"At least the judge already recognizes that."
"Yes. At least there's that."
He turned to enter the town hall, and Tempy turned back toward the area with the shops. Suddenly he realized he wanted to face Formsworth in court. The man had gotten away with running roughshod over everyone for years. Even Grandfather had bowed to the man's will simply because he hadn't wanted to rile him.
Lucien walked through the town hall doors with a lightness in his step that formerly hadn't been there.
23 - Cavendish Takes Stand
Tempy paused and turned to watch Lucien enter the town hall. Something was different about him. His chin was higher and his shoulders were thrown back, like a man preparing for a battle.
But this would be a legal battle.
CAVENDISH TAKES STAND
She loved that double play on the word stand.
She smiled. The new Earl of Cavendish was obviously feeling confident. The court case should be an interesting one.
So why was she standing here on High Street rather than watching the proceedings? What had she been thinking?
Tempy quickly retraced her steps and entered the town hall less than a minute behind Lucien. She'd been neglecting her role as a journalist on this trip, and it had left her feeling unanchored. She wasn't cut out for an aimless life of ease. Making the decision to throw herself into her role as a reporter immediately released the floodgates on a dam of tension that had been building, leaving her energized.
A few other people were milling around in the main foyer, but it didn't take long to find the room where Lucien's case was being heard. Quite a few locals were already filling the rows of seats at the back of the room, so it was easy for her to find a seat where Lucien was unlikely to spot her.
She didn't want to distract him. Of course, there was always the chance that he'd be annoyed at seeing her here. She certainly hoped not. But it was an open court, so she had just as much of a right to be there as anyone else.
Tempy dug around in her reticule and found the small wooden box containing a dip pen and a pot of ink. She wondered, yet again, if she should switch to a fountain pen. Her frustration, however, was that she found them to be more temperamental than a traditional dip pen and inkwell. And she simply detested pencils. The always managed to break at the most inopportune moment.
Paper. What about paper?
Tempy shoved her hand back into her reticule and was relieved when she closed her fingers around her slim bound notebook.
She checked her inkwell and discovered that the ink was too thick, so she exited the court room and walked down the hallway, searching for an open office where she might find a bit of water.
She caught sight of a man leaning on a cane as he walked through the nearest doorway, so she followed him to look for some assistance.
There was nobody in the room. There was another door on the far side of the room. Perhaps the man was in an interior office. "Hello?" she called, hoping that someone would appear who could help her. She glanced around and spied a pitcher of water on a side table.
She waited a moment, but nobody responded to her call. Why didn't the man reply? "Do you mind if I take a small bit of water?" she asked, feeling a bit foolish. There was still no answer.
With a sigh, Tempy crossed the room to the pitcher and dribbled a few drops of water into her ink pot. She closed it and shook it, then opened it again to examine it. Perfect. After stoppering the inkwell, she hurried back to the courtroom.
It was even more crowded now, and she ended up sitting closer to the front than she would have preferred. Fortunately, a rather tall man sat in front of her, blocking her from view.
But that also meant that her view was blocked. She set her pen kit on a small wooden block affixed to the seat in front of her that was probably meant for that purpose, opened the lid of the inkwell, and readied her pen.
She heard someone, most likely the clerk to the court, announce the judge.
She leaned to one side and caught sight of Judge Conner entering the room. She easily recognized him despite the white wig and black robes he wore. It occurred to her that his short hair must make the wig a bit more comfortable to wear.
Chancery court was now in session.
Judge Conner spoke first, and Tempy leaned to one side to observe him. "I've read the Bill of Complaint submitted on behalf of Squire Formsworth. In essence, he disputes the ownership of a piece of property. He claims that the late Earl of Cavendish erected a fence and that part of that fence intrudes upon his property. The fence was constructed twenty years ago, but Squire Formsworth only recently discovered the error." He glanced at Formsworth's barrister. "Is this correct?"
"Yes, your honor," the barrister replied.
Tempy quickly scrawled notes regarding the initial complaint.
"Mr. Severson, how does your client respond?" Judge Conner asked, glancing at the man sitting next to Lucien.
"We formally reject this bill, your honor. As you already mentioned, the fence has been there for twenty years and it is clearly well within the boundaries of the Cavendish land."
Tempy leaned to one side to watch Mr. Formsworth while Mr. Severson spoke. He was speaking with his own barrister. Even from her distant vantage point, she could hear Formsworth's hisses of anger.
Judge Conner nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Severson." He glanced at Formsworth's barrister. "Mr. Aikley, I see you have something to say. What is it?"
Formsworth's white-wigged barrister stood, a peeved expression on his face. "It is my client's contention that various pieces of land have been in dispute over many, many years. He believed that the issue concerning this particular piece of property had already been resolved and only recently discovered he'd been mistaken. He begs the court's pardon in waiting so long to begin these proceedings, but he is confident that his rights in this matter will be upheld."
Tempy took a moment to jot down brief descriptions of the men in the courtroom.
Mr. Aikley presented evidence showing that, indeed, these sorts of disputes had been dealt with in Chancery Court for a number of years. Apparently, the bad blood between the two families could be traced back over at least four generations. That would probably explain the ongoing animosity between Lucien and Formsworth. Tempy had felt certain that there was more to it than was on the surface. She'd been right.
Mr. Severson stood, letting out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "I admit, your honor, that these land disputes began over a hundred years ago. Fortunately, however, we have not seen any new claims made by the Formsworth family in about thirty years. Not since the Tithe map was updated in 1820. The map is detailed and accurate, and shows all structures in the region. These include the rectory, mills, gardens, common areas, woods, boundary posts, trees used to mark boundaries, and every disputed boundary. You will note that this particular fence is not among those listed as being under dispute. The map also shows hedge and fence ownership, field gates, hill-drawings, footpaths, bridleways, bridges, embankments, and streams. If you examine the map, you will discover that the fence in dispute is shown as belonging to the Earl of Cavendish, and that it is well within the boundary of his property. I am prepared to offer witnesses who have walked the entire length of the fence while consulting this map, and they can attest that the map is accurate with regard to this particular fence. I beg of you, your honor, that you not only settle this dispute in favor of my client, but that you also reprimand Mr. Formsworth for wasting the court's time in such a frivolous manner."
Tempy wrote as quickly as she could, but she paused a moment to lean to one side and glance at Formsworth. She could see his face turning that deep shade of red that had presaged yesterday's angry outburst.
"I object," Formsworth shouted. "This man isn't even the acknowledged heir. He's a usurper."
"Please be seated, Mr. Formsworth, and refrain from speaking in this court. It is your barrister's role to speak for you, and if you cannot control yourself, I will take measures to ensure that you do not
address this court again. Do I make myself understood?"
Formsworth sputtered and fumed for a moment, but then he nodded to the judge and sat back down.
"It is the opinion of this court that Mr. Formsworth's case is without merit, and I hereby dismiss it. Furthermore, Mr. Formsworth is heavily cautioned against presenting any more of these frivolous suits. Should another one as baseless as this appear in my docket, I'll be forced to deal more sternly with him. Have I made myself clear?"
"Yes, your honor," Formsworth's barrister replied. "And thank you for your leniency in this matter."
Tempy hurriedly transcribed the judge's ruling before his words could fade or become jumbled in her memory. She was so busy that she barely took note of the people around her exiting the room. When she looked up, she found herself staring directly into Lucien's eyes.
He raised one eyebrow sardonically and she lifted her notebook to display it to him. He looked quite happy as he crossed the courtroom to stand closer to her. They were separated by the low railing surrounding the visitor's area and a row of seats. "Taking notes?" he asked.
"I thought I might get a story out of this."
"And did you?"
"Certainly. But I'm not certain it's one that the London papers would find of interest. Perhaps Porlock's paper is looking for an article."
Lucien shook his head in mock reproach. "You're a journalist to the core, aren't you? I'll introduce you to the editor tomorrow night while we're at Judge Conner's house. He's hosting a dinner party, and we're invited."
Tempy stared down at her notebook for a moment and then glanced back up at Lucien. His offer of an introduction was more than either Father or Ernest had ever done to further her career. "You'd do that for me?"
Lucien shrugged one shoulder. It wasn't that Gallic shrug that he used to disguise his real feelings. This was his natural one. "Of course. I'm happy to help."
Those simple words struck deep into Tempy's heart. She'd faced so many people in the past who wanted to dissuade her from following her passion that she'd come to expect a negative reaction whenever she mentioned her writing. Lucien's casual support of it meant more to her than all the forced praise she'd received over the years.
She felt tears welling and glanced down at her notebook as she closed it so that he wouldn't see them. "Thank you," she murmured as she busied herself with putting away her pen and ink. She tucked everything safely away in her reticule.
Had Ernest ever accepted her writing so freely and easily? She'd always thought there'd been a vague assumption on his part that her interest would fade over time. When she'd tried to discuss her love of writing with him, he'd never truly comprehended it.
But somehow Lucien already knew. She'd never needed to explain it to him. He simply knew.
24 - Would You Like Some Chocolate Tart?
The following evening, as the carriage bumped down the country lane toward Judge Conner's house, Tempy's stomach quivered with nervous tension. She slid her hand down the front of her cloak just below the two satin frog fasteners. Mary was with them, serving as chaperone in Millicent's absence.
Tempy had kept her plan for tonight a secret from Lucien. She needed to do this as a sort of test, away from London and Mme Le Clair's guardianship. Lucien had already helped a great deal, and she was afraid that she'd come to rely on him. She needed to do this on her own. Lucien certainly wouldn't be there when she finally used her newly developed womanly wiles on Ernest. She needed to test the extent of her new abilities now, before she confronted Ernest.
BLISS SHINES BRIGHTLY
If she could manage to live up to that headline, she could hold her head high with the knowledge that she was ready to overthrow Clarisse and win back Ernest's love. She just hoped the headline shouldn't instead read
BLISS BOMBS
or something else equally dismal.
Her stomach knotted.
"We're nearly there," Lucien said. "You've hardly spoken a word all the way here. Are you well?"
"I'm fine," Tempy said, flashing him a bright smile while clutching at the front of her cloak. This was the first time she'd worn the gown hidden beneath its dark folds, and she wanted the unveiling to be a surprise. "It's just that I feel a bit guilty about Millicent. If I hadn't asked her to accompany me on this trip and exposed her to that rainstorm, she wouldn't be sick and miserable right now." She glanced at her lady's maid. Mary hadn't said so, but Tempy could tell that she was excited to be brought along on the outing. Once Lucien and Tempy were inside, Mary would join the other servants and have the opportunity to socialize.
"You can hardly blame yourself for her illness. And my housekeeper seems to enjoy coddling her. Didn't Millicent mention having a sore throat while we were on the train from London?" At her nod, Lucien continued. "Then the rainstorm didn't cause her illness. She already had it." He paused. "Is something else troubling you?"
She noticed him looking at her hand and noting the way she gripped her cloak. She relaxed her fist. "I'm a bit nervous about meeting all of these people." The carriage stopped in front of what she assumed was the judge's home.
"My intrepid journalist? Nervous?" Lucien reached out and lifted her hand that wasn't currently engaged in mangling the front of her cloak and gave it a comforting squeeze. "Simply don the armor that Mme Le Clair helped you craft. I'm certain you'll be fine."
Tempy nearly jumped at his words. It was as though he'd read her mind. But at least he was encouraging her on her chosen path. Even if he didn't know it. "That's an excellent idea," she murmured.
He helped her down from the carriage and escorted her to the front door.
As they swept inside, Tempy saw a number of guests in a large room to the left of the foyer. Butterflies of panic began slamming against the inside of her stomach, so she took a deep breath to calm them.
She glanced at Lucien. Perhaps she should have let him see her dress before now so she'd know how he'd react. What if he thought it was inappropriate? If she saw a look of disapproval on his face right now, she knew she wouldn't be able to let anyone else see her.
She needed to stick to her plan. It was a good one, and she couldn't let this sudden bout of nerves ruin it.
She turned her back to Lucien so she couldn't see his reaction once her dress was revealed. The butler helped her with her cloak, revealing the low-cut pale aqua lace gown. The layer of fabric beneath the lace was flesh colored, giving the impression of bare skin. Tempy's shoulders were bare, and the simply cut gown revealed much more skin than she'd ever been comfortable with showing in the past. Mme Le Clair had been quite insistent, telling her that she made a devastating impression in it, so despite her reservations, she'd decided to trust the demimondaine's opinion.
But she still kept her back to Lucien and entered the salon ahead of him.
The first reaction to her gown and her artfully applied makeup came from the guests who would be dining with them that evening.
One elderly gentleman's monocle popped from his eye and fell to dangle from a string around his neck. Another man stopped mid-sentence and stared openly for a moment before resuming his conversation with the woman with whom he had been speaking. A third gaped openmouthed at her before snapping his mouth shut with an audible click.
Tempy's stomach tightened. This was a much stronger reaction than she'd anticipated. Was this an enormous mistake? She took a step back, wondering if she could still flee, and stumbled into Lucien.
He steadied her by taking her elbow and moving to stand next to her. Then he glanced down at her, taking in the low-cut bodice of her dress for the first time.
She blushed, but watched him to gauge his reaction. His eyes widened ever so slightly, and then he smiled. "Brava, Miss Bliss. I see my advice wasn't needed. Your armor is quite disarming."
She smiled up at him as her confidence began to swell. She hadn't even modeled the dress for Millicent for fear that she'd try to talk Tempy out of wearing it. But wasn't it creating precisely the reaction she'd ho
ped it would?
Judge Conner moved to greet them, his wife following with alacrity. Although Tempy couldn't be certain, she believed Mrs. Conner shot her an irritated look. The expression disappeared from her face so quickly that Tempy couldn't be sure she'd even seen it. But a moment later, Henry Conner winced and moved his foot out from under his wife's skirts. If Tempy wasn't mistaken, the woman had just stomped on his toes.
This wasn't the reaction she'd intended to elicit from her hostess, and Tempy felt a renewed twinge of doubt at her choice of attire. Perhaps her gown would have been more appropriate for London than for a dinner party in the country.
But Lucien had liked it. That bit of knowledge allowed her to keep her chin held high rather than ducking it in embarrassment.
She met Mrs. Conner's gaze and offered her a sincere smile. "Thank you so very much for inviting us to your home. It's quite lovely."
The woman's face looked as though it might crack as she forced it to smile. It was amazing to see how unwelcoming the woman could look while still going through the motions of inviting them into her home. "It is a pleasure to offer our hospitality to an old friend. And just imagine our delight that he's the new Earl of Cavendish."
Tempy didn't fail to notice that Mrs. Conner's "pleasure" only extended to Lucien, but before she could decide how to respond, they were interrupted.
"Henry, you rapscallion," an older man said, clapping Judge Conner on the shoulder. When Tempy noticed the monocle dangling from a piece of ribbon, she recalled his reaction when she'd entered the room. "Who are your friends?" he asked, turning his gaze on her. "You must introduce me to this delightful young woman."
Judge Conner made the introductions, informing them that the older man was his father, Squire Conner.
Squire Conner kept his attention fixed upon Tempy, his eyes seeming to miss no detail in her attire. She wondered for a moment if he could see all the way through her corset. It certainly felt like it.
Gambling on a Scoundrel Page 21
