by Renée Dahlia
‘Family,’ said Marie, rolling her eyes. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s the nicest thing about being married. I’ve created my own family—just Gordon, me, and this little one.’ She patted her stomach. ‘My parents, bless them, are at arm’s length.’
‘And in a different country,’ laughed Josephine.
Marie nodded. ‘That certainly helps.’ The banter relaxed Claire’s shoulders and she stretched her neck from side to side.
‘Are you certain it’s not a big deal? You look rather unsettled,’ said Marie.
‘And tired. Are you sleeping well?’ asked Josephine.
Their concern slammed into her core. She hunched her shoulders over and dropped her head to stare at the plush carpet. She dashed away a single tear with the back of her hand.
‘I never cry,’ she mumbled. Her friends stared at her with widened eyes. ‘I’ve just been working too hard. I’m tired that’s all.’
‘Are you sure that’s it?’ asked Josephine. Claire shifted in the seat and tried to ignore the continued unease swirling inside.
‘It’s a long story,’ she said.
Marie rubbed her arm. ‘We are here for you, Claire. That’s what you told me before my wedding. We are friends, we will survive this together,’ said Marie.
‘Father has been arrested,’ she blurted, then breathed out in relief, grateful for friendship. ‘I spent all of last night at Scotland Yard trying to figure out what is happening.’ Her friends gasped. ‘They wouldn’t give me any information without a lawyer.’
‘I hate to say it, but that is the process,’ said Josephine.
Claire narrowed her eyes.
‘Always pragmatic,’ giggled Marie. ‘Be honest, Claire, how hard did you push them for answers?’
‘Was I supposed to just go away and leave him there without any answers?’ She waved her hands in the air, and shrugged her shoulders.
‘No, of course not. But we know you, and I’m just saying there are ways to find answers that don’t rely on bashing your head against an immovable process,’ said Josephine.
Claire hmphed. ‘They wouldn’t let me talk to Father either, so the whole night was a waste of time.’ The three friends paused, and the silence seemed to fill the room with a heavy air. Claire pressed her fingers into her temple as a new ache began. ‘Before he was dragged away, he told me to get a ‘new’ lawyer.’
‘New?’ parroted both her friends. Claire shrugged.
‘What use is a young lawyer? Don’t you want someone experienced?’ asked Marie.
‘The business employs many lawyers already in a range of different tasks. I guess what he meant was that I should find a lawyer he hasn’t used before.’
‘How will you find one that meets that criteria?’
‘I’m not sure. I mean, we already use most of the best firms in London …’ Claire paused, her gaze flicking around the drawing room. The comfortable surroundings were at odds with the numbness in her brain as the remnants of her energy focused on getting her father out of his uncomfortable cell.
‘We will ask. Between us, we must be able to find someone suitable,’ said Josephine.
Chapter 2
Claire paced along Chancery Lane beside her trusted footman Higgins who carried her doctor’s satchel in one hand. They strode past the red brick three-storey buildings with solemn facades that announced the severity of the legal professionals inside, and Claire scrunched Josephine’s note in her fist as she swung her arms with an unladylike vigour. If she could convince a lawyer to take this case quickly, she could get back to her patients and her life. She cared too much about her father to outsource his case completely. Hopefully, Lord Walstone’s suggested firm would provide an answer that settled her life back into shape. She paused and straightened out the note to peer once again at the address she already knew by heart.
‘Damn these buildings for not having numbers,’ she said. Higgins merely nodded, accustomed to her outbursts.
‘A numerical system would be a more logical method for navigation,’ he offered, and she laughed.
‘Better than this quirky list of building names as reference.’ They were only a few miles from the slums of the East End where she ran her medical charity three days a week, and the solid old brick buildings were a strong contrast to the messy, smelly, narrow laneways of Whitechapel. Higgins, along with two other footmen, were her constant companions as she went about her business. It simply wasn’t safe to be a lone female in London, even in the wealthy sectors. Her loyal footmen were most needed when she went to her charity, especially now Jack the Ripper had everyone talking.
The air here was the same as everywhere, thick with London’s industrial coal-stoked stench, and Claire kept her breath shallow to avoid the worst of it. She strode determinedly on until she came across a grey stone building set back from the street with no brass at all. It was the height of arrogance to not bother with signage. She double checked her note.
‘This must be the one. Josephine said that it hangs back from the street as if too superior to coexist with the other lawyer’s offices on the street.’ Her comment brought a quiet chuckle from Higgins. Initially, she had laughed at Josephine’s comment too, but now she stood before the seven stone steps to the imposing front door, her laughter caught in her throat. She glanced back and forth along the street, swallowed down the scratchy lump, before marching up the steps. She pushed through the front door at Woodleyville Snr and Partners into a quiet, luxurious reception room. A neatly attired clerk stood up.
‘Can I help?’ he said.
‘Yes. Lord Walstone has given me a referral to see the Honourable Mr Woodleyville,’ she said.
‘Please take a seat. I will see if he is available,’ he said, not bothering to ask her name, presumably deferring to the mention of Josephine’s father, just as she’d planned. She took the few steps to the offered seat and sat elegantly. Higgins stood to attention beside her. The edge of her upper lip kicked upwards at the irony of the situation. Woodleyville Snr had previously rejected the prospect of working for Carlingford Enterprises, therefore making his firm the perfect one for this job. She wanted a firm with no connection to the business, and this one preferred an ancient client list of titled gentlemen over the nouveau riche of the industrial age. She raised her chin and mentally prepared for the argument ahead.
After holding herself tense for several moments, nothing happened. She started to look around the room. The clerk’s oak desk dominated the room, his work hidden behind a tall panel, while bookshelves lined one wall. A collection of matching green chenille upholstered seats lined the front windows. Claire stood up to examine the bookshelf, and perused the collection of books, each apparently chosen to highlight to gravitas of Woodleyville and Sons, judging by some of the titles such as Full and Accurate Report of the Proceedings in the Case of the Borough of Trinity College Dublin as Heard Before a Select Committee of the House of Commons AD1791. She pulled out History of the Criminal Law of England Volume One and flicked through it.
‘Excuse me.’ A voice interrupted. She slammed the book shut and held it in front of her bodice.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘If you will follow me. Miss?’ said the clerk.
‘Dr Carlingford,’ she said. She slid the book back on the shelf, concentrating on that task so she couldn’t see the clerk’s reaction. With a nod to Higgins to remain in the foyer, she followed the clerk, who led her through an oak door and along a corridor. With each step, she hoped that she was getting closer to the biggest office. Woodleyville certainly had the seniority to deal with her father’s problem. She grinned to herself. It wasn’t every day that a tycoon was arrested. Hopefully, she could present the case as a puzzle to appeal to the elderly lawyer, enough to overcome his snobbery. The clerk opened a door and gestured for her to enter. She nodded her thanks and walked inside.
Behind a large desk with neat piles of paperwork stood a tall man of Indian descent. His dark brown eyes were framed b
y thick-rimmed glasses. The summer sunshine streamed in a large window and bounced off the glass on his face. Claire blinked. The room smelled of furniture polish, with a heady hint of hops about to be harvested.
‘Welcome,’ he said. His voice rumbled through the space between them, sending a shock wave inside her. She swallowed.
‘I was expecting Woodleyville Senior,’ she said. This man had to be around her age, and wasn’t at all like the senior partner she had expected to see. A tiny flutter began in her stomach and she pressed her hands softly against it.
‘Perhaps you could outline the issue to me,’ he said, calmly.
There was such music in his voice, a masculine music causing the small flutter to grow. Josephine’s note crinkled in her palm as she clasped her hands together, dragging her attention back to her task.
‘And you are?’
‘Mr Howick, barrister.’
‘Howick?’ she said. Damn it. Bandying Walstone’s name about hadn’t worked at all. Blast the peerage and their snobbish servants.
‘Yes. I realise I don’t look like a Howick. However, you can be reassured that my name is correct,’ he said firmly.
‘That isn’t what I meant. Let me start again,’ she said. She stepped forward and held out her empty gloved right hand across the desk. He blinked once, but then grasped her hand and gave it a single formal shake with just the right amount of firmness. A jolt of energy shot up her arm and she had to concentrate on lowering her hand slowly. She held her hands behind her back, rubbing her palm where it had contacted with his. Josephine’s note crunched as she pressed her hands together and she blew out a slow breath. Business. Keep this to business. Don’t be distracted by a handsome visage and an impressive physique.
‘I am Dr Carlingford and I have a referral from Lord Walstone to see Mr Woodleyville Senior on some urgent business,’ she said. He held her gaze, not flinching under the information of her unusual title. She rather liked that.
‘Carlingford of Carlingford Enterprises?’ he asked.
‘Yes. With my references, I expected to see Mr Woodleyville Snr,’ she said. The firm’s owner’s name faded out as she repeated herself.
‘I’m sure there is an adequate explanation for the clerk directing you to me,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should outline the issue. I am fully qualified in law, and have been admitted to the bar.’
‘Let me stop you there. You have now twice mentioned this fact. It is obvious that you wouldn’t be working in this firm, behind this desk, if you weren’t adequately qualified,’ she said. He nodded. A quiet pause simmered between them. She knew how it felt to have to remind people to look past her feminine face to see her qualifications. She’d used the repetition tactic herself.
‘Thank you. Now please describe the problem,’ he said.
‘My father, who, as you have surmised, is Mr Carlingford of Carlingford Enterprises. Well—’ She sucked in a short breath, ‘—to be blunt, he has been arrested. He believes it may be a plot to remove him from his business, by a competitor wanting to take advantage. He asked me to find a lawyer who has no connection to Carlingford Enterprises. Lord Walstone recommended Woodleyville as the most esteemed lawyer to the peerage, mainly because he has no ties to business.’ She paused to slow down her burble. ‘Here I am. Not seeing Woodleyville.’ Mr Howick’s eyes narrowed slightly at her sharp tone and his mouth turned up in a cynical smile that made her mouth water, as if she’d tasted the rich sharpness of pepper and desperately needed something sweet to soothe her tongue.
‘Mr Woodleyville would never lower himself to work with anyone outside the peerage,’ he said.
‘So how the hell did you end up here?’ she pinched her lips together. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound so graceless,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Because I look like this?’ he said and waved his hand in front of his handsome brown face. A lock of black hair fell forward onto his forehead with the end curling next to the rim of his glasses. Her fingertips tingled with a sudden need to brush it back to join the rest of his neat locks. Her cheeks burnt hot. She licked her suddenly dry lips and sucked in a deep breath. There was only one way forward.
‘My apologies,’ she said. He responded by lowering his chin a fraction, then lifting it again to stare at her through those heavy-framed spectacles. ‘I didn’t mean it that way. But I am curious, how did you become Woodleyville’s gatekeeper?’ she said.
‘Gatekeeper?’ he asked with one eyebrow raised. Those dark eyes twinkled, and she felt a fresh rush of heat across her skin. Was he toying with her?
‘Lady St. George warned me that I might have trouble engaging Woodleyville, even with Walstone’s referral. I assume the clerk sent me to you so that I would abandon this idea. Will you send me on my way?’ she said with more confidence that she felt. In fact, ever since sighting Mr Howick, her stomach had churned in a most uncomfortable fashion. One that she was completely unaccustomed to. She’d spent plenty of time with handsome, powerful men, so it couldn’t be his handsome face and broad shoulders that caused this unsettled feeling. It must be her growing concern for her father. He smiled. A broad, relaxed smile with clean white teeth that made her blood sing. Holy gosh, how did one smile—a smile which hovered between outright laughter and a cheeky slyness—make one man so desirable? She pressed her hands against her stomach again.
‘I believe you have the right of it,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Woodleyville Snr and Partners caters exclusively to the peerage. Even taking into account that you have named dropped two peers in our conversation, it is highly unlikely that this firm would take on any work for a mere Mister.’
‘And that only applies to clients, does it? Not to the staff. Or did they run out of second sons of peers who need a small income to supplement the fading fortunes of their estates?’ She reverted to a sneer to hold her growing attraction at bay. No matter how handsome and confident he was, no man could prevent her from reaching her goal. She’d always been able to brashly use their general over-confidence in their positions of privilege against them. To use words to cut through their facades. But the pause that hovered between them made her wonder if she’d misspoken somehow.
‘How much you assume,’ he said. Her mouth dropped open and she slammed it shut. She couldn’t help her gaze move away from his and flick around the room. He laughed. ‘Dr Carlingford, you make it rather easy to tease you,’ he said. She almost gasped, but managed to hold the sudden intake of air as her gaze raced back to stare at him. ‘Woodleyville believes firmly in elitism. He is a class snob, and believes in the correct order of things.’
‘And yet you are here, making a lie of that nonsense.’
‘Nonsense?’
‘Of the likes of Pickering’s divisions by race. It’s nonsense. Most of my patients come from a wide variety of countries, all eking out a living in this great metropolis of London. And I’ve noticed one thing, no matter the origins, their social class, or the colour of their skin, people are all the same inside, and all require the same medical treatment,’ she said. He took his glasses off, folded them and placed them on the desk in front of him.
‘Thank you. It’s not often I encounter such an attitude. The reason I’m here is not complex. Basically, Woodleyville is an intellectual snob, and this trumps his class snobbery. He uses his grand reputation to acquire the best of each graduating class, even if they have … colonial origins. He then pushes us through his system and keeps those who can stay the course,’ he said.
‘Therefore, you are proclaiming to be the brightest and hardest working of all,’ she said, unable to stop her face stretching in a grin. He shrugged one shoulder. ‘Although I don’t know what good it will do my father if you refuse to take his case,’ she continued. The image of her father in a filthy cell flashed in front of her and wiped away her smile. She had to convince someone to take the case. ‘I won’t waste your time any further,’ she said. She nodded once and turned to leave.
‘
Wait.’ The word rang out solid, yet somehow whispered across the back of her neck igniting her skin. She half turned back to face him. ‘I can help your father,’ he said.
She spun around to stare at him. Her skirts swirled around her legs with a soft, silky whoosh. ‘Yes?’ She gulped as her voice sounded so hopeful. ‘But you just said Woodleyville wouldn’t entertain the idea of helping a mere Mister?’
‘Not through the firm. As a private matter. This firm often recommends that our clients invest in Carlingford’s various concerns. I would like to provide my services to assist him, outside my duties here,’ he said.
She swallowed at the image of him relaxing in private at the end of a long day at the office. His cravat undone, a dark triangle of skin exposed at his throat, and his long limbs relaxed in a leather chair. She blinked. Focus.
‘What exactly are you proposing?’ she asked cautiously.
‘What exactly is the problem?’ he countered.
She shook out her hands. ‘I mentioned that Father has been arrested. Scotland Yard won’t tell me any details without a lawyer. Father believes that this is a business conspiracy. Therefore, I can’t use our usual lawyers.’
‘The first step will be to visit Scotland Yard. I believe now is as good a time as any,’ he said.
Claire swayed on her feet. ‘Now? Aren’t you busy saving the peerage from themselves by investing in our work?’
He chuckled. ‘Touché. The peerage can wait for half a day. Although I will need to confer with the clerk for a moment. If you will just take a seat?’ He waved towards a chair and strode out from behind his large mahogany desk. He twisted around as he walked past her seat to pick up his glasses. He slid them into a case, and tucked them into a pocket inside his jacket. It drew her attention to his hands, to his long fingers and strong arms, up to his chest, and his jacket which clung to his broad shoulders. She shifted her gaze deliberately to the bookshelf behind his desk.
