William shook his head and looked about for distraction’s sake.
The Peacock was the site of rare, good memories from his youth. Aeron had introduced him to it when William accompanied the stable master on his trips to London to trade horses for the estate. The gentle chief groom seldom frequented pubs. But he’d introduced William to tea at The Peacock and to conversations surpassing any William was raised to believe possible from an uneducated man. Over hot pots of tea, Aeron had taught him of horses, of the joys of unhurried afternoon talks, of the potential corruption of privilege, and of the perils of underestimating a “common man.”
He’d never brought a colleague to The Peacock, preferring to come alone. Alone with his thoughts and memories. Those memories included his pain at Aeron’s disappearance the morning after William departed—fired, as William had feared, for the crime of bringing a saddled horse to aid his escape. Even after twenty years, on each visit William longed to see Aeron again.
What he wouldn’t give for the chance to simply thank him to his face once more.
A copy of the Courier sat on the next table, left there by a customer. William picked it up, reached for his tea . . . then stopped.
The headline of the lead article, front page and above the fold, read:
SLY BARRISTER WILLIAM SNOPES
CHALLENGES CROWN
Barrister Claims Pirates Acted with Crown Authority
“Oh, good Lord.” His stomach turned as he read on.
Barrister Snopes, rumored in past cases to have suborned perjury to protect murderers, forgers, thieves, and worse from transportation or the gallows, is now selling his skills to pirates, who claim permission to take French vessels on the Indian Sea. . . .
The article rambled for two full columns. Terrible accusations. Certain to set him up for censure from the bar. The article even took aim at “all barristers who, in their avarice, act as though they have license to justify any depredation, whether by sleight of tongue or outright lies.”
Near the end of the article, the writer even identified the location of William’s flat.
No, no, no. This was no article, but an intentional and malicious attack. Designed to either force him away from the case, endanger William and his potential clients, prejudice a future jury, or all of those possibilities.
And it signaled what he’d feared and Thomas had warned him about. This would be no ordinary case. There was special danger lurking here.
That wasn’t the end of the newspaper’s attacks. On the next page was a separate article dedicated to Lord and Lady Jameson of Heathcote Estate, who “on good accounts, are involved in the thriving smuggling business in Essex and supporting the pirates’ trade in the coastal county.”
The paper dropped to the table. William looked about, half expecting a crowd to be gathering to take his head.
He’d dawdled too long and lost the luxury of time. Rising, William rushed toward home and the stable where his horse was kept.
18
JAMESON ESTATE
ESSEX COUNTY
Riding his bay up the drive to Lady Jameson’s estate, the late afternoon sunlight threw William’s shadow far ahead.
The hours of riding in cool, fresh air hadn’t fully cleared his head as he’d hoped. Still, he’d made up his mind.
Edmund and Father Thomas were right. He owed no duty to Lady Jameson or her cousin. The lady was, by title and property, one of the class into which William had been born, and he knew that it was light duty. He wouldn’t put his own career and those of Edmund and Obadiah at risk by leading them against the Crown in a volatile case. He wouldn’t charge the cannons leveled against them.
Still, it was cowardly to convey his decision by messenger. And before he pronounced it, he wanted to see her in her own setting, the Heathcote Estate. He needed the reminder that she was no small business person or laborer or debtor he need pity or protect.
William had expected a fine estate like so many he’d known as a young man. Yet, even on the ride up to the manor house, he could see signs of disrepair. Statuary near the entrance was gone, leaving behind empty pedestals. A thin layer of gravel on the drive showed through under patches of a recent snowfall. A short distance from the drive entrance, William could see where something heavy had been dragged from the drive, tearing up the lawn in a trail toward some woods.
The three-story manor house appeared as ancient and stately as any he’d seen. Two wings rose about a central portico. To one side, a slope rolled down to a bridge, which vaulted a wide now-frozen creek. The outline of fallow gardens stretched far behind the home to tall hedges.
All appeared to be unprepared for winter and had a look of sad decline.
William reined in the bay before the house and dropped wearily from the saddle.
“Identify yourself, sir!”
Startled, he glanced about. The front door was closed. No one was at the surrounding windows. He took a step back.
A man with long gray hair and thick facial stubble was leaning out of a second-floor window.
“I’m William Snopes,” he called.
“What brings you to my door at this hour? Are you a poacher? A highwayman?”
William sighed. “Not unless you believe today’s Courier, sir. I’m a barrister, here to see Lady Madeleine Jameson.”
The man retreated, then returned just moments later with a long-barreled musket at his shoulder. “The lady of this house is Lady Catherine. Madeleine isn’t more than fourteen! What business could you have with my young daughter, you scoundrel!”
There was a flurry of voices through the window. Hands took the man’s shoulders, pulling him back over shouted protests.
Soon the front door flew open.
Lady Jameson stood there, eyes wide, her hair wild. She was dressed in working clothes, soiled from use. A floor brush was in one hand.
William could easily have mistaken her for one of the staff.
“Mr. Snopes!” she protested. “I wasn’t expecting anyone. I thought I made clear we should meet in London.”
Embarrassment flooded him. “I’m so sorry. I just thought this more . . . efficient. I could return to Staunton, and we could meet tomorrow if that’s convenient.”
“No, no. It’s just . . .” She glanced over her shoulder. “Please come in.”
Down a staircase behind Lady Jameson came a man as old as the one wielding the musket, dressed in a butler’s livery.
“Lord Jameson’s back in bed, miss,” he said. “Miss Kendall is watching him. He’s had a sleep draught.”
The lady nodded self-consciously. “Set the table for dinner, Davidson. Mr. Snopes and I will be in the dining room tonight. Then see to his horse.”
William followed her into a study, his regret at his surprise visit growing.
“Lady, this is a great imposition. There’s no need to feed me. I’d planned to return to London tonight in any event. Our business won’t take long.”
“No,” she said, recovering herself. “You just surprised me at this hour, that’s all. I insist you stay the evening. It will be very cold tonight, and your horse looked tired.”
The resolve that had driven him here was disintegrating. William nodded. “I hadn’t planned to come today, you see, so I got a late start. I don’t think—”
“Come now, Mr. Snopes. It would be foolish to return to London until your horse is rested,” Lady Jameson repeated.
When she visited his office, he’d noticed her fair skin and intelligent eyes. Caught unawares, the natural elements of her beauty were confirmed by the pleasing shape of her mouth and blue eyes and the spirit coloring her cheeks.
William realized that he’d made no reply and was staring. He looked away and nodded his yes.
“Sit. I’ll be back very shortly.” She left the room.
He looked about the study. It might have been a looted room. Open spaces on the walls spoke of missing frames and paintings. The floor was too large for the furniture still here. The fireplace w
as stoked but not burning, despite the room’s chill air. The study was long, with a magnificently high ceiling. But the dust-covered books and candelabras looked rigid and lonely from disuse.
It must have been grand once. William felt stirred by the same combination of awe and discomfort he’d felt since he was a boy when surrounded by the dimensions and plumage of wealth.
Except this place seemed humbled.
Coming here had been a mistake. He felt as though he’d stumbled on to a family secret.
Lady Jameson reappeared minutes later, better dressed but still modestly. Her hair was put up, her face pink from being washed.
They sat before the unlit fireplace. Awkward silence immediately descended.
William pierced it, getting to the point. “I’ve located your cousin. I visited him recently.”
“Thank heavens. Is he all right?”
“Yes . . . although he’s in Newgate, I’m afraid. I’ve asked Obadiah to bring him food and a daily change of clothes. He’s also interviewing the captain to assemble a crew list.”
“What did Harold say about the piracy charge?” Her voice was very anxious.
“He confirmed taking the French vessel’s cargo but insisted he held the promised Letter of Marque. You should also know that the Crown’s prosecutor reached out to us and offered an arrangement to avoid your cousin’s prosecution.” William explained Sir Barnabas’s visit to his office in full.
“Transportation to Tasmania?” she exclaimed. “Harold declined it, of course.”
“Yes. Though for reasons you might not suspect.”
“Which are?”
William straightened. “Your cousin asked us to represent him and your interests in the Padget, but he also wishes us to prosecute the death of a cabin boy.”
“A death?” Lady Jameson reddened. “What cabin boy?”
“Captain Tuttle said a boy was shot while standing at his side, by a constable or soldier who’d come to arrest him. He’s adamant that the responsible party be prosecuted. Yet the offer of transportation requires that your cousin give up that option.”
“Harold wishes to prosecute the death?”
“Yes. And he hasn’t the money to support it.”
“I see.”
“As I told Captain Tuttle, we’d need court permission to try the boy’s murder along with our defense of the captain. I’d prefer to do so, if we can determine the shooter. Not only would justice be better served, but the shooting by the constable will help nullify the jury’s sense of unease with the charges leveled against your cousin. I informed your cousin we’d discuss the financial issues later. I’ve other news to share as well.” He explained his visit to Solicitor Mortimer and the docked ship.
“That’s wonderful news!” She brightened. “Doesn’t that assure an acquittal?”
“I thought so too, at first. But I followed those events with a visit to the office of the Lord Privy Counselor in charge of the Royal Seals. I hoped for confirmation that the prince regent signed your cousin’s Letter of Marque. Sadly, all I confirmed was the absence of any record of the Letter.”
Lady Jameson stared, seeming lost. “I don’t understand. What does all this mean?”
“Our best hope? Either there was an administrative error, or your mystery investors provided your cousin with a forged Letter of Marque—one so well prepared that it even fooled Solicitor Mortimer.”
The lady searched him thoroughly with her eyes. “Which do you believe?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, noting her disappointment. “And that brings me to another reason for my visit. My lady, the newspapers have learned of your cousin’s prosecution. They’ve unanimously taken the tack that I’m a corrupt barrister and that the case against Captain Tuttle is solid.”
Lady Jameson’s face grew white.
“Newspapers? More than one?”
“Yes.”
“Did you bring any with you?”
“Two, in my saddlebag, though there are more. One newspaper attacking your cousin and myself is understandable. So many, all singing the same song, reeks of collusion.”
The lady grew silent.
There was no point in holding anything back now.
“You also must know,” William continued carefully, “that the newspapers accuse you and your father of involvement with smugglers here in Essex.”
“I see,” Lady Jameson murmured.
“Frankly, you have a strong defamation claim. We may also wish to raise that in the action defending your cousin and the Padget.”
She looked away.
Unease gripped William. Where was the outrage? What was the source of the fear he saw instead? “Are you all right, Lady Jameson?”
Silence.
He weighed again the evidence of the room surrounding him. “My lady, are you concerned with being able to fund your cousin’s defense?”
She turned on him in anger. “Is that why you’ve visited? Did you want to see our home? Did you come because you doubted I could afford your services?”
“No,” he replied gently. “That’s not why I came.”
The woman dropped her head in her hands. “Since everyone seems to know our business, Mr. Snopes,” she began, “I might as well share with you. As you’ve now seen with your own eyes, our estate has suffered from bad harvests and the ravages of taxes and tariffs since my mother’s death five years ago, as well as my father’s decline, which you witnessed. I have but three staff, along with part-time help from families of our tenant farmers. Only two servants remain with us at all times: Davidson, who does nearly everything within the limits of his age and experience, and Miss Kendall, who cooks and cares for my father.”
“I’m sorry,” William said, uncertain how to reply.
“Don’t be. I don’t seek your pity. I still live far better than most do in these times. But I’m determined to do what I must to rescue the estate, as much for our tenants as for myself. That was the reason we took the risk of the Padget.”
Davidson entered the room before William could respond.
“My lady, I’m sorry to interrupt. Your father is still awake, and I require some guidance.”
The lady nodded at William. “Please excuse me.”
Sudden quiet fell in the wake of Lady Jameson’s unexpected confession of decline. William stood and began pacing the room, not knowing what to do. In the farthest corner, he saw a grand piano. He went to it.
A flute stand with an eight-keyed flute was beside the piano. William pressed the piano’s ivory keys. He ran his fingers through a scale.
Notes from the piece that had plagued him for weeks returned to mind. They were clearer now. An ascending tempo and scale. A symphony for certain.
With his right hand, he traced on the keyboard one of its movements—for strings, he thought.
Footsteps approached.
William looked up at the lady. Removed his fingers from the piano.
“Do you play?” Lady Jameson asked.
“Uh, no. Well, I did. Nothing that would merit a royal performance. But I do have a great love for music.” He waved a hand toward the flute and piano. “Do you play?”
“Yes. Mostly the flute. I know the flute’s an unusual instrument for a lady; you needn’t say it. But I insisted and my parents relented. My brother was a gifted piano player, and we used to play duets together. I haven’t been able to part with either instrument.”
“Your brother?”
“Yes. He died in the war.”
“I see. I’m so sorry. And for the death of your mother that you mentioned earlier.”
She nodded, seeming to relax a bit.
“My brother, Devon, was killed at the Battle of Tarragona in 1813. His death weakened my mother, who was always frail. She died of typhus soon after. Despite the faith in which our father raised us, those losses destroyed him as well. You saw him at his bedroom window when you arrived. He’s not himself these days.”
William looked about, feeling a we
lling of sympathy.
“I apologize for my outburst earlier, Mr. Snopes,” the lady went on. “Of course, you must assure yourself of my ability to pay your fees.”
“I didn’t come today to challenge you about the fees, Lady Jameson.” He paused. “You manage the estate alone, do you?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Through a power of attorney granted by my father when he was . . . more able to make such decisions.”
“May I ask,” William went on, “how you managed to invest in the Padget with your financial challenges being what they are?”
She took a deep breath. “We . . . I borrowed the funds.”
“Borrowed? Banks are very skittish in these times.”
“From our family solicitor. Mr. Snopes, you say you are not concerned about my ability to pay your fees, yet you continue to ask questions about my finances.”
“My compensation is far less important than trusting my client,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Lady Jameson, particularly with these charges in the newspapers and the financial plight you acknowledge, I need to confirm that neither you nor your cousin have engaged in any illegalities regarding the Padget.”
The servant Davidson appeared.
“Dinner is served,” he said.
The lady looked to William, her eyes giving no answer.
“You must be very hungry. We can speak as well over food in the dining room as here in the study.”
Dinner, served by Davidson and Miss Kendall, began as quietly as their first greeting at the door. It was a simple meal: quail, which the lady said she’d shot herself earlier in the day, preserved blackberries, cream, pudding, and red wine.
Neither William nor the lady spoke a word until late in the meal.
“This new barrister prosecuting Harold,” the lady said at last, “is he experienced?”
“Reluctantly, I admit he is. In fact, he’s a King’s Counsel.”
She clearly knew what that was, as disappointment flooded Lady Jameson’s expression. William felt an urge to defend his own experience but didn’t.
The Barrister and the Letter of Marque Page 13
