by Ariel Atwell
“I would return to my family without a moment’s regret, but I cannot abandon my four children to such a monster,” Lady Arundel cried. “He has said that if I leave, he will never let me see them again. Please, sir, won’t you help me?”
“I will do everything possible to assist you, my lady,” Laurence said somberly. “You have my solemn vow.”
It was a pledge, Laurence soon discovered, that would be difficult to fulfill. Under the law, Lady Arundel could take no action against her husband.
“I’m sorry, my boy,” Edward said, shaking his head. “But wives and children are a man’s responsibility, and the courts will not interfere in family matters.”
“How is it possible that Lady Arundel could be nearly beaten to death and be threatened with the loss of her home and children for no reason and not have any legal recourse?” Laurence asked, growing more outraged each time she thought of her client’s battered countenance.
Edward patted Laurence on the shoulder sympathetically. “It speaks well of your character that you wish to help a lady in distress. But Lord Arundel is greatly respected. Some say he’ll be the next prime minister. Why would such a man do such a thing without provocation? She must have done something to deserve it.”
“With all due respect, sir, no one—particularly a woman—could do anything to deserve what Lady Arundel endured,” Laurence said heatedly.
“Pursuing anything against Arundel is a waste of time,” Edward counseled. “No good will come of it. As difficult as it may be, I advise you to let this matter go.”
Laurence was unable to take her father’s sage advice, for Lady Arundel’s ravaged face and tragic eyes continued to haunt her. But the laws were crystal clear, and, try as she might, she could find no avenue by which her client might prevail in a courtroom. Tomorrow she faced the sad task of telling the lady there was nothing to be done.
Although it was quite cold, she walked home that evening, deep in thought.
“A difficult day by the looks of it, sir,” Martin said sympathetically, helping Laurence off with her coat.
“You have no idea, Martin.” Laurence sighed heavily and turned toward the library.
“A right shame about Lady Arundel, ain’t it? She’s one of the few who’s as kind as she is beautiful,” Martin remarked, his tone so casual that it took a few moments for the words to register in Laurence’s weary brain.
Laurence stopped in midstride and spun around to stare at the servant. “What do you know about Lady Arundel?”
“Word gets around, faster than you might think,” Martin replied. “Them lords and ladies think no one knows their secrets. But there’s always talk, especially among servants.”
“Is there, now?” Laurence asked curiously, wondering in which direction this conversation with her normally taciturn butler was heading. And what other secrets he might know. “What do the servants say about Lady Arundel?”
“Some have maybe wondered why a great man like Lord Arundel would see fit to abuse his wife. Maybe feeling guilty for his own devious crimes?” Martin offered.
“And what sort of devious crimes might cause a great man to behave in such a brutal manner?” Laurence asked slowly.
“I am sure I wouldn’t have any ideas about that, sir,” Martin replied, but there was a look in his eye that told Laurence he knew more than he was revealing.
“Who might know, Martin?”
The servant hesitated. “There are some who say information about nearly everything and everyone can be had for a price from a certain lady. A Mrs. Cooper.”
“Do you believe this Mrs. Cooper knows something useful about Lord Arundel?”
“Could be, sir. Could be,” Martin said cryptically.
Laurence regarded Martin thoughtfully. “How would one go about locating this Mrs. Cooper?”
“I can take you to see her right now if you like, sir,” Martin said, a sly look on his face. “Although I’ll be warning you that she’s not in the smart part of town.”
“If she has information that could help poor Lady Arundel, I don’t care if she’s running a brothel,” Laurence declared.
Martin looked pained.
“She’s running a brothel?” Laurence asked weakly.
“It’s a fancy one,” Martin admitted. “Not so bad as all that.”
Laurence sighed. “Take me there.”
* * * *
Two weeks later, following a private meeting with Laurence Heath, Lord Arundel had a miraculous change of heart, agreeing that it would be best for all concerned if he were to provide Lady Arundel with a generous settlement and custody of their children.
“Better that than have his fellow peers discover that he had illegally traded with France during the war,” Laurence crowed to Martin that evening.
“Well done, miss…I mean, sir.”
Laurence gave him a sharp look.
“Do you know everything, then, Martin?” she asked.
“Most everything worth knowing, but that doesn’t mean I tell it all,” the servant replied with a smile. “You’ve always been good to me, and I look after me own.”
“Thank you, Martin,” she said. “That gives me enormous comfort.”
Lady Arundel never learned the exact reason behind her estranged husband’s abrupt turnaround, but she wrote a letter of thanks to Laurence expressing her “profound sense of gratitude for your invaluable assistance and support during the most trying days of my life.”
Word began to spread quietly among well-connected ladies of the ton of the young solicitor who was willing to take up cases on their behalf and who somehow managed to prevail against even the most recalcitrant of men. If the fortunes of a certain Mrs. Cooper were on the rise during the same time, well, there was no reason for anyone to connect a Kensington madam with a respectable solicitor like Laurence Heath.
“You’ve a nice way with the society ladies, my boy,” Edward said admiringly to Laurence. “But don’t be too good, or their husbands will stop paying our bills.”
“Of course, sir,” Laurence replied obediently, silently vowing to make sure that her more unorthodox methods for resolving legal matters for the firm’s female clients remained well concealed from her father and the other partners.
* * * *
When Edward Heath died unexpectedly three weeks before Laurence’s twenty-eighth birthday, there was no question among the remaining four partners who would take over as managing partner.
“It must be Laurence. It is what his uncle and grandfather would have wanted, after all,” they agreed.
A few days after Edward Heath’s will was read, Laurence was summoned to the home of his father’s widow.
“I understand you are my late husband’s nephew and heir,” Mrs. Heath said by way of greeting, no trace of warmth in her voice. Dressed in her widow’s weeds, she was seated on a sofa in the drawing room. She did not invite Laurence to sit down.
“Yes, madam,” Laurence said, bowing in polite deference to the woman who had been her father’s wife for forty years.
“Quite interesting, since my husband’s only brother died of typhoid at the age of ten,” said Mrs. Heath, giving Laurence a critical look. “Yet the family resemblance is remarkable.”
Laurence had no ready response to that, for she could see the other woman knew the truth of the matter and despised her for it.
“For reasons that shall remain an eternal mystery, my dear husband saw fit to leave you in charge of the firm and of the financial affairs of this family,” Mrs. Heath said, her lips pulled as tied as the drawstrings on a lady’s reticule. “Never mind that he had five sons-in-law.”
“I am honored that Uncle Edward trusted me with such an important responsibility,” Laurence said.
Mrs. Heath’s eyes narrowed angrily. “Don’t play the innocent with me, for I know exactly who and what you are,” she spat out.
Laurence flinched as if she had been dealt a physical blow. “I am sorry—”
“You will be silen
t,” Mrs. Heath ordered. “For I have no interest in anything you have to say. Your sole purpose is to make certain that my daughters and I lack for nothing and that this household continues to run as it always has. Is that understood?”
“It is indeed, madam.” Laurence nodded.
“You will leave now and never return, for I will not have our family home sullied by the presence of my late husband’s by-blow,” Mrs. Heath said.
“That will be difficult, for according to the terms of the will, I am to personally deliver your household funds to you here each quarter,” Laurence said.
The expression of frustration and anger that flashed across Mrs. Heath’s face was so raw that for a moment Laurence almost pitied her.
“Fine,” the older woman said at last. “You shall be permitted into my home each quarter on this date and at no other time. Is that understood?”
So much for my invite to Christmas dinner with the family. “As you wish,” Laurence said, bowing and turning away, desperate to be gone from this place and this woman.
* * * *
Under Laurence’s leadership, Heath & Heath’s reputation as one of the City’s best firms continued to grow. When the Earl of Bewleton went looking for a new solicitor, no one was surprised when he selected the firm.
“I want the best of everything,” the Earl had told Laurence. “To hell with the cost.”
“Of course, sir,” Laurence had said. “Heath & Heath is here to provide you with whatever you wish.” It was a promise that she would come to regret dearly.
Chapter Three
“Your signature goes right here, Lady Bewleton,” said Laurence, gesturing at the sheet of parchment that lay on the desk. The Earl of Bewleton was barely cold in his grave, and here was his widow doing what no woman should have to do to survive.
“Thank you, Mr. Heath,” she said. And with regret, Laurence watched as Catherine Corvedale, widow of the Earl of Bewleton, signed her name to the document. As hard as Laurence had tried, she had been unable to persuade the late earl to stop the ruinous spending that had bankrupted his family and was now forcing his widow to enter into an illicit liaison with the Marquess of Huntley.
The contract had been written by Huntley’s solicitor in a deliberately vague manner, stating only that the debts owed by the estate of Charles Corvedale would be forgiven in their entirety upon the “satisfactory performance of certain personal services undertaken by Lady Bewleton at Lord Huntley’s direction over the seven-day period commencing 15 April…”
Laurence was no fool, knowing what sort of arrangement with Lady Bewleton would inspire a man like Huntley to forgive such a staggering debt. But if Huntley had any skeletons in his closet, Laurence had been unable to find them, despite the best efforts of Mrs. Arundel. Laurence was privately heartsick at her failure to come up with a plan for saving the lovely countess from such a degrading fate.
“A most unorthodox arrangement, my lady,” Laurence said somberly.
“As experience has no doubt taught you, Mr. Heath, there are times in life when one must be flexible in resolving one’s problems,” Lady Bewleton said, handing Laurence the freshly signed document.
“Indeed, my lady. We all must be ready to make…adjustments when facing difficult circumstances,” Laurence replied, carefully dusting the contract with powder to set the ink before rolling up the sheets of paper.
* * * *
Laurence was startled from her gloomy reverie over Lady Bewleton’s situation by a knock on the door to her private office.
“Come in,” she called out. The door opened to reveal Matthew Hastings. “Good evening to you, Hastings. It’s nearly eight o’clock. What is keeping you here at such a late hour?”
“I was preparing to leave, and I saw your light was still burning. I wondered if you might wish to join me for a bite of supper,” Hastings said.
Still smarting from her lack of success that day, Laurence was in no mood to socialize. She opened her mouth to decline the invitation but was forestalled by Hastings’s next words.
“I was hoping to get your thoughts on a matter I am working on for Lord Worrell,” Hastings said, sounding almost apologetic. “It’s a bit sticky, and I think your perspective could be valuable.”
Under the guise of stacking the papers on her desk, Laurence surreptitiously slid the file marked The Hon. Emmeline Winthrop out of Hastings’s view.
“Delighted to help if I can, Hastings. Let me just wind up a few things here and we can be off. Shall we go to my club? They make the best roast in London. The wine isn’t bad either.”
By necessity, Laurence had no close friends, and Matthew Hastings proved to be a more interesting dinner companion than she had anticipated, particularly given that he was from Manchester, which tended to be a bit provincial compared to London. But Hastings possessed a lively intellect and wit and was easy to talk to. Truth be told, he wasn’t exactly difficult to look at either, what with his dark hair and blue eyes. He was downright handsome, in fact. And each time their eyes met, Laurence felt something. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but it was definitely something. Not that she cared about such things, of course. Her work had been and would always be the primary focus of her life.
“Be a good boy, Laurence, and your father will always love you…”
* * * *
She had been eight years old when she had first seen her father with his other family. Laurence and her mother, Nell, had been walking past the shops on Bond Street enjoying a warm autumn afternoon when she had spotted her father’s carriage in front of a shop on the next corner.
“Look, Mummy, it’s Father,” she had cried out excitedly.
“Laurence, no, you mustn’t—” her mother said, but it was too late, for Laurence had broken free from Nell’s grasp and was racing down the block toward Edward.
“Father, it’s me, Laurence,” she shouted. She was dressed in a sailor suit, and she waved her arms madly to catch his attention, her skinny legs pumping as fast as they could to carry her down the cobblestone walkway.
Drawing closer, she could see he was smiling at a little girl as she emerged from the carriage. The girl was just about Laurence’s age and dressed in a frothy pink dress with a giant bow holding back golden curls that streamed down her back.
When Edward looked up at last and saw Laurence dashing toward them, he froze, the look of dismay on his face so clear that it stopped her in her tracks. Their hazel eyes, so alike in shape and color, met briefly, and Laurence knew her father had recognized her. But instead of greeting her affectionately as he normally did, Edward looked away as if he had not seen her at all.
“Come along, Violet. I will buy you a sweet for being so good with your lessons,” Edward said loudly, taking the little girl by the hand and walking into the sweetshop without once looking back.
Laurence barely had a chance to register the sting of her father’s rejection when her arm was nearly yanked out of its socket from behind.
“What were you thinking to run away from me like that?” a breathless Nell said furiously, dragging a reluctant Laurence back down the street.
“It was Father, I saw him,” Laurence said, still not understanding why her father had not acknowledged her. “He saw me too, I know that he did. Who was that little girl he took in the sweetshop, Mummy?”
“I’ll explain when we get home, Laurence,” her mother promised with a sad look. “Come along now, and quit dragging your feet.”
Late that night, when Edward came to their house in Hans Town, Laurence heard her father shouting at her mother.
“Keep the little whelp away from my children, do you hear me, Nell, or I’ll make you sorry,” Edward said, his tone angrier than she’d ever heard before.
“I’m sorry, Eddie, the boy got excited about seeing you. It won’t happen again, I promise,” she heard her mother say tearfully.
”See that it doesn’t,” Edward said.
Laurence pulled the covers up over her head to drown out thei
r words. She had upset her father and put her mother at risk. It wouldn’t happen again, she vowed.
* * * *
“I see I’ve bored you into oblivion by going on about the books I am reading.”
Laurence blinked and looked up to see Matthew Hastings staring at her most earnestly from across the table.
“Not at all, Hastings. A bit of woolgathering. My apologies for being rude. You were saying again?”
In the end, Laurence found it to be a most enjoyable evening, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. They discussed current events, debated politics, and discovered a mutual disdain for snuff. Like Laurence, Hastings had been raised in a city, but had hopes of building a house in the countryside one day.
“Nothing huge, just a place where the air is clean and the boys can have some space to run about,” Hastings confided as they relaxed over glasses of brandy. “Although I suppose by the time I get around to actually doing it, they will be old enough to be giving me grandchildren.”
Laurence knew little about children but quite enjoyed seeing how animated Hastings became when talking about his sons.
“You have two boys, as I recall,” she said. She was just being polite, of course. She didn’t really care, did she? Surely not.
“My elder son Samuel is smart as a whip—takes after his mother, that’s for sure. Can be a bit too serious at times, so his brother is constantly needling him, but he is tops in his class at school. And nearly as tall as me these days,” Hastings said, his eyes shining with a mix of pride and laughter. “Lucas is the younger by two years and also growing like a weed. When he was just a tiny lad and would go missing, we’d always find him up in a tree or messing about where he shouldn’t be. He and his schoolmates claim to have invented a new type of football where they pick up the ball and run with it, if you can imagine that. He’s so mad for it that he can barely be persuaded to go to class these days. He’s a handful, that one.”
“He’s the one who takes after his father, then?” Heath asked, rather surprised at herself for posing such an impertinent question to someone who was nearly a stranger to her. Hastings did not take offense.
