Law of Attraction

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Jenny shook her head. “I am a married woman, Mr. Spearing. Not only would it be improper to approach another man with such yearnings, but I knew Lord Guestwick would refuse any such overtures, for he is a gentleman and a peer. He would rightly reject me out of hand. And…” She bit her lip.

  “Go on,” Spearing encouraged her.

  “Even if I had been tempted to try, despite his sterling character, I would not have done so,” she said. “If I dared try, then there was a chance—an exceedingly slim chance—that he might welcome my affections and then I would be…well, devastated, because my view of him as an honorable man would be shattered.”

  The gallery was buzzing again, unable to contain itself to silence.

  Spearing stood for a long time with his gaze upon the table in front of him, and his range of notes. He pushed them all to one side and looked at the judge. “May I request an intermission, your honor?”

  The judge nodded. “I suspect you need time to regroup, Mr. Spearing. Mr. Davies, are you amenable to a short delay?”

  “Yes, your honor,” Ben said. He sounded tired.

  The judge got to his feet. “We will begin again at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

  The footman who had brought her to the room now opened the little door and indicated with a wave of his hand that Jenny should exit. She glanced once more up at the gallery.

  While the rest of the gallery was standing and talking in loud, shocked voices, her family sat still, all of them watching her with a range of expressions from shock to amusement.

  Elisa just looked upset. Vaughn held her against him.

  Jenny made herself turn and leave.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Present day: The Court of Common Pleas, Westminster Hall, Palace of Westminster, London. March 1867. Thursday—a few minutes later.

  The narrow corridor at the bottom of the stairs was thick with people, startling Jenny. Ben came up to her, pulling off his wig. “What were you thinking?” he breathed.

  “Davies!” Spearing stepped out of another door along the corridor, looking around for Ben. He spotted them and strode up to them, his eyes narrowed. “Is that your idea of an adequate defense, Davies?”

  Ben looked him in the eye. “Truth is always a solid base for an unassailable defense.”

  “Truth.” Spearing snorted. His gaze moved to Jenny. “Advise your client, Davies. Explain what dangerous ground she walks upon, how easy it would be to dismantle her…claim, and if I do not do so, how easy it would be to turn the claim back upon her.” He nodded at Jenny. “Your Grace.”

  Ben took her arm. “Back to the carriage. We can talk there.” He led her around the men lingering in the corridor, all of them court officials of one capacity or another. There were no reporters back here and no members of the public.

  “What did Spearing mean?” Jenny asked.

  “Wait until we’re in the carriage,” Ben said.

  They turned through a door into the public section of the building. Dane and Sharla waited there, although Ben didn’t slow down. They turned and walked alongside him, neither of them speaking.

  Jenny trembled. The wide corridor seemed to stretch forever. Finally, they turned out of the doors they had entered. The Wakefield coach waited. Ben handed her up, then Sharla. The men settled on the opposite bench, while Sharla gripped Jenny’s hand. The coach rolled forward.

  For a moment, silence held them.

  Jenny could not stand it. “Ben, what did Spearing mean?”

  “Spearing spoke to her?” Dane said sharply.

  “Not directly,” Ben told him. “His words were meant for her, though.” Ben’s gaze met Jenny’s. “You lied. He knows that.”

  Jenny swallowed. “Does it matter? As long as I insist that the journal is a work of fiction, then all they can do is free Jack.”

  “That is why you did it,” Dane said softly.

  Ben shook his head. “You have been with Jack for years. Years, Jenny. Do you think that in all that time you were never seen? That no one put together the fact that you and Jack disappeared at the same time on the same days? That is what Spearing meant—your lie is too easily discredited.”

  “He said he could turn it against me, if it wasn’t.”

  Ben sighed and scrubbed at his hair. The curls had grown unruly, after hours beneath the hot wig. “If he cannot prove you are lying, then he will move in the opposite direction. He will maintain that to fabricate such an elaborate fantasy, you must surely be mad. Either way, he wins and Burscough gets the divorce ruling he needs.”

  Sharla’s grip on her hand tightened. “Jenny is not mad!”

  “No?” Ben said, raising his brow. “She claims she has spent years writing about her obsession over Jack, complete with conversations that never took place and claims he fathered her children…and all of it was a story. Spearing won’t have a difficult time insisting Jenny be locked in an institution for her own protection, which clears the way for the court, the church and the House of Lords to grant the divorce.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jenny said tiredly. “Whichever way Spearing argues it, it doesn’t matter.”

  Ben’s mouth opened in surprise.

  “Because Jack is safely out of the mess,” Dane finished softly.

  Ben closed his mouth and turned his head to look out the window. No one said anything else until the coach arrived at the Wakefield townhouse. As the carriage slowed, Dane stirred. “There is one thing I do not understand. Why did Spearing try to warn Jenny? For that is what he was doing, yes?”

  The carriage halted.

  Ben scrubbed at his hair once more. “Yes, he was.”

  “Why would he do that?” Dane asked. “Won’t it weaken his case?”

  Ben sighed. “Spearing is more interested in seeing justice done, than winning cases. If the right outcome means losing, he’ll take the loss and still consider it a win. All the great barristers think as he does, Dane. That is why they are great. He knows Jenny is lying and he’s probably guessed why. As he’s spent time with Burscough and has read her diary, he knows what the truth really is. He’s working to ensure that he provides his client with the full power of the law, while also trying to minimize the damage that ensues.”

  Dane looked baffled. “That doesn’t make any sense at all,” he said shortly.

  Ben swore.

  Jenny and Sharla both jumped at the low curse.

  “By rights, this trial should not be happening at all,” Ben said, his voice rough. “It is a preposterous waste of the court’s time. Burscough is a cad—we’ve all agreed upon that. He’s using the law to punish Jenny because…well, I still don’t know why. Hurt feelings isn’t nearly enough to justify the lengths and expense he’s going to. Using the law the way he is, like a cudgel…it offends me. It likely offends Spearing, too, although he’s giving Burscough the best of his abilities, because that is what justice requires.”

  Mayerick opened the coach door and stood back, peering in at them when they still did not move.

  Sharla said softly: “Do you still have no hope, Dane? Spearing is kind and fair.”

  Dane shifted uncomfortably. “None of us knows him well enough to make any assumptions.”

  “He’s never married,” Ben said. “He’s more than eligible yet has never courted a single woman that I know of. And I saw how he looked at you.”

  Mayerick cleared his throat.

  Dane lifted a finger, to indicate Mayerick should wait a moment. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “You do not understand the risk of…reaching out. If I am wrong, then I will have exposed myself to a member of the law, who knows that particular law as well as I do and has the power to apply it.”

  “You don’t know when you meet someone like you, Dane?” Sharla asked.

  “Not anymore,” Dane said softly. “We have been driven so deeply underground and live behind masks. Those I do know of…well, we ignore each other.”

  Ben looked puzzled. “Why? If you know of each other…”<
br />
  Dane shook his head. “Do you press your attentions upon every woman you meet, Ben? No, because none of them draws your favor the way Sharla does.”

  Ben glanced at Sharla.

  “I do not associate with those I know for the same reason,” Dane said shortly. “They are ugly and stupid and I have standards.”

  “Stephen meets those standards,” Sharla insisted.

  “Damn it, yes,” Dane shot back in a low growl. “He is not for me, though. The risks are too great and besides, he is destined for grand things—a career that will rise to the highest ranks, a good wife and a fine home on Park Lane or Grosvenor Square.” Dane’s tone turned bitter. “I am a blight on any man’s life.”

  “Not mine,” Ben said softly.

  Dane rested his hand on Ben’s knee briefly. “Thank you for that.” He picked up Sharla’s hand and helped her from the coach.

  It was the last time anyone spoke of Stephen Spearing that night.

  * * * * *

  Present day: The Wakefield Residence St. James Square, London. March 1867. The next day—Friday, six o’clock in the morning.

  There were no newspapers at the breakfast table the next morning. Jenny looked about the dining room, to see if they had been put elsewhere.

  Ben grimaced. “I had them put in the morning room,” he said. “Better to enjoy your breakfast first. Then we can go over the articles.”

  “Oh, dear,” Sharla said, as she settled upon her usual chair. “Are they very bad, Ben?”

  Ben’s grimace deepened into a hard scowl. “I can’t remember ever seeing such a fuss before.” His gaze shifted to Jenny. “A beautiful duchess dreaming of a romance with one of society’s beloved figures…well, we can talk about it after. I’ve asked for coffee this morning, Sharla. I need the fortification.”

  Jenny could barely eat after that. She nibbled a piece of toast and drank a single cup of coffee, then waited with dogged patience until the meal was over.

  In the morning room, Ben handed her the Times first. “Best start with the least sensational report.”

  There were four different articles about the trial. One on the front page, two more on the fifth page and a small footnote on the seventh page, amongst the announcements, noting that the trial would continue today, after a short recess.

  More startling, though, were the engravings on the first page. One was of Burscough, with a scowl, his odd lips working. Even though it was a drawing, it was an exceptional likeness.

  Right next to Burscough’s drawing was one of Jack, by a different artist, who had captured him with his chin up, his gaze on the far distance. Jack’s shoulders and strong neck made Burscough look weak and insipid in comparison.

  Below the two of them was a likeness of Jenny. She stared at the illustration, puzzled. The woman in the drawing was undoubtedly her, yet it felt as though Jenny was staring at a stranger. This woman had an abundance of hair piled upon her head in neat coils and very large eyes that stared at the viewer calmly. The chin looked too narrow and her neck too fine. The artist had even drawn the tatted lace and cameo at her collar that she had worn yesterday.

  The woman looked beautiful and graceful.

  “Is this really me?” Jenny blurted, turning the page so Dane and Sharla could see it.

  Sharla smiled. “Yes, that is you, darling. He has caught every special aspect of you.”

  Disturbed, Jenny turned to the articles themselves and read through them, growing increasingly uneasy. They reported the facts well enough, yet slanted in such a way that the formal court case she had attended sound more like a free-for-all shouting match.

  One of the subsidiary articles explored aspects of insanity and raised the possibility that Jenny was suffering a hysterical womb through lack of husbandly attention, or poor quality attention.

  Mayerick entered the room and handed a folded slip of paper to Ben. Ben read it and nodded. “You have been excused from the proceeding for now,” he told Jenny.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Spearing is still pleading his case,” Ben said. “He has no further need for you as a witness. Burscough will be next and, most likely, Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “Spearing will need someone to dispute you or support you. That witness will establish if you’re mad or a liar. Jack is the best source for that.”

  Coldness clamped her chest into a tight stillness. “They can make Jack say that?”

  “As Jack is the morally upright gentleman you’ve painted him to be,” Ben said, “then Spearing will argue that he should have no qualms about standing in court and swearing to the truth of the matter.” Ben’s gaze was steady. “Do you see, now, the consequences of what you put into play yesterday?”

  Jenny swallowed. “Jack is in jail…”

  Ben shook his head. “Not any more. If the police didn’t release him with his promise to attend the trial as requested, then the court would have demanded it as soon as Spearing indicated he would call upon him to stand as a witness.”

  Jenny put her head on her hand, its throbbing making it hard to think. She had thought she was shielding Jack. She had pulled him in even deeper.

  * * * * *

  Present day: Holding cells of the Metropolitan and City Police, Hyde Park Station, London. March 1867. Friday—at the same time.

  Jack took his jacket from the officer holding it out to him and nodded his thanks, still puzzled by the sudden flurry of activity about the cells and his release. He had said not a word to anyone.

  “I believe there is a carriage waiting for you outside, my lord,” the senior officer who had arrested him said.

  “Really?” Jack scrubbed at his cheeks, which rasped with bristles. He needed water, a blade and a mirror. He’d never felt so grimy in his life, not even after crawling through the depths of the deepest coal mines.

  As every policeman watching him held not a skerrick of contrition in their expressions, he doubted they would provide the means to wash and shave. He moved through the interconnected and busy rooms, out to the stone steps and down onto Knightsbridge Road.

  There was a familiar carriage parked twenty yards up from the front entrance to the station. Jack moved over to it and Will thrust open the door as he reached it.

  “Get in,” Will said shortly and sat back down again.

  Jack climbed up and settled on the other bench. “Good to see you, too, brother.”

  Will tapped the roof with his cane and the carriage moved on. There were a pile of newspapers folded on the bench next to him. Will lifted them and held them out to Jack. “Read those first. Then we can talk.”

  Jack took them and looked down at the first. It was a gossip sheet, one of the more scurrilous newspapers in the city. “The Huxby Herald, Will? Really?”

  “Read,” Will said shortly. “You need to know what happened yesterday.”

  Jack put the newspapers aside. “I’d rather go home, wash and sleep for a week.” And see Jenny.

  “You’ll have to sleep tomorrow,” Will said. “There is a very good chance you’ll be standing in court later today, swearing that Jenny is insane or a liar.”

  Jack stared at him, his heart making a sickening swan dive toward the earth.

  “Read,” Will repeated. “Then we’ll talk.”

  * * * * *

  Present day: The Wakefield Residence, St. James Square, London. March 1867. Friday, half past eight o’clock.

  Mayerick stepped into the morning room and coughed loudly. “I’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you, Master Benjamin, but there is a woman at the door insisting upon speaking to you.”

  Ben scowled as he adjusted his cravat. “We’re about to leave for court, Mayerick. Who is it?”

  “She won’t say, Master Benjamin.”

  Dane slapped Ben’s hand away. “Not like that,” he said and tugged the cravat into a better fold. “Tell the woman to come back later, Mayerick. None of us can cope with civilities right now.”

  Jenny was the only sti
ll figure in the room. Even Sharla was fussing with her appointments, smoothing her hair and straightening her folds, while trying to twist herself to see her back hems were straight.

  As Jenny was not required at court, Ben had refused to let her attend. “You would be exposing yourself to the public and to the reporters unnecessarily. Once Jack has played his part, we’ll return to decide what happens next…if there is any decision left to make.”

  Fear choked her at Ben’s implications. Jenny sat upon the sofa and watched them prepare.

  Now this—a strange woman adding tension to an already tense day.

  When Dane told Mayerick to dismiss the woman, the butler hesitated.

  Dane bent his head to look around Ben toward the door. “What is it?” he asked, with more patience.

  “I suggest speaking to the lady, my lord,” Mayerick replied.

  Dane glanced at Ben, startled. Ben raised his brow. “Better send her in, then, Mayerick.”

  Dane turned and stalked toward the window. Sharla caught his hand in hers and gave it a shake. “There’s time yet,” she murmured.

  “I just wish the day were done, and we were at the end of this,” Dane replied.

  Jenny could not resent Dane’s frustration, for she wished for the same thing.

  Mayerick opened the door once more. “In there,” he said.

  The woman who stepped through looked as though she had come straight from the far east end of London. Her hair was a tangled snarl of knots and dirt, with the ends twisted and pinned to her head. She wore no hoops and no corset that Jenny could detect. Her shirt was faded, although it appeared there had once been lace at the neck. Her skirt was a drab green color that might once have been pretty but had long ago lost all brightness. There was no attempt at embellishment, no flounces or frills.

  The woman looked to be ten years older than Jenny. She might have been pretty except for the deep dark shadows beneath her eyes and the pallor of her face. She was slender in the way that the poorest of workers in the slums tended to be.