One for the Rogue

by Charis Michaels

  She looked at Jocelyn and Elisabeth. “Could I impose on the two of you to accompany me to the office of my lawyer? I would be most grateful for your support. You may help me repeat the details just as they happened. Beau”—she paused and cleared her throat—“will likely not attend me, but I can ask him to mind Teddy with Stoker and Joseph.” The women agreed immediately, and Emmaline continued. “Ticking is a duke, but he is not the king. He is not God. He cannot incarcerate an innocent boy just because he feels cheated out of money that was never his.” Her voice grew stronger with each pronouncement. After glancing at the charging papers, she excused herself to check on Teddy.

  Jocelyn and Elisabeth watched her disappear down the kitchen stairs. They exchanged looks.

  “If he fails her . . . ” Mr. Courtland said.

  “Do not give up on him yet,” Elisabeth said. “He married her, and that is something you never thought he would do.”

  “Yes,” said Bryson grimly. “He married her. And now I pray God that she will not regret it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Desmond Wick, Emmaline’s lawyer, was forced to move two chairs from his reception space to his cramped office to accommodate the three women. Emmaline apologized, but she would have her friends beside her, despite the bother.

  Now they sat, shoulder to shoulder, the leg of Emmaline’s chair propped onto the bottom rung of Mr. Wick’s bookshelf. Emmaline held to the arms of the chair to keep from sliding onto the floor. If Mr. Wick thought it was odd that she’d arrived with two friends instead of her new husband, he gave no indication.

  “None of our previous work matters, compared to my brother’s safekeeping, Mr. Wick,” Emmaline had told him straightaway. “Not the books or America, not Teddy’s inheritance, nothing. Can you help me?”

  The young lawyer assured her that he would try. Inexperienced but hard-working, Mr. Wick had been the only lawyer willing to take on the exceedingly risky and wholly unorthodox work of setting up Emmaline’s book export business behind the back of the Duke of Ticking, and she’d hired him for that reason alone.

  By dumb luck or providence (or a little of both), he’d turned out to be proficient and thorough, and best of all, he seemed to actually believe in her dream. At times, Emmaline had been so grateful for Mr. Wick that she strove to succeed in America to reward his loyalty as much as she did for herself and Teddy. Certainly, she would not have won her chance at freedom from the duke without Mr. Wick’s discreet research into her late husband’s will, the estate of her parents, and the delicate exchanges required to deal with her father’s board of trustees.

  Now she hoped Mr. Wick could apply this same diligence and cunning to help her fight for Teddy’s very life.

  “What do you make of the charges, Mr. Wick, and what can I do to counter them?”

  “Right,” he said, looking up. “I confirmed what I knew of the process as soon as I received your note. It appears that the Duke of Ticking has reported the alleged attack to the magistrate in Bow Street and suggested that Teddy’s mental state is to blame. For whatever reason, the duke does not wish to see him jailed so much as locked away in an asylum. The presence of this Dr. Vickery speaks to this.”

  “Why would he care, if his goal is to spite me?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say he believes he may still have some access to Teddy’s inheritance if he controls the boy’s future.”

  “Good Lord,” said Emmaline, “he will stop at nothing.”

  “Regardless, we shall carry on as if this is true,” said Wick. “Since we know that Teddy does suffer from mental challenges but is not a threat—and furthermore, we know that he did not lay a finger on the duke’s son—we can assume that His Grace’s influence and rank have Bow Street hopping to do whatever he suggests. Despite the fairness of the officers on the case, we may also assume that the duke’s influence will prevail. I should warn you; this influence may extend to the court as well.”

  Beside Emmaline, Elisabeth nodded. “Bryson wielded his authority and rank in much the same way before he abdicated the title to Beau. All for the greater good, of course. He was careful not to abuse his power. But I have seen the effect of a nobleman turning up in a government office. Municipal clerks and even supervisors scramble to do his bidding.”

  “Yes . . . ” mused Mr. Wick, glancing at Emmaline and then away.

  The lawyer was thinking of Beau, she knew. In addition to her extreme worry for Teddy, Emmaline swam in an entirely separate pool of dread for her husband. What official and lordly thing would be expected of him during the proceedings?

  She’d seen Beau in the mews before they’d departed for Mr. Wick’s office. She’d come to say good-bye to Teddy, and her husband had been there too. In low, serious tones, he was explaining the situation to Joseph and Stoker while her brother fed an apple to a horse in the end stall. They had shared several long, heartfelt looks across the stable. From those looks, Emmaline did not doubt his worry for her or his outrage at Ticking. But he had volunteered nothing. Not to join her in the office of Mr. Wick. Not an encouraging word. She told herself this should come as no surprise.

  “If the officer decides that the charge has some merit,” Mr. Wick was saying, “then he will have little choice but to make an arrest.”

  Emmaline sucked in a breath. They could not take Teddy from her and lock him in a cell, not even for a day.

  “But never do fear,” Mr. Wick said. “We will have anticipated this, and I shall go immediately to the magistrate and ask to post bail so that Teddy may remain in your care until a trial.” He waved a dismissive hand. “I have every reason to believe this shall be granted. It happens often enough, and Teddy has lived with you, without incident, since the death of your parents. After we post bail and both sides are given time to prepare, all parties shall reconvene for a hearing. The judges chosen to hear the case will be advised by or have personal experience with the types of so-called ‘crimes’ associated with lunacy or alleged lunacy.”

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Of course, I cannot guarantee a good result, but I have every confidence that we will win the day, considering . . . ”

  “Considering what?” asked Emmaline.

  “Considering the Duke of Ticking appears to have fabricated the entire story. A lie is a lie, isn’t it?” He sifted through papers on his desk. “The duke’s claim is that Teddy attacked his child, a son, name of Orin?” He looked up. “Can you tell me the approximate age of this child?”

  Emmaline ran through a mental role of Ticking’s children. “Orin is ten or eleven, I believe.”

  Mr. Wick made a note of this. “Right. Not the heir?”

  “Oh, no, there are at least six or seven male children before him.”

  Mr. Wick made a face but said nothing. “And you’ve said that you saw young Orin at breakfast the day of your wedding, which was the last day Teddy had direct access to the boy, and Orin appeared entirely unharmed.”

  “Entirely.”

  Wick nodded. “Presumably, the duke will present some sort of physical evidence of the attack to the court. Healing bruises . . . a scabbed-over gash . . . that sort of thing. Is there any chance that the duke would go so far as to mark the child himself; that is, knock him around a bit, to give the appearance of harm?”

  Emmaline thought about this and then shook her head. “I’m doubtful the duchess would allow it. She dotes on her sons. Would he really mark his own child, just to spite me?”

  “God knows what these people might do, my lady,” sighed Mr. Wick, making another note. “But if the boy arrives in court with no discernible injury, His Grace’s charge will rely on the testimony of any witnesses who may have seen the alleged attack, calling on others to corroborate what happened. In this instance, it will be your word—and the word of your own witnesses—against his.” Wick sat back in his chair and tossed his pen down.

  “But his word is a complete lie,” said Emmaline.

  “This may
be true, but the fact still remains that he’s a duke, isn’t he? I don’t have to tell you what that means.” Wick spun in his chair again, staring at the ceiling. “Can you think, Lady Rainsleigh, of whom we might call to testify on Teddy’s behalf? Likely, the duke will call members of his family, the household staff, and certainly this doctor. If I had to guess, I’d say they ambushed Miss Breedlowe in the park so that Dr. Vickery could claim to have ‘examined’ Teddy without perjuring himself, per se.”

  Emmaline nodded, thinking of their very small circle of friends. “Well, Miss Breedlowe could testify, of course. And then there is his lifelong valet, Mr. Broom. Also Elisabeth and Mr. Courtland—”

  “I should warn you,” Mr. Wick cut in, “that any public opposition to the Duke of Ticking by the Courtlands may result in harmful repercussions from the duke. We need only look at the matter before us to see how unpleasant His Grace can be if he feels thwarted.”

  Elisabeth sat up in her chair. “Please be advised that Bryson and I are not afraid of the Duke of Ticking,” but Emmaline held out a hand.

  “No,” she said. “Mr. Wick is correct. I will not risk Bryson and Elisabeth’s reputations for this.”

  “What of the risk to Jocelyn?” Elisabeth protested. “Or Mr. Broom, for that matter? We cannot all hide from this person.”

  “Miss Breedlowe and the valet,” cut in Mr. Wick, “have far less to risk than you do, Mrs. Courtland, if you don’t mind my saying. It is far less satisfying to bankrupt a valet than it is a shipping magnate such as your husband.”

  “It’s settled,” said Emmaline. “We shall build our defense without the testimony of Elisabeth or Bryson. The witnesses shall be me, and the doctor who treated Teddy as a boy in Liverpool . . . perhaps some other old friends from home, Miss Breedlowe, if I might impose on her, and Mr. Broom.”

  “Right,” Mr. Wick said, spinning his chair right and left. “And what of your new husband, if you don’t mind my asking? To be frank, I believe the most resounding testimony might come from the viscount. Not only is he a man, but he’s a titled gentleman. This . . . this is our best chance to face down a duke. Not a caretaker or a valet—or even you, for that matter, because you are a woman. If I had to guess, the whole affair will take place in the House of Lords—not the main chamber, of course, but in one of the courts of justice reserved for conflicts among the peerage. Members of Parliament who sit on the committee that regulates lunatic care usually preside over these types of cases, I’ve learned. Considering the elevated rank of the duke and his colleagues in the Lords, there is chance that, as women, you and Miss Breedlowe would be permitted only the most limited of testimony. But a viscount . . . ” Mr. Wick allowed the sentence to trail off.

  Emmaline felt her heart seize up, part by part. Of course, Mr. Wick’s assumption should come as no surprise, and she could not argue with the logic. But neither could she commit Beau to set foot in the House of Lords. To testify, even on behalf of Teddy, would be excruciating for him, and she had no idea if he could manage it. The truth was, she’d only known her husband for a month and a half. They’d been married for all of one day. Enough time, she thought, to fall in love, but not enough time to know if he could leave behind his bitterness and anxiety and testify in a court of law—no, not a court of law. The House of Lords.

  While Emmaline floundered, Elisabeth leaned forward and laid her gloved hands, side by side, on Mr. Wick’s desktop. “He will do it,” she said without a hint of doubt.

  “Excellent,” said Mr. Wick, snatching up his pen. “This is just what I hoped to hear.”

  Emmaline did not have the heart to challenge Elisabeth’s confidence. She did not have the heart to say anything at all.

  “Do not worry, Lady Rainsleigh,” continued Mr. Wick, newly invigorated. “You and the viscount, along with your fully exonerated brother, will be on the boat to New York City by the end of the month.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Beau stood in Bryson’s wine cellar, ten feet beneath the level of the street, staring at the rows of dusty bottles of wine that his brother would never drink. In the corner of the cellar, Bryson studied the labels of two bottles of Bordeaux.

  “Why do you own more bottles of priceless wine than you and Elisabeth will ever drink?” Beau asked.

  “For the same reason that you drink more cheap bottles than you need. It gives us something to do.” Bryson replaced both bottles and turned to scrutinize the opposite rack.

  Beau chuckled, wondering what his brother would do if he opened a bottle here and now and drank from the bottle.

  “Where is Teddy?” Bryson asked.

  “In the garden, breaking the ice off the surface of your goldfish pond. Stoker and Joseph are with him.”

  “You know the goldfish pond actually belongs to yo—”

  “Bryson, don’t,” Beau said on an intake of breath. “I will abandon this house to vagrants before I debate it with you again.”

  “Fine. We won’t debate. But please be advised that Elisabeth and I are moving across town. You’re married now; the house belongs to you and your wife. The staff is well trained and can help you along.”

  “You are aware we are about to sail to America for an undetermined amount of time.”

  “Then sell the bloody thing. But the house belongs to the viscountcy, and you are the viscount. You’ve a lady wife now. I’ve bought a house nearer to Elisabeth’s foundation. It’s no hardship for us. Elisabeth never loved this house, and I enjoy a new project.”

  Beau nodded. He hadn’t the energy or emotional stamina to argue about something so inconsequential. Not when there were so many more pressing things to say. “I suppose it’s all settled, then. Emmaline and I will remain here until we sail for New York. After that . . . I cannot say.”

  Bryson walked to the end of the aisle. “If you sell it, the money is yours to do with what you will.”

  Beau pinched the bridge of his nose. If the topic of conversation was not changed, he would bash a bottle of wine against the wall. “Bryson,” he began, “what of the idea of moving up our sail date for New York? What if . . . Emma and Teddy and I left next week? Or in four days? Or bloody tomorrow?”

  Bryson walked back to look at him. Beau continued. “The Duke of Ticking’s petty accusations cannot follow us all the way to New York. If we’re already meant to go, why linger under his nose, allowing him to torture us?”

  “Well, for one,” Bryson said, watching him, “the boat is not ready.”

  “You cannot tell me that you haven’t a single ship in your fleet that could see us to New York right away?”

  “I can tell you this, and I will. I’ve already shuffled our schedule well into next year, pulling a boat from another route to get her to New York in winter. But the ship needs repair. It cannot make the journey so soon after its last sailing. I’ve got men working long hours to prepare her, but I cannot, in good conscience, send Emmaline out to sea until it’s restored.”

  Beau could not argue the logic of this. He pulled a bottle of wine from the rack beside him and looked at the label, seeing nothing. “Of course.”

  “As wearying as it is, I believe the most prudent course of action is to remain in London and take on the Duke of Ticking. Clear the boy’s name. Leave so that you may return when you like without fear.”

  “I’m not afraid of Ticking.”

  “Well, you’re afraid of something.”

  This was, perhaps, the truest statement Bryson had ever made about him. He was sickeningly, excruciatingly, run-for-your life afraid. Of what? Too many things for him to manage and still sleep at night. His fears tended to pile in his gut until they reached his throat and choked him.

  Fear of failing. Failing in general and—this was a new development—fear of losing Emma in particular. Or disappointing her. Or both.

  Fear of saying or doing the wrong thing to protect Teddy.

  Fear of Emmaline’s damnable lists and accounts and questions about provisions.

  Fear
of the responsibility of this house.

  Fear of the responsibility of anyone but himself.

  Worst of all, fear of facing down the Duke of Ticking and losing.

  Of all the bloody crises to befall them, accusations by a bloody duke who put an innocent boy at risk? What were the odds that the alarming pattern of innocent boys, and dangerous calamity, and bloody members of the nobility would befall him again?

  Beau could fight, he could sail, he could rescue women and children from captivity and peril. But he could not go toe to toe with pompous, overeducated, underreasoned lordlings who’d been told since birth that they mattered more than anybody else. He could not. He’d tried it before and failed.

  How ironic that this was the one heroic deed that his new wife required. His beautiful, clever, forgiving, courageous wife. He could embody many roles as savior for her, but he could not embody this. Not without becoming a laughingstock and losing her brother to the horrors of a bloody asylum in the process.

  Beau took a deep breath and looked at his brother. He would expect an answer. He always expected an answer.

  “I am afraid of failing her,” Beau said. The situation seemed too bleak, for once, to joke.

  “The only way you can fail her is by running away.”

  “Not if I remain and make her situation worse.” This reply took no thought. When he tried to envision how or when they might confront the duke, he only saw himself saying the wrong bloody thing. Repeatedly.

  But he would not misspeak if he was not available to talk.

  “My God, Beau,” said Bryson, “please tell me you are not considering leaving her to face this alone.”

  Beau opened his mouth to tell him he didn’t know what he considered, but they heard footsteps on the cellar stairs, and they turned to see Emmaline bustle down.

  “Beau?” she called. “Are you there?”

  “Yes, here.” He glanced at his brother. Bryson stared back with a look that said, Don’t you dare. Beau looked away.