Swallowing, I looked toward Isaac, showing my gratitude and my apology.
A slight smile graced his lips as he raised his glass.
AFTER DINNER, Isaac, Mr. Whitney, and I stood when my father did. He threw his napkin on his chair and stared angrily at Isaac for a long moment before stalking from the room.
Mr. Whitney gave a low whistle. “I say, that was rather loving, wasn’t it?”
Isaac couldn’t have looked more urbane as he acknowledged Mr. Whitney with a look that suggested he didn’t know the half of it. “Jameson,” Isaac said softly, “would you be so kind as to show Julia to my snuggery? I’d like to give Whitney a quick tour of London House.”
Mr. Whitney started to gather his notes. “There’s no need for that. I’d rather—”
Isaac spun toward him. His voice came out sharper. “The house is at your disposal, and you’re going to need to know your way around. Allow me to show you the shortcuts to the library, if nothing else.”
Mr. Whitney’s brown eyes rolled in my direction for a second before he slowly said, “All right. That is, if my client agrees. After all, I’m being paid rather handsomely for my time.”
Isaac loosened and turned my way. “Would you mind?”
It was obvious Isaac wished to speak to Whitney alone, and it was insulting to me that he didn’t simply say so. Had it not been Isaac, and had he not gone out of his way to aid me, I’m not sure I would have been gracious. I drew a deep breath, wondering if this was how everyone had previously treated Evelyn.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said.
Jameson led me past the smoking chamber and down a passage I’d not yet explored. I touched the walls, remembering how Kate said she used Isaac’s snuggery during the day. I hadn’t even asked to see it. I sighed, realizing what little attention I had given Isaac during those long months.
When I reached the snuggery, I was amazed that Isaac had allowed me unhindered access to his private haven. For it would have been less intimate had I explored Isaac’s bedchamber. I’d seen that chamber daily as I passed it in the hall. Neat, orderly, nothing ever out of place. Apart from the occasional book on his nightstand, it was nearly devoid of personal effects.
This room was different.
The scent of Isaac, a blending of his soap and musk, filled the chamber. I turned my mouth downward, surprised to find his smell brought comfort. It brought back memories of dancing in ballrooms, reading books late into the night, and the hours he’d painstakingly taught me how to walk, address fellow peers, even bow to the queen.
Acute pain washed over me.
I realized I’d not yet dealt with the grief of our prior relationship, and that being inside this room was forcing me to confront it.
A lamp, which had been keyed low, spread a weak light through the chamber. Two high-back chairs upholstered in faded material faced a hearth, but the room was so small, they barely managed to fit. I gave a laugh of disbelief. Why on earth would Isaac choose such a tiny, cramped space when he could have asked for any room in London House? Surely my father would have accommodated him with any furnishings that he wanted as well.
A stack of etiquette books for the young man were piled on his desk, found immediately on my left. I ran my finger down their spines, realizing the extent of Isaac’s hardship. He must have had to make one hard choice after another since our arrival. The fact that he’d nearly vanished once he saw that Edward and my father were getting along fine only bespoke his integrity and character.
Without intending to, my eyes took in the other books on a shelf above the desk. Theology. History. Latin. Economics. Papers sat upon the desk with handwriting so tight it was scarcely legible. On the wall next to the shelves were miniatures in gilded circles. They were of his mother, Kate, and . . .
I leaned forward, gaining my first view of Ben. How could I not laugh at the bizarreness of it? There was no other way to describe this except to say it was akin to seeing Isaac’s face lit up with Henry’s personality. The easygoing and amused expression in the portrait did not suit Isaac’s seriousness. Yet . . . there it was.
I bit my lip, wondering if I’d finally figured out how Lady Josephine had surprised Isaac with that fore-edge painting. Perhaps Ben had been the model. It could even explain why the monster looked so much like the ancient oak. Perhaps that’s where Ben posed, in order to keep it a surprise. Fascinated, I removed Ben’s miniature from the wall and touched his visage with my fingertip. Perhaps this was Isaac as he was born to be—carefree and happy.
I replaced it, knowing it was folly to even dwell upon it. This wasn’t my business.
Shutting out my thoughts, I forced my dress to squeeze between the chairs and took a seat to wait. I closed my eyes and gave myself permission to ache a bit.
Within a quarter hour, the pleasant voices of Mr. Whitney and Isaac approached the door. They sounded as two old friends ought—each comfortable with the other. Isaac entered first, his expression giving no hint to his thoughts as he paused to study me sitting in his snuggery. “Here, let me clear my desk for your things,” he said over his shoulder, then stepped aside.
Whatever Isaac had said privately to Mr. Whitney had not changed his demeanor. He watched me with an expression of respect as he set his satchel on the floor and untucked the rolled papers from beneath his arm. “My word,” he said, eyeing the low ceiling. “Perhaps we should meet in the cupboard in my chambers, as it might be less cramped.” He grinned at me. “Perhaps it’s the real reason why—” he leaned in the direction of the floor vent and in a loud voice said—“your husband suggested we meet here. So we’re too packed together to plan a real defense.” Then, tugging on his collar, he looked at Isaac. “It’s stuffy too.”
Isaac shrugged off his frock coat and piled it over the floor vent, then waved for Mr. Whitney to give him his.
“Better,” Mr. Whitney said, loosening his cravat.
Next Isaac piled some of the books on top of the coats. “Think that’s thick enough?”
Mr. Whitney chuckled. “This certainly promises to be one of the most interesting cases of my life. Who even conceives of taking such measures? I’m beginning to pity the poor devil. Mr. Macy’s mind must never rest. How do you suppose he manages to sleep?”
My stomach dropped as I considered the ease with which Macy had interacted with me while we were in Eastbourne.
“Pick a servant whom you both agree you can trust,” Mr. Whitney said after a moment’s consideration. “We’ll keep the coats there and give orders that no other staff member is allowed near the other end of that vent. We’ll ask that servant to guard it and make certain no one is tempted to eavesdrop. I need to know that what Mrs. Auburn confides in me isn’t heard by anyone without scruples.”
“Jameson,” I said quickly. “I trust only him.”
“I was thinking James,” Isaac said.
I shook my head. “Macy has told me that more than one servant here is loyal to him. Jameson served my husband and came with me. I trust him alone.”
Mr. Whitney eyed Isaac.
“Someone said they were willing to testify that you pretend you’re a faerie queen,” Isaac said softly. “What servant except Jameson could say that? That’s why I want James.”
Mr. Whitney’s eyes widened, though he tried to hide it.
My cheeks burned but I didn’t address it, for trying to explain would make me sound nervous and more deranged. “I don’t care. It wasn’t Jameson. I’m certain of it. I only want him there.”
“Jameson it is, then,” Mr. Whitney said before Isaac could speak. Then, with a friendly smile, “This is her case. It’s her decision.”
Something unspoken passed between them. For Mr. Whitney’s part, he seemed to be asking what on earth Isaac thought he was about. It sobered Isaac too, for he ducked his head. “Of course. I’ll go find Jameson and ask if he’ll sit beneath the vent and guard it for us.”
Mr. Whitney’s laugh was musical, infectious even. “They’re never going
to believe this at the Inner Temple.” When alone with me, Mr. Whitney opened the middle drawer of Isaac’s desk and began to search for a pen. “While he’s gone, I need you to carefully review every secret you’ve been guarding. It is to your own detriment to hide even one, whether it seems important or not.” He selected an ebony pen and studied its tip. “The law is my expertise. I am not here to judge you. It doesn’t matter to me what you’ve done or haven’t done. As far as you are concerned, I am your priest, your diary, and your dearest friend combined. Truth alone aids you. Not Isaac. Not Reverend Auburn. Not your father.” He looked at me to make sure I understood the gravity. “As far as England is concerned, you’re a bigamist. Open-and-shut case. I sense, however, there is a much bigger picture behind the scenes.” He arched his brows, waiting for a response.
I gave a nod.
He angled the chair at the desk so he could view me, then set out an inkwell and his pen. He gestured to them and then to the fire. “So is there anything you would like to tell me while Isaac isn’t here and Jameson might not yet be listening?”
I froze, understanding him. Though I tried to look nonchalant, I felt my chest begin to rise and fall as I considered communicating the impossible.
“Think carefully,” Mr. Whitney said. “I need to know if you’re hiding anything at all.”
I made my decision in the blink of an eye and acted on it before I could change my mind. Rising, I leaned over the arm of the chair, picked up the pen, and dipped it in the inkwell.
Macy is Adolphus, I scrawled, my heart racing faster. He is also an impostor—a gypsy named Rainmayer. No proof. No one else will testify.
Mr. Whitney understood the solemnity of accusing Macy of being Adolphus, for he stared at that word the longest before giving me a look of mute astonishment. I can only imagine how terrifying that prospect must have been to him. That week alone, a magistrate investigating a crime connected to that name had disappeared, and the prostitute he’d questioned just prior underwent a gruesome murder. The grisly way her corpse had been altered served as warning to London’s underworld about double-crossing Macy’s crime syndicate.
“He murdered my mother,” I said softly. “I know he did.”
“Hmm,” was Mr. Whitney’s reply before he picked up an entire stack of papers and threw them on the coals. His eyes were troubled as he retook his seat at the desk.
Over the next five hours, I learned why Mr. Whitney carried such long rolls of paper. He questioned every aspect of my life. To say that he was thorough is an understatement. He tacked one end of the paper near the doorway, and then, because Isaac’s snuggery was so small, he unrolled the paper around the corner where he tacked the other end. He started with my birth. Who was present. Who witnessed it. Who visited Mama afterwards, as if I knew. Which parish book and which registry the birth was recorded in. Was I certain? Would the vicar be willing to testify I was that child? Could I have been switched at birth?
He asked about my stepfather’s church attendance—and then he ordered every one of William’s books and pamphlets either to be fetched from the library or to be added to the list of books he needed. He moved to Mama’s church attendance, and then mine. Was I certain I was baptized? Could Sarah have lied about that point? Was I certain the vicar had truly taken orders? Was there proof he had?
He questioned every aspect of my relationship with Edward. When had we first met? Shared our first kiss? Declared our love? How many times exactly had we played together as children? How many times exactly after the age of twelve? When had we become engaged—and I needed to be more exact on the date; it was important. How many letters had passed between us? How many secret messages through Elizabeth, then?
Each subject had a different-colored thread and a matching push tack. Using his cigarette papers, Mr. Whitney would jot down every fact and add it to the timeline. He chose blue for Edward’s and my relationship. Long after he’d finished questions about us and moved on to Lady Foxmore, I noticed that Isaac’s eyes trailed down the blue track over and again. His eyes would fixate on certain points and he’d grow thoughtful, likely filling out his own story. For example, I know now that Edward and I had become engaged around the same time Lady Josephine gave him his eighteenth birthday present. How strange it must have felt to sit there and know that as he made pledges to find and marry me, I was betrothing myself to another. To my chagrin, when we charted my time with Isaac, he alone knew the exact dates we’d met, made our first public appearances, kissed, and the date of our engagement contract.
Once Mr. Whitney had my life charted, he stood back and examined it with his hands on his hips. The back of his shirt was soaked as he stared, waiting to see if there were any other questions he could ask.
I eyed Isaac’s timeline, realizing his was the shortest one in my life. Even Macy’s stretched longer than his did. Sadness filled me as I suspected that if Whitney charted Isaac’s life, I would have been present in his thoughts throughout most of it because of Lady Josephine’s scheming.
“Hmm,” was Mr. Whitney’s conclusion once he’d stared at his completed timeline for a solid half hour. He drew a deep breath. “I need to think, but my thoughts are sluggish.”
Isaac chuckled and glanced at the clock. “No wonder. It’s past three in the morning.”
Mr. Whitney turned and gazed at the clock and made a noise of disgust, then ran his fingers through his hair. “It can’t be that late! We haven’t accomplished everything I needed to cover today. We only have until July before the courts are in session again.”
“We’ll get more accomplished if we sleep, then tackle it in the morning.” Isaac rubbed his eyes. “We can’t keep going like this.”
Mr. Whitney frowned, walking along my timeline. He touched various tacks and papers, deep in thought. “Mrs. Auburn, can you tell me what Goodbody was preparing for the case?”
I stiffened, feeling ill.
“Insanity,” Isaac supplied for me.
Mr. Whitney spun as if in disbelief. A sheen of perspiration coated his brow and caught in the light. He removed his spectacles and polished them on his untucked shirt before slumping on the hard wooden chair at the desk. “Madness? On what evidence?”
I hugged my arms to myself, unwilling even to speak this.
“Pierson was ready to claim that Macy was right, that she’s unstable, but not because of his influence. Hutchinson—you know, the one who runs the asylum in Bromley Grove—was making room for her.”
“Brilliant,” Mr. Whitney whispered. “Absolutely, impossibly brilliant.” He replaced his spectacles and leaned forward. “Does your father have the same knowledge you do?” He nudged his head toward the ebony pen, causing Isaac to narrow his eyes.
Hopelessness tingled along my spine, for I half guessed where this was going. “Half. The first part, at least.”
Mr. Whitney sat back and looked at Isaac, who continued to study us with a hint of suspicion. “My word! I don’t know whether to credit Lord Pierson for being the worst father or the most brilliant politician in the country. No common soul would choose that path, but it’s bold and genius.”
“It’s not an option,” Isaac said quietly.
Mr. Whitney’s expression begged that he’d reconsider his stance.
“She won’t survive it,” Isaac said. “It’s that simple. No.”
“Survive it?” Mr. Whitney leaned forward and spoke so low that he formed his words carefully, allowing us to read his lips. “Is Macy Adolphus, Isaac?”
Gravely meeting his eyes, Isaac gave a single nod.
Mr. Whitney spread his hands helplessly as if to ask how Isaac thought I’d survive that.
“The answer is no,” Isaac repeated, rising and placing a protective hand on the back of my chair.
Mr. Whitney studied Isaac’s stance, then drew a deep breath before rubbing the back of his neck. “All right. Give me some time to think about our case.” He directed his next question at me. “It’s quarter after three on the dot. Is five hours o
f sleep enough?” Before I could answer, Mr. Whitney raised his gaze, where Isaac must have shaken his head. “Fine. Six hours, then. I’ll meet you here in the morning.”
“There’s a chamber next to mine that you’re welcome to use.” Isaac reached behind him and tugged the bell cord three times.
Mr. Whitney packed his satchel, his brow furrowed. “No. I desire to speak with other bar members. But I’ll be here first thing in the morning.”
THE RATTLE of Miss Moray’s keys woke me the following morning. Opening my eyes, I turned and squinted, prepared to tell her that I desired more sleep. Behind her, Nancy stepped into the chamber and, with a gaping mouth, surveyed the room as if she’d never seen it. Miss Moray clanked down a service for one on my nightstand. “Your lawyer has been standing in the foyer for the last seven minutes, timing your slumber.” Her tone grew sarcastic. “Apparently now is the exact time to wake you.”
I glanced at the clock and found it was quarter past nine.
“Because your girl is mute, I’m delivering his message. You’re to meet in Master Isaac’s snuggery.” Her mouth pursed in anger, and she turned and minced from the chamber.
I plopped back into the feather mattress, wondering what would happen if I ignored Mr. Whitney and kept sleeping. It wasn’t as if he could barge in here.
“Right.” Nancy planted a hand on her hip when we were alone. “Thou best get a move on, then.”
I pulled the downy comforter over my face. “One would have thought the workhouse might have given you better manners.”
“Aye, just like being the Emerald Heiress has made thou less lazy.” Her voice carried near my wardrobe. “If thou wants me to have better manners, thou’ll have to let me play the heiress, while thou learns how to get out of bed at th’ workhouse.”
Despite myself, I laughed beneath the covers, feeling the air grow humid. “I’m glad we’re together again.”
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