”
“An actress? Was she his lover?”
Her cheeks flamed red. “No! She was a distant cousin.”
“Why is he suspected?”
“He was seen fleeing from her bedroom window.”
“Let me guess. Her body was found in her bedchamber?”
She shifted in her chair and twisted her hands on her lap. “Yes. She was to give him something.”
He ignored her obvious discomfort and continued his questioning. “How was she killed?”
“She was ... stabbed, wearing only her night rail.”
“Who discovered her?”
“The neighbor heard screams, and she called the constable. Witnesses claim they saw Randolph jump from the window.”
“That is enough evidence to cause concern,” Jack said. “The prosecution will surely seek to indict him.”
Evelyn’s chin rose a notch. “But he’s innocent! I’ve known Randolph for years. Our families were neighbors at our country estates in Hertfordshire. We took many summer strolls together.”
“I still think it best that Mr. Sheldon be represented by another lawyer. I don’t see how my representation would aid your father.”
“Don’t you see? If we are to be officially engaged and the reading of the banns begun, it would affect Father’s career at Oxford, for his daughter to be engaged to an accused murderer!”
Jack leaned back in his chair. All his gut instincts warned him not to get involved with Lady Evelyn Darlington, but she was right. The resulting scandal
would
adversely affect her father’s career.
And he did owe Lord Lyndale. If it was not for the eccentric Master of the Bench, Jack would not be practicing law, would not be enjoying his success, wouldn’t have more money than he knew how to spend, and certainly wouldn’t be basking in the fickle affections of the
ton
. In fact, it would be safe to say, Jack would be nothing at all; he would most assuredly be wenching, gambling, and drinking to excess.
But what disturbed Jack more than Evelyn Darlington’s being besotted by a man who most likely killed another woman in cold blood was the fact that Lord Lyndale clearly was unaware of his daughter’s intentions to seek out his legal services.
That and the undeniable truth that he was drawn to Evelyn himself.
Looking into Evelyn’s mesmerizing blue eyes, Jack struggled to hold on to his firm resolve.
The lady is nothing but trouble,
he mused. She had been a minx as a girl—an I-know-it-all-better-than-you-ever-will tormenter—and as a grown woman she was wildly beautiful. His attraction was its own warning. He never mixed business with pleasure. It always led to disastrous results in the courtroom.
His mind whirled with excuses. He would speak with her father, explain the circumstances to him, and he had no doubt in his mind that Lord Lyndale would understand that he did not have the time to take on a murder client. He would be doing his former pupilmaster a service by informing him of his daughter’s clandestine activities.
Reaching out, she grasped his hand, her eyes imploring. “If it is a matter of money,” she said, “please be assured that you will be paid.”
Jack froze, every muscle in his body tensing. His blood always ran hot after a trial, and her touch—however innocent—tempted him to reach out and take the victor’s spoils. A kiss, at the least. He wondered what her reaction would be if she knew the effect she had on him.
“It has nothing to do with money,” he said tersely. “If I’m to consider taking on your friend’s—Mr. Randolph Sheldon’s—case, then I insist on speaking with your father first.”
“My father? Why?”
“I owe him a great deal. I won’t go behind his back and take on a case involving his own daughter, even if you are not the accused.”
She sat upright as if her laces suddenly had been pulled tight. “Fine. If you insist.”
“I insist.”
She stood and turned to leave. “As I’m sure you’re aware, my father is a busy man—”
He reached for his pocket watch with a flourish, then looked at her. “I’m available now. I had expected Slip Dawson’s trial to take longer and had cleared the remainder of my day. From what I recall, your father never liked to work through the evening meal and should be returning home soon.”
Jack stood and opened the door for her. He gave her his most charming smile as they returned to the main hall of the Old Bailey. He would meet with Lord Lyndale, enlighten him as to his daughter’s intentions, explain why he could not take on the case, help his daughter find a suitable lawyer to defend her anticipated betrothed, thus fulfilling any ethical obligations. He expected to be in his chambers at Lincoln’s Inn of Court within two hours’ time.
 
 
It was dark outside by the time they arrived at Lord Lyndale’s town house in Piccadilly. They had traveled by separate conveyances, Evelyn choosing to take a hackney cab while Jack traveled in his phaeton. As soon as Jack was alone, he removed his barrister’s wig and gown, laid them beside him on the padded bench, and ran his fingers through his hair. She had been worried about her reputation, traveling unchaperoned with a bachelor, and Jack was more than happy to accommodate her concerns. He didn’t want to learn more than was necessary about her troubles.
Why bother? He didn’t plan on taking them on.
They now stood on the front steps while Evelyn rapped on the door.
“Shouldn’t your father’s butler have opened the door by now?” he asked after a full minute had passed.
“Hodges is well into his eighties. His hearing isn’t what it used to be,” she explained.
Just like Lord Lyndale,
he thought.
He would take troubled students under his wing and keep on an elderly butler when most other members of society would have let the old servant out to pasture years ago.
Evelyn fished into her reticule, searching for her key. The task was made harder by the dusk, with only the dim glow of the street lamp to aid her. Finally she withdrew the key and was inserting it into the lock, when the door pushed easily open.
“That’s odd,” she said. “Hodges must have forgotten to lock the door.”
They stepped inside the vestibule. It was dim here as well, and the lingering scent of a pipe filled the space. The distinctive smell of the tobacco triggered a memory of Emmanuel Darlington at the podium in the classroom, pipe in hand.
“Father?” Evelyn called out.
Jack took a step forward and bumped into a long-case clock in the corner. He heard Evelyn shuffle forward, then the sound of flint strike iron as she sought to light a lamp.
Hands outstretched so as to avoid walking into anything more, he made to reach her side, then tripped over something on the floor. He barely registered what sounded like a low moan, when Evelyn screamed and something shattered across the floor.
Jack twisted around, just in time to see a figure dart forward. Jack launched himself at the shape, grasping a fistful of coat, when a heavy object came crashing down upon his temple.

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