Bedchamber Games Page 4

  “My cousin.”

  “I hope your tongue is less tied than your cousin’s. Very well. Five minutes, Counselor. I suggest you put them to good use.”

  Noisy reaction broke out across the courtroom; Mrs. Vauxley was left standing in the witness box, looking around uncertainly, not sure what she should do.

  But Rosamund had no time to worry about Patricia Vauxley, her full attention focused on her brother as he dropped down into the seat beside her.

  “Ra, Ra,” he whispered, bending close so no one else could hear. “I’m s-sorry. I c-can’t d-do th-this. I d-don’t kn-know wh-what I-I w-was th-thinking. It’s a-all a b-bloody ca-ca-catastrophe. Y-you’re g-going t-to h-have t-to t-t-t-take o-over.”

  Her eyes widened. “Take over? Bertram, I can’t.”

  “Y-you c-can. Y-you h-have t-to. O-otherwise—”

  Otherwise, we are going to lose.

  With his confidence shattered, Bertram would never be able to regain his composure in time to get through the rest of the witness testimony and cross-examination. Worse, he’d reverted to using the shortened, phonetic form of her name, which he only ever did when he was utterly distressed. It was a habit that went back to the darkest days of his childhood, when saying her entire name had been an exhausting impossibility for his then-seven-year-old self. When at a mere two years his senior she’d been his only true lifeline after their mother died, a lifeline he needed again now.

  He swallowed hard again, the desperation and defeat clear in his eyes.

  Yet how could she agree to step into the role of lead counsel when she’d never planned to do more than sit quietly at his side? It was one thing to accompany Bertram to court, quite another for her to take over the entire case. Besides, she wasn’t a barrister, not even if she did have more than a solid grasp of the law. It would be sheer misguided hubris to even consider proceeding. If Bertram wasn’t capable of continuing, they would simply have to withdraw as acting counsel; there was no other way.

  What, then, of Patricia Vauxley?

  Rosamund’s eyes turned to the young widow where she waited in the witness box. She seemed a decent enough person, brave beyond her years as she dealt first with the grief of losing her husband, then next with the strain of going to war with her relations over valuables she unquestionably believed to be hers.

  The items under dispute were only things, true. Yet somehow it didn’t seem right that she should lose them because her legal counsel wasn’t able to satisfactorily represent her. Of course, she could always seek a new trial on the basis of inadequate counsel, but trials cost money, and money was something Patricia Vauxley no longer had in excessive amounts.

  Then there was the issue of Bertram himself and his reputation—or what little of it would remain if he withdrew from the case. Word would get around. How he’d been rendered nearly speechless and been unable to proceed. How he’d had to withdraw in disgrace because of his stutter. He’d be ruined as surely as if he’d committed some disbarrable offense. Their solicitor would most likely withdraw his support as clients refused to retain Bertram on their behalf. In short, his law career would be over.

  But not if she stepped up and took his place.

  Yet could she? Should she?

  Suddenly she looked up and met Lord Lawrence’s gaze where he stood a few feet distant, talking idly to one of the clerks. Up to now, she realized he’d been doing his best to afford her and Bertram some semblance of privacy. But he had to be curious. Had to know there was some pivotal decision afoot.

  He arched a single golden eyebrow as if to say, “Well, what’s it to be?”

  Before she had time to react, the bailiff called the court to order again. Lord Lawrence resumed his place across from her and Bertram at the advocates’ table. All of them stood as the judge reentered the courtroom.

  He settled into his chair, then looked at her and Bertram. “Well, counselors. Are you prepared to proceed?”

  Bertram sent her a quick sideways glance, visibly pleading.

  She considered for another moment, then drew a breath and squared her shoulders. “Yes, Your Honor. The defense stands ready.”

  “Then the floor is yours.”

  Praying she didn’t make a sorry mess of things—or worse, get herself caught—Rosamund approached the witness box and resumed the questioning that Bertram had begun.

  Chapter 4

  “After careful consideration of the evidence and the testimony provided,” the judge intoned nearly three hours later, “I find for the defense. The assets in question shall herewith be returned to the defendant, Mrs. Patricia Vauxley, for her sole and unquestioned use. That will be all. This case is closed.”

  A cacophony of reaction flooded the room. The widow Vauxley, who had been escorted into the courtroom to hear the reading of the verdict, was clearly jubilant. She exchanged a heartfelt embrace with the older woman at her side, who Rosamund suspected was her mother or perhaps an aunt.

  Meanwhile, up in the gallery, members of the Vauxley family looked as if they had been poleaxed, their astonishment and displeasure unmistakable. Old Mrs. Vauxley’s eyes snapped with such fury, in fact, it was a wonder she didn’t set the courtroom ablaze with nothing but the expression on her face.

  Rosamund paid them scant heed, however, as she turned to Bertram, her features wreathed in a smile of exultation. Remembering herself at the last second, she refrained from flinging her arms around her brother to give him a congratulatory hug. Instead she clapped him on the shoulder in a way she hoped looked appropriately masculine and did her best not to crow—or not excessively at least.

  “We won, Bertie. We actually won,” she said, hardly able to believe it despite having heard the judge’s verdict with her own two ears.

  “No, you won.” He smiled back, his eyes alight with triumph. “You were s-splendid, just as I always knew you would be. Sorry I b-botched things so badly earlier. If not for you, we would be enjoying a f-far d-different result, I fear.”

  “You were nervous, that’s all. You’ll do better next time.”

  “Oh no,” he said, shaking his head, “there won’t be a n-next time. I’ve more than learnt my l-lesson.” Before she could ask him exactly what he meant by that, his eyes wandered toward something behind her. “We’ll t-talk later when there aren’t so many ears to hear,” he said. “Looks like one of the clerks has n-need of me. I’ll just n-nip off and see what he wants. I’ll make certain too that a-arrangements have been taken care of to deliver our client’s v-valuables into her possession. Shouldn’t take too long, I expect. Twenty minutes at most.”

  “Very well, then, go on. I’ll meet you at the coach.”

  With a nod, Bertram walked away.

  Despite the significant number of people still milling around inside the courtroom, she suddenly felt quite alone. With an inward sigh, she began to gather up her and Bertram’s papers and books. As she did so, a little of her buoyant good humor evaporated. Celebrating, she found, was never half as satisfying when one tried to do it by oneself. But Bertram would be back soon enough and they would resume the festivities—and their discussion of his plans for the future. If there was time, perhaps Cook could make one of Rosamund’s favorite sweets for pudding—fresh berry pie or raisin and treacle tart. Either one would be delicious.

  The idea helped revive her spirits.

  She was stacking one last set of papers together when she became aware of someone standing behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she discovered Lord Lawrence Byron, his height such that she had to look up to meet his eyes.

  She straightened. “My lord.”

  “Mr. Carrow.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Not at all. I merely wanted to offer my congratulations on your win today. You argued a deft and persuasive case. Most impressive.”

  A jolt of surprise went through her coup
led with feelings of pleasure and pride. From everything she knew of Lawrence Byron, he wasn’t the sort of man who gave compliments lightly, not unless he thought them deserved. For her to best him was one thing. For him to praise her for it was quite another.

  “Thank you, my lord. That is most generous of you to say.”

  He shrugged. “It’s nothing more than the truth. I realize now that I ought to have paid more attention to the hallmark on the jewelry in particular, since it played such a pivotal role in determining that portion of the case. Then again, since jewelry doesn’t generally carry hallmarks, I suppose the oversight can be understood, if not excused. Believe me, it is an omission I will not make again.”

  “I only thought of checking the pieces myself because of a previous case on which I worked,” she confessed.

  In fact, the evidence had not been turning in her favor until she’d had a spark of inspiration and thought to look on the tiara for the marks, which could tell not only the maker but the date of assay.

  “As for the letter about the Thoroughbred, I won’t ask where you came by that. It was a stroke of luck indeed.” Lord Lawrence smiled wryly. “It will be interesting, though, to see if your client comes to regret winning that portion of the suit. Racehorses are notoriously expensive and can eat their way through a man’s, or woman’s, pocketbook with scarcely any effort at all. She had best hope the stallion takes the Derby as promised or she may find herself having to sell the rest of what she gained today.”

  “Well, if the crowd’s interest today is any indication, he’s going to make her rich. Are you a gambling man, Lord Lawrence?”

  A light sparkled deep in his gold-green eyes. “I’ve been known to indulge on occasion. And you?”

  Up to a week ago, she would have told him she was one of the least daring people he would ever meet. But considering the fact that she had just won a lawsuit—and not just any lawsuit but her very first—all while pretending to be a man and a barrister, she supposed she ought to revise her former estimate of herself.

  “Of course I take risks,” she said. “How else do you think I managed to prevail against you today, my lord?”

  Lord Lawrence’s eyes momentarily widened. Then he laughed, the sound a warm, rich thunder that made her senses hum with pleasure.

  “No, Carrow, you definitely don’t lack for nerve. Come round to my club tomorrow night. Brooks’s in St. James.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew a card. “Give them this and they’ll show you in. Nine o’clock, shall we say?”

  Nine o’clock? She was usually getting ready to retire at nine o’clock. And had he really just asked her to join him at a gentlemen’s club?

  Without waiting for her agreement, he turned and walked away.

  She stared after him until he’d gone, then looked down at the rectangle of stiff white paper in her hand. It contained a single line of text printed in an elegant black script. Lord Lawrence Byron.

  She ran her thumb over his name.

  “What were you and Byron talking about?”

  She started and looked up to find Bertram at her elbow. “Where did you come from? I thought we were meeting at the coach.”

  “Got done s-sooner than expected. So? What did Lord Lawrence want?”

  She slipped the calling card into her pocket. “He was just congratulating me on winning the case.”

  “Really?” Bertram frowned skeptically. “Rather g-generous of him, considering. He h-hardly ever loses a case, so he can’t be terribly happy about this one.”

  “Doubtless not, but he’s too much of a gentleman to show it.”

  “Hmm, he is that. So, are you r-ready to go home? We have some celebrating to do.”

  She smiled at the reminder. “Right you are.”

  • • •

  It wasn’t until later that evening, long after Cook had cleared away the last of the empty berry and custard tart plates, that Rosamund remembered the calling card. Inside her bedroom, she fished it out and studied it again, wondering why Lord Lawrence had extended the invitation. Was he just being collegial or had he some other motivation in mind?

  She also wondered why she still hadn’t told Bertram.

  Probably because she knew he wouldn’t approve. Despite the fact that she was presently pretending to be a man in public, as her brother he was naturally protective of her. She doubted he would relish the idea of her traipsing around London on her own, particularly at night, even if she did so in the guise of Mr. Ross Carrow. Then again, she was an adult woman, who was fully capable of taking care of herself. At eight and twenty, she was quite firmly on the shelf, her chances of finding a husband long since past.

  Once, when she was a fresh-faced girl of eighteen, she’d not only had a beau but had even thought to wed. Tom had been a smart, dashing young lieutenant whom she’d met at an assembly. On that first night he’d asked her twice to dance, taken her in to supper, then begged to be allowed to see her again the following day. With breathless excitement, she had said yes. For improbable as it might seem, she had tumbled head over ears in love with him in the course of a single evening, and to her profound delight, he had done the same with her.

  Those few all-too-brief weeks of summer had been the best of her life. During that time, she and Tom had shared long walks and lively conversations, taken carriage rides and attended readings and concerts as they’d quietly begun planning their future together. But even then it had seemed too much like a dream with halcyon days that had been far too wonderful to last.

  There’d been a chill in the air on the first day of September 1811 when Tom received orders to leave for the peninsula. With only a week left before he had to depart, he’d begged her to marry him. She’d wanted to agree, but her father had said no, telling her she was too young to take such an important step, especially with a man she had known for only a few weeks.

  So she’d let Tom go with an impassioned kiss and promises to write every single day. He’d said he would return as soon as he could get leave and that he would find a way to convince her father to let them wed. They’d sworn their love and fidelity to each other, and then he’d been gone.

  By January, Tom was dead.

  She’d known the worst had happened when his letters abruptly stopped. Her fears were confirmed nearly a month later when a friend of his, a Lieutenant Friars, wrote to tell her the tragic news that Tom had been killed during a raid on a Spanish town. The lieutenant had sent back the letters she’d written to Tom. They were neatly tied inside a length of red ribbon, each one worn and dog-eared, as if they’d been read dozens of times. He said Tom had spoken of her often—the girl he loved and couldn’t wait to marry. She’d tucked them inside the bottom of a trunk, next to his letters to her, then locked them away, together with her heart.

  She’d gone on living her life, throwing herself into running the house and assisting her father, and later Bertram, with their practice of the law. But there had been no more suitors. For a long time she hadn’t even noticed the occasional overtures of interested young men until one day they had stopped asking altogether. By then she was three and twenty and considered an old maid before she’d emerged from her grief long enough to realize that her chance to marry and have children had passed her by. Never one to dwell on regrets, she’d closed the doors on that loss as well and thrown herself even more deeply into her work for her father and brother.

  So now here she stood, contemplating the invitation of a brilliant attorney who wished to meet with her, even if he didn’t know who she really was. Bertram would tell her to send her regrets to Lord Lawrence. But Bertram had also told her tonight that he needed her to continue pretending to be a barrister for a while longer. They couldn’t afford to toss aside their father’s last cases, he’d said, especially not until he managed to transition his practice toward solely offering legal opinions and scholarship and handling matters that didn’t require him to
appear in court. Until then, he wanted her to go on being Ross Carrow.

  But even if he had wanted her to go back to being herself, she wasn’t so sure that she wanted to anymore.

  Not after today.

  Not after getting a taste of what it was like to argue a real case in a real courtroom before an actual judge and have a chance to pit her mind and her talents against a skilled barrister like Lord Lawrence Byron.

  Once she’d gotten over her initial nerves and started to relax, she’d begun to enjoy herself. What’s more, she’d begun to enjoy the freedom granted to her by posing as a man. As well as the respect.

  She’d wondered on occasion over the years what it must be like to be a man and have the right to take up a profession. How it must feel to be admired for one’s mind instead of constantly coming up against society’s narrow strictures that confined a woman to home and hearth rather than allowing her the freedom to exercise all of her God-given interests and talents.

  But now that she was literally walking in men’s shoes, she had firsthand knowledge of the differences between the sexes. When she expressed her thoughts and opinions as an educated woman, she was all too often ignored by anyone outside her family. In her brief time as a man, she could tell that people listened and took note. They cared what she had to say, even if it was about nothing more important than the weather.

  It was a heady distinction and one she wasn’t ready to give up. And if she wasn’t going to stop being Mr. Ross Carrow, barrister-at-law, then it only made sense for her to accept the invitation from Lord Lawrence.

  Besides, how could she pass up an opportunity to see inside one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs? Not even Bertram had ever managed to wheedle an invitation to the lofty environs of Brooks’s.

  I’m going, she decided. Or rather Ross Carrow is going, tomorrow evening at nine.

  Now all she had to figure out was how to get out of the house without Bertram’s being aware.