Bedchamber Games Page 3

  What if there is no great love waiting out there for me? No perfect, fated mate who will someday fill my days with joy.

  His siblings’ matrimonial success was mostly the result of luck, and Lawrence didn’t put much stock in such things, especially not when it came to himself. He far preferred relying on solid facts and unbiased reason. And the fact was that in the whole of his nearly twenty-nine years, he had yet to meet a woman with whom he wanted to spend more than a few weeks, let alone his entire life. Considering this Season’s new crop of debutantes and all the ones who had come before them, he didn’t believe that situation was likely to change.

  Not that he suffered from a lack of feminine companionship. Quite the contrary. His reputation as a rakehell was more than justly deserved. This year alone, he’d kept company with an amazingly limber ballerina, a lusty young widow who enjoyed having intimate relations in public locations, and one memorable night with a pair of opera singers who had wrung sounds from him he hadn’t realized he could make. But as pleasurable as those experiences might have been, he was no more in love with those women than he was the cloth-headed Society girls who made his eyes glaze over two seconds after they started to speak. So he’d decided with the same unemotional logic he employed as a barrister, if he wasn’t likely to marry for love, he might as well do so for convenience.

  When he first chose to train in the law, he’d done it as a bit of a lark, along with Leo, who’d seen no useful purpose in either of them joining the military during a time of peace or in entering the Church—an overly pious prospect that would have run in direct opposition to their lusty, irreverent natures. So rather than entering one of the usual professions for younger sons, they’d gone into the law. Unlike Leo, however, Lawrence had been instantly taken with the discipline. The law provided intellectual complexity and an ever-evolving challenge that he found fascinating. So by the time he’d earned his credentials, he knew he’d found his life’s calling. He’d also known that ultimately he would want to advance in the field, and what better, more satisfying means of achieving such a goal than to become a judge?

  And so his sights had turned to Justice Templestone’s pleasant and pretty daughter. He didn’t love her, but she would suit his needs and objectives.

  Even so, something held him back from making a firm commitment, some niggling awareness that told him to wait just a little while more. So he did, reassured that with the end of the Season still weeks away, there was plenty of time yet to decide.

  Lawrence looked at Leo, who appeared as if he wanted to say more.

  Before he could speak, Lawrence gave the wrist of one of his gloves another tug. “If you’ll both excuse me, I really do need to be on my way. Have a most enjoyable evening. You can regale me with the details of the play tomorrow over breakfast.”

  Thalia smiled gently, while Leo scowled at him with frustrated concern.

  Setting a finger to his hat brim in farewell, Lawrence went out the door.

  Chapter 3

  Three days later Rosamund strode into the busy courtroom alongside Bertram, her arms filled with legal books and papers, her dark robes whispering around her trouser-clad legs. On her head sat a tightly curled white barrister’s wig that had arrived only that morning from Ede and Ravenscroft. Her own queue of dark hair was tucked neatly inside the back of her jabot-style collar, the two rectangular white bands of which trailed down her shirtfront. Bertram was dressed in an identical style, the stark black-and-white lawyer’s attire serving only to heighten the peaked quality of his complexion.

  At least he’d stopped looking green, the way he had at the breakfast table before he’d hurried abruptly out of the room to be sick. She supposed she wasn’t faring a great deal better, her own stomach in knots.

  What if we’re caught? she kept thinking. What if someone discovers the truth?

  Then again, she’d spent an entire evening at Lincoln’s Inn, conversed at length with her tablemates over a four-course dinner, then stood before the entire company of barristers to recite the words necessary for her admittance to the Inn and no one had guessed. No one had pointed an accusing finger, unmasked her as a fraud and had her dragged away. Of course the barristers assembled at Lincoln’s Inn weren’t the same as a court that had the power to do far worse than kick her out of the building should her real identity become known. But she was already in too deep to turn coward now.

  And then there was Bertram.

  One look at him, as they found the way to the defense side of the advocates’ table, was enough to convince her that she was doing the right thing.

  Was he turning a little green again?

  If he stuck to the trial notes they had prepared and practiced with over the past two days, he ought to manage well enough. She only prayed he made it through the necessary witness testimony. There was no telling who the prosecution might call since they were not required to share such information. Nor were they required to provide copies of sworn depositions or even to provide evidentiary details that had been gathered against the defendant.

  Personally she took issue with the current legal notion that a “spontaneous defense” was the best way to ascertain the truth. But until the law could be amended so as to grant more rights to a defendant, they would have to work with what they had. At least it wasn’t a criminal trial, so Bertram didn’t have to worry he might be sending someone to their death if matters did not turn in their favor. And she would be here to help him in whatever way was useful, but most especially as moral support.

  She and Bertram took a seat at a large rounded table, their books and papers arranged before them. Clerks and court note-takers were making their own preparations nearby while the bailiff stood at the ready, waiting to call order to the court.

  With a few minutes yet to spare, Bertram reviewed his notes for the dozenth time, mumbling quietly under his breath, while she picked up an already sharpened quill pen and began to sharpen it again. As she did, she heard footsteps approach and stop on the opposite side of the table. When she looked up, her eyes widened as she gazed into the unforgettable face of Lord Lawrence Byron.

  She dropped the quill.

  “Good morning, counselors,” he said.

  Bertram’s head came up, his cheeks turning even paler as he registered the presence of their opposing counsel. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath his neck cloth. “G-good m-m-morning.”

  Inwardly Rosamund groaned. Bertram was even more anxious than she’d imagined.

  That did not bode well.

  She kept her own features as emotionless as possible and gave a short, though amicable, nod. “My lord. Good to see you again.”

  “And you as well, Mr. Carrow.”

  His robes, she saw, were of the finest quality, as was his wig. The tight white curls emphasized the powerful lines of his facial bones and turned his eyes an even more arresting hue of gold and green.

  She glanced away, forcing aside her reaction with a stern reminder that it wouldn’t do to be caught staring at him with an admiring feminine eye. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice.

  “I didn’t realize when we met the other evening that we would be facing each other across the advocates’ table today. Did you?” She added the last, curiosity getting the better of her.

  “No. Interesting, is it not, how these matters play out?” He laid down a thin sheaf of papers, a quill and what appeared, at least from an upside-down vantage point, to be a copy of the brief.

  Had he brought nothing else? Of course, with his notable record of winning cases, perhaps he didn’t feel the need for more. He had no cocounsel either, she noticed.

  “At least we have a sunny day for the proceedings.” He leaned back in his chair, looking completely at his ease. “This courtroom turns gloomy as a grave when the weather is inclement no matter how many candles may be lit.”

  At her side, Bertram nodded absently, his pal
lor even more pronounced. Lord Lawrence studied him for a moment, a hint of pity in his eyes.

  Rosamund’s shoulders stiffened at the look, her natural sense of protectiveness leaping to the fore. Bertram might not be as smoothly polished and glib of tongue as Lawrence Byron, but what he lacked in poise, he more than made up for with hard-fought determination and perseverance.

  Bertram would show him.

  So would she.

  “Your clients, I believe.” Rosamund gestured toward the public gallery above and the trio of elegantly attired gentlemen who had just entered with great fanfare. A pair of liveried footmen cleared the two front benches for their employers’ use, shooing off the others gathered so they were forced to squeeze into the rear seats or to stand. And then there was the silver-haired old matron, the late Mr. Vauxley’s great-aunt, who had accompanied them. Her expression was as stiff and uncompromising as her back was ramrod straight. The ostrich feathers on her elaborate bonnet obstructed what little view remained for those unfortunate enough to find themselves seated behind her.

  As Rosamund knew from her case preparation, the Vauxleys were a wealthy gentry family with connections to the peerage. They had brought suit against the young widow of the matron’s late son claiming that she was illegally in possession of several very valuable pieces of jewelry, two paintings and a racehorse, who was a favorite to win next month’s Derby—thus the interest from the public. The Vauxleys insisted that the items and the horse were part of the entail on her late husband’s estate and therefore belonged to the family. But Bertram and Rosamund’s client, Patricia Vauxley, insisted that they were all jointly held as personal property given by a husband to his wife. “It’s all rightfully mine,” she’d told them. And she would not relinquish any of it—not without a fight.

  Lord Lawrence turned his attention to Bertram. “There is yet time to settle, should your client agree. Young Mrs. Vauxley is waiting in the corridor to testify, I believe. I can wait if you wish to confer with her.”

  Bertram stared for a moment, then shot a sideways glance at Rosamund. She could read the mix of panic and longing in his eyes, knowing he wished to accept. The case, as they were both aware, was not going to be an easy one to win and a settlement, even at this late hour, would spare him the necessity of appearing in open court. But he knew as well as she did that the widow Vauxley wasn’t going to agree.

  Rosamund gave Bertram a barely perceptible shake of her head and watched his shoulders sink with resignation.

  “No, my lord. We shall p-proceed as planned,” Bertram said.

  Lord Lawrence graciously inclined his head. “As you wish.” His eyes returned to Rosamund. “Good luck, then, and may the best man prevail.”

  Or woman, she thought with a hint of inward satisfaction.

  For here she was in court, acting as cocounsel in a real legal proceeding. For a woman, it was a notable achievement, even if she and Bertram were the only ones aware of it.

  The bailiff called for order. The noise in the room abruptly died down, chatter ceasing so that only the rustle of clothes and a nervous cough disturbed the hush. Everyone stood as the judge entered from an antechamber and took his seat in a heavy wooden chair set high behind the bar. She, Bertram and Lord Lawrence bowed to the judge as a sign of respect to king and country before resuming their seats.

  Given the nature of the civil suit, there would be no jury. Instead the outcome would be decided by the judge, so it behooved the attorneys on both sides to remain in his good graces. She only hoped His Honor was a patient, receptive sort of man rather than the intolerant kind who might take a dim view of Bertram’s stutter.

  The trial began.

  Lord Lawrence stood and addressed the judge and those gathered, his smooth baritone voice carrying into the farthest reaches of the courtroom at an effortless pitch and volume. With cool, concise logic, he laid out the basic elements of the dispute and the legal justification for his position that the property in question ought to be returned to the possession of his clients.

  He began to call witnesses, starting with the solicitor, who had drafted the last-known revision to the Vauxley family entail; the family’s man of business, who had an intimate knowledge of the Vauxley Estate, its property and contents; and the head trainer for the racehorse. All three men testified that the valuables in question were part of the entail and that despite the sad and tragic demise of young Mr. Vauxley, whom everyone had admired and loved, his widow was not entitled to keep the property under dispute.

  When Bertram was given a chance to cross-examine the men, he declined on each occasion. “N-no q-questions, Y-Your H-Honor,” he said, voice quavering.

  With a stoic yet clearly confident expression, Lord Lawrence rested his case. The mood in the courtroom was quite plainly on his side.

  Then it was Bertram’s turn. Hurriedly he glanced through his notes one last time, including the two points that Rosamund had slid his way in reaction to the testimony just concluded. He rose to his feet, trying to hide his shaking hands within the folds of his robes.

  Rosamund sent him a bolstering look, willing him to be confident, as he began to call his own set of witnesses. He started with the widow Vauxley, whose dark eyes were wide and round with anxiety as she made her way into the witness box. She glanced around, clearly as uncomfortable as Bertram himself as she was sworn in.

  He had to start twice before he managed to make himself heard, the judge barking out a gruff order to “Speak up, man. Can’t decide on this case, if I can’t hear anything you say.”

  People in the gallery tittered, and a pair of onlookers catcalled rude remarks that sent color rushing into Bertram’s cheeks.

  The judge called for order and the room fell silent once more.

  “Good m-morning, Mrs. Va-Va-Vauxley. Thank you for appearing t-today. I o-only have a f-few qua-qua-qua-questions, so this sh-shouldn’t t-take long.”

  “It’ll take forever if ye keep stammering like that,” someone jeered from the gallery.

  Rosamund bristled, waiting for the judge to reprimand the miscreant. Across from her Lord Lawrence frowned, his jaw tight as he stared up into the crowd as if in search of the speaker.

  But the judge offered no chastisement. He simply waited for the outburst to die down before nodding to Bertram. “Counselor, you may continue.”

  Bertram’s extreme pallor had returned. Swallowing hard, he took a deep breath, then reached out for the leather-bound case that contained the jewelry.

  The set consisted of five pieces: necklace, bracelet, ring, earbobs and a tiara. They were all fashioned from gold, diamonds and sapphires and were valued at a substantial sum. During the earlier testimony, Lord Lawrence had entered the items into evidence together with the paintings—one a well-done oil of Mr. Vauxley, the other a landscape with a view of the grounds at the Vauxley country house and, of course, the racehorse.

  With the disputed property—all except the horse that remained stabled in Surrey—having been taken into safekeeping by an officer of the court prior to the trial, it was the first time Bertram or Rosamund had been able to see any of it firsthand.

  “M-Mrs. Vauxley. A-are these your j-jewels?” Bertram asked.

  “Objection,” Lord Lawrence said. “Ownership of the jewelry has not yet been established and is what we are here today to decide.”

  “Sustained,” the judge agreed. “Pray rephrase the question, Mr. Carrow.”

  Bertram wiped shaking fingers across his damp forehead before facing Patricia Vauxley again. He held out the case. “Are these ja-ja-jewels th-the o-ones that were in your possession p-prior to this t-trial?”

  She took a moment to study them. “Yes. Those are my jewels.”

  “Objection,” Lord Lawrence said. “The witness is once again asserting a right of ownership that has yet to be determined.”

  “Sustained.” The judge directed a look at Patr
icia Vauxley. “Madam, please refrain in future from saying you own the items under consideration. As the prosecution has stated, that is what we are convened to determine. Mr. Carrow, you may continue.”

  Bertram swallowed nervously and moved back to the advocate’s table to consult his notes. He shuffled through the cards and dropped two to the floor. Clearly flustered, he dove down to retrieve them.

  “Any time now, Counselor.” The judge tapped impatient fingers on the table in front of him.

  Bertram popped up again, his face the color of a sunset, pink all the way to the scalp. And he was sweating. Badly. “S-sorry, Y-Your Ho-Ho—” The word stuck in his throat, refusing to come out. “Y-Your Ho-Ho-Ho—Ho-Hon—”

  Rosamund’s heart broke inside, anguished for him, especially when amused whispers and outright laughter sounded from the gallery above. The testimony was quickly becoming the nightmare that Bertram had feared it might become. And as she knew, the more uncomfortable and embarrassed he became, the worse his stutter would get until he wouldn’t be able to speak at all.

  The judge sighed loudly. “We all know what you are trying to say. Do get on with it, Mr. Carrow. Assuming you can, that is. Are you certain you are a barrister? You are barely able to string two coherent words together.”

  Bertram’s color shot even higher and he said nothing. Rosamund wasn’t sure he could.

  Before she thought better of the impulse, she leapt to her feet. “Your Honor, if I might seek the court’s indulgence, I would ask for a five-minute recess.”

  The judge’s gaze was steely as it locked on her. “And you are, sir?”

  “Carrow, Your Honor. Ross Carrow.”

  “Another Carrow, is it? Well, I hope you are better able to articulate your sentences than your—what relationship is the other counselor to you?” The judge waved a hand toward Bertram, who stood mute, his shoulders stooped in acute misery.