So he dressed grandly, but soberly, in a coat of slate gray ribbed silk, embroidered with silver at the pockets and buttonholes, and a waistcoat of white, embroidered with silver and gold. His buttons of engraved silver caught the light, but did not glare.
Standing before the spotted mirror in the modest room his reflection appeared incongruous, as if he didn’t belong here. After a week confined to this place, he was heartily sick of it, but this was the last time he would see it. If he went free, he would go home. Otherwise tonight he’d sleep in the condemned cell across the road at Newgate Prison and become the latest attraction for tourists who could bribe the guards enough to gawk at him through the bars. But not for long. He’d be the central attraction at Tyburn, probably break the records for crowd attendance. Of all his ambitions in life, that was the one he wanted the least.
He was putting the finishing twitch to his neckcloth when the summons came. “My lord,” his valet said quietly.
Val nodded. “Pack up my belongings.” One way or another, he would not be returning here tonight.
The man bowed and nodded.
The guards entered and Val suffered his legs to be put in irons. He shook his foot and let the links clank. Prisoners wore these all day. The sores they caused were often marked by the recorders of court proceedings. Had Fielding left Val in prison, he would have the marks, and he’d stink like a prisoner, of damp, dirt, and despair.
The braces around his ankles clinked annoyingly against his shoe buckles when he walked, or rather, shuffled. He walked between the guards who were remarkably uncommunicative, his folder in one hand, down the stairs, where one of the guards kindly took the weight to spare poor Mr. Fielding’s staircase, and down a private passage to the court.
As he passed through the main door, a roar went up, and simultaneously, his nervousness left him. Holding his head up, he walked to his place in the dock, looking neither to right nor left. A highwayman would have acknowledged the crowd, but he wouldn’t have had the opportunity for long.
Magistrates were notorious for the speed with which they could get through cases, and Fielding was no exception. In his capacity as judge, he sat in the chair of honor, the royal coat of arms on a painted panel hung above his head, a wide black band across his eyes in a deeply dramatic way. In the normal course of events he wore a thin black band above his eyes, a symbol of his blindness, but the thick ribbon made a statement that was hard to miss. His assistant, a young man of delicate appearance, leaned down and murmured to him.
The public gallery was packed, so full Val feared for the people crowded into it. Anyone of his family not due to be called as witness was up there. The jury, twelve soberly dressed men, sat to one side, close together so they could discuss the case. They would not play their part until the end.
Val’s lawyer and counsel for this case, Andrew Graham, came unhurriedly to his feet and strolled across the court to stand by Val. He had a slim folder in his hand.
He glanced at the jury, who sat in their appointed places, to one side of where Val stood, their faces eager and expectant.
He gave Val a curt nod. “My lord.”
“Good morning,” Val said, not to be outdone in coolness.
The clerk of the court cleared his throat and made the announcement. “Valentinian Shaw, you are indicted for the willful murder of Hervey Kellett, in firing a pistol at him at close range with an intent to kill, on May the twenty-seventh, 1757. How plead you?”
“Not guilty, my lord.” Val stepped back, his work done for the time being.
It said much for the authority of John Fielding that the court fell relatively quiet. Clearly they did not want to have their entertainment spoiled.
Charlotte would be sitting in another room, waiting to be called. Val prayed the case would be cut short and she would not have to appear.
The new Lord Kellett was called first, as he was the accuser. He had a lawyer, too, a man who stared at Val down his long nose until a dewdrop formed there and he was forced to find his handkerchief.
Kellett was a tall, thin man, dressed in the country style, in a frock coat of tobacco brown and a fawn waistcoat. He stood up and glared at Val. Then he stated his case. “I had no desire to become viscount, but when I was unexpectedly called, the news sent me into a severe paroxysm. I wish for justice for my predecessor. Murder should never go unpunished.”
“I agree.” Graham smoothly got to his feet. “However, Lord Shaw did not murder the late Lord Kellett. I wonder how well you knew him?”
The new Kellett blustered. “I knew him as an upright and honorable man. He spent most of his time in the city, and I went about my work elsewhere, but we corresponded.”
“Frequently?”
“Often enough.”
Graham glanced at the jury and spread his hands in a “what do you think?” gesture.
This man was good.
Next came Kellett’s mother, who declared her son to be an upright and good man. Graham showed that she had kept her distance. When asked why, the lady pleaded her health, or lack of it, although she appeared perfectly healthy to Val.
“Do you know where your son spent his nights?”
Lady Kellett lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “He was a healthy young man. I spent most of my time caring for dear John in the country.” She glanced at the new Lord Kellett, a look of fondness passing between them, but of the mother and child variety, Val was relieved to see. He could do without the mental pictures anything else might have contained. “But he was diligent in business and considerate to us.”
“So you do not know the details of your son’s life, except what he vouchsafed to you in his letters. I can hardly suppose he told you about the notorious house in Covent Garden that he was fond of frequenting?”
Not even Mr. Fielding could prevent the excited murmur that rumbled from the public gallery.
Relaxing a tiny amount, Val leaned back and prepared to listen, go through the notes Charlotte had left him, and make sure Graham left nothing out.
While most people did not have lawyers speaking for them, the fact that both sides had chosen to do so created a stir in itself. Once they realized Andrew Graham was not the usual caliber of lawyer to appear, the buzz increased. The Old Bailey did not generally attract the better legal minds. Graham’s name floated back down from the gallery. The son of a minor branch of a noble family, he had connections and far more lucrative business than an appearance at the Old Bailey would indicate. Of course, they ran the risk of putting Mr. Fielding’s nose out of joint, but so far he’d listened with interest, rather than snapping in a way visitors to this place were only too familiar with.
The stench of the prison drifted to Val as he listened and watched, a stink that had made him ill the one night he had spent there. The brawling and cacophony of anxious people living in close proximity to one another sickened him as much as the smell had, so he’d been relieved when Graham had secured his release to private accommodation. But that smell would remain in his nostrils until the day he died. Greasy, cloying, with the pungency of strong, raw alcohol and beer mixed with putrefaction from the wildlife that fed on the prisoners, the whiff of disease and unclean human bodies, it would always remind him of this time in his life.
More prisoners were gathered in the cells downstairs, waiting for their time in the court.
As if aware of this, Fielding banged his gavel. “Proceed a little faster, please.”
And then, as if summoned by magic, Charlotte appeared in the witness-box.
Val forced concentration.
Charlotte glanced at him then away nervously. She brought a reminder of spring with her, in her pale cream gown printed with a pattern of spring flowers. Had she done that deliberately? She was delicately lovely and beautifully poised.
“Could you tell the court how you came to know the late Lord Kellett?” Graham asked her.
She wet her lips. “Lord Kellett courted me when I was betrothed to my husband, and I considered asking for my
contract to be broken, but I decided against it.”
“Why was that?” Graham asked. His voice had gentled considerably from the crisp, sharp tone he’d used to question the other witnesses.
“Because I preferred Lord Shaw,” she said softly. “I have considerable affection— I love my husband.” The way she said it and lowered her chin, speaking softly, sent a wave of appreciative purrs through the audience.
Val was taken by a powerful urge to hold her close, to protect her from the speculative eyes. To make such a confession in open court must have cost his wife a great deal. He knew how private she was, how carefully she kept her inner emotions hidden from everyone around her.
His love flowed out to her and as if she felt it, she turned to him. A faint flush stained her cheeks, and although she didn’t smile, he saw a glimmer of pleasure in her eyes. Impatience spiked his skin. He wanted to get her away from this place and to somewhere private, where he could care for her and—what?
Even if he never touched her again, he would remain with her. He needed to escape the shadow of the noose before he could even think about that.
“Lord Kellett was not pleased when I turned him down,” she went on. “I learned that it was partly this, and partly because my husband has an item of clothing belonging to him. He took a pin from the same place but gave that back.”
“In fact,” the prosecution said, cutting into her speech with no preamble, “that was the item your husband threw into the late Lord Kellett’s face when he challenged him to a duel, was it not?”
“Yes. They had returned from the house in Covent Garden and the terrible scenes there.”
“Does it concern you that your husband frequents a house of ill repute?”
Several people in the public gallery sniggered.
Charlotte kept her peace. “No, because he does not.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.” She sounded so certain, nobody could doubt her. And she spoke the truth. Even when he’d returned from the Grand Tour, full of explosive energy that needed dissipating, he had not concerned himself with brothels. He’d preferred to gamble thousands at the tables, or engage in reckless wagers, but they had not asked him about those. Of course he’d had mistresses, but he kept them to himself until he was done with them. Now he’d done with them for good.
“You were betrothed for two years. That is a long time, is it not?”
“I cannot say,” she answered.
“Did your husband’s reputation make you hesitate?”
She paused. “His reputation for what?”
“Whoring and gambling.”
“The date of my marriage was not my decision. My father would have considered it his privilege.”
“So your husband’s reputation deterred your father?”
“I cannot say. You will have to ask him.”
The prosecutor’s jaw set. Her father had refused to come to London, as everyone knew. He had claimed illness, but he must know that Graham would question him about his activities at the House of Correction. The prosecution could have tried to compel him, but they would not have had a willing witness. The Duke of Rochfort would have perjured himself rather than admit to the habits he had successfully kept quiet for thirty years or more.
“I wish to ask you about the afternoon Lord Kellett was murdered,” the prosecution said now.
Her hands, gripping the edge of the box in which she stood, tightened, the knuckles turning white. “I know of no such afternoon.”
Clever girl. “Very well, the afternoon Lord Kellett met his bloody end.”
Val concentrated, willing her not to confess that she killed him. She must not, or they would lock her up, perhaps insist on putting her in the dock. That would not happen. He’d take her abroad, flee the courts, if he had to.
“Describe the events, if you would.”
“Lord Kellett appeared unexpectedly in the garden of my husband’s house on the Thames. He threatened me, held a gun to my head.”
The prosecutor held up a hand. “Have you not missed something out?”
She shook her head. “No. There was no warning. He threatened my life. My husband tried to take the gun from him, and Lord Kellett was shot in the struggle.” She glanced down, and plucked a handkerchief from her sleeve. “It was a severe shock.”
“I see. When you refused his hand, was he upset?” The man was trying to steer her away from the House of Correction.
“I believe he was angry, but he didn’t mention that when he was threatening my life. He wanted the shirt my husband took from him.” She glanced at Val. He sent all the love and courage he had to her. “The bloodstained shirt,” she said.
The court exploded in shouts and speculation again, and it took Fielding some time to calm the cacophony.
Graham interposed, standing and declaring, before anyone could stop him, “What do you know about the bloodstained shirt?”
“He obtained it from the same place as the pin. From the bedroom of the girl whom Kellett whipped to death.”
There was little that would have quieted the gallery now. Until Mr. Fielding, in stentorian tones threatened to have the public gallery cleared, the noise was almost unbearable.
Val’s head swam. He had lived every moment of that session with her, urged her on, encouraged her, and prayed that she would not be forced to open her vulnerabilities to public glare. And best of all, she had not confessed to the killing.
Under the sound, he said to Graham, “Don’t let her go on. We have other witnesses. I do not want her connected in any way with those events.”
Graham raised a brow, but Val was adamant. And so, as it turned out, was Mr. Fielding. When he had brought the court under control, he said he would hear no more speculation. Unless Lady Shaw was present at the house of ill repute, he would not accept any evidence from her.
“I can say that my husband had a bloodstained shirt that had the laundry marks and the initials of Lord Kellett,” she said, her chin high, in answer to a question from Graham. However, after that, she was dismissed. Her answers were too dangerous for the prosecution. Val was deeply grateful that he had told her the truth.
The man the new Lord Kellett had engaged was good, and he did not give up. He brought witnesses to his predecessor’s good character to refute the allegations of bad behavior, and slowly won the tide of regard. He cast scorn on the Emperors of London and their clique, as he called it, making it sound more like a power-hungry club than a group of relatives acting together for their own good.
Graham could not make headway, although he, too, argued cogently. But he had saved the best of his witnesses for last. “Mr. Desmond Trotter!”
Mr. Trotter, dressed respectably in wool and linen, took the stand. He held his hat in his hands, turning it round and round as he spoke. “I am a button maker, sir, presently owning a small business in the City. I employ two men and a boy. Until two years ago I had a wife, three daughters, and a son, but my youngest, Janey, moved away and said she would make her fortune. I confess that I told her to leave, fearing she might corrupt my other children, because she had decided on a life of sin. I never saw her again until three weeks ago, when the coroner called me to ask me to identify her body.” He swallowed, and tears glimmered in his eyes. “She looked like my little girl again, but her body was terrible. It was marked by cuts and bruises. She’d been whipped to the bone on her back. If it weren’t that she was left outside Mr. Fielding’s house, I wouldn’t have known what happened to her.” He glanced at Mr. Fielding.
Fielding nodded. “I was sorry to find her at my door in that state. The result of the case was that the girl was murdered. There were old marks on her body as well as fresh ones. On enquiry, we discovered that she was kept at a house of ill repute in Covent Garden for the exclusive use of one client. Lord Hervey Kellett.”
The court erupted, so much that Fielding couldn’t be heard for a minute or two, until he used his gavel and crashed his way into being heard. “We
are running late already. Anyone who creates more trouble will be ejected forthwith!” He had to repeat his threats twice more before the crowd quieted enough for him to speak again. “We have no proof that Lord Kellett inflicted the wounds on her that caused her death.”
Graham held up his hand. “I think that we might, my lord. I call Lord Valentinian Shaw!”
Finally, Val took the stand.
From his new position, he could see his parents sitting at the back of the gallery, his mother white-faced, wringing her hands, her family around her. The rest of the Emperors were scattered through the audience, but the gallery was packed.
He answered Graham’s questions. “Yes, I saw Janey Trotter on the night she died. I had heard that Lord Kellett went to the house, so I went with my brother and my cousin to talk to him. I saw him chase Janey down the stairs. She was bleeding badly from wounds to her back. Lord Kellett was shouting insults at her and telling her to come back. He had a bloody whip in his hand.”
The audience gasped as one.
Graham went on to the relationship between Val and Kellett. “I was disturbed that if I broke the marriage contract, my betrothed would find herself wed to a brute. I refused to break it and consequently married her. Kellett was not pleased and threatened me several times.” He went on to describe the duel, and then he felt it. He had the audience with him. Whether Mr. Fielding would agree was another matter but the mob had been known to change the outcome of a case. He went on to describe the day of Kellett’s death, as well as he could. With Graham’s expert guidance, he described the scuffle and the nature of the weapons. When he’d finished, he went back to his place. He was shaking.
Mr. Fielding banged on his desk. That bench must be covered with dents. Someone had put a polished inch-thick piece of wood over the surface, but he missed it more often than not. “Are there any other witnesses?”
“I have signed affidavits from Lord Darius Shaw and Lord Ivan Rowley, corroborating the events. They are available, should you wish to question them, sir.”
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