Tall, Dark, and Wicked (Wicked Trilogy)

by Madeline Hunter

  “At least two weeks, but perhaps a month. I only learned about it yesterday. I received a letter, from whom I do not know, telling me. Normally I receive news from him at least once a month. It has been some six weeks since I last received one of his letters, so I had become concerned.”

  “Why did you not visit him, and see what was wrong, if the letter did not come?”

  “We are somewhat estranged. There was no argument between us. He is just much engaged in his own pursuits. I could not visit, because I do not know where he lives in London.”

  “Did you see him when you went to the prison today?”

  “I was allowed to visit him. He is in a large cell with many rough fellows. He is unwashed and unshaven and frightened. I fear he will get ill there. So many others are sick.”

  “Why was he put there?”

  “He would not tell me. He only said to leave and not come back.” Her voice almost caught on the last sentence. The visit had been horrible. If an iron door had not separated her from Papa, she thought he would have physically driven her away.

  The green of his eyes darkened while he thought. She did not take the pause as a good sign. Not at all.

  “Miss Belvoir, I am sure you were dismayed to find your father in a cell with men unsuitable for polite society. However, if you do not know the crime of which he is accused, how can you know that he is wrongly accused? His refusal to speak of it even with you suggests the opposite.”

  “My father is no criminal, sir. He is a scholar. He has taught at universities throughout the Continent and had a position as a teacher at Oxford until he married my mother. He spends all his time on his research and his books. There can be no justifiable reason for him to be imprisoned, unless being an intellectual has now become a crime. A serious miscarriage of justice is about to occur.”

  It poured out nonstop, the way her excitement sometimes betrayed her. Lord Ywain—Ives—just sat there, listening, exerting a presence that crowded her despite his sitting six feet away. He did not appear especially interested.

  “You are sure of this?” he said.

  “I am positive.”

  “And yet you do not even know where he lives in London.” His words did not dismiss her outright, but his expression almost did. His eyes had narrowed with skepticism.

  She felt her best chance to help her father slipping away.

  “I told him that his silence was foolhardy. That is why I am here. I was told that some people have lawyers at their trials now. I was told that you at times speak for those accused.” Slow down. Stop gushing words. “My father is incapable of defending himself, and may even be unwilling to do so. The accusations are insulting, and he is the sort to refuse to engage in the insult by refuting it.”

  He had not moved during her impassioned plea. Those hands still rested at the end of the chair’s arms. Attractive, masculine hands, as handsome as his face. His gaze had not left her, and the shifts regarding what he looked at had been subtle but unmistakable. Not only her face had been measured. She did not think she had been as closely examined in her life, let alone by a man such as this one.

  She was not an inexperienced young girl. She recognized the purpose of that gaze, and could imagine the thoughts that occupied part of his mind. A small part, she hoped. She trusted at least some of what she had said took root amidst his masculine calculations.

  In a different circumstance she might be flattered, but the bawd’s words made the attention dangerous. He did not appear of a predatory nature, and such a man hardly needed to take advantage of an accused man’s female relatives if he wanted to satisfy carnal needs. However, she experienced some alarm and a good deal of confusion. The latter resulted from the undeniable and inappropriate low stirring his attention evoked. She did not want to acknowledge it, but it was there. He was the kind of man who could do that to a woman, no matter how much she fought it.

  “You do not know the accusations, so you cannot say they are insulting,” he said.

  “Any accusation of a crime would be insulting to a man like my father. If you met him you would understand what I mean. Hadrian Belvoir is the least likely criminal in the world. Truly.”

  The smallest frown flexed on his brow. His attention shifted again, to the inside of his head. She ceased to exist for a long moment. He stood abruptly. “Excuse me, please. I will return momentarily.”

  Then he was gone, his midnight banyan billowing behind him.

  * * *

  Hadrian Belvoir.

  Ever since his visitor introduced herself, an indefinable something had nudged at Ives. The pokes implied he should know her, yet nothing about her was familiar.

  Hadrian Belvoir. That name did more than poke.

  He strode up to his private chambers, to a writing desk there where he dealt with personal letters. He rifled through a thick stack of old mail, discarding it piece by piece, frowning while he sought the letter he wanted. Finally he found it.

  He flipped it open and held it near the lamp. There that name was, buried amidst a casual communication. You can expect to be asked to be prosecutor for a Hadrian Belvoir, once his case is brought forward. It would please us if you accepted.

  He checked the date. This had been written a month ago. No wonder the name had not been in the front of his memory. If Mr. Belvoir resided in Newgate Prison, why had this informal approach not turned into a formal one by now? It was possible his victims had hired their own prosecutor, of course, but if that were likely, these sentences would never have been written.

  It would please us if you accepted. Considering who had written this, it went without saying that acceptance was assumed, and would indeed be given.

  He would have to inform Miss Belvoir that she must look elsewhere.

  He returned to the office and the bright-eyed Miss Belvoir. He had realized, while she talked and talked, that her eyes sparkled even when she did not cry. He had also calculated that if she stood, she would be willowy and long limbed. An idle curiosity had crossed his mind, about what it was like to take a woman who was a good match for his own height. His mind had pictured it, making the necessary adjustments . . .

  No sooner had he walked into the chamber than she began speaking. “I think you can see that a great injustice will occur if my father does not receive your help, sir. I beg you to consider accepting his case. I am prepared to pay you whatever fees you require.”

  Not likely, from the looks of that dress and spencer. “Miss Belvoir, allow me to explain that no barrister will accept financial remuneration from you for defending in this matter.”

  She went still. Her lips parted in surprise. He felt bad that his refusal shocked her, but there was nothing else for it.

  She looked up at him, confused. “Are you saying you will do it for free?”

  “I am saying that barristers do not get paid by clients; they are engaged by solicitors who take care of such things. Barristers will be insulted if you offer to pay them like they are tradesmen.”

  “So I must first find a solicitor and have him ask you. Instead of one lawyer I must hire two.”

  “You must find a solicitor to investigate, but I will not be the barrister he engages to argue the case in the courtroom. I cannot be the defending lawyer. When you mentioned your father’s name, I realized I have already been approached to serve on the other side.”

  “Other side?”

  “Prosecutor.”

  She absorbed that. Her full, deep rose lips mouthed the word.

  She stood, which brought her close to him. Her crown reached his nose. Yes, she was unusually tall. The scents of Newgate no longer cloaked her. Rather that of lavender wafted subtly, as if by force of will she had conquered the ill effects of the day. Since the glint in her eyes no longer came from tears, he guessed she had, in many ways.

  She strolled away, thinking. She moved with notable elegance and a subtle sway. She wore her unusual stature the way a queen might wear a crown.

  She turned and faced him. He pict
ured her in a white diaphanous gown that flowed down her long body, one bound under and around her breasts in imitation of the ancient deities. Only, from the expression she now wore, she might also wear a helmet and shield, like Athena, goddess of both wisdom and war.

  “This is awkward,” she said. “However, it is not without value to speak with you.”

  “Since I have not even seen the brief, there is nothing to learn from me.”

  “It is always useful to meet one’s adversary. Had I not made the error in coming here, I doubt I would have had the chance. I would have arrived at the trial, with you a total stranger.”

  “I am not your adversary, Miss Belvoir. You are not the one who will be on trial.”

  “We will have opposite goals, so I think the word is accurate.”

  “I am sure you will find a worthy lawyer to take up this case for you, as you intended.”

  “Having met you, I am not sure I will find one worthy enough. I dare not leave it all in another’s hands now.”

  Her gaze penetrated him. He had the sense of his soul being searched by an intelligence as sharp as any he had ever met. Whatever she found, it lightened her expression. Softened her. The unusual beauty that had drawn him into this chamber became much more visible. The sparkles in her eyes implied humorous conclusions.

  He knew what she had seen. An acknowledgment of it passed between them in an instant of naked honesty. Hell, yes, she was sharp. He had been nothing but restrained. A bishop could not have hidden his sensual speculations better, but she had still sensed them in him.

  She turned those eyes on him fully. Ives recognized the expression of someone about to offer a bribe. A few had come his way in the past. He waited for hers.

  Resolve flickered. Boldness flashed. Then, in the next moment, both died.

  “I am sorry to have taken your time, and at an unsuitable hour at that. I will leave you to your evening.” She walked toward the door.

  “I will find out about the charges,” he said. “That way you will know what he faces, at least. Leave your address with my man, and I will make sure you are informed.”

  She turned. “Thank you. That is very kind, coming from someone I must now see as an enemy.”

  “I am only an enemy if the truth is, as well.”

  That amused her. “Noble words to soothe the helpless woman’s fears, sir? That is generous of you. However, truth depends on the equation, too, doesn’t it? Different variables yield different solutions.”

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time Padua slipped through the garden behind the house on Frith Street, the last of dusk’s light showed. High-pitched voices leaked from the building’s second storey, where the girls ate their supper. If she moved quickly enough, she could take her own chair in the dining room without attracting much notice. If she were very lucky, Mrs. Ludlow would be none the wiser about Padua’s activities today.

  She did not fear Mrs. Ludlow, the gentlewoman who owned this building and school, and in whose hands rested her ability to support herself. Generous to a fault, and as warm as a mother, Mrs. Ludlow suffered from a level of absentmindedness that made her quite benign. Learning one of her teachers had left the property would distress her, however, and Padua did not want to do that.

  She checked the garden door, and was relieved to find it still unlocked. She strode through the back sitting room, removing her spencer while she walked. She rolled it up and tucked it behind a chair in the reception hall before mounting the stairs.

  Assuming an expression of confidence, she entered the drawing room that now served as the dining room for Mrs. Ludlow’s School for Girls. She made her way to the head table and slid into her chair. She drew no particular attention from the others already into their meals. Only Caroline Peabody’s gaze followed her conspicuously, first with a little frown, then with visible relief. Caroline was one of three girls Padua tutored in higher mathematics. Those lessons were not part of the curriculum, and took place late at night after Mrs. Ludlow retired.

  She enjoyed the extra work, because it meant these girls could discover what their minds could achieve. She found contentment in doing for them what her mother had done for her. The pay at this school might be low, but it was a respectable living, one for which she held excellent qualifications. The employment also permitted her to squirrel away some money for the plans she had.

  “Miss Belvoir.” Mrs. Ludlow’s address drifted down the table, past the other teachers. “Please join me in my chambers after dinner. I would like a word with you.”

  Padua finished her meal while the room emptied. She then made her way to Mrs. Ludlow’s chambers. The door to the sitting room stood open, as it usually did in the evening. Once she entered, however, Mrs. Ludlow closed it.

  Padua loved the sitting room. Small and tidy, its upholstered chairs and patterned carpet created a cozy den. She and Mrs. Ludlow sat near a low fire, in two of those comfortable chairs, with a small table between them. On the table sat a tiny glass of sherry, which Mrs. Ludlow indulged in “for her health.” The chair, of decent size for a person of Padua’s height, almost swallowed short, plump Mrs. Ludlow. If not for a footstool, her feet would have dangled.

  Fifty and filmy-eyed, with a cloud of fair hair that resisted taming, Mrs. Ludlow forever appeared perplexed. Indeed, the world confounded her on a regular basis. She lacked constancy as a result, which Padua at times found exasperating, but often also found useful. The school had many rules, as schools do, but Mrs. Ludlow could be swayed by tears or promises from the girls, or threats from the parents upon whom her fees depended. Or logical persuasion from her teacher, Padua Belvoir.

  “You left the premises today.” Mrs. Ludlow spoke an observation more than an accusation while she bent to tuck a throw around her feet. Contented with the result, she sat back into the fat embrace of the chair’s cushion, and reached for her sherry.

  “I had a family matter to attend to.”

  Mrs. Ludlow sipped, then cradled the fragile glass in her fingers. “I do ask that you inform me and receive permission. Those are the rules, Miss Belvoir. Without rules, where would the world be?”

  “As you know, I think that, as an adult, I should not need permission. None of my classes or charges were neglected, and I returned before nightfall.”

  “Barely. Had you walked in ten minutes later—” The very thought had Mrs. Ludlow flustering. “What would the parents say if they learned my teachers went abroad in town at night alone? I would be entertaining a long line of them as they came to get their girls. Really, you must see that.” She flushed, and patted her hand on her heart. “Why, we would all be ruined, Miss Belvoir. Ruined. I would have been forced to release you, in an attempt to stave off the worst.”

  “There is no reason for any parent to know our business, unless we lack discretion,” Padua said. “Yes, the world needs rules, but as independent women, we should make our own, and ensure they are practicable.”

  “Make our own? Oh, dear girl, that is rich. And so like you. As for discretion, allow me to enlighten you on the limitations of that. I needed to speak with you tonight about more than your absence today—and, truly, Miss Belvoir, I cannot have it, you know I cannot.”

  Padua avoided making any promises. The situation with her father prevented that. “What other matter concerns you?”

  “I have received a letter today, from a parent, complaining.”

  “Not about the lessons, surely. Your curriculum is far superior to what is normally found.”

  “As it happens, that was the complaint.” Mrs. Ludlow sighed, then sipped again. “This father expressed dismay that his daughter wrote to her brother like a braggart about her lessons in geometry. It appears the boy has not yet mastered that at the same level, and he is a year older.”

  “We cannot be blamed for either the brother’s lack of ability, or his tutor’s lack of attention.”

  “Quite so, quite so, and yet—this man had not expected such a thing. Well, they never do. Sewing, drawi
ng, music, French, basic ciphers—you know the sort of lessons he wants.” She looked over, all confusion and little confidence. “Perhaps he is correct. Maybe—I am not sure. It is so hard to know. There can be no harm, I think, then I receive such a letter and . . . ” She looked around her sitting room as if expecting some figure of authority to emerge from a wall and tell her the best course of action.

  The parents expected the curriculum the school had before Padua arrived. She had quickly convinced the impressionable Mrs. Ludlow to allow a few changes. Now she wondered if she would be reduced in the future to teaching basic arithmetic to girls who could do much more.

  “His objection to the mathematics only served as a prologue,” Mrs. Ludlow continued, her hand flashing gestures of distress. “After that, his letter became much more pointed. Indignant, he was. Aghast. His girl, it seemed, also wrote to her mother, this time about a fascinating pamphlet a teacher had loaned her. She encouraged her mother to find it and read it for herself.”

  Padua wished she did not know what was coming. Only she did. “She asked to borrow it. I told her not to let anyone know.”

  “Oh, dear. I had hoped . . .” Mrs. Ludlow patted her heart again. “Did I not tell you that you must not teach your ideas about women’s rights to the girls? I am sure I did.”

  “I have not taught the girls anything. I have not openly discussed such things, although for an educated female to be ignorant of such arguments is comical. However, I have kept those ideas out of the schoolroom.”

  “But not out of the school. You must do so in the future.”

  What a bizarre suggestion. The ideas were in her head, and she was in the school. There was no way to keep the ideas out of the school, unless . . . Better not to point out the obvious. Mrs. Ludlow was a dear woman, and good at heart, but she was also afraid.

  “She saw the pamphlet among my books. She asked to borrow it. I allowed it, but warned her to be discreet.”